#raven writes kristanna

[ravenwritesstuff]

Wandering Hearts (31/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (for real) A/N: Was going to only write 2,000 words for this part. But then I drank three bottles of wine and wrote 6,000 instead. LOL FUCK A DUCK if I am going to die young I better finish these stories (if that offended you don’t even think about reading this)

DAMN THE HORSE THAT BROUGHT YOU TO THIS PAIN

[ part one] [ part two ] [ part three ] [ part four ] [ part five ] [ part six ] [ part  seven ] [ part eight ] [ part nine ] [ part ten ] [ part eleven ] [ part twelve ] [ part   thirteen ] [ part fourteen ] [ part fifteen ] [ part sixteen ] [ part seventeen ] [ part eighteen ] [ part nineteen ] [ part twenty ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-two ] [ part twenty-three ] [ part twenty-four ] [ part twenty-five ] [ part twenty-six ] [ part twenty-seven ] [ part twenty-eight ] [ part twenty-nine ] [ part thirty ]

The air had been still and warm that first night she slept under the stars. She had walked for what felt like years, her feet blistered in the delicate slippers she wore from the palace. She did not know where she was or where she was going or how to get there. Her stomach growled and her tongue felt thick and dry in her mouth. Despite the exercise she took daily in the palace, running empty halls and such, it would seem that hiking through small wooded paths was very much a different experience. 

All that considered: she still slept better that night than she had in years. 

….

The second day, despite her sound sleep, she picked herself up off of the ground with a foggy head and aching limbs. She didn’t know where she was for a moment, confused by the grit that was in her mouth mirrored by the grit in her eyes. She stretched, spine bending as much as it could in the confines of her corset and overdress, and tried to make sense of her garbled thoughts.

It wasn’t quite light yet, but the birds tittered in the trees above her, and she could see just enough to remember crawling under this bush the night before just as the moon had crested the horizon. She had crawled under a bush the last night to sleep because she did not have her bed. In a flash, perhaps the first or truest understanding of what she had done struck her. 

She left the palace.

She left Arendelle.

She left Elsa. 

This was the first moment she truly realized what she had done. 

Any giddiness she may have felt at the idea of freedom, release, is squelched near instantly by the sobering price of her realization.

She, a crown princess, had walked of her own free will out of the city of Arendelle without the slightest hiccup.

She left and no one had stopped her. No one had found her. Had they even searched? Did she mean so little? 

This was the first moment she truly considered that she had never expected to succeed at her plan, or lack of it. She had had such little success in any area of her life that this notion is entirely foreign. She had escaped. So why did she only feel worse? 

Her stomach growled, her throat dry. She had not thought of provision, only escape. She hadn't been entirely sure what that meant so the satchel she wore contained impractical items: a ring her mother had given her set with a freshwater pearl, a ornately carved wooden music box, few hair pins and ornaments, a miniature portrait of them all. There also was a small ration of tea cakes she had wrapped in her handkerchief, but they would not last long and her stomach protested. 

The firm realities of her escape started to take hold. She had left and while she could return she was not certain she would be welcome. Perhaps they had wanted her to go. She had served no purpose, no function, besides breaking rules and bothering the queen. Who would miss her? 

Still worse would be the other possible consequence. If she returned she would never leave the palace again for the rest of her life. She was certain between the two options of eternal imprisonment behind closed doors and windows or ultimate rejection and humiliation at the hand of her sister that both would destroy her entirely.

She knew well enough that despite her lack of preparation, her discomfort, that she had no desire to turn back. There was nothing for her back in Arendelle and even if she was discovered, even if they searched for her, she would fight. She would hide. She would escape.

It was a strange fire that lit within her that morning burning up from the deepest part of her soul.

She would run as far as she could. She would walk until she could not walk any further. She would board a ship and sail. She would go as far as she could before she would go back to a life of always waiting to be rescued. She would rescue herself.

So as the sun brightened the sky she stood on aching feet, stretched once more, and walked.

….

She can only wonder just how far she had traveled the past three days before and where she was now. 

She had no compass, no map, no sense of direction. She had avoided the main roads and paths choosing instead to pick her way through the underbrush. The second day had brought rain and she had laid on her back with her mouth wide - parched. The individual drops wet her tongue and throat but she was fast learning that she would need to find water, find food. 

She’d happened upon a cloudberry patch in a marshy section of her journey and she had eaten until her stomach cramped. The tart juices dribbled from the corner of her mouth. Once her hunger had been stated she had plucked any remaining berry she could find and stuffed them in her stachel with her precious things.

Things.

She was quickly learning that that is all they were - just another thing to carry, to tie her to her past. Still she cannot quite let go of them. She will carry them.

They may ground her in the past but only until she knows her future. When she knows what is coming then she can let go of where she has been. She wants to let go of where she has been, but she doesn’t quite know what that means yet. So she shoves the berries into her satchel and lets the press and crush of her movement ruin the miniature she had so carefully chosen. 

She hadn’t known, hadn’t mean to, but when she scoops out the remaining berry mash from her small pouch for her dinner as the sun fades - she realizes her error. 

The fluid and fibers had stained and marred the tiny image of her family with red splotches and she thought of blood. Their features were disfigured, smiles tainted. She could not even make out her mother’s face for a particularly terrible splotch. Her father’s face was blurred, the canvas crumpling with the excess moisture and pulling from the frame. Her own countenance was entirely lost in a wash of muddled colors from her mother’s dress - but Elsa was still there. Elsa remained. Her face was slightly stained, but Anna still saw the only friend she had ever truly had. A friend who despised her.

A friend who had wished this upon her.

She does not hesitate as she throws the spoiled portrait as far from her as she can and finishes her berry mash dinner without tears.

….

She smelled smoke.

It was distant at first but she followed it. It had been four days since she had seen another soul and she knew it was a risk but she was weak with hunger, the tea cakes and cloudberries long gone. The woods were vast and wild and if she was honest at all she had no idea if she was any further from Arendelle than she had been the first day she left. She needed guidance, someone who could tell her where she could find a port so she could sail to where no one even knew of Arendelle. 

The smoke took her to the edge of what was barely a village on the edge of a fjord. There were only a dozen or so buildings, houses. It was clearly a tight knit cluster of homes . She did not know where she was, only barely understood what she had to lose, still she stayed on the outskirts for nearly a quarter of an hour to watch and understand.

Precious little happened.

A spare child or adult might meander between the wooden structures, but they were not what catches her noticed. What stuck out mostly was the lack of the Arendelle flag required to be flown in all supporting provinces. Still also there was no symbol of national association of any kind. She hoped maybe she had moved far enough away that it would not matter if she approached anyone.

This world seemed idelic, peaceful, connected. It seems like everything she has ever wanted. No one looked at anyone else in a way that suggested some sort of other-ness that she had grown so accustomed to seeing in the palace. 

All she has ever wanted was to belong. 

So near midday (she guessed for she slipped into a troubled, hungry sleep) she stepped out of her hiding place and came to what seemed the center of this little township. The streets were quiet then and she thought perhaps for the noonday meal. There is no single main street but several strange paths that all seemed to converge on one central building. It was not constructed with stone as many of Arendelle’s buildings were, but rather with wood bent in aches unlike anything she had seen before. It seemed as a boat turned upside down, the hull jutting to the sky with pride.

The door is on the front as she expected, but she hesitated. She had met closed doors before.

What if this was a mistake, a trap, or worse? What if she knocked only to be met with spite and denial? What if it led only to more pain and isolation? What if this was not where she was supposed to be?

She had not met with anyone in her journey to this place, but that could be for many reasons. The timing, the place, the size of the population… she readily makes excuses as she also realized that she is uncertain if knocking is what one does in this place. How does one request the opening of a door if not to knock? She had always knocked with Elsa but seldom had that produced much fruit - so instead she stood in indecision before - 

“What’s this?” The soprano voice is not as soft  as it is exacting. “Why are ya at my door?”

Anna whirled at that to find a woman near ten years older than herself with a wash bucket on hip and a babe on the other. Her dirty blonde hair was braided without ornament down her back. The child she carried was old enough to hold itself up and gleam a few sharp teeth in Anna's direction.

Anna was caught off guard. Her mind scrambled.

She had wondered where the people were but now as she turned she saw several women with similar baskets and children slung on the hip. Some had more younglings clutchings their skirts or staying close beside them. Anna did not understand what that meant, couldn’t, but would in the future.

Wash day. 

The whole community was unified in one singular task and she had no idea that any place could be like that. She had no idea that there could be anything but being alone. 

She managed to refocus her famished mind long enough to respond to the charge pressed upon her.

“I need aid.” 

She had not considered exactly how to address another person outside of the palace. Everyone there had been so set on providing comfort, attending near her every wish, so it was a bit of a shock when the woman in front of her laughed and pushed past her with her basket. 

“We all need that. Find some other home to bother.”

And before Anna could complain the door was opened and shut on the large, longhouse. She saw the other women of the village watching as they all filed to their homes. Their eyes were dark, distrusting. For a moment she wanted to demand her birthright, to command the respect she felt due to her parentage, but she had denied that. She had run. She was no different than these women before her. In fact she was less than them in almost every way. 

Her cheeks heat at the watching crowd and she puts a hand to her rumpled hair. She hadn’t given a thought to her appearance, but now she realizes that after days she must look a fright. Her cloak was filthy from sleeping on the ground, laying in mud and dirt. The hem of her dress was caught and ripped from brush and her own clumsy steps. The delicate slippers from the palace were hardly worth even calling shoes anymore. Even if she had claimed her royalty - would any of these women believe her? 

She stumbles a few steps away from the largest building towards the watching group.

“Please,” her voice cracks from lack of use. “Something to eat?” 

The group disperses. All cast their eyes away from her, shelter and usher their children away. Anna feels a strange panic tingle in her chest not only because of her desperate physical need but for lack of understanding. 

Still there is little she can do about it. The rejection was bright and bitter as it had ever been in the palace. Her heart crunches beneath the weight of her frantic breath. The need to be seen, be heard drove her feet towards the withdrawing figures. 

“Please,” she reached out as the women disappeared into their homes. “Please!” 

But it was too late. The retreat was complete and Anna was left alone in the beaten path between homes with closed doors and no windows. Anna had not cried since that first day of her escape, had not felt the hot burn of tears scald her eyes and throat, but she does now. Her knees threatened to buckle and she gritted her jaw. She would not collapse now. She had seen closed doors before and she had survived them all. This, she resolved, would be no different. 

With her heart in her throat and rocks in her gut she raps on the door of the first house closest to her. When there is no answer she knocks again and again. Each beat on the door bolsters her courage and when she had had enough of that door she goes to the next. She pounds and pounds, not relenting, not having a choice. 

She traveled from door to door, fist aching, heart breaking but growing in resolve. She did not know it yet but she was learning what it took to survive. She had fought the battle of the heart, the mind, when she had been trapped in the walls of the palace. Now in this open space she is learning the battle of the body. 

She did not keep track of the numbers of knocks, the doors. She simply kept going. It was all she had ever done. It was all she knew to do. She knocked and she knocked and she knocked. She knocked and traveled from door to door until her knuckles were red, cracking. She fought in a way she thought she knew, but learned once again in this place and time. She tasted the language of desperation but the syllables were different. She savored the tang of rejection but the flavor was unfamiliar. 

Still she went on. She went on in search of the difference until she found it. She was at the house closest to the water. She could see the fjord from where they were, the reasonable few berths and small ships constructed as a harbor for traders. This was a simple place with plain people who were only a passage point for larger and better exchange. This is where she began to learn the matter of exchange.

She knocked and knocked, hoping still against hope for a different response than she had been taught, but still surprised when it came.

A middle-aged man opened the door, and she was struck by the fact that this was the first man she had seen in this entire settlement. She did not have long to dwell on this thought and was instead taken with his appearance. His wiry frame and shock of hair even redder than hers instantly called a fox to mind. The clothing he wore was rough spun and leather. His sharp eyes scanned her head to foot and she suddenly felt her skin heating. No man had ever looked at her that way. She was not sure she appreciated it. 

She did not give herself time to rethink her decisions: “Please, sir,” her voice cracked. “Some food or drink.” 

He did not shut the door in her face but instead seemed to estimate every bit of her and her request with cool precision. She shifted under his scrutiny, but did not shrink. He slacked a hip.

“Ye have coin?” His voice was deeper than she expected for his spare frame. 

Her mind pulled a blank for a moment, not understanding entirely. She shook her head. 

“Something to sell then, trade.” It is not a question this time.

This time she understood.

Unconsciously her hand went to her satchel. His eyes tracked the motion. She thought of the ring, the music box, the hair pieces… in four days they had done little to bolster her and even less to aid her. Why then did her heart rend at the idea of separating from them the way she had her miniature? 

“I suppose that depends.” Her reply was indirect - something she had learned for Elsa. “What have you for me?”

At this the man almost smiled, pleased. He widened his door and she saw inside a woman and two small children. The woman was near the central fire stirring the contents of a massive cast iron pot. The children (no older than she and Elsa had been when their relationship imploded) played on the straw floor with figures of stick and scrap. Those details brought her comfort but it was the things beyond that caught the most of her attention.

The entire home was lined with shelves filled with jars and canisters and bags. There was not a single space that was not committed to the housing and storing of many items she could only assume were valuable. It all seemed practical and that was what she needed. Still she was not entirely certain what that entailed. 

With tentative, sore feet she stepped into the space smaller than her bedroom had been at the palace with wide eyes. The smell of food slapped her across the face and her mouth watered as much as it could. The man shut the door behind her and the room darkened. She blinked in the new dimness not understanding that what she saw was some sort of makeshift mercantile. 

Still she felt she understood the general idea. So she stood straight and commanded as much of a regal air as she could.

“I need food and drink and transport.” 

The fox of a man replied: “Aye I can give ye most that but only when the coin has come.” 

She did not fully understand the concept of coin in a concrete way, so she never considered a possibility and opened her satchel. She looked at the sparse, berry-stained contents and first pulled out the few of her favorite clips and hair bobbles. On a flat, quivering palm she extends them to the Fox. He picked one with nimble fingers and turned them with precision Anna did not understand.

“Ye no stole these from some lady?” He asked. “A person that will tan my hide for having them?”

Anna didn’t not comprehend at first, simultaneously glad she did not inspire thoughts of grandeur at her appearance but also what he could mean and shook her head. 

“Things like this only come from places that either look for no good or those that have good reason to get gone.” He dropped the clip in her palm. “Which are you?”

His perception made her body quake. Did he know? Had he guessed? Was there news about her here? Had she just now walked into a trap? 

She would never know. She would not give herself the chance. She was here with hunger and purpose. 

She squared her chin: “If you cannot prove one or the other what does it matter?”

She earned her second grin. 

“I ain’t bargaining to gain something that will see me hung,” his response is quick.

“I would never wish that,” her fingers wrapped involuntarily over her asset, drew back, bargaining without knowing.

He is quiet for a moment regarding her the same way he had when she had first knocked on his door. His dark eyes strong, but still. Something told her she had made a mistake but instead of retreat she pulled her chest higher. 

“Will you take what I have in exchange for my needs or will you not?” 

The fox grinned then in earnest, his mouth showing gaps where teeth should be. 

“Aye, but if ya need me be discreet it will nay be the same exchange.”

The comprehension of what he was saying bled into the place where the rejection of the village had cut her. He may have opened his door, may be willing to help, but it still had a price attached to it. True charity was not to be found here.

“It seems as though discretion is your idea - not mine.” 

And at this the man huffed a laugh, his gap toothed smile cutting an uneven crescent across his face. She had not meant it to be a joke, so she stood straighter than before and tried to command some measure of authority despite the fact that each part of her ached. She could have asked for help, expressed at least part of her situation, but she was still too proud for that. She would learn. 

“Ya have grit enough, that’s for certain, but I’ll be needing more than that for the risk.”

His eyes go to her satchel and her first instinct is to open it and show him the whole meager contents. Her second is to tighten her spine and get what she needed. 

She went with the latter. 

“I need food, drink, and aid for to find a port - a ship - and fare to board it and leave these shores,” asking had not worked before so instead she told. It made her insides shake, but she had no other option.

The fox’s eyes narrow: “Where you be headed?” 

She almost told him she had no idea but she thought of Elsa, of the way she held herself so above everyone, and the way she owed no explanation. This man was nothing. He was only someone who opened a door. 

“I wish to sail,” was all she could summon. Her years of geography escaped her. “I have a few things I can sell in exchange for food and passage - but only if you will help me.” 

He moved closer, but she fisted her satchel and stepped back. Despite her need, her hunger, she would not be cheated. She had been cheated her entire life.

He settled back on one leg at her retreat and she noticed then the unevenness of his legs. They were not as they should be. One was crumpled more than the other and she forced herself to hold her tongue as she noticed. At least some of her court etiquette classes paid off in this strange world.

He appeared to notice her assessment: “I am no sailor, but food and coin for voyage I can trade if what you have be of value.”

“For these then,” she extended the hair ornaments, her favorite pins with chips of jewels and luminous pearls attached in intricate design. She’d played with them as a young woman, hoping to have reason to have her lady’s maid pin them in her coif for a ball or something. She understood now that that dream was dead.

He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the side. “For both food and voyage? What else have you?”

She did not know he was testing her, had not yet learned. Feeling that she had made progress towards her goal, stupefied by hunger, she goes to her satchel.

“This,” she pulled out the music box with trembling hands. It was small enough that it fit in the palm of her hand but in the inlaid woodwork is enough to catch even the commonest eyes. The work was exceptional, ornate, and glistened even in only firelight.

She opened it and a song long familiar to her played. Her mother had sung this melody to help her and Elsa sleep when she was young. When Elsa moved to her own room… well the music box was made for Anna. She had wound and listened to it so many times that there were notes that were distorted, bits that did not quite play as they should, but she hoped it would still be worth something to this man. After all: this box was part of her past. She was moving forward. 

He seemed shocked at the sound from the box. His face went blank, pale almost, and she wondered what she did wrong. Had she done something to ruin her chances?

The other woman in the room came to the fox. Anna had almost forgotten her. She was plain in all respects, but she pulled her male counterpart to a corner and conversed with him in sharp, hushed tones. Anna felt embarrassed listening so she turned her attention on the children: two girls. 

They had dolls that could hardly even be called that and crude stick structures she was certain was supposed to be some sort of structure. Their muddy brown hair favored the woman in the corner but their sharp eyes favored the man. Was this what people would have seen if they had seen her with her family? Would they have thought she had her mother’s eyes, her father’s mouth? 

It didn’t matter.

The fox returned even as the woman (she supposed his wife) returned to her washing. His eyes held a new light and she glanced at the woman who was trying not to stare and he stomach dropped.

Had they sorted it out? Did they know who she was? She swallowed the massive lump in her throat and clutched her now closed music box to her chest. 

“The pins and the box,” he jerked his chin. “We’ll give you three day’s bread and jerky in addition to coin enough to get you on a ship out of Arendelle to wherever you might go.”

Her heart nearly stopped at the name of her kingdom. 

“Are we far from there?” Her voice barely trembled, but she felt it all the way to her slippers. 

“Two days by wagon,” he shifted the weight of his good leg. “One by horse.”

She thought she sensed fear in his tone. The strength of the fox had waned at her delivery, but he could not retreat. A glance showed that the children had abandoned the game and now stared. The woman watched too in her own discreet way. She felt exposed, laid bare, and fear pounded in her breast. 

What if they knew her? What if she had shown too much? She was not certain if their offer was fair, had no way to gauge, had not known well enough to learn about coin and common exchange before she ran, but she had drawn enough attention. When she was on other shores, far from the reach of Elsa she would fight harder. She was sure of it. 

But to walk back to Arendell now… after all she had done to be free….

“Are there other ports? Somewhere closer?”

The fox scoffed. “You could try Eldenvale but no much goes from there without stopping first at Arendelle.” 

She forced a polite smile. 

“I have no horse or wagon,” the music box pressed into her palm. “And I’ll take your offer but for five days food and drink plus coin for voyage from a closer port.”

She had seen the keen look in his eye and even though her voice shook as she made the offer she still made it. She tried her best to look resolved but felt herself crumbled under the cascade of worry that besieged her. 

“You’ll be hard pressed to find much but local boats in these parts. But you throw in that pretty purse ya carry and I’ll throw in enough coin to get you wherever you want to go.”

Anna had not thought of trading her satchel. It had no meaning. She had taken it from the kitchen (a messenger bag from the palace) when she had been there one day and it had worked for what she needed. It was made of fine leather and a specifically tooled strap. She touched the bag, weighing her options. 

If she traded the music box, the pins, the bag, all she would have left would be the coin and sustenance. A part of her revolts at the idea of giving up what she had brought for sentiment, but what comfort had it brought her? Had it filled her stomach or brought her safety?

It would bring her no comfort if she was dead. She tightened her spine and stiffened her lip. 

“Five days food, drink and coin. Plus a way to carry my fare. No less.” 

The fox smiled.

....

It had been two days since she had left the village, coin jingling in her pocket and ring on her finger. In some ways she misses the sound of her music box coming from her satchel - the knowledge that she could pull out her few precious belongings and remember from whence she came. Then other times she was glad to be rid of it, of memory besides the small ring. Her satchel was full now of hardtack and dried jerky. It would last her if she was careful. 

She followed the directions the fox man had given her after relinquishing what she thought she prized for hard bread and jerky. She’d negotiated five days, but she was determined to make it last at least ten. 

She had known so little when she left the palace. Now she knew more. She knew that food must be earned and she had done that. Soon she would find her way to where the fox had sent her and she would be on her way. She would sail and none of this would matter. 

She had passed through a marsh, a field. She’d climbed through a mountain pass. Now she was back in a pine forest with her breath short but her steps purposeful. She had somewhere to go, to be. She knew it. There had to be a life waiting for her somewhere if only she could find it. 

The first sign of trouble came with the sound of a rustling bush.

She had grown used to this in the past week.

There were animals about at all times and so she did not look. She did not notice the men coming behind her stalking her like wolves. Not until it was too late. 

There was no preamble, no discussion. They made no attempt to speak or be spoken to. Anna hardly had a chance to see them before they hit her hard across the head and she saw stars. Then they hit her again and the stars gave way to darkness. 

She tried to fight, but in her disoriented state it was nearly impossible. She did not know where one attacker stopped and the other started. She was not certain how many there were, but she felt them tear at her bodice, dig in the makeshift pouch at her waist that held her food, pull her mother’s ring from her finger. She struggled as best she could but they caught her off guard, stunned her, and now she was lost.

She felt the hand at her throat, her breasts, bunching her skirt up past her thighs but there was nothing she could do. 

For the first and what she assumed the last time in her life: Anna of Arendelle gave up. 

Her eyes fluttered, mind floating up somewhere in the flickering light between branches, and she had not wanted this. She had not asked to be a replacement, a spare, a castoff. All she had asked for was love, and instead she got this incessant pain, humiliation. 

She hadn’t wanted to be found. She had only wanted to get away, to get past all the hurt and rejection that had followed her each day she lived in the palace. She had thought there could be nothing worse, but she was wrong. This was worse, so much worse. If only Elsa - anyone - would find her now… but she knew she was beyond that.

Her mind floated between understanding and not, light and dark, the edges hazy and bright and faded all at once as her body is beaten and abused. She could only catch snatches of the world around her: the smell of heavy, stale breath; the ugly, bruising feeling on the inside of her thighs; the shifting light in the spare moments she opened her eyes in hopeless slits. 

That was why she hardly saw him coming.

Darkness had come first, swiftly - loudly, and there were shouts but none of them were hers. The relentless thrusting ended abruptly with a sickening thud and the weight of a body crashed against hers. That had roused her enough from her stupor to see something her mind had not, could not, understand. It was large, too large, to simply be a man though it was shaped as one. It tore at her attackers, breaking them with fists too huge to comprehend, and the glimpse she caught of its face - its expression - was incomprehensibly feral. 

She was sure it was her addled brain that was tricking her into seeing things that were not really there. No one would come for her. She was not being saved. She was dying.

This was the end and some draug of old was here to take her to whatever abyss worthless princesses were sucked into once they were completely spent. She accepted it. The finish was more than she could wish for when everything around her only caused her pain. 

Then it was dark.

The next thing she remembered was the hard warmth of a body against her side, firm arms and chest supporting her fragile frame as they traveled through the pines and yew. She thought it strange that that a draug would carry her to whatever dark purpose they might have. Why had they not eaten her or crushed her like the stories said? 

She could not make sense of it. 

With all the strength she had she lifted her head and looked up to see exactly who carried her with such little trouble, but there was no undead creature. In her bleary sight she made out glimpses of gold hair, dyed leather, and human skin. The light was low in the sky casting a strange halo around her carrier’s profile. It painted his profile in sharp relief: the ridged brow, prominent nose, strong lower lip, but she had not understood. 

Her mind, her body, was too confused. Everything hurt, every part of her screamed. The dizzying pain threatens to pull her back into the forgiving abyss of unconsciousness but first:

“What are you?” She managed around her sluggish mind and swollen tongue. 

It was only then that he acknowledged she was awake. He cast a quick glance at her with a grunt, eyes gleaming with something wild, never breaking his stride. 

“That doesn’t matter,” he turned to maneuver them between thick trunks. “Sleep now.”

And she had.

[ previous ]

[anywhozits]

A Christmas Announcement

Rating: T Words: 5172

Verse: Canonverse Pairing: Kristanna

Summary: Kristoff and Anna are excited to finally share the news of their heir-on-the-way with the Kingdom of Arendelle.

Notes: I wrote this last year and forgot to post it, but this is somewhat related to the Christmas fic I’m writing for this year so wanted to get this out before that one! (at least it’s in the same verse and has similar themes, hah) Anyway hope you enjoy and happy holidays!! Thanks for reading :)

READ ON AO3 HERE

The day was Christmas Eve, 1843. A couple years ago, the whole kingdom of Arendelle began celebrating together at the castle’s now officially annual Christmas ball. Something that Anna had begged Elsa to start since the great freeze ended and the doors to the castle became permanently open. It had taken awhile, but finally Elsa caved to her sister’s wishes, likely only partially due to years of internalized guilt for pushing her away, and the ball quickly became one of Anna’s most anticipated nights of the year. Now with Anna as Queen, the tradition continued.

The entire ballroom was filled with glittering decorations, tinsel adorning the sturdy wood beams. Buffet tables sat lining almost the entire left side of the room, filled bountifully with food to feed the whole town and then some. Lefse, lutefisk (the bane of child and teen Anna’s existence), farikal, pickled herring, kjottkaker, salmon, whale steak, sheep, all the traditional favorites. And that, of course, didn’t even including the two tables of desserts and pastries or the sprawling drink selection. A massive 12-foot Christmas tree stood proudly in the right corner of the space, decorated with great care by Anna and Kristoff themselves. Year after year, Anna always insisted she didn’t need any help from the castle attendants, only a few ladders and a few hours of time alone. She always pulled through. The tree—her pride and joy. This Christmas, Anna had also taken the time to pick out hundreds of presents for the Arendellian children and children-at-heart. Kristoff even did some woodworking for the occasion. Highlights included hand carved rocking horses, rolling reindeer on a string, and building blocks. They couldn’t wait for those presents to be torn open by frantic hands, truly cherishing the visual of children playing for hours on the sweeping ballroom floor, both King and Queen watching misty eyed as they imagined their own child playing along next year. A new tradition.

They had hired both a 5-piece band and a choir to make sure that the ball was not lacking in festive music and thus not lacking in dancing. The choir had kicked off the party singing Christmas songs in perfect harmony, the music floating through the castle, making the previously cold stone walls feel more comforting and protective. Guests had started arriving, smiles plastered on each of their faces as they ran through the open castle gates, eyes wide in childlike awe when they entered the ballroom to see the most elaborate Christmas ball yet.

But two people were thus far missing from the party.

Kristoff knocked softly on his and Anna’s chamber door before letting himself in. He saw Anna, dressed to the nines in a green velvet gown topped with white ruffles that hugged her shoulders. Her upper chest was left bare save for a three-layered pearl necklace, an early Christmas gift from Mattias. The sleeves gaped open, lined by white fur that Kristoff knew felt as soft as it looked. Her hair laid atop her head in an intricately braided bun, her gold and emerald crown placed perfectly in the middle, always bringing out the brilliant green that usually hid within her typically cerulean eyes. Kristoff could only think one word. Radiant. Anna was radiant. Sincerely, Anna sparkled. She always sparkled. But something about walking in on her like this, dressed for the ball, so majestic in every single way… made Kristoff feel as if he might cry for the love that grew and blossomed within his heart. A love so permanent… a love so unyielding that he felt it with both a fiery passion and a patient comfort. He took in a breath. Regarding her magnificence for a second time. Her gold shoes sparkled in the candlelight, heels subtle enough to allow her to dance for hours but tall enough to allow her to kiss him without getting on her tip toes. His eyes floated up to her dress yet again. Even though the gown cinched at her waist, Kristoff swore he could make out a little bit of the swell that was their growing child. He took in another breath. She looked ravishing. How could he be so lucky to call her his wife?

But Anna paid no mind to Kristoff, not then. She was looking in the mirror. Frowning. Frustrated.

But still so beautiful.

“Anna, honey, are you ready to go downstairs? The doors are open, and people are flooding in… I think even Elsa and Honeymaren are already here.” Elsa was finishing up the ice sculptures. Her only task this year, something that made her beyond thankful.

“I’m almost ready! I’m just… I don’t know. I don’t feel right. But I can’t put my finger on why.” Anna twirled around in front of the mirror. “The only thing keeping me chugging along is the promise of lots of food. I’m starving.”

“Yes—that was the journal entry for this week. Ravenously hungry. Insatiable I think was the word I used.” For Anna, eighteen-ish weeks pregnant meant the constant desire to stuff her face with literally everything she laid her eyes on. It was like she had this itch that could never be scratched. A deep hole in her stomach that could not ever be fully filled. But the most unfortunate part was that she somehow had recently begun to crave lutefisk. Lutefisk. The food she would have to plug her nose to eat as a kid. Clearly pregnancy made her leave logic at the door. Kristoff sauntered up to her and brought her in close, wrapping his strong arms around her frame, resting them gently on her mid-section, hooking his chin over her right shoulder and kissing her softly on first her shoulder and then her neck and then her cheek before settling back into the crook of her neck. He smiled. This was pure bliss.

Anna entangled her fingers with his own, both resting on her belly. She sighed. “I swear I could eat literally all of Sven right now and only feel a little bit guilty.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Kristoff laughed into her shoulder.

“I’m starving!” Anna pouted, but then Kristoff kissed her neck again softly and she shivered. Too distracting.

“Well, I know for a fact there’s a lot of food in the ballroom if you want to get a move on…”

“I want to, I really do… but. Still. I’m … you know what? I think I know what it is,” Anna said, pulling away from Kristoff suddenly. “You know how a few weeks ago I had to switch to the maternity corset? Because I really uh—popped out that one morning and couldn’t fit into my old one anymore even with the laces practically undone?” One midwife had even said that Anna looked much bigger than what women usually did at this point in pregnancy. Something that she said could mean there was more than one baby on the way…Anna and Kristoff were far too thrilled with that possibility but had mutually decided they didn’t want to get their hopes up if it didn’t come to fruition. Their baby coming into the world already with a friend… already decidedly not alone. It felt almost serendipitous to Anna, but she still refused to think of it more than fleetingly. So for now—one baby. Singular baby.

“I remember,” he said.

“Well, I hate this thing. It’s so … constricting and it hurts and I can hardly breathe let alone gorge myself with disgusting and foul and gross but somehow still super satisfying lutefisk. Like do you really think this is good for the baby?”

Kristoff shook his head. “Probably not—”

But Anna was on a roll. She bulldozed through the answer he gave to her likely rhetorical question. “I know it’s not breathing or anything right? But … it kind of feels like I’m squishing the baby or something and knowing it’s yours and everything it’ll probably be massive so needs lots of room to… get that way. Oh wait no I can’t think about that. Oh God. Massive. Get that image out of my head please. Too big to come out of me and the pain and owwwww.”

Kristoff stepped closer to Anna and hugged her close, stroking comforting circles on her back. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said. She whimpered. “For the record, I don’t think I was too big as a baby. Although, you know… I don’t remember.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “Very helpful.”

“I do have some chocolate to tide you over, though. That’s helpful, right?”

Her eyes lit up instantly, nodding her head in ferocious fervor. “Yes, yes, yes. Super, super helpful. Very helpful. The most helpful of all helpful!” Kristoff reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out maybe six truffles. Anna ate them in a flash. “God, these are so good.” Then she frowned again. “But I can already feel my corset getting tighter! And, you know what? What’s it all for, hmm? So I can better hide I’m pregnant? Yeah that’s right I said the word. So, what? You know, it’s really grating to me that something that really deserves to celebrated is instead something that needs to be … hidden away. Like the expectation for a queen is to be prim and proper and ladylike and pure or—whatever…while also producing heirs upon heirs. So, what happens when the very thought of being ‘with child’ comes with this implication that you’re not pure? Even though obviously I mean it’s way more concerning if you’re married and still pure, right? And I know I’m saying this about royalty and everything but that’s just my situation. Generally it’s definitely not just for queens. This is any woman. The expectation of any woman.  Nobody cares if men are pure. So they’re just producing heirs or kids or namesakes? … left and right and it’s all fine and dandy. It’s just ... really frustrating. And this stupid corset is like the physical proof of this horrible thing and it’s really making me…so—angry.” Anna let out a long breath. It felt good to get all that out. It truly had been building upon itself in this storm of emotions for the last couple weeks. Constantly growing until this moment.

“You know you’re the Queen, right?”

“Uh—yeah. Pretty sure I just talked a lot about that in my little speech.”

“Yes, right. Yes. But I mean… you’re the Queen.”

“Yes, I know. What’s your point?”

“Well, you’ve got the power, baby,” Kristoff said. “Show them how it’s done. You can … make a decree or—or something. Or you can just lead by example. I’ll support you, Anna. You know I’ll support you. And I agree with you, too. The whole thing’s pretty ridiculous. And definitely not healthy for our massive baby.”

Anna crossed her arms over her chest. “Not funny.”

“Take it off, baby. Off with the maternity corset.”

“I want to … but then people will be able to tell, right?”

“You really think they don’t know? Let me ask you this. Truly—how many people do you think are actually in the dark?”

“Uh—I don’t know. Maybe … four?”

“Exactly! Don’t feel like you need to still hide it. The whole castle has known for a long time. You were wearing the maternity corsets! Someone had to make that for you and you know your maids knew right away. Word is out, Anna. We just can’t be open open about it yet. Soon … but you don’t need to hide it. You shouldn’t hide it.”

She contemplated his words for a minute or so before planting a chaste kiss on his lips. “Thanks, husband. You’re the best listener.” He grabbed her hand and gave her a quick twirl, already preparing for the dancing he knew would take up most of his night.

“Always, my sweet love.”

“Now help me get this thing off. Right now. Please.” Anna turned so her back was to him. His large hands wrapped around the velvet buttons of her dress, undoing them at an unparalleled pace. Soon, the dress dropped to the floor and Anna stepped out of it, only standing in her off-white corset and bloomers. The maternity corset had a slightly different shape, dipping lower to cover her entire stomach, and had two extra sets of laces, one on each side that supposedly allowed for more breathing room and expansion along with a growing belly, but Anna disagreed. It felt just as constricting as her usual corset. She jumped in front of Kristoff again. “Off, off, off!”

He obeyed again, large hands undoing the laces but moving closer as he did this, planting periodic kisses on her shoulders. His mind instantly shot back to the first time he unlaced her corset. Years ago.

The beginning of their … exploration was too hurried. They so rarely got time alone and took it whenever they could … wherever they could … as fast as they could. There was never time to take off any clothes. Dress scrunched up her waist, drawers and breeches pushed down to their ankles was the name of their game. But eventually they got bolder. They snuck around in the middle of the night… and in those stolen moments in the moonlight, they had more time. Kristoff remembered ripping off her dress, throwing it into the corner of her room. Turning his attention to her undergarments, working his hands around the laces, trying to figure out how to make this as swift as possible. He smirked. “Is this appropriate?”

“Of course not,” Anna giggled. Kristoff planted kisses on her bare shoulders and then her collarbones. “But when have I ever been concerned with what’s appropriate?”

Kristoff smiled again at the memory. When he finally shot back to reality, he saw that he was almost done with the laces. He pulled the last few and threw the corset far away from them. It landed with an air of dramatics on her dressing partition.

Anna sighed in relief. “God, you’re so much faster at this than my maids.”

“Years of practice paired with years of … urgency.” Kristoff said, smirking.

It had taken him much longer than he felt comfortable admitting to take that corset off that first night, but since then he’d figured out a foolproof strategy.

She turned around to give him a deep kiss. “I’m free. Thank you.”

Kristoff inhaled sharply. She was even more magnificent like this, ballgown tossed to the side.  He brought a hand up to cup her chin and his other drifted down to her stomach. He gave it a rub and she kissed him in response, giggling slightly. “You’re radiant, baby. So beautiful.”

“You really think so?”

“You take my breath away,” Kristoff said, meaning it truly and genuinely from the bottom of his heart. Anna beamed at him, feeling both unparalleled awe and unparalleled respect boiling deep within her soul. She regarded him now. The way the left side of his smile cocked up more than his right, sending him into an eternal mischievous smirk. The way his brown eyes always somehow teemed with an unusual mixture of curiosity and warmth. He was her rock. Her ocean. Her world. And she knew that the same was true for him. She was his rock. His ocean. His world.

Anna tried to put all of those feelings into words. “You—I need you to know that you’re—uh—perfect, Kristoff. Really perfect.” She used this word a lot. He doesn’t like it, he said. It’s not true, he said. He has his flaws, he said. But to Anna, even his flaws were perfect. So, he was perfect.

Kristoff smiled again. Mischievous still. But happy. Pleased. Tonight, he wouldn’t argue with her. He placed his hand on Anna’s swollen belly, rubbing gently. “I like this. Baby is free to be massive now.”

“Oh, shut up and help me put my dress back on,” Anna said through a laugh. “Might be a tough task since my waistline has expanded probably five sizes.”

“I’m up for the challenge.” Kristoff said, pulling desperately hard on either side of her dress before he could button them together. Eventually, he managed. Sure, the button stretched a bit and it threatened to pop off, but he thought maybe it would hold. At least for that evening.

“How do I look?” She gave him a twirl, settling in closer to him and cupping her belly slightly. She loved showing it off. The exciting proof of their future. Of what would come in May. “Ugh. I don’t wanna keep this a secret anymore. This is awful. How I lasted this long—it’s torture! Kristoff! Encourage our little one to make its presence known. Please, please, please.”

He smiled at his wife, dropping to his knees. Rubbing circles on her belly and planting gentle kisses all over before pulling away slightly, both hands still resting on the swell. Kristoff leaned in closer again and whispered, “Hey, little one…your mama and papa love you so much and want to tell the whole world how much we love you so we can celebrate you and love you publicly and—can you stretch out for us or move your little arms and legs or something? Mama and Papa are here for you, watching you grow… loving you…” He kissed her belly again. “We love you, little one.”

“Aww, Kris. You’re so cute.”

He stood up slowly. Waiting to see if it worked. Not that it had in the past… but still hopeful. Nothing. “You ready to go?”

“I’m ready to eat if that’s what you mean.”

They walked hand in hand through the castle hallways, still bursting with the beautiful harmonies of the choir, and finally through the doors of the ballroom. Each and every Arendellian guest turned to watch the Queen and King, or Prince—whatever—consort’s grand entrance. Some even started clapping. Clearly the party was already considered a hit.

Anna noticed out of the corner of her eye that a few of the women had started whispering to each other, their eyes glued to Anna’s midsection. Maybe even saying four people didn’t know was an overestimation.

Come on, little one. Move.

But still nothing.

Instead, Anna’s stomach growled, and she knew she needed to get to the food tables. Pronto. She saw Elsa there, too, finishing up the last of the ice sculptures. A reindeer looking much like Sven perched excitedly by the pickled herring. Perfect. Two birds, one stone.

Anna bounded up to her sister first, skipping in an unbridled excitement. Unfortunately, this excitement was almost purely due to the promise of stuffing lutefisk into her belly which made her mind want to stage a rebellion against her stomach at the very idea. But she paid no mind.

Her fabulous sister, first.

“Elsa, I’m so glad you came!”

Elsa laughed. Remaining calm, of course. As usual. She stood tall as Anna collapsed into her arms. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss your favorite night of the year.”

“Thanks for doing the sculptures, too. Everybody loves them,” Anna said, eyes drifting to the series of sculptures that adorned the space, catching a glimpse of a replica of her favorite snowman and smiling widely. “Especially giant Olaf at the dessert table.”

“That one’s my favorite to make.” Elsa took a step back, away from her sister by a couple paces. She took a moment to gaze intently at Anna, something that apparently had become the theme for the day, pursing her lips while deep in some train of thought. And then, suddenly, the corners of her mouth curled into a giddy grin. She closed the gap between them and whispered in Anna’s ear, “You’re glowing.”

Anna laughed. Elsa’s breath kind of tickled her ear. “I know, right?!”

“Is it weird if I say that I think pregnancy suits you?”

“Whoa, Elsa. That is way out of line. And you said the word pregnant? Shame on you!” Anna’s voice got dramatically low when she uttered the taboo word she didn’t actually think needed to be taboo.

Elsa blushed. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“I’m kidding, Elsa! I agree with you. Will come in handy—you know—because we want lots of babies and everything,” Anna said. “I love the word pregnant, too. It’s so much easier and less awkward than the whole with child or in the family way nonsense. Like talk about beating around the bush. Jesus.”

“You hungry?”

“Oh, God yes. Thanks for reminding me.” Anna turned, reading to make a beeline for the lutefisk. But then she chuckled slightly and spun back to face her sister. “You’ll never guess what I want to eat, though.”

“Uh—herring?”

“Lutefisk.”

“Lutefisk? You—Anna—want to eat lutefisk?”

“I legitimately want to stuff twenty-five pounds of lutefisk into my mouth right now.”

Elsa laughed in pure shock. “You’re right. I never would’ve guessed.”

“I don’t know if it’s the salt or the disgustingly chewy yet soft consistency that’s getting me going, but it’s doing it. I’m feeling all tingly thinking about it.” Anna shuddered involuntarily How did that sound so good? Truly how? Repulsive. Lutefisk was nothing short of repulsive. “Can you help me fill some plates full?”

“I think your King already has you covered.”

Kristoff, goofy grin plastered on his face, approached the sisters with three plates full of lutefisk and potatoes precariously perched on top of each other. Somehow his left hand held two full glasses of mulled wine.

He passed her a glass of wine and one plate of lutefisk to start. “For you, my love.” He handed the other glass of wine to Elsa who graciously accepted.

Anna attacked the plate. Slurping down the fish in record time. Her face twisted in to some kind of combination of a gag and a smile. “Oh God this is truly horrendous.” Gulp. “Horrid. No…disgusting.” Gulp. “And so grossly…slimy?” Gulp. One plate down. Kristoff handed her the next one. “But also… man oh man does it really hit the spot.”

“I always liked lutefisk,” Kristoff said, taking a piece for himself.

Anna stopped what she was doing and shot daggers at him. “So this is your fault? Lutefisk and a massive … I swear we’re gonna find a way for the trolls to make you go through this next time.”

“You know you love it.” Kristoff smiled mischievously yet again. Taking another satisfied bite of the lutefisk.

Anna pouted playfully and grabbed one handful of lutefisk, flinging it directly into Kristoff’s face. “Trolls.” Another piece. “You.” And another. Kristoff had started opening his mouth to catch the pieces, swallowing in bliss with each successful catch and each delicious bite. “Next.” Anna tried to remain serious, but a smile was toying on her lips. Another toss. “Time.” The grand finale. Anna tricked Kristoff with a fake throw and tossed it into her own mouth instead. He furrowed her eyebrows and looked around, confused. Not having any inkling as to what actually happened. Elsa had started cracking up. Those two. Always getting up to some kind of ridiculous antics.

Anna couldn’t contain her laughter anymore and it came spilling out quickly to the point where she could barely catch her breath. She felt something like gas bubbling in her stomach and tried to calm herself, worried she had upset the whole peace of her body by gorging herself with food and then laughing too hard. But she didn’t have any burp in her… curious. Gassy without gas. Once she had successfully quelled her laughter, she started feeling it again. Gas … or bubbles … or butterflies teeming in her stomach?

Or…

OR…

OR!

Anna outwardly gasped. One hand immediately shot to her abdomen and the other covered her mouth.

Elsa and Kristoff both looked at her curiously, both cocking their head in the exact same way.

“Oh my God it’s happening!” Anna squealed, bouncing up and down so frantically that her mulled wine kept spilling over the cup.

They continued to look at her, confused as ever.

Both her hands rested on her stomach now. “It feels like… all of Elsa’s ice fireworks are going off in here!”

Now Kristoff and Elsa understood. Their eyes widened, they audibly gasped.

Still bouncing, Anna giggled. “Oooh tickly!”

“Anna?!” Kristoff ventured. She beamed at him and motioned him closer. He wrapped one strong arm around her and pulled her in for a hug, other hand staying low, secretly stroking her stomach.

She whispered in his ear. “Can you feel it? Can you feel our little one? At least…I think that’s what’s happening. I’ve never felt anything like this before. I mean gassy but—not gassy…” Plus, mother’s intuition? She just knew this was it. The Quickening. Finally!

He shook his head. “I don’t feel anything. But—I think that’s normal? I can…imagine it takes a while to feel it on the—outside,” Kristoff said, still close to her, hand still firmly on her belly. “But you feel it. Anna, it’s—wow. It’s real. This is happening. I’m so—I’ve never been more—this is the happiest I’ve ever felt.” He kissed her, passionately, on the lips.

“Me too,” Anna said as she pulled away, looking longingly into his fiery brown eyes. Another little flutter resonated through her and she giggled. Pressing her hand and thus Kristoff’s hand deeper into her stomach. “I wish you could feel it.”

“Someday.” He kissed her again.

“Screw the troll idea. You were right. This is so cool. Totally worth the lutefisk cravings.” Their laughter was interrupted by Elsa’s hands looping over both of their shoulders, hugging them tightly. Excitedly.

“Kristoff, Anna! Congratulations. Both of you.”

“Aww, thanks, sister,” Anna said, chuckling into her smile. Noting that Elsa’s cheeks seemed markedly more flushed and she wondered if the mulled wine had already gotten to her. “Wait.” Anna started bouncing again. So enthusiastically that neither Elsa nor Kristoff could keep holding onto her. “This means we can tell people! Oh my gosh can we tell them tonight? Can we, can we, can we?”

“How about right now?”

“Right now?” Anna’s voice cracked. “Right now right now?”

“Let’s go.” Kristoff held out his hand and Anna grabbed it quickly, forcefully. With all the intent in the whole world.

They raced to the small stage where the choir and the band performed. Their royal presence was enough to stop the singing mid-phrase, choir members bowing at attention.

“You don’t need to do that,” Anna said. “Your singing is beautiful, by the way. Thank you for being here. Uh—we just wanted to make an announcement. If that’s okay, of course. We can wait!” Somehow, Anna’s extreme giddiness was still manifesting as a constant and consistent bounce.

The choir singers looked at each other with what Anna perceived as knowing glances, and then nodded for the King and Queen to proceed.

They took center stage, Anna still bouncing, hand-in-hand. “Uh—hello, Arendelle! We wanted to take the time to thank you all for coming to the annual Christmas Ball. We hope you’re enjoying the food and the music and the holiday merriment! We are so happy this has become a tradition, and if I do say so myself, this might be the best ball yet. And not only because of—well, the ball… as of well—tonight, actually, Kristoff and I can finally announce that …” Anna took a moment to scan the crowd of eager faces. Maybe there were more than four who had no idea. “We’re having a baby!” Anna squealed and then screamed, raising her arm and thus also Kristoff’s arm into the air. Kristoff had also let out a few cheers. The crowd applauded, reaching a steady crescendo just as Kristoff picked Anna up and spun her around, giddily laughing, before bringing her face into his hands for a tender kiss. He then dropped to his knees in front of his wife, leaning in slightly, large hands now cupping her belly. Showing off her belly. Celebrating her belly. No more hiding. Just like Anna had wanted. He planted a tender kiss on the curve and the crowd cheered once again. Anna’s hands found their way into his hair and she ruffled it a bit, messing it up in a way she found exceedingly adorable. She turned back to the crowd, Kristoff still rubbing her belly in elation. “Baby Bjorgman is coming at the end of May!” Now Anna noticed a small corner of the crowd exchanging pieces of gold. Of course there had been some bets going on. She wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Kristoff stood up, kissed Anna once more, and then grabbed her hand, interlacing her fingers with his own. Anna took her other hand and cupped her belly, showing the crowd in more detail exactly how far along she was. Exactly. No mind games from any extra clothing. The buttons on her dress were still close to breaking loose. “Oh, and another thing! Maternity corsets are for the birds. It can’t be healthy to wear them all… tight and constricting and—” Without knowing how to control it, Anna shuddered a bit. So happy to be free. And safe. “Besides—let it all hang out, baby!” She did a little dance right then, shaking her rump and rubbing her belly. Laughter echoed throughout the crowd and then a whole conversation stirred. Anna hoped it wasn’t too judgmental… she didn’t want them to think she had taken anything too far.

But no matter. Kristoff was right. As Queen, she could make some rules. She could set some expectations. Even if not well received in the beginning, they could still hold weight.

Kristoff leaned in to whisper in Anna’s ear. “No more secrets.”

She smiled. Thank God. “Shall we celebrate?”

He nodded. “Let’s dance.”

The choir started singing again. The band joined in. The Holly and The Ivy, a Christmas classic. Merriment abound. Merriment all around. Although Kristoff and Anna took the lead, dancing alone for a few minutes, eventually more and more guests joined in. A little bit of Hallingdansen, a lot bit of pols, and the most bit of Kristoff taking advantage of the fact that the whole kingdom knew how overjoyed they were with the news of their growing family by essentially hardcore smooching in the middle of the dance floor. Their tongues had a good time dancing the Halling, too, and they paid absolutely no mind to the fact that all eyes were on them. Maybe the mulled wine was getting to them, too, or perhaps it was simply euphoria. Between the kisses, Kristoff frequently dropped to his knees to kiss Anna’s stomach or rub excited circles over the curves during the dances. Anna giggled each time, noticing that the flutters seemed to come in more enthusiastic waves when Kristoff’s hands or lips came in contact with her belly.

This felt good. To finally have the freedom to really celebrate. True bliss. True happiness. The best of all the past Christmas Balls. And they had a feeling no future ball could ever compare.

[thecassadilla]

Change of Pace - Chapter 1

Pairing: Kristanna

Chapter 1 on AO3

Word Count: 3,292

Summary: With her sister’s blessing, Anna takes a step back from her royal duties and finds herself working for a ski resort nestled in the mountains. A chance encounter with the resort’s maintenance technician leads them down an unexpected path, as they must work together to plan the resort’s annual ball - and maybe fall in love in the process.

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! I’m trying something new here - I’m not really into writing multi-chap fics because I feel like my brain betrays me and I put it to the side and never look back. However, I’ve already managed to plan out the first 20ish chapters (and have written a ton of it), so I’m giving it a shot. This idea came to me back in September, when I was flipping through the television channels, and came across the summary for a Hallmark movie. Just from the description, I decided I wanted to write a fic based off of it. I did watch the first half of the movie and got some inspiration from that, too, though the ideas are mostly original. (If anyone’s interested the movie is called A Winter Princess). Rated T for the foreseeable future, but will eventually be M-rated. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

In the two months since she had arrived at Valley Ski Resort, Princess Anna of Arendelle hadn’t stopped smiling. She greeted each day with a smile, worked with a smile, and whenever she thought about how thrilled she was to be experiencing life away from the castle and Arendelle, she smiled.

If she were being honest, she hadn’t stopped smiling since her older sister - and Queen of Arendelle - had approved her proposal of a sabbatical. She remembered the day she’d asked very clearly, as she was certain that her sister would reject her idea and she’d be stuck in Arendelle for the foreseeable future.  

“Soooo,” she’d started.

“Yes?” Elsa had raised a questioning eyebrow. 

“How would you say your mood is today?”

“My mood?” 

“There’s something that I want to ask you, and I’m not sure how you’re going to react, so I’m trying to gauge if now is a good time or a bad time.”

Elsa had chuckled. “Anna, you can ask me whatever it is that you have to ask me.”

“Okay,” she’d breathed. “I wanted to know how you’d feel if I...went away for a while.”

“Went away? To where?”

“I was thinking of taking a sabbatical and finding work in another country - temporarily, of course. Just a few months where I could do something other than mope around the castle. I think it would be good to have some work experience under my belt, especially because your coronation is next year. I want to be able to do more than what I’ve been doing.”

Elsa had nodded. “I see. That makes...sense. Did you have something specific in mind?”

“Not yet,” she’d confessed. “I wanted to know what you thought about it before I committed to anything specific and got my hopes up.”

“There are a lot of factors to take into consideration. Your identity and your security are the first things that come to mind. But...as long as you’re back before the coronation, I really don’t see the harm in you -”

Before she could finish her sentence, Anna was throwing her arms around her sisters neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re the best big sister, ever!”

It was some of the best news she’d received in her life. Not that her life had been dismal prior to her arrival at Valley Ski Resort, but it was rather...boring. Not boring in the traditional sense, as she had plenty of things to do. Horseback riding in the gardens, reading every romance book she could get her hands on in the library, and practicing piano at twilight. Regardless, her days felt empty, as if something was missing. She selfishly wished for more - travel, new friends, love. 

So with her sister’s approval, the arrangements were made. With the exception of the general manager of the resort, her colleagues would remain unaware of her royal status, and would refer to her by her first name rather than by any titles or formalities. She’d stay on site, in one of the luxury “cabins” that the hotel rented to guests who wanted a more home-y experience, and set off to Valley in September, vastly unprepared for a life so different from the one she was accustomed to, but ready for anything. She had to learn how to do everything on her own; from cooking to cleaning to laundry, but she adapted fairly quickly to her new, “normal” routine and fell in love with her job as the assistant event planner for the resort. Two months in, and she was happier than she’d ever been in her entire life.

This particular morning had started the same as any other. In fact, when she woke up, she had a great feeling about how the day would go. She woke up feeling well rested before her alarm went off, had extra time to put on a little makeup, and was able to stop by the café on the first floor before making it to work with plenty of time to spare.

“Good morning,” she called, upon entering her office. She dropped her bag on the floor before shimmying out of her coat and hanging it on the rack by the door.

“Hey! Morning, Anna,” Holly, the administrative assistant, called back. 

She glanced around and noticed that Holly was the only person there, which was rather unusual. Her boss always made it in before she did. “Jenny’s not here yet?”

“No,” Holly answered, running a hand through her chin length, raven-colored hair. “And it’s not like her to be late.”

She scooped her purse off the floor and walked over to her desk. “I know. Maybe she called out today?”

“She hasn’t been answering my calls or texts and I didn’t get an email from her.” 

“Do you think Bonnie will know?”

“I’m sure she does, but she has more important things to worry about than one person calling out sick.”

“I’ll try texting her, too. I hope everything’s okay.”

“In the meantime,” Holly started, opening the top drawer of her desk and pulling out a box, “Look at what came in today!”

“Are those the invitations for the ball?”

“They are! Come look!”

Though she’d just sat down, she immediately hopped back up and ran over to Holly’s desk. She peered over her shoulder, at the silver and royal blue invitations. “Wow, those are gorgeous.”

“‘Valley Ski Resort cordially invites you to the twenty-fourth annual ball. Join us on Saturday, February sixth at seven in the evening for dinner, drinks, and dancing,’” Holly read. “Followed by the address to the hotel, of course, your extension and email for the RSVP, and the prices per head.”

“They’re perfect.”

“All you have to do now is finalize the guest list, print the name and address stickers, stick ‘em on and drop ‘em in the mailbox.”

“That’s it?” Anna teased.

“At least you don’t have to worry about hand-writing every name and address on five hundred envelopes.”

“It would give me an excuse to practice my penmanship,” Anna laughed. “My teachers always said my handwriting could go from neat to illegible in the same paper.”

“I know for a fact that your hand will be tired after sticking that many stickers to the envelopes, so don’t get too far ahead of yourself. At least the return address and stamp are already on there.”

“Less work for me,” Anna smiled, picking up the box and carrying it to her desk. “And I already have my work cut out for me.”

“Jenny is keeping you on your toes, huh?”

She sat down again, finally kicking off her snow boots and switching them for the flats she kept in her bag. “Just a little. I enjoy it though. I like keeping busy.”

“I know you haven’t been here very long, but you’re doing great,” Holly said. “Way better than any other assistant Jenny’s ever had.”

“Thank you, Holly. I really appreciate that.”

They kept up the small talk as they began their work for the day. As usual, Anna had plenty of emails to respond to and the talking helped to pass the time. A few hours into the day, the office door opened and they both turned around to see if Jenny had finally arrived for her shift. Instead, it was Bonnie, the general manager of the resort. “Good morning, ladies.”

“Good morning, Bonnie,” they responded in unison.

“How’s the planning for the ball coming along?”

“Excellent,” Anna spoke up. “We received the invitations this morning. The guest list will be finalized by early next week and the invitations will be sent out by the end of next week.”

“That’s wonderful,” Bonnie smiled. “Now, I’m afraid that I have good news and bad news for you both.”

“Oh,” Holly murmured, exchanging a worrisome look with Anna.

“I’m afraid that Jenny has resigned, effective immediately,” Bonnie stated matter-of-factly. “That’s part of the bad news. The good news is for Anna - congratulations, you’ve been promoted!”

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. “I have?” 

“Of course! Sure, you’ve only been here for two months, but you’ve been shadowing Jenny the entire time, you show excellent potential, you’ve never been late...I can go on and on, but it was one of the easiest hiring decisions that I’ve had to make in my entire career.”

Anna couldn’t help but wonder if she was being promoted out of sheer desperation, or if it was because Bonnie was the only person aware of her royal status and was trying to kiss up to her. “Thank you, Bonnie. I hope that I can exceed your expectations.”

“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble fitting into your new role. Now for the second part of the bad news - unfortunately, there won’t be enough time to hire a new event planning assistant in time for all of the upcoming events, between the Christmas season starting in three weeks, and then the ball the first week of February. I’m so sorry.”

Anna nodded slowly, trying to process everything that Bonnie had just told her. Not only had she been promoted, but now she’d have to take on the workload of two people by herself. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I ask,” she remarked. “I know that you’re going to do great. Enjoy the rest of your day, ladies.”

Bonnie swiftly exited the office, and as soon as she was gone, Anna turned to face Holly. “What am I going to do?”

Holly stared for a moment, her mouth agape. “I...don’t know. This has never happened before.”

“I don’t think that I can do this alone! How am I supposed to do this alone?”

“Anna, I genuinely don’t know. I’m as stunned as you are. I mean, I’ll do my best to help you in any way that I can, but I only took this job because it came with a set, part-time schedule. I have a baby at home - I can’t be here for all of the events on the calendar.”

“Of course not,” Anna agreed. “That’s not fair to you or your husband or son.”

“Yeah, but this situation isn’t fair to you. Bonnie has plenty of time to find a new assistant, I bet she’s just being lazy.”

“I wonder why Jenny quit so abruptly.”

“I know! Jenny isn’t the type of person to do anything abruptly. I hope that she’s not sick or something.”

A wave of anxiety rolled through Anna’s body and she buried her face in her hands. “What am I gonna do?”

“Oh sweetie,” Holly cooed. “It’ll be alright. You’ll figure it out, I promise.”

Anna exhaled heavily and nodded. 

“How about we go over everything we have to do for the rest of the season?” Holly suggested. “I know Jenny normally goes over the events on a week-by-week basis, but it may make you feel better to recall everything you’re dealing with in advance. Kind of like a quiz.”

“Okay,” she agreed. She got up from her desk and paced back and forth across the office; she often did her best thinking as she paced. The office was modest; the three desks were all lined up against the right wall, and the other walls were lined with filing cabinets, a bulletin board, and plants. Lots and lots of plants. Luckily, the plants were Holly’s responsibility, so Anna didn’t have to worry about keeping them alive - something she was sure that she’d fail at.

“So the cookie decorating is on the twenty-fourth. Do you remember the game plan for that?”

“Yes. We...I have to pick up the cookies at the bakery, bring them to the conference room - which I’ll try to set up in advance - and then sell the cookies until the event is over.”

“Do you remember how much each cookie costs?”

“Three dollars.”

Deciding to distract herself as she and Holly talked, she started to reorganize the bulletin board. A couple of the fliers were outdated, and they could use the extra room for the upcoming events.

“Take down the pictures with Jenny in them while you’re at it,” Holly replied. “Alright, what’s next?”

She began to collect the many photos of Jenny that had been posted onto the board. A few of them included her, from the events that they had worked on together. It was almost bittersweet to take them down; Jenny was her boss and mentor. They spent forty hours a week together for two months straight, and Jenny had taught her everything that she knew. “Um, that’s the last event that this office has planned for the month and December is maxed out.”

“Well, what events do we have in December?”

“So many,” Anna sighed, stacking the photos neatly into a pile. “Santa will be here every night in the lobby. A reindeer petting zoo will be set up outside. A few movie nights and Christmas caroling. On weekends there will be sleigh rides through the woods and hot beverage stands outside. Am I forgetting something?”

“There’s also going to be a story time and cookie decorating with Santa event on Christmas Eve,” Holly pointed out. “All of the kids will be wearing their pajamas.”

“Okay.”

“But other than that, that’s it.”

“Thank god,” Anna breathed, finally collapsing in her office chair and tossing the pile of pictures onto her desk.

“I’m actually really excited for the story time with Santa.”

“Are you bringing your son to that one?”

Holly nodded. “He’ll only be eight months old, but why not? It’ll be adorable.”

“I can’t wait to actually see him in person,” Anna smiled. “Now, is there anything that we have to do on Christmas Day or New Years Eve or Day?”

“No, not us. Culinary is going to have buffets - like the one they’re having for Thanksgiving - and then the hotel puts out extra televisions and passes out champagne for New Years. We actually have off on those days.”

“Really? I mean, Christmas Day makes sense, but New Years? That’s a little unexpected.”

“Well, we have put most of our energy into planning the ball, and there wouldn’t be enough time to throw three huge parties in a month. So, the holidays are ours.”

“I’m so thankful for the person who made that decision,” Anna laughed. “I may wind up here on those days, anyway, though.”

Holly clicked her tongue. “Don’t do that - enjoy your extra days off.”

“It’s not like I have anywhere better to be,” she shrugged.

“I’d offer for you to come over on Christmas, but I’ll be with my in-laws in the morning, and my parents at night. Baby’s first Christmas, and all.”

“Oh, no I wasn’t trying to invite myself or get you to pity me.”

“I know,” Holly nodded. “I just feel bad that you’ll be all alone.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll call my sister, like I always do when I have time off, and then I’ll come here and see what’s going on.”

“Maybe by then you’ll have a boyfriend and he’ll invite you to spend Christmas with him,” Holly teased, wiggling her eyebrows.

Anna felt her cheeks warm up at the thought. “Christmas is six weeks from today and I think we both know that that’s not going to happen. I’ve been here for two months and the dates I’ve been on haven’t been great.”

“I don’t think you’ve been looking in the right places.”

She rolled her eyes. “To be fair, I came here to work.”

“And now you have enough work for two people,” Holly reminded her. “You should try to have some fun in your free time.”

“I do have fun,” she remarked defensively.

“Oh yeah? Tell me what you do for fun.”

“I just got a Netflix account, so I’ve been trying to catch up on all of the shows that I’ve missed over the years.”

Holly cocked her head. “That’s not fun, that’s pathetic. Also - watch Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’ll add it to my list. And I don’t think that you should judge what I do in my free time when you spend your free time tending to your infant.”

“Exactly! I don’t have any free time. I’m trying to live vicariously through you.”

“Don’t do that,” Anna laughed. “You’re only setting yourself up for disappointment.”

“What if we set you up on Tinder? Or Bumble?”

“Holly -”

“Ooh, I could set you up on a blind date! My husband works in the high school and he has a ton of young, single coworkers.”

“How about we stop talking about my dating life and finish talking about the rest of the events that are coming up?”

“Fine,” Holly groaned, looking down at the calendar. “January is pretty empty. A few movie nights scattered around, and two make-your-own hot chocolate nights.”

“Hot chocolate?”

“Yeah, the kids get a kick of being able to choose their own toppings and stuff.”

“Gotcha,” Anna nodded.

“And then the rest of our energy goes to the ball. January is crunch time. Making sure that everyone RSVP’d, making sure the menu is finalized, reaching out to the DJ, et cetera. It’s going to be a lot.”

“I’ll consider myself warned.”

“That’s the right attitude! Now for February - obviously, the ball is the first thing that month. There’s going to be a few events for Valentine’s Day - card and cookie decorating and a carnation sale.”

“Carnations? Why not roses?”

“Carnations are the flower of love,” Holly answered. “And they’re cheaper than roses.”

“Yeah, but roses are way more popular,” Anna pointed out. “Maybe we should consider ordering roses this year.”

“I’ll look into it,” Holly said, writing it down on her notepad. “Now for March. Easter is the first weekend in April, so the Easter Bunny will be in the lobby for the month. There will be egg hunts and egg decorating - basically, we’ll have eggs coming out of our ears - in the week leading up to the holiday.”

“Is that it?”

“Well, we hadn’t got that far for this upcoming year, but usually we throw in some cookie decorating, too.”

“Okay, that’s manageable,” Anna commented.

Holly frowned. “And then I believe we’re losing you, after that.”

“Yeah, I’m going home in April,” Anna sighed. “We can plan a few more events for that month, though. I won’t be leaving until late April.”

Holly smiled. “So I get a little more time with you than I thought.”

“Hopefully Bonnie will find her replacements by then. Or else you’ll be doing the work of three people.”

“Don’t remind me,” Holly groaned. “I don’t want to think of that as being a possibility.”

She wiggled the mouse of her computer and it turned back on. She signed onto her email, hoping to see an explanation from Jenny. Instead, she found an email from the manager of the bakery. She spun around to face her coworker. “Liz just emailed me and said that they were able to specially order the cookie kits that Jenny requested.”

“Finally, some good news today,” Holly remarked. “Not that the news of you being promoted was bad. But it was...a lot.”

“Tell me about it,” Anna laughed.

Holly’s phone rang, then, interrupting their conversation. “Hold on just a sec,” she started, before picking it up. “Hello, you’ve reached the event planning office, this is Holly speaking.”

Anna turned back to her computer and scrolled through her inbox, trying not to eavesdrop on Holly’s conversation.

“Oh, hi Bonnie! How can I help you?”

Bonnie? She glanced back at her coworker, who had a puzzled look on her face.

“I’m sorry...what? Are you kidding?...Okay, we’ll be right down,” Holly said, slamming the receiver down and standing up. “Come on, Anna, we have to go.”

“Wait, what happened? Where are we going?”

[bearholdingashark]

Music Shuffle Ficlets

I was wanting to write something, but not wanting to work on anything longer tonight, so I put my music on shuffle and wrote ten ficlets for ten different ships, one song for each ship. I’ve put the actual stories under the cut for length (they’re about 1600 words in total), but the songs and ships were: 

Dusk Till Dawn -- ZAYN, Sia (DCEU Clois)

Soldier -- Fleurie (Percy/Marguerite; The Scarlet Pimpernel)

To Be Human -- Sia, Labrinth (Phillip/Anne; The Greatest Showman)

Lover -- Taylor Swift (Adrinette; Miraculous Ladybug)

Can I Be Him -- James Arthur (Maleval; Maleficent)

The Scientist -- Coldplay (Fakiru; Princess Tutu)

Love Runs Out -- OneRepublic (Kristanna; Frozen)

POP/STARS -- K/DA (Wondertrev; Wonder Woman)

Lions! -- Lights (Matthew/Diana; A Discovery of Witches)

Carry Me Home -- The Sweeplings (Steggy; MCU)

Dusk Till Dawn -- ZAYN, Sia (DCEU Clois)

Clark looked over at Lois talking with his mom. He had missed so much and couldn’t stop just looking at her, taking in everything. Her spirit, her beauty, the lingering sadness that was evident every so often. He didn’t think he would ever tire of looking at her. 

She glanced his way, a smile lighting up her face when she caught him staring. He smiled back, unapologetic. He had caught her looking at him often enough. 

They had been given a second chance and he didn’t want to waste a moment. 

He walked over to where she was standing, his hand reaching out for hers automatically. She moved over to fit herself next to him, not breaking the sentence she was finishing. He was happy to just be there, next to his family.

Soldier -- Fleurie (Percy/Marguerite)

Marguerite listened to the slow in and out of Percy’s breathing, her head pillowed on his chest, his arms around her. 

Sleep was eluding her, and she suspected it had something to do with the fact that Percy was leaving for France in the morning. This would be his third trip this month alone. 

She just wanted more time with him in their home, in this hideaway they had made for themselves. She didn’t begrudge him his sleep, however. He had looked so tired when he had come home only a few days previous and he would need all of his strength and wits about him in Paris. 

Percy stirred beneath her, ever the light sleeper. “Margot?” he asked, his voice heavy with sleep. 

“Shh, my darling,” she said, brushing a lock of his hair back from his face. “Go back to sleep.” 

To Be Human -- Sia, Labrinth (Phillip/Anne)

Anne walked away from Phillip her head high and her heart breaking. She wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms and listen to his promises about how their love was strong enough to withstand society and its whims. She remembered the look in his eyes as they flew through the air, arms around each other and her step faltered. 

Another memory from even earlier that evening pushed to the front of her mind, of the way his parents had looked at her. That would never stop, no matter where they went.

Being with him would be worth it, something whispered inside her and she stopped. Was it enough? Should she fight for him, for them when everything inside her was telling her to run? 

A hint of a smile came across her lips as she remembered how he had flown with her, moved with her. Despite the warning bells in her mind, despite everything, she knew that was special. 

Without giving time for her doubts to return, she ran back to the ring, where he still stood, and straight into his arms. 

Lover -- Taylor Swift (Adrinette)

Marinette hummed softly to herself as she moved around the kitchen, making croissants for dinner. She did a little twirl between the kitchen island and the fridge. 

“May I have this dance?”

Marinette turned, a wide smile on her lips. “Just let me get these in the oven first.” She slid the baking tray into the oven before turning to accept Adrien’s outstretched hand. 

“You’re humming our song,” he murmured against her hair as he moved them around the kitchen in a slow waltz. 

“Our first dance,” she said, her voice pitched low for no other reason than it felt so sacred and intimate here in his arms. 

He twirled her away from him and pulled her back, his smile mirroring hers. 

“Happy anniversary, my love,” he said as he held her close to him. 

“I love you,” she said pulling her head back from his chest to look up at him. How did she get so lucky?

Can I Be Him -- James Arthur (Maleval)

Diaval stood a ways off from where his mistress was speaking to one of the Dark Fae, a tall, young male. He knew that his mistress remained unattached, had an inkling he might have something to do with that, but nothing had been formalized. With anyone. 

He had wondered, idly, if she would be happier with one of the Dark Fae, someone who could fly through the air with her in a form closer to hers than a raven. 

There was nothing romantic or flirtatious about the conversation he was witnessing, and he told himself he wasn’t jealous. She could talk to whoever she wished. But he did wonder if a different form might have changed things. 

The Dark Fae she was talking to pointed out Diaval and then his mistress was turing towards him, red lips stretched wide in a smile. 

“Diaval, there you are. I missed you,” she called out to him. 

Then again, maybe he was exactly as he should be. 

The Scientist -- Coldplay (Fakiru)

Fakir sat on the dock, paper in his lap and pen in hand as he stared unfocused at the lake. Ahiru was swimming somewhere nearby and she was the center of his thoughts. 

He had promised--sworn--to stay by her side and he wasn’t regretting that choice, but he missed her, with a strength that sometimes left him breathless. Even as he saw her every day. She was still herself, all brilliant personality and reckless action, and he was happy she was there at all. 

He just hadn’t expected to miss her human form as much as he did. He wanted to hold her, talk with her, dance with her, kiss her…

His cheeks burned at the thought, even as he had left his teenage years behind some time ago. He wanted a life with her, and didn’t feel that was so much to ask. 

He had tried writing her back to a human, but nothing had worked. He turned his head to watch her float by, a cheerful quack in his direction when she noticed him looking. 

His eyes widened as an idea came to him, watching her on the lake. Maybe it wasn’t her that needed to change form. As long as they were together, did it really matter what he looked like?

He began writing, pen flying across the page, praying that this would work. 

Love Runs Out -- OneRepublic (Kristanna)

Kristoff wandered through the forest on Sven, wondering where he should go next. He was pretty sure he could find his way back to Arendelle, but had no idea where Anna or Elsa or Olaf were and he didn’t want to go back without them. 

Despite his insecurities and worries about his relationship with Anna, he needed to see her, to talk to her about what she wanted. He was decided. Unless she told him to go, he would stay and love her for the rest of his life. He would tell her his worries, because Sven was right, those feelings were real, but she was it for him and he just wanted her to be happy. 

A loud, ground shaking thud followed by a cry--a cry he knew too well--alerted him to the fact that Anna was closer than he had thought. He spurred Sven onwards. He had to make sure she was safe. 

“I’m here. What do you need?” he asked as he scooped her up onto Sven. No matter what it was, he would do it. 

POP/STARS -- K/DA (Wondertrev)

Steve pressed himself against a building, surveying the scene to see where he was most needed. A flash of movement caught his eye and he turned his head to see Diana in a fierce one on one fight with one of the men they were after. She was almost a blur of swinging fists and lasso, her opponent an actual super soldier who could match her blow for blow. 

Fortunately, some of the men they were fighting were simply human, and Steve had kept his focus on them and left the enhanced beings to Diana who could more than handle them. 

He watched her fight for a moment longer, mesmerized by the way she moved, her strength and grace, before pushing off the wall to rejoin the fight. 

Lions! -- Lights (Matthew/Diana)

Diana stood in one of the outside halls at Sept Tours, memories coming to her as she walked. She had needed a break from her research and elected to take a walk around the grounds. There was so much history here--hers and others. 

She remembered her first visit here, when she had met Domenico at almost this very spot, how Matthew had fought for her, even back then. He was always there to defend her and the children. Not that she was defenseless as she recalled several instances where the protection of him and their family had fallen on her shoulders. She would do anything to protect those she loved. 

Footsteps behind her made her turn, her face lighting up as Matthew walked towards her.

“Everything alright, Mon Coeur?” he asked, reaching for her hand as he came closer. 

“Even better now,” she said giving his hand a squeeze. 

Carry Me Home -- The Sweeplings (Steggy)

Steve put all of the stones back, one by one, careful not to disrupt anything as he returned them. He needed to keep the future safe or this was all for naught. 

As he placed the last one in its spot, he got ready to return to the present. Five seconds. It had taken him some time to return all the stones, but it would only be five seconds for everyone else. 

A glance out of the corner of his eye at a young brunette woman had him remembering the precious moments he had been near Peggy when getting the tesseract. He had told himself that just seeing her again was enough, that he had moved on, but that wasn’t true. It would never be enough. He changed the date and hoping he was timing this right, press the button that would return him to Peggy, return him home. 

[kristannafever-fics]

Unknown Fate - Part One

KRISTANNA WEEK 2018 ~ Nov 6th - Prompt: Shelter

Kristanna Canon Divergence AU (Multi-Chapter)

Rated: T

WC: 4108

~ Okay, I started writing this in the late summer based solely on this opening scene when it randomly popped into my head one day, therefore I apologize ahead of time for the disjointed and weak plot that accompanies it, lol!  But hey it fits with today’s prompt!

_______________

Anna never thought she’d find herself in the streets without a home, begging for scraps that no one could afford to give.   As the crown Princess of Arendelle, she never thought she would ever want for simple things, like food and shelter.

How the tables could turn…

Now she was nothing but a homeless beggar.  A vagrant. Someone with no practical skills in which to get herself a job, forced to live on the streets, unable to support herself in the most basic of ways.  Maybe if she had left with more than just the clothes on her back she could have figured something out.  She supposed she should feel lucky to even have made it out alive.  She should be grateful.

Instead she was filled with fear and anger to accompany the constant ache of her hunger.

Sometimes she got lucky. Every once in a while, a merchant would take pity on her, throwing some stale bread at her feet.  Most of the time she was simply told to move along and stop chasing away paying customers.

If only they knew…

Nights once spent in the castle, warm in her lavish bed with a fire burning brightly in the hearth, were now replaced by cold, sleepless nights in which she shivered uncontrollably, stomach cramping painfully from hunger.  

Once upon a time she used to think she knew what hunger felt like.  It was but a papercut compared to the gaping wound of pain in her abdomen now.  

That was why she had come to the market to steal.  She was too hungry to try and beg for hours.  She already saw her target; a bag of food hanging from a sled.  The last stall at the market was an easy getaway. Just take it and run.

Anna eyed the apple and the carrots, saliva pooling in her mouth.  How long had it been since she’d had a fresh piece of fruit or veg?  She couldn’t remember.  Maybe she should beg.  Surely the man could spare a single carrot for her.  Or the apple?

Anna licked her lips at the thought of biting into its shiny red skin.

The man suddenly turned around and Anna changed her position, shrinking back against the wall and dropping her eyes.  She never felt his gaze on her, probably too focused on setting up to notice a lowly peasant woman.   She had begged and stolen from enough merchants to recognize when they were paying her attention or not.

The big blond turned back and hopped up into the sleigh, moving more ice blocks to the back for easier access.  Anna surveyed the bag of food again.  It was too close to him for her not to be caught red handed.  She needed him to be distracted.  She needed someone to buy ice from him.

It was early however and the market had barely opened.  She knew she would have to wait, despite the sharp pain in her belly.  Lucky she was good at biding her time.  She had more practice in that than she ever thought she would.

She resigned to watch him from the corner of her eye.  After he seemed to have the ice where he wanted it, the hard-working purveyor stood and wiped a forearm across his brow.  Anna couldn’t remember a time when she had seen a man so big.  When she was young, to her the guards in the castle had always seemed like big, barrel chested, impossibly strong men.  This guy almost to put them to shame.  She didn’t want to steal from him, she didn’t want to steal from anybody really, but she wouldn’t dare to beg this man.  If the scowl he’d been wearing on his face was any indication, she would likely be told to scram if she asked for a single carrot.

It wasn’t like she was going to steal that much.   Just grab the apple and run.  Okay, maybe a carrot too, but that was all.  She was almost positive with the size of the man that there would be plenty more in the bottom of the sack.  Maybe some dried meats, or some fresh rolls, or perhaps – gasp –  even a pastry!?

Anna gripped her middle as her stomach rumbled painfully.  Best not to think about such delicacies.  

Instead she thought about the past.

The events of that day felt like an eternity ago.  The gates were finally open for her sister’s coronation.  Open for the first time that Anna could even remember.  She was headed out into the town to enjoy her exuberance. She was almost free too, when she was summoned back into the castle to prepare for the ceremony at the last minute.  She didn’t even know why she had to be there. No one gave her anything to do. All she was tasked with, was where to stand.  Apparently, Elsa didn’t even think she would get that right as Kai went over with her again the precise events of the coronation.

Late at nights, when she was too cold to sleep, Anna would often wonder what would have happened had she been able to explore the kingdom that afternoon.  Maybe she would have been able to talk to a few people and work out the nervous jitters from having no one to converse with except for staff and the paintings in the castle gallery for all those years.  Would she have been less awkward with the gorgeous man who approached her during the dance?  Maybe.  Probably. Instead she had gotten tongue tied and the dashing, young man – although he had laughed it off – gave Anna the feeling that she was making a fool of herself.  

Flustered and impossibly embarrassed, she had disappeared down the expansive halls and out onto the roof where she went to be alone.  

Staring up into the starry sky that night, she wondered what was going to become of her sister now that she was Queen.  Anna had no doubt that she would close the gates again.  Could Anna really live like that the rest of her life?  Shut off from the world again.  Alone.  She didn’t think so.

In truth, she knew she couldn’t.  She simply could not live like that anymore.

This night was her one chance.  Her once chance to branch out and try to change the way things had been since she could remember.   She had to go back to the party and try again.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she put a smile on her face and headed back down to the ball, only to find out that people were leaving as Elsa had put an early end to the festivities.

Feeling ill, was her excuse. She was no longer in the ball room when Anna returned.  Anna knew she would be in her expansive room, the one her parents used to have, doing Gods knows what.

The thing that absolutely crushed her soul, was to see the lovely green eyes of the dashing, auburn-haired fellow being ushered out of the main entrance, looking at her with clear regret and a hint of longing.

If only she had stayed! If only she had simply sucked it up and laughed off her own awkwardness to continue talking to him.  She suddenly realized that living in the castle walls without companionship since her parents died, had left her completely naive to normal social interaction.

And where was Elsa through all of this?  Locked tightly away in her room, shutting her out like always.  

Anna’s anger boiled over and she stormed up the stairs, finally ready to unleash her emotions on her sister.  She was not prepared to see what she did when opened the door to his sisters room without knocking…

“Ay, how much for a block?”

Anna had been so caught up in the past that she didn’t even realize the blond had a customer.  This was going to be her only chance.  She needed to act fast or she was going to starve all day.

Quick and quiet, she tiptoed up to the side of the sled as the big guy turned to talk to the customer. She didn’t pay attention to what they were saying, it didn’t matter.  She was focused on grabbing the food and slipping away unnoticed.

Anna ducked when she got closer, hunching forward as she crept slowly ahead along the front of the sled. She was so close.  She reached up and grasped the apple, prepared to turn around immediately, when she hesitated.  She was just so hungry, she reached up with her other hand and grabbed however many carrots she could manage in her tiny palm.  She was turning to escape when someone suddenly grasped her forearm.

She looked down at the big, warm hand clamped on her arm, then followed it up to the frowning face of the man who was selling ice.

“What do you think you are doing?” he growled.

This was not the first time she had been caught.  She immediately turned on the waterworks.

“Please, sir.  I am sorry,” she cried quietly, making herself tear up.  “I am just a lowly beggar in need of food.”

“You’re a thief,” he countered calmly, his frown deepening.

“I’m so hungry,” Anna pleaded, ready to amp up her voice and wail if it was called for.

That’s when his eyes changed and his face softened with them.

“I would have given them to you if you had asked,” he sighed, releasing her arm.

Anna’s first instinct was to run.  Run away and find a corner to fill her belly with ravenous teeth.  Instead she paused, taken aback by the reaction she had never gotten before.

“Go on, take what you need,” he gestured to the sack on the sled.  “You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

Anna suddenly burst into real tears.  She had forgotten what simple kindness felt like.  She suddenly felt terrible for every morsel of food that she had ever stolen, even if it had saved her life more than once.  She would have dropped the apple as she collapsed onto her knees, had she not been so aware of how valuable fresh food could be.  

“Forgive me,” she wailed, snot bubbling from her nose as tears spilled mercilessly from her closed lids. “I don’t mean to steal, I am just so hungry.  Please forgive me,” she choked.  

“Hey, hey, hey,”

She suddenly realized that she could feel the heat pouring off of him and the breath of his speech on her cheek.  “Stop, okay? I’m not mad, just, please stop crying!” he hissed.  “You’re making a scene!”

Anna pulled in gulps of air until she was able to control her sobs.  When she thought she had herself under control, she finally opened her eyes and looked up at his face.

The compassion from his brown eyes nearly took her breath away.  He was kneeling with his big forearm bracing himself on his other bent leg, looking at her closely.  When was the last time someone had looked at her so closely?  No one ever gave her a second glance.  People could barely even look at her for how dirty and disheveled she had become.  Often times they would sneer at her when shooing her away or throwing her scraps that were headed for the garbage.

Why was this man so different?

They both turned when someone cleared their throat.  The big man took to his feet to attend to the customer while Anna remained where she was, too stunned from the interaction to move.  It took hardly any time before the blond came back and sat down beside her with a sigh as he leaned his back against the wheel of the sled and propped his elbows on his folded knees.

“Everyone is giving me gears about my prices this morning,” he grumbled.  “When they get to the end of the market they’ll end up buying from the other guys even though my prices are lower, just because they don’t want to double back.”

Anna watched as he studied his own hands while he spoke.  They were large, his fingers thick and covered with callouses. Working-man’s hands.  She’d never seen hands like his up close.

“I’ve been there,” he offered quietly when Anna didn’t respond.  “I’ve been desperate and hungry.  It sucks.”  He finally turned and looked at her, eyes so kind that Anna wanted to cry again.  “I’m here every couple of days.  Next time just come and ask, I’ll give you whatever you need.”

Without another word he lumbered to his feet and walked around the side of the sled to peddle his ice. Anna waited a moment but he never came back.  She finally got up and took a brisk pace away from the market to a place she liked to sleep in a forgotten stable of a run-down Inn.  

When she had settled herself in the filthy corner of a horse stall, she looked down at the apple and carrots in her hands.  They might as well have been gold they were so valuable to her.  Still, she regretting taking them even after the stranger told her to help herself.

She might have pondered him further had she not been able to smell the apple in her lap.  She picked it up with a dirty hand and lifted it to her mouth, taking one last pause to appreciate it before she bit into the flesh.

It was so crisp!  So sweet!  Her eyes rolled back into her head and she let out a guttural moan at how good it tasted. She was in heaven, suddenly back in the palace, munching on an apple as she read a book by the window in the library.

No, not there.  She was cold and alone, her stomach cramping painfully as she ate.  She needed to slow down.  She’d had nothing but stale bread for so long that she needed to take it easy lest she throw up the first real food she’d had in weeks.  Despite her hunger she paused, taking time to consider the exchange with the man again.

She wouldn’t go back there. He was too kind.  It felt like a cheat to beg from him every time he was in the market.  She couldn’t rely on him to feed her.  No, she would find food elsewhere.  She needed to remember how to survive.

Yet his eyes had been knowing.  He admitted that he understood.  Did he offer this to every beggar that came to him?  Everyone whom he caught steeling?  If so, how would he have any food left for himself?  How could he afford it if he had a hard time selling ice?

Why did Anna care so much?

She knew why.  It was the way he looked into her eyes and didn’t sweep a disgusted gaze at her tattered clothes and filthy skin like everyone else.  It was the fact that she felt he was truly understanding.  Perhaps she should give herself a break and accept some help, even if it put the man at an inconvenience.

Anna nibbled on the end of a carrot as she thought about him.  She wasn’t sure how long she was caught up into her own mind when she realized that she had eaten the apple – almost the entire core itself – and the three tiny carrots she’d managed to grab.   She was still hungry.  She didn’t think she’d ever not be hungry anymore.  At least she was able to find sleep, pondering if she would see the ice man again.

*****

Anna staked out his spot in the market for six days, resigned to the fact that he probably wasn’t coming back, when he finally showed up on the seventh day.

During that time, she had begged and pleaded, having been given virtually nothing.  Eventually she had resorted to stealing scraps once more. Seeing him again had brought back her deep shame.

From the shadows she watched as he pulled some ice from his sled for a paying customer.  He moved the big blocks like they weighed nothing. Such endurance was incredible, even from a man of his size.  When he was finished the transaction, he reached into the bag on the side of the sled and fed a couple carrots to his reindeer as he patted the beast on the head with a faint smile.  

Anna suddenly turned away, unable to take advantage of his good nature.    On one hand she needed to survive and on the other she didn’t want to take from someone who seemed so good hearted.  The other merchants were often ruthless, even booting her in the shins to get her to go away.   Never before had she encountered someone like him.  Perhaps that was the reason she turned back and peered at him again from her hiding spot.

Her mind was a whirlwind of indecision.  She stared longingly at the man who would give her food, too ashamed to take it from him.

It wasn’t until he returned to the back of the sled to wait for a customer that he started glancing around. Anna suddenly realized he was looking for her.  Deep in the shadows she knew he wouldn’t spot her, until his eyes swept past her hiding spot and came back to lock onto her gaze.

No one had ever done that to her before.  His face remained stoic as he nodded ever so slightly, acknowledging her where she cowered, letting her know to come to him when she was ready.  It took her a time before she gathered her rampart thoughts.   Finally, she emerged into the sunshine and slowly approached his sled.

His back was to her, leaning against the back of the sled while he waited for a customer.  “Wasn’t sure if you’d come over,” he said quietly after letting her watch him for a moment.

“Still feel bad about last time,” she said even quieter, watching his back.  He remained stiff as she crept closer to where the food was. “I wasn’t sure if I could bring myself to take advantage of you again.”

He was quiet while Anna looked down into the leather sack. In addition to apples and carrots this time, there was a small paper-wrapped package of what Anna assumed was meat, two small rolls, and a muffin.  Her mouth started to salivate uncontrollably, yet she pushed her desperate hunger from her mind to ask the question she had been dying to ask.

“You were gone longer than a couple days,” she said almost at a whisper.  “I didn’t think you were coming back.”

He nodded, still looking out on the street.  “Ran into some trouble with the sled.  Had to fix a ski and it took me a while to chop the wood for it.”  His large shoulders shrugged.  “Didn’t think I’d be missed too much.”

Anna could hear the smile on his lips and the side of her mouth curled in response.   He glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder at her and she let him see her own smile.  It head been years since anyone had made her smile for real.

“Got a few extra things this time,” he said quietly, turning his focus away from her again.  “I have plenty more than I need.  Please help yourself.”

Anna gave the food a sideways glance.  She had to swallow again, thinking about actually eating a piece of meat.  She was indeed hungry, but she was also incredibly curious.  Something so deeply seated within her that even starvation couldn’t drive it away.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“The mountains,” he said slowly.

Anna thought his answer sounded careful.  “You have family?”

He nodded, still facing the street.  “I do.”

“A big family?”

“You could say that.”

Why did it sound like he was smiling again?  Anna took a tentative step closer to him, almost standing at his side but still far enough behind that he would have to turn his head if he was to look at her. “How long have you been harvesting ice?”

“Almost as long as I can remember.”

“As a child then?”

He nodded.

“Were your parents harvesters?”

She noticed him stiffen ever so slightly, immediately regretting prying into his life.  It wasn’t any of her business.  Why the hell was she even asking him questions anyway? He said she could take the food but it still felt like stealing anyway.  That’s all she really was.  A dirty thief.

Anna turned, red-faced, and grabbed a few of the items from the top of the sack.  She didn’t even look, she just needed to get out of there and never return.  

She ran, despite hearing him call for her to ‘Wait, come back!’ and something else she couldn’t quite make out.  She kept going until she was back at the dilapidated stables, tucked in her filthy horse stall, sobbing uncontrollably.  

She wished she’d never engaged him.  She should have just taken what he had offered and left.  How could she have been so stupid, trying to talk to him. The last thing she needed was to become invested in him.  What would happen when he stopped showing up at the market because he didn’t want to deal with her anymore?  That was surely the outcome, wasn’t it?  There was no way he wanted a beggar hanging around every time he was in town, asking annoying questions and taking what little she was sure he could afford himself…

Yet she could not get the kindness of his eyes out of her mind.  He had seemed so careful around her, like he was afraid of scaring her away…

Then she had ended up scaring herself away.

It took a while to compose her emotions.  When she finally did, she looked at the items in her lap.  She had grabbed one of the small paper packages, an apple, a roll, and a small wax covered roll of cheese.  Tears sprung in her eyes at the feast that she was almost too guilty to eat.

Almost.

She unwrapped the paper with shaky hands, bringing the meat to her lips and taking a tentative nibble.   The last time she had eaten a piece of meat was in the castle.  The taste flooded her senses, making her cough from the saltiness.  She could grab some water from the horse trough a half a block down the street but right now she needed to simply appreciate.

She cut the salt by taking small bites of the roll and the cheese with her meat, eating slowly and methodically, making sure not to give her stomach too much.  

About half way through she had to pause, giving her churning stomach a chance to catch up.  She took the opportunity to shuffle down the street to the trough and fill the filthy bucket she found in the old stables.   Careful not to lose any water, she went back to her nest and settled in.  She sipped the water through her dirty hands then resumed her feast.

The meat somehow tasted even better.  The cheese and the fresh roll were incomprehensibly delicious.  With a few bites left of each, she carefully wrapped them back in the paper for the morning and started on the apple for dessert.

While she was chewing slowly, she finally clued in that the big blond man had put that particular food near the top of the sack on purpose.  He had wanted her to have it.  He had wanted to give her some better food.  There was no way she could possibly know for sure, yet in her heart she felt it to be the truth.

Anna settled her frail body into the corner, trying to find sleep that would not come.   It was always hard to sleep.  This time wasn’t because of the cold or the hard ground. It was because she couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering about him, feeling a weird sort of desperation to see him again.

Surely, he would be gone when she woke, like the last time.  She would resume what she knew… try to stay alive.  Even with her hunger muted for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she would wake with a painfully empty stomach.  

Perhaps it was time to move on, time to spare the nice man from her dependence.  She could survive until she got to the next town.  She had done it before when she left Arendelle.

The past came back with a vengeance and her thoughts were consumed of nothing else until it was nearly dawn when she finally drifted off in a fitful sleep.  

[ravenwritesstuff]

Wandering Hearts (22/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (OPPOSITE FROHANA TO THE MAX) A/N: no one reads this but the timeline is weird in this one so just let it happen.

yeah okay at this point is there even a point

[ part one ] [ part two ] [ part three ] [ part four ] [ part five ] [ part six ] [ part seven ] [ part eight ] [ part nine ] [ part ten ] [ part eleven ] [ part twelve ]  [ part thirteen ] [ part fourteen ] [ part fifteen ] [ part sixteen ] [ part seventeen ] [ part eighteen ] [ part nineteen ] [ part twenty ] [ part twenty-one ]

People run away from innumerable things for even more reasons. They run from responsibility, from fear, from love. They run for loneliness, for pain, for embarrassment. They run to escape their past or change their future.

She runs for it all.

She pauses at her window. Her whole life lay behind her, lies in front of her, and saying goodbye takes just one more moment than she expects. She pulls the hood of her cloak a little tighter around her neck and takes a deep breath to calm her nerves. After all, today is the only day she has ever run away. That time when she was nine does not count because she had not really meant it. This time she does. She means it with her whole heart.

She exhales.

When she was younger, she dreamed of open doors. The world was full of light and air and possibility and she didn’t understand why it all had to be shut out.

“Why?” She’d asked her mother. “Why can’t we open the doors – the gates?”

Her mother’s lips grew tight because she was asked the question far too often. “To keep you safe.”

Anna had heard, but she had not understood.

She had thought that perhaps some day she would, but she never does. So she decides that if she cannot open the doors that she will leave through a window.

….

The day they move her sister to her own bedroom is first day that Anna truly understands loneliness. It is a frantic affair. So many people bustle in and out trying to move her sister’s belongings from their shared space into one of seclusion and yet Anna feels completely isolated. She sits on her bed and watches the systematic severing of sisterhood with childlike ignorance.

She does not realize until years later that that stoic crowd of movers was the last great collection of people she would encounter in the palace.

If she had realized before she would have run all the sooner.

….

Her hands dig into cracks between stones as she begins her descent. The sun will be up soon and she needs to be far away when that happened. She hears Corona is nice this time of year, and it is as good a place as any for a fresh start. No one will know her. No one will expect anything from her. No one can hold her still or hide the world from her. She will be no one, not a princess, a sister, or a daughter.

It would be like she had never existed which would probably feel about the same as every other minute of every other day.

Her feet hit the ground, courtyard cobblestones, and she ducks into a shadow. She had spent the last dozen years memorizing the patterns of the guards but she never thought she would have a reason to use them until now. Shadow to shadow she moves until she is at the gate.

The gate only opens once a day, promptly at dawn for deliveries and to carry out waste, and no other time. She waits. She is good at waiting. Well - good enough at least. If she was a truly gifted waiter then she would be inside the castle asleep in her bed, waiting for the day her sister would open up to her again. But she won’t so she isn’t and she never will be again.

Her heart gives a funny pang. She clenches her jaw and her fists against the crack spreading through her resolve.

She had given Elsa more than enough chances. If she did not want her in her life then Anna will run until she finds someone who does.

…..

When she was younger, she would run through empty halls and pretend they were full. She would draw pictures of parties that never happened and of friends she never met. She would dream of laughter, light, and love.

When she was younger she had a sister; a sister who was warm and loving and fun, but now hid inside her bedroom day after day; a sister who was the reason why all of the doors and windows stayed shut. She sat and talked to her sister’s door, with or without response, because it was better than talking to herself.

When she was younger she never dreamed that she would leave Arendelle, her sister, her parents - but her parents are dead now. She is still in the dress she buried them in earlier today (even if there were no bodies to bury) and she knows now that her sister is dead to her, too.

Somewhere inside of her she knows that if she stays much longer she may as well be as dead as her parent, that the walls of this palace are just as much as coffin as they are stone and mortar.  

She understands in that moment the difference between living and simply being alive and begins wondering which she wants more.

….

The gates creak as they open, proof of their underuse, and she waits. Crates, barrels, and carts all make their way in, all of the things the castle needs to keep running. For being such a grand estate, the delivery is sparse. With only two royals and few enough servants to count on two hands the upkeep of supplies is limited so she knows she must time this precisely.

She scarcely breathes while waiting for the time to come. Her palms sweat where she clings to the clasp of her cloak. Her hood is drawn high and tight to mask her hair. Her dress is the plainest one she has but she worries it will still catch too much attention. She does not want attention - well - not yet anyway.

But soon, maybe - and even the idea of attention is enough to send a warm spark through her blood.

She will not be alone for long.

….

When she was younger, she had thought  marriage would be the only reason she could ever leave Arendelle. She had thought of leaving the palace to meet a husband or have a prince come live in her courts. Her mother had spoken of it as had her father and while the idea of leaving Arendelle had pained her then - the idea of staying was somehow just as awful.

She wondered who her parents met on their voyages - if they had their eyes on any prince or noble for her or Elsa. She wondered if Elsa married if somehow that would draw her out again - if Anna could somehow ply the new husband to plead her case - but that day never came.

Elsa was never presented.

Nor was she, but Anna never gave up hope that the day would come. However each day she waited the crack in her heart between where she was and where Elsa stood grew wider and wider. The bond between the two became more tenuous with each snub and act of neglect, but Anna had held tightly to the idea that something one day would change.

In some ways, she was right.

One day something did change.

….

It is not so much the deliveries coming in that she is waiting for so much as the waste being taken out. The barrels from the kitchen are loaded onto the supply cart and wheeled out through the same gate the wagon had come in through. The wagon was always checked on the way in, but no one bothered to notice anything going out.

Why would they?

No one noticed her when she was living inside these walls, so why would they notice now that she is gone?

….

It is her birthday which means very little in the day-to-day of palace life but it always feels different to her nonetheless. The birds sing a little sweeter, the air smells a little warmer, and hope shines a little brighter. After all if there ever is a day when Elsa might be kind to her it will be on this day.

Anna wanders the halls with a different bounce in her step just knowing that today will be the day that something will happen. It had been thirteen years since her sister had moved out of their room, a year since their parent’s ship had gone down, and she just knows that something is shifting.

She does not realize that something is within herself.

She has not knocked on Elsa’s door for almost a month - resolutely waiting for the day of her birth to leverage a bit of kindness from her sister. It is a strategy that has worked in the past and she hopes for a repeat performance today.  

It is late afternoon when she knocks on her sister’s door and waits. She knows Elsa is inside. She is always inside those doors, but she does not hear any stirring. She knocks again.

“Hello, Elsa!” She forces the cheerfulness in her voice even as a sickening feeling ripens in her stomach. “I bet you’ll never be able to guess what day it is?”

It is mid-summer and Anna had slept with the windows of her room open. The air had been warm and thick and she loved it. That is why she notices the stinging chill around her as she stands in front of her sister’s room, waiting. She shivers from head to toe.

Is she nervous?

That has to be it.

She has felt this before in front of this door, that same bitter bite of fear that sank its teeth deep into her spirit. She just does not remember ever feeling it as strongly as she does in this moment. Especially since she has been so certain that today of all days she will receive some scrap of affection.

She clears her throat against the unpleasant turn of thought and presses forward with a shaking voice. “It’s my birthday. Chef has made chocolate cake for dessert and I thought - well - I thought we could share it.”

Anna presses her ear against the door. The wood feel like ice against her skin and she flinches away. She rubs thin fingers over the fragile shell of her ear with a frown.

“Elsa. Can you hear me? It’s my birthday and -” She rests her hand on the door handle (it too as chilled as the wood had been) turning it just slightly and -

“Go away, Anna!” The words are striking as much as a fist to the face. She falls back a step.

Anna had prepared for potential silence, for only a few polite words, but she had not prepared for this.

She had not prepared for spite.

“Elsa. Please.” She reaches for the handle again, desperate, but she hears the lock click.

In all their years, though the door had been shut, Anna had never known it to be locked. Never until right now.

When she was nine she had broken her mother’s hand mirror. The hundreds of fragments had shown hundreds of tiny bits of her, all too small to show her as a whole, and she knows now that that is how she feels. Jagged. Sharp. Shattered. Someone with nothing left to lose.

She had run then, only to the gardens, but she feels that same urge welling up inside of her but on a grader scale. She knows that if she runs this time she will not come back, and the finality of that idea makes her panic.

She grabs the handle and shakes the door, banging with her other fist. “Elsa! Please! Just open the door.”

“I said go away!”

She hardly recognizes her sister’s voice, so raw and full of reckoning. Had it always sounded like this? Had she really not heard it in so long she had forgotten its roughness? Had she ever really known her sister’s voice at all?

That thought steals her strength.

How many years had she spent imagining a sister that loved her without ever considering that that sister may never exist?  How many conversations had she had where she voiced both sides? How long had it been since she had actually felt her sister’s touch instead of the imagined hugs she was sure they had shared?

Had Elsa ever loved her at all or was it just another figmint she had created to survive?

She has to know before - 

She slumps against the frigid door - all her power gone - and rests her forehead been flattened palms.

“Elsa, please, I can’t live like this anymore!” She swears she can see each word spelled in frost.

There is a pause - then a voice Anna could only describe as feral comes through the door.

“Then leave.”

She does.

…

The funniest thing is in the end she does not even run a little.

She had thought perhaps that she would do a lot of running since she is running away. She does not, however.

She walks.

She walks away.

She walks down the streets of Arendelle that she had studied with a spyglass from her window. She walks past shops and patrons about their early morning tasks. She walks to the outskirts, past the outer houses and into the farmland. She walks down a path off the main road towards the woods.

She walks - not runs - away and does not allow herself to look back once. She does, however, allow herself to cry and hiccups at the idea that even while she walks her tears run and she just wishes she could find a place that feels like home.

….

She tumbles back towards the door, hands groping blindly. The expression on Alva’s face is too much to bear. Her gray eyes are all torment and accusation and Anna has seen that look before. It was every look she had seen in her sister’s eyes for years and -

She turns and pushes open the door. She does not run, but her steps are hurried and sharp. She crosses her arms against the cold, unwelcome memories, and lets her feet carry her as they had before. She knows where she is going. She had not been able to face it before, but facing Alva is somehow worse. Speaking words to it - admitting what she thought she had seen - she cannot.

She cannot, but she must know the truth.

She follows the path she remembers from the night before in the darkness. The air does not crush her this time. The world knows itself in the light and finds a balance but she can feel her throat tightening for new reasons. She charges through the cold with a singularity she has not felt since she walked out of the palace gates in the shadow of the waste wagon. By the time Alva catches up she is over halfway to her destination.

Alva grabs at her arm. “Slow up now. There’s no need ta go off in a huff.”

Anna evades her grip, too jagged to accept touch, to form a response.

Alva is silent for a step or two. “What I said before - I was rougher than I shoulda been. I dinna mean… but ye must know - his wound...”

“I know.”

“What do ye know?”

The question rocks Anna for a moment. It is too specific to be coy. Alva is leaning and she remembers monsters and light. She remembers the panic and pain across Bjarg’s face and how she knows she was the cause of it.

She misses a step. Alva catches her.

“Nothing.” She takes Alva’s support, realizing that whatever had passed between them in the cabin had been borne of the same panic she felt now, that Alva may not be an ally but she is not a foe, and steadies herself. “I know nothing, don’t you see? How could I?”

“Ye are more clever than you let on, Logi.” Alva tightens her hold on Anna’s arm and plows forward with her. “Ye best be telling me just what ye know.”

Anna shakes her head. She is uncertain what she knows and how much she should share. The world is both familiar and foreign as they walk. She does not know what she could possibly tell Alva - what would be safe to tell her.

So she says, “I know I must go this way.”

Alva is quiet then, but Anna can tell it will not be for long.

There are no tracks. New snow has fallen, errant flakes still dropping around them, and it has covered whatever steps she had taken the night before. She had struggled too greatly to forget her way, but she can find no proof of it. She knew each scar on every tree and they led her where she needed to be.

It is not far from the cabin. What had felt like miles the night before had only been a matter of yards. That realization alone is enough to stagger her, but she does not flinch.

Things change in the dark.

She knows that.

Still her heart pounds when they come to a tree she knows too well. She had thought of death as she had leant upon it and now - well - now she thinks death again.

She had seen the whole of it: death, life, light. She had seen it all. Yet she understood none of it. Even if she had the words to speak life into it, to tell Alva of the creature, the crystals, the carving, she thinks still she would swallow them.

If she did not speak - she would be like Elsa. The idea alone sends a ripple of ice down her spine.

It is to keep you safe. 

It is her mother's voice and she realizes the that there is safety in silence, but there is safety in speaking as well. She thinks of the weight of his head cradled in her palms as he fought to tell her as much of his truth as he could.

He tried. What had Elsa done? Nothing. She had done nothing.

Anna will not do nothing.

Anna leaves Alva and digs into the banks at the foot of the tree. Her bare hands tingle and cramp. The scar of her burned palm tightens but she ignore it. That scar, too new and perfect, is inasmuch proof as are the things for which she searches.

She pauses when she hits metal. Anna had only been digging a moment when she struck the lantern. It had felt longer. She wonders just how much she can trust her sense of time, if time really means anything at all, what any of this could mean.

She does not understand.

Her head spins.

If the lantern is here then -

She tears through the snow for the blade, hoping against hope it would not be there.

“How now, ya? Ye’ll freeze up soon without yer cloak and gloves.” Anna can hear the funny edge to Alba’s voice. “Are you sure ye’ve no gone daft?”

Anna feels she may have as her fingers graze the flat edge of the blade. She freezes for a moment. The weight of it all too heavy to carry for if these things were here….

She dashes the few paces from her spot to where she was certain the monster had held Bjarg. It had been too large to not leave any trace and yet all she finds is pristine snow. She looks around and only finds more of the same.

There are no tracks, no snapped branches, or great trenches from where the giant she remembered may have tread. All there is is snow and silence. She could not have both imagined the night’s adventure and also left behind real proof of its happening, but she wants both to be true. Needs both to be true. Perhaps her wound had poisoned her mind, the stress of the trials had broken her and now she creates wild fantasies.

She looks to Alva - trying to keep her eyes from wildness but failing. The young woman stands bewildered, hands on her hips.

“Do we search then for a hunter’s cache? For if so I am certain I can find ye plenty and much better than this.” She gestures to where Anna had left the lantern and blade but even in her humor Anna can see her waver. Her question is insincere.

“What is this place?” That fractured feeling, the same she felt at nine years old, the same she felt at Elsa’s door, erupting in her chest. “What is it named?”

She looks at Alva and for a moment she thinks she sees a reflection - that same shattering shown in her gray eyes - but she cannot be certain.

She does not know how she can ever be certain again after this. The foundation beneath her feet shift.

“This place?” Alva cocks her head to the side.

“Yes. This place here. These trees.”

Alva hesitates. Anna notices. She has hidden the truth enough to know the signs of it.

“It’s the woods. Kristoff’s lands,” Anna almost flinches at his given name. This is a name she did not know him by, a stranger’s name but still very much his.

She focuses past the discomfort.

“What does that mean?” The questions bubble out of her and she cannot stop them.

Alva cannot demand answers the same way Bjarg can, so Anna asks but it is clear this is not the first time Alva has played this game.

Alva pauses. The suspension between them stretches and grows and Anna shivers. She should have taken her cloak at the very least, but there is no sense to voicing that concern now as Alva shakes her head.

“Ye no have asked him, have ye?”

Anna’s teeth chatter, and she waits just one moment longer than she should before: “Asked what?”

Alva knows Anna knows.

Still Anna asks.

Alva goes to where Anna had abandoned the blade and the lantern after discovery. She picks them up.

“I canna say what is no mine to tell.” Alva extends a gloved hand. “Come now, strange one. Ye’re half frozen.”

Anna remembers how just a week ago she stood in the hollow less clothed then she is now and expected to endure it. Though she knows now it is colder than it was then she feels it less now. A strange numbness settles into her bones.

She thinks she can hear her own heart beat.

She thinks of years of silence and how she had been expected to accept them.

She thinks of her sister, of secrets, and feels her mind splitting open at the seams.

She is exhausted with the unspoken.

“What is so horrible here that none will speak on it?” Anna asks, daring questions in return even more than she dares answers. “What lives here that no one will give it a name?”

Alva’s brow furrows, but not in contempt. Instead her face takes the shape of great sympathy.

“Oh. It be named.” Alva says but Anna can see the uncertainty sitting on her tongue and Anna wonders just when she had learned to read the thoughts of others as Bjarg did.

“But you cannot put a voice to it.”

Alva shakes her head and now Anna wonders when she had learned to curb every word that came from her mouth. She wonders when she learned that words are a form a currency as much a coin is and she must keep reserves. Any withdraw will cost and she must weigh that expense.

“We should get home then.” The cold that had felt so far only moments before washes over her in a deep wave and she does not like it. The cold reminds her of too many things she would rather not remember.

Alva waits for Anna to meet her and they head back through the tracks they had already laid. Through tracks that should have been there from before but were not. Through tracks that made her question her every thought, every impulse, and she thinks of the hidden place in Bjarg’s chest. She thinks of secrets hidden deep inside. She wonders just how much Alva knows.

They are just a few moments from the cabin when Anna slows them just a bit and looks to Alva.

“I should ask after his mother.”

It is advice that seems a lifetime ago, but she has learned the economy of words. She has learned all she can say without speaking.

“Ye should.” Alva grips Anna’s arm that much tighter.

It is the answer she wants.

It is the answer she dreads.

She wishes she possessed Elsa’s cool discernment, Alva’s bold frankness, Magni’s towering command so that she could actually ask Bjarg the questions burning through her heart, but here she is. There is no way out for months and even then it would be a terrible risk with the mess she had caused in Arendelle upon their last visit. Still - a scarf and some ingenuity and she could be on a ship as easily as -

No.

There is no way. Not now for months now. She will find another port, but not in winter. She is resolved to stay at least till the weather turns. Whatever idea she had had of leaving is cut short by the limitations she face. Even if she tried to run she has no idea how to find a harbor that will not be searching for her. That is something that will have to wait.

But wait until what, she wonders?

Her stomach turns.

She cannot ask any more questions that have no answers.

For the first time in her young life she feels something she had never felt.

For the first time: Anna heart is tired.

…

They return to the cabin with the lantern and blade in tow. The funny silence persists as the go through the door. The items Alva brought still lay on the table, the fire is still strong, and nothing is the same except that he is awake.

The sight of him up and sitting on the edge of the bed makes her heart race. He looks horrible. The skin of across his cheeks is tight, drawn, and she wants to push back the hair from where it sticks to his forehead, temple, neck. The bandage around his head throws strange shadows over his face.

Alva passes her going about her business as if nothing strange is happening. Anna only has a flash to consider this before she meets his gaze. Her knees go soft. She braces a hand on the wall. She realizes that she had accepted she would never see his eyes again and the unequivocal way they fix on her make her tremble.

“I have brought ye the balancing due you.” Alva says to Bjarg as she unbundles what she hadn’t before on the table. “A young doe has been added to your fold.”

Even as Alva speaks he pays her no heed. His eyes stays fixed on Anna and she swallows against the building pressure of his attention. She wishes she could tell him to lay back and rest, but she knows that is futile request. He will do what he will and nothing she says will change that whether he should or shouldn’t.

He says nothing.

She follows suit.

What can she say to him now after she has seen what she has, now that she knows what she does?

Alva seems unphased at his reticence but does not linger to warm herself by the fire. Once she has unwrapped what she had brought and gathered her things she returns to the door where Anna stands.

“Nadir suffers.” She keeps her gaze neutrally fastened where her hand rests on the door past Anna’s shoulder. “Not as much as many of us would like, but he suffers still.” Her voices betrays how much it costs her to speak against her brother. “We are all glad for the mercy ye showed him.”

And then she is gone. Anna has no time to catch her sleeve, her eye, and she is alone with him.

Her gaze goes to the fire as the door shuts. The crackle from the flame is the only sound and part of her wishes she could chase after Alva. She does not fear for her safety but yet she feels unsafe. What she had seen, what is proven by the lantern and blade left on the table, make her heart stutter.

She lifts her chin and swallows. “How do you feel?”

He nods his head towards the water barrel beside her. “Thirsty.”

They breathe into the moment, eyes locked, before she turns and dips the ladle to draw a fresh pool for him to drink. She cups her spare hand beneath the ladle, the metal warmer than her chilled fingers, and brings it to him to drink keeping her hands from trembling as much as she can.

She sits beside him, careful to keep a small space between them, as she lifts the ladle to his lips. He does not take it from her. Instead he lets her tilt it so he can drink deeply from what she offers until the charity is gone. She withdraws the metal from his mouth and watches as he licks his lips. The color has not come back to them, but she knows it will. She knows why it will.

“How do you feel now?” Her corset feels unreasonably tight, breath shallow.

He wipes a bruised hand over his mouth and nods. “Better.”

His answer could mean so many things. She look at him, questions lingering on her lips, and is met by his insistent mouth. The shape and weight of it is becoming so familiar that she opens to him without hesitation. All thoughts of question or reason are knocked far away and she sinks into the reassurance he offers through his kiss. She thinks that maybe, just maybe this can be enough. She thinks perhaps she does not need answers so long as she has him, but somewhere she knows that is not true.

At least not forever.

But now, for the moment, it will do. After all, this can not be her forever, but it will do for now.

He pulls back, hot breath skimming her cheek. “You are well?”

She almost laughs that he still asks after her well being when he is so clearly the patient.

“I am well.” She stands, flustered by his question, turns her back to him to return the ladle as much as to hide the confusion she knows he will read upon her face. “I am well, indeed.”

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[ravenwritesstuff]

Wandering Hearts (21/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (like whooooooooooa) A/N: Not dead.

Maybe semi-back?

Still figuring stuff out.

Here’s this.

She waits and waits and waits. Her grip on her blades loosens in time with the seconds that claw by, the tension in her spine unwinding, but still her mind remains sharp. Each pop or fizz from the fire, each catch in Bjarg’s breathing brings her back to her ready stance, but nothing comes.

The raging fire is nearly embers when she finally lays down her weapons to rebuild it. As she stacks the dry logs and tinder from the supplies by the door she cannot help but allow herself to wonder if she had imagined the threat in the dark. Her mind is fuzzed around the edges - still not quite right after her sleeping sickness and trials. Such arduous ordeals could have her creating things out of nothing and yet she cannot convince herself of its nothingness.

She knows what she heard: a sound too big for moose or bear, unlike any step a man could manage, but yet the silence outside is so complete it sends a shiver down her spine.

It is this silence that gives her pause.

She hears nothing outside the cabin’s walls, not the whistle of the wind or the stirring of the animals against the shared wall or the rustle of a passing herd of caribou. The air itself seems to hold a strange silence beyond the normal night hush. The skin on back of her neck prickles. What if whatever she had heard was waiting just outside - listening - waiting for her to grow lax and venture back out into its domain? What if it grew tired of waiting and forced whatever issue it had upon her without question?

She shakes her head.

Now surely she was thinking nonsense.

Whatever she had heard was too large, too momentous to sneak. Nothing so loud could also be so silent. She is allowing her mind to borrow trouble. It has been an impossible day. The stress and exhaustion rise against her and she wonders if her fever dreams are not quite done with her yet.

She stops her rebuilding and presses her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose.

Yes.

Exhaustion.

Stress.

That is all this is. That is all it could be. Anything else would be - well - lunacy and she is not crazy. She cannot be crazy. She is just tired beyond belief and she feels herself begin the process of rationalizing rest. Her eyes drift to Bjarg where he lays on the bed and she envies him, understands him. Is this what he dealt with the days she lay still and sick? Did his heart wrench in his chest just at the sight of her? Did she want that?

She take back up the weregild blade from Gunnar, the other, and feels the weight of them for the first time. They are not slight weapons, and they pull on her tired arms. The realness of them distract her for a moment from the state of him, from the pain clenching in her chest, but it is not enough. She cannot stand with them for long. Whatever fire had burned within her from fear now fizzles and she is worn slick.

What then is there to do?

She looks to him again, though it pains her, and remembers how she had found him when she had returned from her fever dreams. His body had bent to hers from the ground as a man worshiping at a pagan altar and perhaps that is the way it is with them. Perhaps worship from a safe distance is all they will be allowed and while safe the idea does not bring her warmth.

She realizes, albeit abstractly, she wants more.

Tonight, however, she knows she will have to content herself to merely be near him.

She eyes the fire, the swampy mess of bandages on the table, but cannot care about them. They will keep till dawn. She looks back to Bjarg. Would he keep? A stuttered breath rips from her chest.

He must.

She needs him to.

She goes to the bed.

Here is how I would have you.

She does not dare for the sake of his sleep as much as the sake of her heart.

Instead she kneels how he had, arms and weapons crossed and ready on the edge of the bed, and rests her head. She will sleep, but she will not be unprepared. Her fingers twitch about the handles of her blades as she drifts onto a sea of darkness.

The last thing she thinks of is Elsa.

…

She feels the jolt, the sudden cold, and for a moment she thinks she must be dreaming again. So many of her dreams with her sister held an icy tint, but this is different. The cold is real.

Her eyes snap open. The fire has died down but burns brightly enough for her to note that the door is open. She startles, hands fisting on her weapons, and as she yanks herself to consciousness she knows he is gone. She looks just to confirm, but it is unnecessary. She knows. She can feel him, his presence, his absence, without seeing.

He is gone.

He had opened the door.

He had left.

Her heart knows.

She struggles to her feet, skirts tangling, and she has no idea how he’d maneuvered himself from the bed without waking her. She trips as she tries to make it to the door. Every movement feels as though she is pushing through something thick, solid, without hope of reprieve. She tries to cut at the invisible encumberment with the blades in her hands, but it is worthless. Her hands slash at nothing.

Still, she persists.

At the door she abandons the Gunnar’s weregild in favor of the lantern as she stumbles through the thick darkness. The glow of the lantern does nothing. She can hardly see in the unearthly black that presses around her in unprecedented reality. She had never know light, air, to have weight like this and yet now it crushes her.

She presses on.

“Bjarg!” She calls, gasping to draw enough breath into burning lungs to yell his name.

She can make out new prints in the snow - different from the ones left earlier - and she follows them. Each muscle fiber in her body trembles with effort.

“Bjarg!” She cries again as her steps lead her from their front door and into the wood. They had not gone this way before - had never taken this path - and she follows his lonely tracks. The trees crowd together as if to grasp her. She can almost hear them screaming. Her heart clenches, but she does not stop.

Again she shouts his name but feels the sound of it swallowed into nothingness.

Does she dream again?

She staggers to a stop, sucking deep gulps of air only to feel more starved of oxygen with each breath, and feels the world start to swim around her. Her shoulder cants into the thick trunk of a nearby elm as she fights to keep her bearings. The thoughts in her mind spin in a dizzy whirl. She gasps against the rising pressure around her. The air charges with an electricity so foreign she has no way to understand the power of it. It is as if the energy is devouring the very oxygen around her and she is standing in a void so complete she would never draw breath again.

She forces herself to move, vision spotting, for whatever state she is in she knows that he must be in a place much more grave. She does not have time for anger, to gnash her teeth against his irrational decision to wander in his condition. She does not have time to consider the fevered sickness that could have pushed him to stray in a delirious cloud. She can only follow his path and hope against all hope she will not collapse before she finds him.

She catches herself against a new tree, dropping her weapon so her palm scrapes on rough bark, and she cannot take another step. How far has she gone into these woods? A mile? Two? Each step is more difficult than the last and for all she has not wondered she takes a moment to consider just how he could have in his weakened, hobbled state made it this far in this crushing darkness. Her mind cannot unravel the question however as her arm collapses and she crashes into the trunk. The rise and fall of her chest accelerates as she attempts to feed starving lungs, to take another step, but she can feel the bruising darkness keep her still as if it has grown arms to restrain her.

Is this where they both end: in this inexplicable dark hush?

She is just barely holding to the last thread of consciousness when she sees an explosion of light so clean and pure that the shadows burst to nothingness and all she can see is white. Shapes take form in the brilliance, dimly at first, and then she can make out silhouettes of trees - plants - and something else. It is giant, twice as tall as Bjarg’s cabin, even if it stands with a horrible hunch. It is all sharp angles, unforgiving planes cutting into jagged outcroppings, and she has seen this shape before in her dreams. Except then she had been held by this monstrous creature in hands that were gentle but hard and now those hands are holding someone else.

They are holding Bjarg.

She opens her mouth to scream but the light comes again in a staggering pulse and the light then turns dark.

She breathes in.

She breathes out.

She does not remember anything after that.

….

Her head throbs, the limbs of her body feel drugged and heavy, and she shifts in discomfort. Everything feels slower than it should. The drag and pull of her muscles are all wrong, crackling and stiff, and she tries to sit up. It is then that she is made aware of the heaviness draped over her waist. She blinks bleary eyes and sees a thick arm wrapped around her in the dim amber light.

That startles her.

She attempts to sit up once more and succeeds. She sucks a deep, greedy breath of air and listens. She can hear the wind in the trees, the low creak of branches, and she is flooded with the strangest feeling of relief.

She looks back behind her then and sees him sleeping. His arm has fallen to her lap but he has not stirred. Sleep’s hold is strong on him and for this she is grateful. She does not know where to begin explaining what she had seen - what she thought she had seen - and heard. Had she been dreaming?

The cabin is dim, the fire low, so she cannot make out much beyond her immediate surroundings. Still she scours the space as if her eyes can answer any question she has.

Then - after a few moments - a funny revelation strikes.

When had she gotten into bed with him?

She remembers falling asleep sitting on the floor and yet here she is curled back against him as they had been after Magnus and Trygve departed. She can see the bandage on his head - knows that the gap between that first sleep and now was not something she had hallucinated. She had cared for him and their home and then slept to guard him, not to warm him.

Had she unknowingly crawled into his arms in a waking dream? That is the easiest explanation. Already the dream of crushing black and blinding white is fading - wait - was it a dream? She shakes her head trying to hold onto truth and rid her mind of all else but finds that the tighter she squeezes the more it slips through her fingers.

He groans, soft and low and the sound spooks her. She looks to see him still sleeping, whatever pain he is in so deep it made him cry out despite his rest and she wishes to soothe him but does not know how - does not know what is real and what is imagined. She remembers the wood, the creature holding Bjarg and how it matched the figurine in the chest, matched the dream she had had in her sickness. Had her brain dreamt such a thing simply from seeing the carving? But if that is so how could she had dreamt it before her discovery? She can hardly let herself think it: but what if that creature is real?

She shudders.

It cannot be. There is nothing in the natural order of things that can explain this asides from her the idea that her mind is altered. Somehow she is more willing to accept this, her own deficiency, than to consider that perhaps, just maybe, such a beast exists. That it may exist and that somehow Bjarg knows of it.

She lays down once more, fitting herself into the curve of his chest as if it had been carved specifically to hold her, and clutches her weaponless hands to her breast. She cannot bring herself to check by the door to see if Gunnar’s weregild still lay there, will not go into the wood to search out the other blade, because she is not ready to know.

The truth is not something she thinks she can survive.

She is done asking why. Why they both cling to secrets, why they are only honest when they are testing the shapes of each other’s mouths, why she loves him. She knows - cannot understand - but knows. She is done asking why.

The question that comes now is how. How to understand, how to dance that line of knowing but never saying, how to love him.

She does not know how to love him without destroying them both.

…..

A choked gravely breath rushes against the back of her neck and wakes her.

The fire is all but out. Her own breaths come in small frosty puffs as she realizes she had fallen back asleep and failed to wake at a reasonable hour.

She stumbles from the bed stiff and awkward as she tries to not disturb him but knows from his groan that she failed at that. She supposes she should be grateful for that groan - yesterday she would have given anything to hear any sign of life from his lips but now she does not know how she will face him when he wakes. She does not know what she will say, how she will meet his lock-pick gaze without giving away the change - and she realizes that she is expecting him to wake. Whatever doubt that had lived in her chest that night before as been burned out of her.

She tells herself it is just because she had good rest, that he is making noises - not because of what happened in the woods.

What had happened in the woods?

She tries to ignore Gunnar’s weregild by the door when she collected sticks and logs but it is there as damning evidence just as surely as the lantern by the door is nowhere to be found. She has a feeling that if she goes into the wood she will find the lantern and other blade abandoned by the tree where she had lost hold of consciousness.

She has a feeling that all of this was much more real than she wants to believe, but feelings she knows are not to be trusted on their own.

Her hands still in her mending of the fire and her eyes go to his chest and the hidden compartment at the bottom. If she could just confirm what she’d seen - just perhaps piece together all the things that had lead up to whatever she had seen she could sort the true from the false on her own. She would not have to ask because she would know. If she could just -

She turns back to her work. This is madness. No matter what she is feeling Bjarg is still gravely injured and they are without a proper doctor and she cannot even wake at a proper time on her own to make certain they do not freeze. She does not have time to be digging for things that will not matter in the end of it.

Because she cannot stay, not after winter. Last night, no matter what actually happened, decided that.

She needs to be with someone who can know her fully - and he the same. No matter how much she wants to be that for him she does not know how. She does not know how.

But she does know how to build a fire. She does know how to feed and care for the animals. She does know how to scrub the soiled pot from the night before so that it can be used for cooking. She does know how to hang the still damp bandages from the rafters to dry properly. She knows how to prepare a meal of stewed meat and roots to restore him if he wakes. She knows this and she does this. It keeps her steady. It keeps her sure.

She does not look at his chest.

She does not look at hers where it sits in the corner of the shed.

She works.

It is only when she comes to the end of her list, when there is naught else to do but stir the stew to keep it from charring, that her eyes wander. She shouldn’t. She knows. She looks at him instead, opposite the chest, and goes to him as she had so often during the day. She had gone to him each time he had grown restless in sick sleep and even though he still now she goes.

His face is still clammy and pale. His lips are ashen. She cups his cheeks in her hands, bristle scratching, and kisses his forehead as she has each time she has checked him.

“I am here. Rest now. I am here.”

She cannot be certain but she thinks that she feels him relax at that, even in sleep wanting to be certain she had not left. It is the least she can do to assure him.

She does not check his leg, cannot bring herself to. She thinks she should but what could she do? She has done all she knows.

She goes to the nightsoil cabinet and removes the bucket. She may not be useful but she will not be useless.

She goes out into the cold without her cape or gloves planning only a short trip to empty the bucket in the refuse pit and sluice it in the stream. She has just completed the distasteful chore (something a princess would never imaged doing, she considered with grim glee) when a familiar voice calls her.

“Ho now!”

Anna turns to see Alva approached, arms full with something in tow.

Of all the people Anna had expected to see...

“Ho now,” Anna calls in kind from surprise, unable to create a unique response. “May I help you?”

Even from three yard she can see Alva’s face skew in amusement. “Ya think if I be needing help I would be hailing you, strange one?”

Anna blushes without embarrassment. Alva did not mean her words cruelly and thus she could take them at that but she still felt the slightest sting at the fact that though she may have just cleaned a nightsoil pail there is much she does not know or understand about this world. One such thing is that after yesterday’s battle with both Nadir and Bjarg laid so low she had not thought she would see Alva so soon. The appearance leaves her frozen, watching the approach.

“I suppose not.” Is all Anna can say, but Alva laughs. It is not in the fullness Alva typically laughs, but the sound is warm nonetheless.

“Ya will not be knowing why I am here now, do ya?” Alva is closer now, close enough that Anna realizes the small thing trailing behind her is a young goat.

Anna shakes her head. The question itself leads her to believe the reason if far beyond that of friendship.

“This is a balancing,” Alva is close enough now that she stops before Anna, wide cheeks rosy from the cold. “Nadir did dishonor to ya and yer home. These are parts of his inheritance he willna receive now.” She shrugs her shoulders to emphasize the contents of her arms and nods her head in the direct of the small goat bleating against the cold snow almost up to its belly.

Anna remembers the goat that Bjarg had been bartering for back in Arendelle. If she had not made the decision to run that night from their room at the inn would he have had a chance to secure it? Would any of this have happened the way it did? Did it matter?

“Oh.” Anna thinks of Nadir’s blade, the blood and damage done, and she wonders if there is a price you can put on restoring devastation. “Is he -” she remembers Nadir’s prone form in the snow. “Will he - how does he fare?”

“Better than he should have by all accounts. He could well have delivered this all himself but pa considered it a poor idea indeed to have Nadir come around these parts given the history.”

A connection snaps in place at Alva’s words. “They’ve fought before.”

Alva shrugs, not understanding the smallest crumb of history felt like a feast. “You will find me surprised as any if this was the last of it.”

“But why?”

At that the gregarious nature strips itself from Alva’s tongue. “That is a story for another day.”

Anna hears what Alva does not say. She will not ask again. It seems that everyone here has something to hide.

“He is asleep still. The wounds keep him that way.” Anna moves on. “But come with me and be warmed before you return to your home.”

“How long has he slept?” Alva falls into step along Anna as they return to the cabin.

“Since last afternoon.”

“And he has no woken?” Alva’s gray eyes are sharp and curious.

“Well,” Anna starts about to speak into the strange episode in the woods, caught off guard at first by the candidness of Alva’s inquiry, when something clamps her mouth shut. “No.”

Alva is quiet for a moment and Anna know she has only drawn more attention where she wishes there was none. Alva already thinks her odd. There is no reason to compel her to believe her to be completely daft.

Anna watches her feet crunch already trodden snow and can feel Alva watching her. The scrutiny makes her squirm. Her inability to lie comes to the forefront and while she glad to Alva’s visit she wishes that she did not see so much.

Anna reaches for the rope wrapped in Alva’s hand.

“Let me settle the goat into the shed. I will meet you in the house.” And even though the door to the shed is just steps from the door to her home she sets a different trajectory from her counterpart - the small animal bleating behind her in protest to the accelerated pace.

When she gets inside the shed, she collapses back against the door. Her furry companion, clearly not fully grown, frolics a bit to shake the snow from its short legs. She leads the furry creature back to where Bjarg’s reindeer Sven stood.

“She is one of us now.” She tells the reindeer. “Be kind to her.”

Anna ties the goat’s lead to a spare peg and brings feed for both Sven and their new friend. The chicken cluck at the unfairness and she sprinkles grain for them as well before she presses her hands to her stomach and tries to settle her nerves.

This is Alva.

She has nothing to fear from her. She has seen that time and again and yet she is uneased. It is as if whatever rope she had been weaving since appearing here was quickly unraveling leaving her grasping at threads. It is difficult to the point of impossibility, she thinks, to play a game when one only knows half the rules. Still she has no choice.

She draws a few more fortifying breaths trying to not think of how impossible it had been to breathe the night before in the woods and leaves the shed. When she enters the cabin she sees many things. The fire is still bright, warm, and strong. On the table across the way she can see a few of the parcels Alva had brought with her in various stages of unwrap. At this distance she thinks she sees cheese, dried meat and tools she cannot make out just yet. Alva is not with them, however. She is with Bjarg, his wounded leg drawn out from beneath the covers and bandages removed.

Anna can tell from the expression on her friend’s face that something is horribly wrong.

“Is this it then?” Alva’s face is stark, almost sunken looking in the firelight. “Is this where my brother’s knife did it’s work?”

Anna cannot see the wound from where she stands, is too frightened by Alva’s tone and expression to come closer, but she nods anyway. “Yes. That is it.”

“It canna be.” Alva looks back to Bjarg’s calf, pressing fingers to it. “It just canna be.”

Though she has not known the girl long, Anna knows this is not like Alva. The broad girl had always been steady, sure, but now she is shaken and Anna thinks it must be because of the severity of the wound.

“Magni and Trygve seared it shut with a sword. I mixed a healing paste for it as best I could and wrapped it but there is not much more to be done.” Anna feels her voice shake, the smallness of her help magnified when spoken aloud.

Alva looks back at her with a face a serious as she has ever seen. “And nothing else was done?”

Anna’s cheeks burned, but she jerked her head from side to side. “That was all.”

Alva shifts her weight so she is facing Anna fully and pierces her with her gaze.

“Then ya best be telling me just what ya put in that paste because this wound is near healed clean through .” [ previous ] [ next ]

[ravenwritesstuff]

Wandering Hearts (20/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (like if you haven’t figured this out yet then shame on you) A/N: I’m not back. I’ve realized I have a lot of unhealthy habits surrounding my writing and my process that I have been learning to do without these crutches and also just working on not wanting to kill myself basically every second of every day and somewhere in there I wrote this.

I don’t know when I will be officially back. I don’t know if anyone even cares that I wrote this, but on the off chance that one or two of you may want this here it is.

And to those of you who wrote notes or submitted or messaged - I have not read them because I am not in a place where I can process that but I am very much looking forward to being in a place to be able to read and thank you all for your time and (hopefully) kindness.

Brains are a bitch, man. Brains are a bitch.

I hope to be back sooner than later. Thank you for your patience. Sorry this is so long. Sorry I am the worst. Just. Sorry.

She squints when she emerges from the shed, arms and mind burdened. Thick clouds still hang low in the sky but the dim winter sun bounces up from the track-laden snow to blind her. Perhaps for the better. If she couldn’t see the snow then she couldn’t see his blood, her blood, their blood, that she knows stains the winter landscape.

The adjustment of her eyes does not hinder her from making it from the shed to the door of their home with no delay. She knows the way, just a few steps to the right to their connected living quarters. It is familiar. Her heart begins again to ponder the injustice of this familiarity but it is cut short when she opens to the door to find Bjarg doubled over on his knees. The supplies in her arms drops to the ground as she hurries to his side.

She falls alongside him on the straw covered floor, hands hovering but not touching, and tries to peer at his face. His hair, a tangled, bloody mess, tumbles over his cheeks obscuring her view. The tips of her fingers catch the barest amount to sweep back the clumps far enough to behold the deathly shade of his normally ruddy complexion.

“I need to stoke the fire.” His breath comes in short, hard pants. She looks up. The fire is still raging from her earlier efforts.

“You’re trembling.” She rests a hand on his arm. “You are chilled.”

“It will stop.”

“Will it?” He looks at ther then, eyes focused and distant all at once and she can feel his pain like a second heartbeat. She presses her palm to his clammy cheek, careful to keep pressure off sensitive places. His eyes close.

“Please. You need rest.”

He sighs. “Logi…”

“Please.” She lifts the hand from his arm to his cheek, thumb stroking over sweat slick skin and stubble. “Please.”

“Will you stay with me?” He tilts his head up to meet her gaze more directly. “If I rest - will you stay?”

Her breath hitches. The wild thing sparks his expression and she is caught off guard at the feral intensity of it. A nervous giggle bubbles out of her throat before she can stop it.

“It is winter. Where would I go other than here?”

She tries to speak levity into the moment but even as the words slip off her tongue she feel the layer strip back. His face is awash with newfound earnestness at her unintentional vulnerability.

“I wish you would tell me.”

The air rushes out of the room. She had been teasing - trying to ease the sting of his pride with humor - and is disarmed entirely in the face of his want, his honesty. It is not a question, but it may as well be.

She drops her hand from his clammy cheek.

“I will stay.” Her eyes and hands go to her lap. “If you rest, I will stay.”

“Fine. I will rest.” His tone is flat and dry. “Bring me first what you gathered. I’ll put water on the boil.”

He pushes back to sit on his heels and sways to stay upright. She catches his shoulder against her palm. He slumps and there is nothing she can do to stop that. He is face down in the straw before she can stop it. She scrambles to turn him over. Her mind flashes to earlier in the woods and she knows what it could take to wake him.

She is not about the employee that method.

“Bjarg.” She shakes his shoulders. “Bjarg, wake up.”

She shakes him again, but he doesn’t respond. She shakes him again, harder than she should she knows, but he groans. His eyes flutter open and he pushes up onto his elbows as if to sit up. She keeps hands on his shoulders to restrain him.

“Stay.” She says with more authority than she thinks she has. “You agreed to rest now you are going to do just that.”

She does not want to fetch the things she had brought from the shed. She wants to shake him even more thoroughly for his need to fight Nadir, for his inability to see the outcome, for making her love him just to threaten to remove that love. She thinks of her parents, Elsa - she does not cry - but she feels the tell-tale sting scald the backs of her eyes. She must escape him even for just an instant or he will see her crack.

He stays up on his elbows, but does not attempt to rise further as she collects the supplies she had dropped in her hurry. She can see him shaking with effort as she approaches. She kneels before him and sets the elements within his reach.

“There now, you can see to it that I brought what we needed and I’ll see to boiling the water.”

She stands and fetches a small bronze pot. She goes to the water barrel by the door only to be stopped by his voice.

“Fill it with snow.” She can hear the tremor there and it stabs at her. “Careful to only take the very top of untouched places.”

She does not understand his reason but the intensity in his tone compels her to obey. She is still dressed from her previous venture so she has no need to prepare before venture back out-of-doors.

The world is no less bright than than it was the minutes before. She squints her eyes and sludges through cold powder to find places where the snow remained pristine. She uses the lip of the pot to scoop the very top most layer of untouched snow where she can find it. The specific order takes much longer than if she had just ladled what she needed into the pot, but she does not even consider questioning it. It is several minutes before she has filled the pot full and packed to the brim, knowing it will be less when it finally heats, and she returns inside.

She expects to find him much in the same place where she left him, or perhaps on the pelts or even the bed, but she never expected him to be kneeling in front of his chest with nearly the entirety of its contents strewn about the floor around him.

The sight it so strange, so uncharacteristic of his normally measured, tempered self that she freezes upon opening the door. There are maps, blankets, tools, odds objects veiled in leather wraps, weapons all scattered in the straw around him and her stomach clenches. He does not acknowledge her entrance, but instead reaches to what seems to be the deepest place of the chest. A strange jingle accompanies the movement that breaks her from her momentary trance.

“What is this?” She can think of nothing else to say.

“Boil the snow.” He is terse and she knows it is because of her earlier evasion. If she won’t answer - neither will he. She tries to keep it from hurting, but still it does.

It always does.

If she just…

No.

She goes to the fire ring in the center of the room no less than a little perplexed. The fire is still strong from her earlier work and the packed snow begins to melt quickly over the flame. She looks to him again.

He has stopped his search and has turned to sit with his back against the chest. His head is lolled back, eyes hooded, and he’s watching her. One large hand, battered and bruised, is clasped around something in his lap. She cannot see what it is, but she feels he found whatever it was for which he searched. He seems equally determined to distract her from this fact.

“I’ve made a mess.” He does not elaborate, may have even been joking, but neither of them smile. “Log,” his eyelids flutter - his entire body shuddering. “You must know…”

She can see him fighting to remain conscious and her heart leaps to her throat. To see him fight like this for something as small as staying awake stabs at her. She rushes to aid him in his battle, to help him stay with her, and cups his face in healing palms.

“I must know what?” She tells herself her question is mostly just to keep him awake, alert, instead of to satisfy the curiosity that is eating her alive. “What must I know?”

His cheek presses into the palm that bears the scar that bound them by blood. His eyes glaze over, unfocused.

“You must know that anything - everything - anything I do…” His lips scarcely move and she knows she is losing him to a darkness she cannot fight any more than he can. She leans in and strokes his cheek.

“What? What?” She presses back matted hair from his sweaty brown, heart thundering at the possibility of what could be spoken - of the implication of what could happen if he fell asleep never again to wake. “Anything you do is what?”

She drops a hand and shakes his shoulder. His neck finds a moment of strength, eyes focusing just enough to meet hers.

“Protect you. Everything - anything…” There is more that he says, or at least his lips twitch as if to speak, but his eyes close and that is it.

She shakes his shoulder again, holding his face, but he remains still beyond the rise and fall of his chest. She knows she will not rouse him this time. Wishes form in her mind in that instant: that she will be able to create the healing paste he needs, that she will devise a way to make this all easier, that she will wake in the palace and this will all have been some strange dream - no. She does not want that. She does not want the sole source of admiration and potentially affection to be something fabricated in a lonely sleep. She knows, in her core, this is no such situation. Still she wonders.

If she had known what she knew she would endure outside of the palace - would she have ever left?

A throbbing pain radiates behind her eyes with that thought but she will not feel sorry for herself. There is no point for that when there are so many other things that need her attention.

She starts with moving him.

It takes a bit of work to move him away from the chest in a way where she can grasp him beneath the arms as she had in the woods, but she manages. By the time she maneuvers him across the room to the bed, inch by painful grunting inch, she is out of breath. The process of dragging him onto the bed takes almost all the strength she has, but she manages in a way she hopes will not damage him further. Once he is on the bed she takes a breath, arranges him the most comfortable way she can contrive, and situates covers atop of him. It is only when she is completely certain he is settled that she turns and looks the other way. It is the only way she can keep herself from crumbling.

That is when she sees it.

Somewhere in the process of moving him, whatever he had held in his hand had slipped from his grip and landed atop the hay by the fire ring. She notices it mostly because of the way it catches the light - jagged and electric in the straw. She goes to it and plucks the egg-sized object up in her hand.  

It is cold, the edges sharp, and even though she knows she has never seen anything quite like this it rings of familiarity. She turns it over in her palms, mindful of the sharp points and edges, and watches the way the firelight plays over the multifaceted surface. The stone is so pure, so clear, it is as if it is made of air itself. It is so clear she can see straight through it - can see each refracted image as she holds it up between her fingers - and it multiplies the mess he made when he disemboweled the contents of his chest. Never in all her days had she ever seen a gem so perfect, so pristine, so large. If it were in the palace it would be prized as a treasure so rare and wonderful that guards would be placed at all times.

She brings it down and cradles it as she looks between him and the mess he’d made and the heavy crystal.

She looks to where he sleeps, his skin like chalk. His last waking moments had been to uncover this stone, to grasp it in battered hands.

She cannot stop the question from escaping her lips on a breath: “Why?”

It echoes the refrain screaming in her mind. There is no harm in this spoken word - he cannot hear her, but she feels the power in asking it shimmer through her blood. Why, when fevered and feeble, did he use his precious energy to search out this stone? Why had she never seen it before? Why did he want her to stay? If everything he did was to keep her safe - what part did his silence play in that?

She is starting to think it is more than she can even imagine.

She returns to the bed where he lays covered in heavy pelts and blankets. She draws the covers to the side and places the crystal on his chest. It rises and falls on shallow, rapid breaths, and she takes the hand resting against his side and turns it palm up. It is then she sees the remaining patches of scabbing, the deep pink of brand new scar tissue. She looks at her own mark and she is taken at the difference. Where his is still angry and raw in many places, barely mended, hers looks weeks - perhaps months - old. She thinks to credit her five days rest and care but even so -

She shakes her head.

His cut had been much worse than hers had been. He had also been working this entire time when she slept with this torn palm, no doubt delaying his healing. Still she has the sensation of attempting to work out a sum with half the figures missing.

He shivers, teeth rattling even in slumber, and she places his wounded palm over the stone before pulling the pelts and blankets back up under his chin. She does not have time for foolish guessing games when his injuries were real and needed attention.

She goes to fetch the items she’d discarded and sets to recreate the potion that had healed her hand. She goes the table, checking the pot of snow as she passes. It is liquid and lukewarm.

She sets to work without letting herself hesitate in doubt. She grinds the herbs and clay to as fine a powder as she can manage. The act that he had made look effortless she finds to require quite a bit more finesse than she possesses. She cannot turn the pestle with the ease he had, her wrist unable to pivot with his practiced fluidity. Still, after a good while, she manages.

The contents of the mortar bears a strong resemblance to the powder he had concocted the week before, but she cannot be certain. She has no sense for these things, no like he does. She wishes he would wake so she can consult him, but one thing she had learned from both of her lives is that wishing is futile and action is everything.

The water boils.

She ladles small amounts into the mortar, stirring with each addition, until a paste forms. She stares at it. Her eyes lift to his face several feet away. The contents of his bowl is to repair him - it must - but the concoction in her hands seems unequal to the task. He has endured so much and this action seems so small, but she knows that is better than doing nothing.

At least she hopes it is.

She begins with the head wounds, the one of the back of his skull. She pulls fingers through his still damp, tangled locks to expose the heart of his wound. It is deeper than she first thought and she hopes the akvavit had done its job in preparing for the paste she now slathers into it. She swipes a dab at the split on his temple where the skin had split and wraps fresh bandages around her work.

Now for the leg.

Her mind whirls as she draws out his heavy limb from beneath the covers. The leg of his pants is already ruined, torn away from the attentions of Magnus and Trygve no doubt, and she realizes that this the first time she has seen the damage up close and exposed. Nadir’s blade had cut deeply through the meat of his calf. The thick blond hair on his legs is tinted a rusty hue and singed black from Trygve’s sword. At first she is able to look at it with this sort of distant cataloguing feeling: marking the length, depth, and damage away in her mind until the memory of his face when he woke in agony flashes before her eyes.

Her stomach clenches.

He had wanted to die - she had seen it. The pain so had been so excruciating - and now she sees the cut may well just grant his wish.

The skin still smells of char so she breathes through her mouth as she mixes honey into the paste she had already rendered.

When he had tended her wounds, he had used the paste for the cut and honey for the burn, but here he had both and thus she decides to treat him with both. With what she hopes is a sufficient ratio of all elements she presses them all deep into the smoldering gash.

He does not even twitch.

She realizes then that in the back of her mind she had wanted the pain of the treatment to wake him, but it hadn’t. She wonders if she will ever see him awake again. When she has slathered his leg in as much of her compound as she can she wraps it tightly in fresh bandages and replaces his leg back beneath the covers.

She considers for a moment to remove his boots - if that will make him more comfortable. The soft leather, sealed tight with bee’s wax and lined with beaver are quite like her own, only much larger, and she wondered if he fashioned this pair as he had hers. In the end he leaves them. His shivering may have ceased for the moment, but she does not want to jeopardize his warmth in any way. She brings an extra pelt from the pile that had been his bed for so long and places it on top of him with a sigh.

Now what?

She looks around the cabin. There is much to do, but she cannot focus on any on task long enough to decide she should set to it. The only thing she can think is if he will wake up.

She needs him to wake up.

She is uncertain how long she sits there timing her breaths to his, but it feels like days.

Her stomach growls.

The small meal she had eaten upon waking was long past sustaining her and that hunger alone pulls her from his side. She goes to their shelves and finds two small rolls that Bjarg must have prepared while she slept. She thinks to save one of them for him if he wakes, but then she remembers that she had slept five days and her wounds had not been this severe. If he woke soon by some miracle she would bake him fresh bread, warm and soft, dip it bone broth, and feed it to him. Now, however, she will eat this stale fare to keep up her strength so she can watch over him as he watched over her.

The bread sits like rocks in her stomach. She washes it down with what remains of the boiled snow to keep herself warm. She knows she should eat more but the hunger that had been so sharp now is replaced by a sickeningly full feeling. She remembers how Bjarg had warned her just that morning that it would take time for the capacity of her stomach to return, still she feels the rise in her energy at the sustenance.

It is time to work.

Her eyes go to the mess by his chest and supposes that is a good a place to start as any.

His leather maps are scattered amongst the straw along with any spare clothes he has. Odds and ends she figures are tools for some sort of something share the same fate. There is the sewing box she has used since arriving here. The yardage he’d bartered in Arendelle for their clothes for the next season is a rumpled mess. Then there are the weapons: his bow and quiver, the weregild sword from Gunnar, different blades she had seen him polishing only to replace in their covers and stored away. A bulky item wrapped in cloth that she has never investigated is the only thing that seems to have been set aside with any care. She realizes that while she had taken his map from this chest - she had done little actual investigating of its contents beyond that.

She looks inside the chest to see if anything remains. There are a few loose ends but the one that grabs her attention is a single wooden figurine laying atop a leather pouch. It is only a few inches tall, worn slick from handling, and not looking the better for it. It is an oddly shaped creature though it has some things she considers recognizable features. It has legs, arms, over-sized hands, but the knees bend the wrong way, its fingers look more like claws, and its back is grotesquely hunched. It’s head is bulbous with a pronounced underbite, and from the protruding bottom jaw she thinks she can make out two jutting fangs.

Never in her life has she ever encountered such a likeness - not in model, reality, nor rendering - and she wonders equally what it is as much as she wonders where it came from. She reaches for the pouch upon which the figure had rested. Her hands catch the drawstring and she lifts to find it not empty. In fact the contents tinkle as she draws int onto her lap and she thinks it must be his coin but she she pours the contents onto her skirt she realizes just how incorrect she is.

Crystals of all sizes, some even larger than the one she had held first, tumble out of the slick leather pouch. There are at least twenty. Some are that perfectly clear share like a brook in the spring while others are clouded black and as opaque the night sky. All were shaped in the same sharp edged cylinders with pointed ends.

“Why?” She asks the silence once more, unable to stop herself.

She looks back into the chest and discovers one more thing she had never noticed. There, where she had found the satchel full of crystals was a hole deeper than the rest of the chest’s base - a false bottom. Her ‘why’ deepens until her mind rejects thought all together.

It is too much, too strange, and she wishes she had never seen any of it.

If Bjarg had kept it from her until now - he had his reasons the same as she had hers, but now her mind blazed with questions she cannot answer, cannot ask.

She shoves the crystals back into their pouch and jams the figurine in after them. She stuffs the bag back into the hidden hole, not bothering to figure out how to reclose it, before haphazardly replacing the items he had ripped from within in his frenzy. The task is a bit of a doing, but she hardly notices the passing of time. Her mind is too preoccupied with hidden things and why.

She needs to check the animals, return the healing elements, prepare a meal, clean, manage, do anything but drive herself mad with questions she will never have answered.

One thing at a time. She thinks. One thing at a time is easy enough to do.

She sets to it, knowing that the moment she stops will be the moment that the questions - the why - will get the better of her. She kills two birds with one stone as she decides to return excess herbs and clay to their place in the shed and check on the animals.

She has learned to squint whenever entering this snow covered world now, and the light does not burn her eyes. The sun has sunk low in the sky now and it will be night soon, she knows. She remembers stepping out this same door just before dawn, the light eerily similar, and before this new nightmare began.

She ventures the ten steps it takes to reach the shed door, wrapping her arms around her waist to ward off a chill that had little to do with the weather. The inside of the shed is warm enough - the shared wall with the cabin helps insulate both rooms, and she realizes that she has never had to worry about winter before this. The seasons had all clipped along with senseless monotony in the palace. She had always been kept comfortable no matter the temperature outside and now - well - the cold did not bother her too badly. Winter - she thinks - is the hardest of the seasons, the least accommodating for human imperfection or impulse and she thinks of Elsa.

Then, just as quickly, she doesn’t.

Thinking of her sister just made everything more complicated. She made her choice the moment she hid in that waste wagon and escaped the monotonous isolation her existence had become after her parents died. Her thoughts belonged elsewhere now - or at least until the thaws came.

And they would come.

But not today.

She lights the lantern by the door of the shed and sets to work returning what she needs to their particular places. She gives extra eats to the reindeer and a handful of feed to the chickens. She remembers Bjarg speaking of the she-goat in the marketplace and wishes now they had managed to acquire it. She can hardly recall the taste of milk.

What she does not do is look in the crowded corner where she knows her chest waits, alone and nameless, beneath the tapestry that is as inexplicable as it is beautiful. She does not allow her mind to dwell on what it is or what it means or what it could mean. She does not think of the way his eyes had bore into her as he’d stood slumped in the doorway - the silhouette of his frame blocking almost all the light from outside. She does not think of the taste of his mouth - of the way questions flavored his tongue even if he never asked them. She thinks of him protecting her, fighting for her, but she does not look in the corner. She does not think of what it could mean to tell him her name, her truth. Even the idea of it is overwhelming.

So just as she had with thoughts of her sister, she pushes them aside as she works.

When she returns to the house the sunlight is almost gone. He remains unmoved. She knew in some part of her that she would be, but she had hoped... . She reminds herself what hope is good for and sets to work instead.

She must keep up her strength if she is to care for him. She sheds her cloak and mittens and goes to the larder. She gathers what she needs to make a loaf of bread. The coarse flour, she knows, must last the winter so she uses it sparingly. She mixes and kneads as he had shown her until it is ready to lay across the fire rack to bake. When it is there she arranges the burning logs to ensure even heat before turning to clean the messes she’d made.

There are dishes to wash and she is loathe to use the water from the drinking barrel. She removes the small copper pot from the fire hook and replaces it with the large cast iron one. When she had first come to this place there had been chance she would have even been able to lift the heavy cauldron, and she feels a sense of pride in the strength she has gained. Even with her additional strength, however, she must fill it separately from hanging it as there is no way she could have lifted the thing when full.

She puts back on her winter wear and grabs the buckets. She goes to the stream behind their home and breaks the ice. The buckets fill easily from the frigid flow and she lugs them back inside. By the time she has filled the pot it is dark outside.

While the water heats she returns attention to her bread. She shrugs out of her cloak, but leaves her mittens so she can turn the bread without burning herself. Parts stick to the metal bars and she loses chunks in the process. She had forgotten to grease the bars with the rendered elk fat the way Bjarg had shown her. She has only been here a season and yet she has learned so much that she never could have imagined learning in the palace. Bjarg had poured all he could about his simple life into her but she looks to his chest in the corner and realizes just how little he had trusted her with.

She knows his home, how to run the house, but she does not know him. She knows his kindness, his strength, but she does not know his secrets. This is not a revelation, but the amount to which she cares is. She wants to know - and that terrifies her because she is not naive enough to think that she can know his secrets without him knowing hers.

He can never know.

She can never let him know.

Her chest clenches on the impulse to run.

If you rest - I will stay. That could be the final promise she ever makes him.

She shakes off the thought.

She will not dwell on that idea even though she is hard pressed to ignore others that crop up in its place. What if staying only brings this and worse upon him? What if he survives this only to be laid low by whatever tragedy she brings upon them next? She remembers the idea of being his winter bird - but she cannot help but feel her presence in his life has been something much crueler.

The water steams. She has things to do besides senseless conjecture.

She takes the bandages caked with filth and brings them to the table. She fetches the lye soap and scrubs it into each fiber of each strip. When she is quite satisfied with that she ladles steaming water from the cast iron pot above the fire into a wooden basin. She places the tools she used to make the bread and the paste she used for his wounds and in the steaming water to soak. Then she takes the bandages and throws them into the cast iron pot. With a large stir stick she agitates the cloth and watches as grime and blood slough off.

She stirs until the water turns a foul burnt red, until her arms ache and the still healing skin of her palms threatens to tear anew. She stirs till her sides throb and her back is alight with fire. She stirs till she there is no room to think of anything but the sensations of exhaustion running through her entire body. Then she pulls the bandages out of the water on the end of her stick and plops them on the table to hang.

She lets the steaming mess cool as she fetches the unleavened bread from the rack and places it on the opposite end of the table. While the bandages and bread cool, she drains the pot above the stove. She ladles out the entire contents one bucket at a time, careful to mind she doesn’t drown the fire beneath with her shaking arms, and goes out into the dark to dump the filthy contents.

Bit by bit, trip by trip, she empties the pot all the while knowing that it will need a good cleaning before she can use it again for anything else. On her last trip out and behind their home - tracing the rough exterior with her shoulder in the dark so she does not get lost - she hears something. It is not the typical rustle of a branch or wind through the trees. It is not the soft crunch of snow beneath leather boots or the too familiar sounds of a blade leaving its scabbard. It is something different - something bigger, heavier than anything she has ever heard before like a mountain ripped up from its roots to take a step. It is a sound that she can feel.

She freezes, breath stopping, and waits. She does not hear - feel - anything else but she senses eyes on her. The creeping impression works up her spine till the hair on her neck stands on end. Then she hears it again - a strange low thunder unlike anything she has ever encountered - and she runs. She drops her buckets and runs as fast as she can back to the door of the house. She stumbles around the corner of the house in the dark - too terrified to breathe - and when she finally makes it into the dim light of the cabin she slams the door and bars it. Her legs give way and she slides the to the ground against the secured door - mind racing.

What was that? Whatever it was - will a door such as this keep it out if it wants to get in? She tries to quiet her breathing, calm her heart, so she can listen. Whatever had made that noise would not be able to sneak up on them, that was for certain, and she takes a small comfort in that. Bjarg remains unchanged and she thinks that perhaps she has never wanted him to wake more than she does in this very instant.

But what can he do? Even he has limits - she has been told as much - and she knows it is her job to defend them. She goes to the chest and opens it. She grabs at the first blades she sees, Gunnar’s weregild and one other she has seen him polish but never use and unsheathes them both. Then with a weapon in each hand, the blade he gave her nestled close at her hip, she stands before the door and waits for whatever will come.

And in that moment, she realizes that whatever it may be - for the first time in her life - she may be ready.

[ previous ][ next ]

[ravenwritesstuff]

Wandering Hearts (19/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (feelings and stuff) A/N: Sorry ‘bout this.

DON’T DO IT

[ part one ] [ part two ] [ part three ] [ part four ] [ part five ] [ part six ] [ part seven ] [ part eight ] [ part nine ] [ part ten ] [ part eleven ] [ part twelve ] [ part thirteen ] [ part fourteen ] [ part fifteen ] [ part sixteen ] [ part seventeen ] [ part eighteen ]

He sleeps. She does not. Her body and mind are too confused to rest. It is near midday but it could be the middle of the night for all she knew. Her five day slumber has left her as confused as the way this man, her husband, holds her now.

Is it for comfort, she wonders? If so, comfort against what: the cold or to quiet his worries that she will run yet again while he is incapable of pursuit? She considers it as she lays there. She could escape before the next snow falls. By the time he is able to track her - her trail will be long buried. She knows the area better now, has her bearings, if she can make it to the pass before it closes -

He shifts closer in sleep, arm tightening around her waist, and she feels the constriction mirror in her chest.

Is this love? She is uncertain. Love has never been something plain and easy in her life. She had loved her parents, her sister, but had known better than to expect anything in return.

The south has nothing for me. She had said. Everything I need is here.

It had not been a lie, but though the north is more a home than anything she has ever experienced it can hold nothing for her either. It is too dangerous for her, for him, and if this is love - well. She does not know exactly what that means, but she is fairly certain it means not putting your loved one in the direct line of potential downfall.

She wants to stay.

She needs to leave.

Her chest squeezes once more in an aching tightness she knows will not fade with time. No matter where she is, where she goes, whatever she decides, whenever she thinks of him she will feel this exquisite tension. She will feel the the tug of his heart where it is bound to hers with every step, every beat, every breath until she dies.

She could take him with her. They could run together, but how to explain the shadows that loom around her every corner without destroying what they have? How can she compel him without compromising him? He cannot know who she is. That she knows, but also they cannot stay here forever.

But perhaps until the spring.... The idea is comforting and for the first time in her life she hopes for a long, bitter winter.

She will be his winter bird, staying through the darkness and the cold to bring him a promise of something more, and when the thaws come she will fly with him alongside her. She has the entire season to devise a plan.

The idea brings her peace.

She settles into his arms, her nest for this season, and thinks as she drifts away how funny it is to let love bloom in such a season of death.

….

She wakes when he stirs. The fire is low. She thinks perhaps he is cold and begins to roll from his grasp to revive the fire but his arm stays her. She turns head over her shoulder to see him watching her. He is close enough that she can feel the breath of his mouth ruffle the short hairs on her neck.

“You’re awake.” She says the obvious, unable to think past her thundering heart at his proximity. She remembers a similar conversation not more than a day ago

“Yes.” He says, putting pressure on her hip and turning her towards him. She allows her body to follow through the motion with no resistance till she is face to face with him - only inches separating them

“You must be in pain.” She takes in the planes of his face, the mottled bruises forming and bloodstains she had not quite managed to clean off. “Tell me what to fetch, how to prepare it, and I will for you.”

She wants to stroke his brow. She wants to smooth away the matted hair and rust but she keeps her hands clasped at her breast.

“The pain will pass.” She feels his hand spread across her back, keeping her close as his eyes scour her features. “I just needed to see your face. I needed to see with my own eyes that you were here and unharmed.”

She feels a flush rise from her center at his words at the same time as niggling worry. His skin is still so pale beneath his roughness. The depth of his eyes is clouded by the injuries he has sustained. She knows if she touches his face she will encounter the clammy heat of fever.

“I am here. I am well.” She casts her eyes downward, uncertain how to compensate for the feelings welling up within her at his nearness - the blistering heat that compels her to move even closer.

“You are here.” She notices a wonder in his tone previously unheard.  “I do not know why you are here.”

Her hands leave her chest and press to his. Her burned hand strains against the thickened flesh of her scarred palm. She does this as much to ensure her distance as his comfort. He is solid beneath her touch. The leather of his kofte is soft and her breath hitches at the mix of sensations.

She thinks of revealing her plan for migration - the extent of her feelings - the intensity of the tattoo that her heart pounds into her every breath - but she won’t. It is not the proper time.

Instead: “I am here. I am here with you.”

She sees the wash of confusion and relief across his broad features and she is reminded of the previous time she observed him this closely in the cave. His freckles are more prominent now than ever and she can easily count them all. She can easily lean in and kiss him. She doesn’t.

“You are,” his voice holds a note of disbelief. “You are here with me. But why?”

She stares at his mouth as he speaks. She does not mean to, but cannot help it. The shape of his question pulls his mouth into an unfamiliar curl.

“You need rest.” The directness of his inquiry leaves her flustered and she deflects accordingly. “You need to eat. Let me make you something.”

His expression darkens at her evasion. “I am not hungry.”

“Surely you are.” She continues to steer the topic away from the question. “Surely there is something that you want.”

“Yes. There is.” He says but she can tell from his expression all too well that food is not the subject. Her cheeks flame anew. “I want to know why you are here.”

It is not a question this time but it demands an answer.  She does not know how to say what he needs to hear.

“You are unwell.” She presses against his chest but he does not release her. She did not expect him to, did not want him to. “Your mind is troubled.”

“And you can ease it.” His eyes are pleading, almost frenzied. “You are here. Trygve and Magni spoke to you but you stayed.”

Magni - Large Leader - one in the same. Still she does not understand what could have been said that would compel her to leave

“Of course I stayed.” She can feel his heart hammering beneath her palms, mirroring her own.

“But why?”

His eyes are wide and watchful even as they are troubled with pain and she has to look away. The urgency is overwhelming. She squirms in his hold, flattened palms clenching at his chest as she fights against the devastatingly strong impulse she has to run. She knows now what he wants to hear, knows that he has read it on her glass face, but she cannot form the words to speak. It is too much.

“Because, you oaf,” she can hear the quaver in her voice even as she struggles to remain composure - her insult soft and unable to harm. “I am your wife. No word of man can change that.”

It is not precisely what he wants, but it is all she can give. She continues to squirm - wanting to be free, needing to be close. It had been so much simpler when they slept, when her back had been to his face and she could not feel the burn of his gaze sweep her expression. His silence in the face of her answer offers no comfort either. The imbalance between them brought forth by his questions leaves her feeling shaky and troubled. Unbearable energy swells beneath her skin and she needs to move away from him, needs to gain perspective.

“Let me go so I can tend to your needs.” Her fists press his chest, and he releases his hold around her back but only to bring his hand up to catch behind her neck.

She looks up just in time to see him close the distance between their faces, to feel his mouth claim hers. She stiffens on a breath even as her lips soften to accommodate his. Her eyes fall shut. The fists at his chest open only to clamp into the leather of his kofte - keeping him close. His mouth opens over hers, wide and fervent, and she thinks of blood.

She remembers his blood on linen sheets, of his blood in the snow, of his blood on her face - and she thinks of her own needs. She remembers that without her - his blood would have not been shed in this way. She thinks of limits and what colors they take. She thinks of his limits are all the color red: blood, desire. Hers are all the color blue: fear, pain. Red and blue: the colors of the veins in her wrist. Red and blue: the colors you mix to make royalty.

He shifts closer and derails her thoughts. His body is longer, larger, than hers in every way. The press of it against her could terrify, but instead she feels a sort of sanctuary in his embrace. The hand in her hair, behind her neck, slides down her arm, to her back and draws her against him. They lay on their sides, pressed together at every point, but it is still not enough. She can sense the desire for more reverberate in the imperceptible space between them.

She thinks to turn and haul him atop her and simply let his weight crush her into blissful oblivion. She thinks maybe if she cannot breathe she will not be able to consider the implications of breath, of living. She will fade away and there will be nothing but him and her and the crescendo she feels building within.

He pulls back before she can instigate her endeavor. Her eyes open to find his clamped shut, body trembling in her grip. The sallow tone of his cheeks raises alarm. His needs, hers, have taxed him beyond himself.

“You are my wife.” His breath is short again, too rapid and shallow even for pleasure. “You are my wife.”

He opens his eyes long enough for her to see that a new dullness has entered there. Whatever bright moment of lucidity had struck in his tormented body it fades now to yield to his damage.

“I am.” Tears heat the backs of her eyes. “I am.”

He resists the drooping of his lids as if he is fighting against his fate, but he does not win. His hand goes limp against her back and she knows the sleep of injury has sucked him back into its depths. She rests her forehead against his.

“I am your wife. I will protect you as you have protected me.”

She wraps an arm around him and holds him close as they both sleep in a bed she had never imagined sharing.

….

There are no windows in the cabin, a fact she laments inwardly but understands now. The cost of glass and the impracticality of it to withstand the heat of summer or the cold of winter is something she never considered in the palace. Thus when she wakes again, pressed up against him in the cradle of his arms, she has no easy way of knowing if it is night or day. All she knows is that his wounds, his body, needs attention that she cannot provide by sleeping alongside him.

She manages to extract herself from his hold inch by inch until she is out of the bed and free.

He is a large man, but as she surveys him on the bed she has occupied now for months, she sees him for what he truly is. Despite his size he is a man reduced and controlled by things she cannot understand. The words she has heard spoken of him have never directly addressed his standard or character - only the implications of his origin. It is as if no one cared to measure his worth by anything but his birth, and an arrow of sympathy pierces her at that realization. She knows that birthright all too well.

She remembers the way Large Leader, Magni as she knows now, had interrogated her after the blade Bjarg had bestowed upon her. Magni’s interest had gone far beyond general curiosity and she knows now to keep the blade concealed unless the circumstances were beyond dire. Still…. What had Bjarg thought that Magni and Trygve would say to make her leave? What secrets had he hidden in their mutual silence that he found so offensive about himself that he had never disclosed?

She cannot ask these things despite the fact that he has pressed up against her walls with a persistence she could only help but admire. She cannot ask these things because he does not wake. If he had been in any state to waken - he would have at her movement. She is not graceful no matter the efforts she puts forth to keep him resting. A part of her, a selfish part, desires him wake and unearth what he has buried and lay it in front of her.

She has admitted weakness in claiming him again as her helpmate. She cannot help but greedily want the same confirmation of vulnerability.

She does not wake him though, not even in the long minutes it takes for her to restore and establish a fire worthy to warm the small space. She labors till sweat trickles down her spine beneath her clothes. It is only when she is satisfied that the heat is a sufficient replacement for her own warmth against him that she heads out of doors.

She does not linger to watch the way the light of the flames dance over his face. She does not allow her feelings to dictate her course of actions. There are things to be done and he needs her now to be as strong and reliable as he has been for her.

She tries to recall all the elements he had gathered for the healing paste that had righted her hands. There had been clay, and calendula, and licorice root, but the remaining ingredients escape her - wash away on the memory of another kiss. She blushes at the thought, at the way he had held her in the bed just now, and tries to focus. She hopes she can remember enough to aid him.

The sky is gray with morning light and she thinks that fortunate. She can restart her waking existence to the tempers of the universe. Her steps towards the shed are bolder than she feels. There is so much that Bjarg does every day that she does not know to do, has never been shown. She hopes she will be an adequate surrogate until his revival on top of her duty to care for him.

It is a bitter morning. The cold bites into her face as she crosses the few feet from the house to the shed. She is greeted by the bray of a hungry reindeer and the squawk of half a dozen unsatisfied chickens. Guilt rises in her chest. Bjarg never would have let these animals go unattended.

She lights the lantern by the door and head to work. She goes first to feed the creatures and then grabs to pitchfork she had first been taught to use those several months to go. Sven’s stall needs mucking.

She finds the procedure to not be nearly the trial it had been the first time. It requires effort, but without the strain of broken ribs and with the strength added to her over days of intention she finds herself not only surviving the circumstances but succeeding at them. By the time she has mucked out the reindeer’s stall she is sweating despite the cold. The feed she had given him and the chickens is mostly gone now.

“Here you go.” She says as she offers the animals extra, restitution for previous inadequacies, when she hears the door open.

He presses a shoulder into the door frame, face as white as the world outside, and her heart leaps at the sight.

“You should be abed.” Her mind races at the unexpected sight of him. “You should not be up.”

“There are things to be done.” He says with no enthusiasm. If he had not been bolstered by the solidity of the door jam she knows he would falter.

“I am doing them. What you must do is rest - recover.”

He scoffs a laugh. “There is no recovery for the likes of me.”

She does not understand, is too alarmed to consider asking for an answer.

“You are unwell. Tell me what I must bring to aid you.” She tries to not look to where his pant leg has crusted over the boot - hard with blood - but still notices he puts no weight upon it.

“I will fetch what I need.”

“But I am here to help you.”

“You do not know what is needed.

Anger flares at his indifference.

“Then tell me, you stubborn man!”

If he had not been braced by the structure of the shed he may have wavered, but he stays steady. She can see the sweat of effort bead his forehead, his nose, his cheeks just in the endeavor of standing. For a moment she thinks he will do nothing beyond stand there and stare at her, arms crossed hard over his chest.

Then: “Root of comfrey, garlic, clay dust and calendula.”

She begins her search immediately. The shed is primarily used for the storage of barrels of ale and the animals, but she is capable of searching for the necessary elements to prepare the aid to his healing. She finds the proper jars of dried plants, his mortar and pestle, and is rummaging for the bricks of clay she would break and grind as the base of the paste when she notices something new. If she had not looked back in the shadowy corner she would have missed it entirely, but now it is all she can see. She sets her things aside on a nearby shelf and goes to investigate.

There, in the shadows, draped to cover something she finds a tapestry so intricate and fine she is transported back to the palace for a breath. It is a rich mix of reds, blues, and yellows so bright they almost shimmer all expertly twined together to create shapes of trees and mountains, rivers and valleys. Anna is so taken with the beauty of it she can hardly care for whatever lays hidden beneath it.

“I have never seen this before.” She runs reverent fingertips along the design.

“It has not been meant to be seen.”

Questions of why die in her throat as she lifts it with careful hands to admire it more closely only to find another work of painstaking craftsmanship lying beneath it.

It is a large chest made of wood and hinged with leather. Across the top is etched an intricate scroll work that looks like ribbons have been woven into the surface, bending at sharp right angles, to form a sort of complex diamond. She knows this symbol, had studied it in ancient traditions at the palace. It is Yggdrasil: the world tree of pagan tradition, but it is incomplete. The center is unfinished, left smooth and bare, and she wonders.

“What is this?” She motions towards the chest, the inscription, not understanding just what she sees.

“I made it for you. It is yours.” He explains the meaning of the chest, but not the carving. “I realized that if you were - if you are to - if you stay - you should have your own place for to hold your belongings.”

The way he stumbles over his words reminds her of earlier times. Of all the times he tried to explain himself without revealing anything. Of all the things that still go unspoken between the two of them.

She kneels before the box. The heavy tapestry rests on her lap. She runs her hands over the carved surface of the wooden lid sealed smooth with bee’s wax until her fingers land on the untouched center.

“There is nothing here.” She looks over her shoulder to where he stands, speaking in their learned language of asking questions through statements. “It is unfinished.”

He holds her gaze. “That is where I will carve your name. I will carve your name there.”

The conviction in his voice sends sparks down her spine and she knows he is just waiting for her to give him that truth. He is waiting and will wait till she is prepared, but he will also lean. He will lean and lean and lean and she feels the need to lean in return.

“And this?” She holds up the tapestry for his inspection as well as hers. It tumbles open further and she recognizes Arendelle in the scene. The weaver had captured Arendelle in their threads. Her hands shake. “Did you make this as well?”

She lowers it to her lap and turns where she sits to look at him. If possible he looks even paler than before.

He shakes his head. “That is my mother’s work.”

Any question she had of why the beautiful piece is not showcased on his walls, why it is hidden in shadows, is answered in that one sentence.

“She was a master weaver.” She says, certain.

“No.”

“But she must be. To command such a talent - to create such beauty -”

“My mother was many things but she was not a weaver.”

She stops short at that. His low tone makes it evident that he is not interested in elaborating on the things his mother was. She remembers Ketil’s warning, of Alva’s cryptic suggestion: Ask him about his mother. She feels bold questions burning on her tongue, but only one tumbles from her lips.

“What was your mother’s name?”

It is a simple question, but nothing about it is simple.

She feels his entire body - his entire spirit - go cold though he does not move. She knows she should not have asked, but she has just as much right to lean as he does. She has much right to ask questions as he does - even if his are not phrased as explicitly.

She expects him to bluster.

She expects him to limp out, to disappear, as their tradition dictates, but he remains.

He stands instead with clenched fists and jaw, looking at her with an enigmatic stare.

After a long silence she expects no answer and it is better that way. She breaks from his gaze to return her attention to the beautiful chest he has built for her, the complexity of the tapestry on her lap. Her fingers trace the dips and peaks of his carvings and though she wants it - she is startled by the sound of his reply.

“Ragna.” He says on a harsh breath. “My mother was called Ragna.”

The words seize her body and she freezes.

That was the name he had given her so many months ago. The implication of it swells and crashes upon the shores of her conscious. Of all the things he had given her; his word, his protection, his home; she knows this is the most precious gift. Even in this though, she knows he is not demanding compensation from her. He gives this because he wants her to have it. The ring on her finger burns.

“That is a beautiful name.” She presses her palm against the blank space, her own name burning her tongue.

She knows if she looks at him the sight of him will unravel truth she cannot feed him. He is braver than she is in every respect. He gives when she only takes and she wonders what it would feel like to upset that balance, but she cannot create compel her mouth to speak her name. It is a simple name. It is not difficult to speak, but still it chokes her.

“I’ll move it to the house when you tell me you want it.” He says as if he would carry it for her now if she asked, as if he could overcome his limitations just by willing it.

She knows it is not that simple: his healing, her speaking.

He must sense her hesitation, her discomfort, because he does not wait for her to break the silence. “I’ll heat water and prepare the bandages for when you return.”

He is gone before she has a chance to respond.

She traces the spot he has left for her name. Her fingers mark the shapes of the letters and she imagines what it would be like to tell him. She wonders what it would look to if she allowed him to finish it.

I do not know why you are here.

She had attributed his words to fever, to the blows to the head he had suffered, to leaning, but now she wonders if he had meant exactly what he had said. Why is she here?

She knows the answer as surely as she knows the beat of her own heart.

Love.

Love.

Love.

The love of him, the absence of her sister’s - that is why she is here. She wonders which is more cruel: to love this way or to not love at all?

She stands and replaces the tapestry over the chest, hiding the empty place as if that will make it disappear, but she knows it does not. Nothing ever will.

[ previous part ]

[ravenwritesstuff]

Promises Kept

Fandom: Frozen Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M Warnings: sex and death and grief. you know. my usuals.  A/N: Blame @minnothebunny for posting that ghost prompt. But seriously. Don’t read this if you don’t want major characters to die. It ends about as well as it can, but it is a rough ride.

She should have listened to him.

She should have stayed in and not gone over to Elsa’s for their traditional Tuesday sister’s movie night, but the weather had not been bad when she kissed him goodbye.

She should have told Elsa ‘no’ when she poured her that third glass of wine.

She should have decided to spend the night on the couch when they both heard the sleet begin to fall on the roof.

She should have done a lot of things, but hindsight is better than foresight one hundred percent of the time - especially when you are dead.

She remembers the logic that made her hug her sister goodbye and walk out that door. She remembers how she slipped walking to her car and made a face at Elsa who watched her worriedly from her porch, arms crossed over her chest.

It was only a mile down the road, a mile she had driven hundreds - thousands of times. It was a well known mile. A friendly mile (if miles could be friendly). A mile she always wholeheartedly enjoys driving because it is mile that leads her between her two favorite people in the entire universe: her husband and her sister.

As far as places to die go, she supposes that it could be worse.

….

You don’t worry about things when you are dead in the same way you worry about things when you are alive. It’s cliche, she knows, the way she dies and at one point (the alive point) that would have bothered her. Slightly buzzed driver hits a patch of black ice on a familiar route and crashes into a tree: that story has been told. Her story has been told, will be told on the morning news, and as the glass and metal shatter and crunch around her she almost laughs.

She knows better than this, or at least she did.

Being in past-tense is weird.

….

When she opens her eyes - she is on her front porch. Her car is not in the driveway. She does not have her keys, her purse, but she is there. She is there, but she knows she is not. She can feel it. She is between, but she is here, and she will not question it.

The door knob stares back at her. It takes her several moment to reach out and grab it, uncertain if her hand will pass through it like the movies or some other unfortunate occurrence that pop culture has told her happens in the afterlife, but when she reaches for the handle her grip is firm around the handle. She turns, pushes, and then she is inside.

She is only slightly bummed that she did not get to float through the door.

Maybe next time.

….

He is in the kitchen. She can tell by the smell that he is cooking (most likely their lunches to pack for the next few days). The sound of the stereo floats through the space. She knows he is singing along under his breath. She always tells him she likes his singing, encourages it, but he always freezes up whenever he knows she is listening.

Maybe he won’t be able to hear her now, see her. Maybe she will go into the kitchen and he will keep singing and she will be able to watch him like she isn’t even there, because she isn’t. She is dead, but she does not know how to address that so she goes the kitchen and pretends like nothing has changed.

Like clockwork, he looks up from the stove on the center island and fumbles to grab the stereo remote.

“You’re home!” He blushes, and the sight of it makes her wonder if she has blood at this point. If she cuts herself, will she bleed?

“Yeah.” She shrugs off her ghost-coat (it is her favorite one so if she is cursed or wear it for all of eternity at least she likes it). “You look surprised?”

“Well. You just left like - ten minutes ago?” He is sauteing vegetables and chicken. Normally the sight alone would make her ravenous but she realizes that she isn’t hungry, or thirsty. She doesn’t even seem to have saliva to wet her tongue.

Ten minutes ago? But that isn’t possible. She has been at Elsa’s for almost four hours. She looks at the clock on the microwave. The green, glowing numbers read 6:47. She’d left Elsa’s just past eleven. How is that possible? How is any of this possible?

“Roads were bad then, yeah?” He asks and she tries to tell him what is happening, but her mouths won’t form around the words and not for lack of trying. They just won’t come out.

I think I’m dead. She wants to scream, but an invisible fist grabs them and shoves them down deep inside.

She coughs and then: “Yeah. They’re killer”

….

She stops breathing on purpose just to see what happens. She has always been good at holding her breath, but five minutes pass and she does not feel she does not feel light headed or weak. She can speak without struggling. If she is turning blue, Kristoff doesn’t say anything.  

She presses her her hand to her chest and feels nothing. She opens her mouth to tell him. My heart isn’t beating. If she cannot tell him directly, perhaps she can tell him indirectly, but even that is a lost cause.  

He looks at her across the kitchen island to where she is perched in the bar stool and arches his eyebrow.

“You look like you’re choking.” He flips the food in the pan. “You aren’t, are you?”

“No.” The moment she tries to speak about something other than her death - the words pops out immediately and then she gets it. “Not choking.”

It is not important that she is dead. Well - it is, but it is more important that she is here. She is here with him and she is struck now by what a gift that is (even if the gift has terms).

So she forces herself to breathe, even though she doesn’t need to, even though the power of his smile is enough to kill her a second time.

….

She lies.

If she was alive it would have been impossible. She would have blushed and stuttered and felt awful about it, and she doesn’t want to say that being dead has made her ambivalent (it definitely hasn’t - she cares a lot about what is happening here), but somehow she just doesn’t care so much about slippery things like ‘the truth’. Maybe it is because it seems like space and time have bent to bring her here. Maybe it is because if she is already dead she is not really sure things like little, white lies actually matter.

Whatever the reason is she lies and says she had texted Elsa about her absence (her phone is in her wrecked car somewhere along her shattered body in some other part of time). She is not certain how she got here, four hours before she knows she died, but here she is and she won’t fight it. She figures if Elsa really wants to know where she is she will call and prove that this intense feeling of strangeness is nothing more than a dream.

Kristoff dumps a skillet full of chicken and veg into a Tupperware they had gotten off of their registry and wipes his forehead.

“So you want to watch something with me instead?” He asks like this is a normal night, like this is a night that they will have again and again until they are old and gray, or he is old and gray and she is - a ghost?

No. She’s too solid to be a ghost. She can touch and smell and feel. She is solid. She has weight. She isn’t much of a zombie either, or a vampire. She has no appetite for anything - much less human brains and blood. But she isn’t real either.

“Anna?” He snaps her out of it as he puts the dirty dishes in the sink and washes his hands.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Let’s do that.”

….

It’s a weird thing to feel yourself becoming less: less solid, less tangible, less real. But she can feel it happening in degrees. A spot just beneath her left ribs - her most ticklish spot - is softer than normal as if its very fibers are unweaving.

She is snuggled up to him on the couch. His arm around her shoulder, hand resting dangerously close to her unbeating heart, and she thinks it is so strange to feel him like this. He is so solid, and she is coming apart. If she were alive the idea would make her panic, but she knows now that this is fine.

There is more after death.

She is proof of that.

And if the Powers the Be sent her back here to him it must be because they are meant to find each other. She is meant to find him. He is meant to find her. Still when she looks up at him her chest is filled with a pulsing longing, sadness.

He looks down at her when he notices her gaze.

“What’s up?”

“Do we have any ice cream?” She is not hungry, but she feels restless on the couch next to him. Like whatever thing has sent her back here now is not pleased with her choice to spend whatever time she has with him curled on the couch watching Jeopardy like they do every night.

He turns and brushes a kiss over her temple as is his habit every time he cheats into her on their couch. “In the freezer, I think. You want me to get you some?”

She looks up at him then and sees him so close that he blurs in her field of vision. He is so warm. So solid. When he had first come around the kitchen island and wrapped her in a hug she had not been certain his arms would not pass right through her, but they hadn’t. They had pulled her close and now those same arms keep her close. She wants to tell him to hold tighter - to squeeze until it hurts - because she feels herself becoming less and less solid with each passing moment.

“No.” The urgency to press into him burns into her core. “Don’t leave me.”

“Never.” His arm tightens and his brow furrows. “Is everything okay?”

She hears the sleet start outside and for the first time since she has come back on her own porch she feels a sense of urgency.

“No. It’s not okay.”

“Anna -”

He looks so confused, caught off guard, and it feels like a taste for what is to come when he realizes that she is not actually there.

It spurs her to action.

She surges up to kiss him. For one instant she is certain her lips actually meld with his - pieces of her breaking apart to make room for him - before reforming and meeting his.

“Make love to me.” She is already climbing onto his lap as she speaks. “Make love to me like my life depends on it.”

She knows that it doesn’t. She is already dead. She knows it won’t change the fact that she is dead, but her soul is burning with a need older than life.

He doesn’t hesitate. He pulls her down to meet his mouth. She loves how he never needs encouragement to enjoy her body - to worship her with his mouth - and she does not stop him. She lets him devour her. The heat inside of her, so different from anything she ever felt while living, like the love of him is its own living thing inside of her.

She grabs his face and pulls back just enough to see his eyes swimming in front of hers.

“If anything ever happens to me - you have to promise me that you will be okay. You can be sad for a little while, but you have to try to be happy again. Promise me.”

He brushes the hair out of her eyes, brow puckered. “Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“But if it does -”

“Anna. Stop it. You’re freaking me out.”

“Kristoff I need you to promise.”

“Okay. What am I promising?”

The way he looks at her, like he will jump off a cliff onto a bed of nails if she asks, makes her unbeating heart clench. She cannot be the cause of his eternal unhappiness. He is a good man, a strong man, and he deserves to be happy even when she fade to nothing more than a memory.

A deep breath and then, “That you will be whole and happy if I am not here anymore.”

And even in death, even in the strange state of not caring that she has stumbled upon, she cares very much about his answer. She cares very much about the subtle passes of emotions that play across his face, the way his eyes dart over her countenance as if he can guess the cause of her request, but she knows he will never stumble upon it. He is a steady man, even-keeled and subscriber of the possible. It will not even so much as cross his mind that this is a warning - that she is already dead.

Instead he looks at her with curious eyes, deep and melting. A funny smile quirks his lips. A large, hot hand comes up again to cup her cheek with tenderness that always surprises her.

“If you need me to, I promise. I promise to find a way to be whole and happy if you ever leave me.”

He could make a joke of this. She knows he could with that dry wit, his sharp tongue, but instead he uses that tongue to claim the inside of her mouth.

This is a chance for her to love him - to give him comfort before she is gone.

She grinds down and finds his desire waiting for her. Her hand goes to her pants, his, and unfastens them both. It is only a few deft moves before she is naked on her back on the sofa - Jeopardy long forgotten - as he works a finger, two, into her depths. The stretch is familiar but she doesn’t need the preliminaries. Her body is ready of him.

She pulls him on top of her and lines him up. He drives home on the first stroke, hard and heavy. She thinks maybe she is sweating, or maybe that is him. The slick skin of their bellies, his chest, her breast, slide along each other while the blue light of the TV flashes over them like a halfhearted strobe. She feels the rhythm of him in her like a new heart, pounding a relentless truth into her body.

I love you. I love you. I love you. She hears herself chanting the words she feels him pressing into her core with each stroke.

I love you. I love you. I love you. She lifts her hips to meet his, spine snapping back as orgasm wraps her like a live wire and she breaks.

“Let’s finish this in bed.” She whispers into his ear.

He moves to turn off the lights, the TV, but there is no time for that. She can feel herself slipping away - growing less substantial as each second goes by, and she will not waste those instants. She will have him again in their marriage bed.

They tumble together, graceless, up the stairs. She laces her fingers through his and pull him against her body. He is still hard, sticky from being inside of her already, and she pushes him onto the bed.

Her thin thighs straddle his hips as she climbs onto the bed and mounts him. She sinks down with a moan. She thinks of crying, doesn’t actually cry, as her eyes refuse to create drops despite their burning. Maybe that is a ghost perk, but she is too gone to care. The feeling of him inside of her is so entirely right she cannot imagine waiting even a single day on the other side without him.

It isn’t fair.

She isn’t supposed to be a statistic (unless it is for being part of one of those couples with an insanely long marriage) yet here she is.

Here, but not here.

But she knows as she presses down on him, rises back up, that no matter where she is in this life or whatever comes after - she will always be here with him. Always.

She throws her head back and rides him for all he’s worth.

….

“I love you, Kristoff. I love you more than anything. You know that, right?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Don’t forget.”

“I don’t think you’d let me.”

“But if I wasn’t here - if something happened - promise me you won’t forget. Promise me that if I’m not here that you will find a way to be happy.”

“Why aren’t you going to be here exactly?

“...That’s not important. What’s important is that you know I love you. What’s important is that you are happy even if I am gone.

“You’re awfully caught up on that.”

“I just need to hear you say it. Promise me. Just one more time. Please.”

“I love you and I promise to find happiness even if you aren’t with me.”

“Thank you.” She kisses him. “Thank you.”

….

They talk late into the night. She had not expected to grow tired, but she did. She didn’t know you could be tired when you were dead - or maybe this is really it. Maybe she is only half-dead and now she is going to be whole-dead, but she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t fight it, but she will miss him. She will wait for him knowing that when the time is right - he will find her again.

Her eyelids droop in time with his and she tries to fight it. She does not want to close them. She wants to stare at his face, take in every freckle and hair in all of its amazing detail, one final time. She wants to memorize the feel of him against her as this is the last time she will hold him like this and her arms ache with the need to keep him close, but she cannot.

She is beyond that ability now.

So she tries as long as she is able to stay awake, to stay solid, as she presses as close to him as she is able. He mumbles something sweet and soft into her hair. She cannot make out the words, and that sends a funny twinge into her body. She will have to ask him what he said when he meets her on the other side, because she knows they will.

She knows it, and so tonight - or for however long she is allowed with him - she will bask in his presence. She will soak in every smile, every touch, until she is gone and then she will wait for him.

She will wait for him and then, maybe, if this is how the whole thing works, she will have had enough time to petition The Powers That Be to send them back together. Or to let them stay in the blessed afterlife together. Or something.

She doesn’t know how that works yet exactly, but she will figure it out.

What she does know is that she is dead, that she cannot stay much longer on this earth, but that this death is nothing in comparison for her love.

With that, she closes her eyes.

….

She is not in bed when he wakes. The place where she normally sleeps is empty and that is strange. She never wakes up before he does.

He pads into the bathroom to relieve himself and he hears the TV on downstairs. She had been in a strange mood the night before. Maybe she couldn’t sleep. Maybe she is watching something to keep herself entertained before he wakes up.

He flushes and heads downstairs.

“Anna?”

The morning news is on the screen, but Anna is not on the couch. She is not in the kitchen. She isn’t anywhere even though all the lights are on. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck.

Then the phone rings.

….

It is the night after the morning they found Anna’s body and Kristoff goes to Elsa’s. He knows she won’t ask, he won’t either, but they both cannot be alone right now.

The sit on opposite sides of the living room, shaking hands hold glasses of whiskey.

“No. She was at my house watching Serendipity with me then. How could she has been at your house at the same time.”

“I don’t know. But she was there. She was there.”

He takes a long sip of whiskey, Elsa sits quietly for a moment.

Then: “We cannot both be correct, Kristoff.”

He knows that. He also knows that she had been there in their house last night. He nods and Elsa nods. They won’t speak of this again.

….

He stops watching Jeopardy. He moves into the guest room. He takes down her pictures and puts them in a box for safe keeping.

Still he sees her around every corner. Hears her down the hall. Feels her climb under the covers each night. But she isn’t there. She is gone.

After two months of sleepless nights he puts the house on the market. It sells. He moves in with Elsa, but he doesn’t move on. He doesn’t know how.

….

He buys a chainsaw and cuts down the tree that took her from him.

He chops into it right at the scar where her car had impacted the trunk. He slices it to pieces and loads what he can into his truck and stacks the rest down on the side of the hill. He drives to Elsa’s house and picks her up. She doesn’t ask questions, sees the contents of the bed of his truck, and he can see that she understands his intent. He drives them to the middle of nowhere and stacks the branches in a field. A little kerosene and a match later and the branches go up in flames.

They watch till the pile burns to embers.

….

He visits her grave at least once a week, bringing flowers - cleaning up her tombstone, but it isn’t until about six months later that he speaks to her. A crocus is pressing up out of the ground above her, like she is saying hello, and he feels something thaw just enough in his own throat to let the words bloom.

“You came back to me.” His voice is low and rough. “I know that now. I don’t know how, but you did and -” his throat tightens. He takes a moment and clears his throat again. “I don’t suppose there is a way you can come back to me now?”

He stares at the crocus, waiting, feeling stupid and self conscious. His face heats with embarrassment. She is dead. She cannot hear him. He scrubs the back of his hand under his nose, across his eyes.

Dead people don’t come back. He knows that. So why is he staring at a crocus?

“I love you.” He cannot stop the words from tumbling out. “I love you. Please.”

He can feel himself crumbling. The walls he put up in the minutes, hours, days, week, months after her death crash down around his ears just at the sound of those words. I love you. He can still hear all the ways she could say that phrase, from sing-song to sultry, and the words break over him like a tide.

This is grief. The thought jumps into his mind and he wants to scream against it for its obvious stupidity. This is what you get for loving someone.

He turns on a heel and stomps back to his truck. The crushed flowers in his fist hit the still-frosted ground along the path he walks. He throws open the driver’s side door of his truck when it hits him.

It feels like the wind, like air, wrapping around him but the trees are still. There is no movement, but he can feel something. A chill runs down his spine.

You promised. He can hear her teasing voice, feel her breath in the shell of his ear, and he shivers.

“You left.”

I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave.

It is like she is right there, but he cannot hold her. His arms hang like useless branches at his side and it burns.

“Come back.” His throat tightens. “Come back to me.”

I’m always right here.

“I miss you.” Tears he has held back for months well in his eyes. “Please. Please.”

You promised.

He hits his knees. He knows just to what promise she is referring and the weight of it is too much. How can he be happy without her?

“I can’t.” Hot, twin rivers course down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so s-sorry.”

You can. You will. He can practically feel her rest against his back, her arms around his shoulders, and that only makes him cry harder. Not all at once, but a little at a time.

“I love you. I still love you.”

I love you, too.

He buries his face in his hands and sobs.

….

He never feels her again the same way no matter how many times he goes back to her grave. He supposes he should be grateful, but he is mostly furious.

How could she leave him?

How could she make him promise to find happiness without her?

He punches the tombstone hard enough to fracture his hand.

….

“You can’t just go around punching things.” Elsa says, re-wrapping his splint after his shower.

“You can’t just go through a pack a day and not expect me to notice.” He’s seen the ashtray on her porch.

They leave each other to their self destruction.

….

A dark fog shrouds his shoulders, his mind. He cannot taste anything, doesn’t care that he cannot taste anything.

“You’re losing weight.” Elsa points out after she takes a long drag off of her cigarette. She doesn’t hide her smoking anymore.

“I could stand to lose a few pounds.”

“Not like this.”

He shrugs. Maybe he should care, but he just doesn’t. He eats a banana to appease her and then goes to bed.

….

He has been in bed for three days straight when Elsa comes into his room and puts an orange pill bottle on his nightstand.

“These are mine, but you should probably take some.”

He squints at the label and recognizes a popular antidepressant brand.

“I’m not depressed.”

“Bull shit.”

“I’m not.”

“Fine.” She takes the bottle, opens it, and puts a single pill on his stand in its place. “But you need to take this. Consider it part of paying rent.”

“I already pay rent.”

Elsa huffs - clearly annoyed.

“Look. We both lost Anna. I’m not going to lose you, too.”

He looks up at her from his bed then and for the first time in forever - he feels something.

You promised. Her voice whispers and that something feels an awful lot like guilt. But hell - guilt is better than nothing.

He sits up and scrubs a hand over his scruffy face. “Isn’t it bad for me to take a pill that isn’t prescribed for me? I might die or something.” The idea is not entirely unappealing.

You promised.

“Step one is get you out of bed. Step two is getting you to a therapist so you can get your own damn pills”

….

He isn’t much of a therapy guy. The whole sitting on a couch while a stranger picks apart your thoughts never appealed to him, but Elsa said this therapist came highly recommended and Kristoff has a promise to keep. So he goes. He does the work. He takes the medication prescribed to him.

Slowly, color begins to slip back in around the edges of his life. His entire existence is no longer just him floating in and out of different levels of apathy. Food tastes like something again.

He still misses her, cannot really think about anything except her still, but it is no longer tinged with blue. Anna had taught him what it meant to truly live, to love, to be happy. He knows how to use that as a reference point for life now instead of using it as an unending well of sadness. He hopes that wherever Anna is that she sees this and that she is pleased.

….

“You’re smiling again.” Elsa says from her chair across the living room. He is sprawled out on the couch watching The Office.

“So are you.” Kristoff doesn’t look at Elsa. They don’t normally talk about stuff like this - but she is right. He is smiling again, and so is she.

Part of him feel strange to smile when Anna cannot anymore.

Survivor’s guilt, his therapist would say.

Common, his therapist would say.

It is okay to feel those things, but only if you also tell yourself the truth. It is not your fault that Anna is gone. His therapist would say - but for the first time since Kristoff had begun his sessions he is starting to believe that.

Anna would want him to smile. She had said so. So he smiles, and he laughs, and he lets that be okay.

….

It is the second anniversary of her accident and the day is unseasonably warm. There will be no ice or sleet tonight. The thought pains him a bit, but it is not the white hot knife it would have been last year.

Time has not made her miss her less, but it has given him the strength to live alongside his loneliness. It has given him room to expand and allow other feelings to live with the constant absence in his chest.

He puts the sunflower bouquet in the vase in front of her tombstone and runs his fingers along the cold stone. He has done this so often that there is a slick part that he has worried into the hard surface. The jeans of his knees are damp as they soak up the morning dew from the grass where he kneels. He takes one callused finger and traces the lines of her name etched into the block along with the inscription.

Beloved Sister and Wife. She had been that and so much more. So much more.

“Hey,” he starts, finding his voice. It has been awhile since he talked to her. “I’m starting to feel okay again. I wasn’t for a long while, but I’m getting better. Elsa is, too. We miss you - but we’re going to make it. We’re going to make it because we know that is what you would have wanted.”

He leans his forehead against the stone. The feel of it is the exact opposite of how Anna had felt in life.

“Wait for me. Wherever you are, wait for me.”

That breezeless wind wraps around him once again in a way he hasn’t felt since that first time over a year ago. Something inside of him tells him that this second time will be the last. Deep within his chest, in that empty space she left, he feels her. He hears her.

I am. I will.

And then she is gone.

….

It is a heart attack that does him in. He was outdoors working on Elsa’s yard while she was inside fixing up something to drink when it hits him. His doctor had told him to take it easy, that eighty-five-year-old men were not meant to do hard physical labor, and maybe Kristoff should have listened to him.

There were a lot of things Kristoff should have done, but he didn’t really care about any of them now. The last thing he sees with his living eyes is blue sky spattered with waving green leaves and wispy white clouds. The first thing he sees with his non-living eyes is Anna.

….

“You’re here. You’re here.” He cannot stop saying that, cannot pull her tight enough his chest.

“Of course I’m here. I’ve been waiting for you. I told you I would.” She holds onto his just as tightly. “But now we can cross over. Elsa will find us.”

He pulls back just enough to take her face in his hands - his young hands to his surprise - and simply stare at her face.

“You don’t know how much I missed you.”

“I do. I do.”

He kisses her. Her pliant mouth opens beneath his, sparking something inside of him that he hadn’t felt since the night she left.

“Don’t leave me again.” He gasps against her mouth.

“I never did.”

“Do go anywhere I can’t follow.”

“I won’t.”

His mouth falls on hers again.

“Promise me.”

He can feel her smile against his lips.

“I promise.”

As his mouth covers her once more he feels a blinding warmth wrap them up in its embrace as they cross to whatever awaits them on the other side together, never to be apart, for the rest of time.

[ravenwritesstuff]

Best Laid Plans (11/?)

Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic) Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, Rapunzel/Eugene, lotsa frohana Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure A/N: I don’t know if I have ever posted multi-thousand word chapters back to back like this. Please plan on this NEVER happening again.

They pull on their masks, bite their snorkels, and follow after their intrepid leader.

Elsa takes the buddy system into consideration but it has been years since she has been swimming of any kind. It has been even longer since she has been in the ocean, the risk too great to warrant any casual adventures, and she can feel the movement of the water around her as she does her best to keep up. 

She has forgotten just what it feels like to be both buoyant and sinkable. Her preserver rests below her armpits as she kicks flippered feet and submerges her face. A quick look underwater shows little more than a cavernous blue depth at first, but as they swim the ground comes clearer. With remarkable quickness the deep comes shallow enough for her to make out the sandy bottom. A few fish dart around below as the ground seems to rise up to meet them with each stroke. 

Then she sees it. 

At first it is just a few splotches of color too far below her to really make out. Then as she gets closer, closer, those few splotches grow and spread until there is nothing but textures and color and movement of dozens of different creatures swimming in the space just below her. The coral blooming beneath her is just as stunning as the scores of multicolored fish swirl and dart amongst the crack and crevices not twenty feet below her.

She understands now why the large vessel had stayed so far behind. There was no way it would be able to clear this elevated paradise. 

She feels a tap on her shoulder and she jerks up out of the water. It is Anna. Elsa is about to ask her what is so important when her sister points to where Hans is just a few feet away. She realizes then she was the last to have her head pop up and fights against feeling embarrassed. 

Their host however doesn’t seem to mind. His entire body is smiling as he pulls his mask up to his forehead and looks at each of them individually. 

“Welcome to the initiative.” He throws one arm in the air, the other supporting himself on his life preserver, and does not even seem to need applause. The joy of being here, of showing them this place, is enough for him. 

“What is this?” Rapunzel asks, her giant green eyes looking even larger in the mask she wears. 

“This is an ecosystem unlike any other in the world. Sorry for the mystery but there is no way to describe it. You have to see it for yourself.” His smile could burn entire civilizations to the ground by its fire, its sheer enthusiasm, and she is glad for the cool water around her. “You can stay as long as you like but please remember to not touch anything. No rocks, no fish, no coral. Whenever you are ready you can swim back to the boat.”

That is all it takes for her group to begin exploring in earnest. She is about to join them, but she makes the mistake of meeting his gaze. 

He is a few feet away but it is as if he is right on top of her. His face is so vulnerable that she cannot understand it. She does not know what he is trying to tell her, if he is trying to tell her anything, if she is just imagining things. He looks at her like he knows her, like he wants her to know him, like somehow by bringing her here he is showing her a part of his soul. Just the idea of that is so unnerving that she clamps her lips over her mouthpiece and escapes him by exploring the wonders below. 

She is not disappointed. After only a few moments she was able to almost entirely forget the moment above the water.

Every stroke she takes reveals a new wonder, something she has never imagined. 

It really is unlike anything she had ever seen. She is not one to be transcendental but she can only describe it as otherworldly. It goes on and on and on. She did not know there could be beauty like this in the world - especially so close to where she has always lived. To imagine that these impossibly incredible sights were simply hidden by a few feet of water rattles her. She knows all too well about things hidden beneath the surface. 

But she doesn’t want to think about that. She doesn’t want to think about any of that. She just wants to enjoy this and she does.

She forgets about everything outside of this space. She has never been sick. The world has never been unfair.  Here there is only beauty and splendorous surprises. She abandons her life preserver more than once to dive down and get a closer look. The pressure coupled with the freedom is something she has never felt. She stays low as long as she can before she makes it to the surface, lungs heaving but she feels alive. 

She cannot remember the last time she felt this alive. 

She blows the water out of her snorkel and gets back to her investigating. 

They all go their own ways over the vast expanse of reef.

Eugene follows Rapunzel and Anna follows Kristoff, and it makes sense. This reef is enormous and this is a limited time opportunity. The fact that they all go with their partner to explore whatever catches their eye is fine. Still when an eel peeks out of its hiding spot or an octopus crawls across the seabed she feels the smallest twist of disappointment that she has no one to tell.

She only half keeps watch for Hans Westergaard. and not because he is her buddy but because she finds herself developing a strange sixth sense in regards to him. Almost as if she needs to know where he is so her mind can rest, but her priority is this magical place. To his credit, he gives her space. Occasionally she will see a flick of his flippers in her distant periphery but he lets her explore on her own for which she is grateful. 

She is uncertain how long she has been swimming over this majesty, diving, exploring without prejudice when she feels a hand on arm. She comes up out of the water, sputtering. It is him. His red hair floppy and wet over the band of his mask.

"I want to show you something. Just hold your breath and trust me." His voice is urgent. "Okay?" 

Stupefied, she nods. 

“All right.” He pulls the snorkel out of her mouth. “Deep breath.” 

She fills her lungs and then she is underwater with Hans Westergaard. He pulls them down and then points into the distance, beyond the edge of the reef. Though the water is clear it casts a shadow over the space between where they are and the subject he is highlighting. It takes a moment for her eyes to pick out the massive, flat silhouette. It’s enormous body waved and flapped as if it were flying beneath the water. She watches, entranced, until her lungs cannot take it anymore.

She swims up and he joins her.

“What is that?” She gasps on the surface.

“An oceanic manta ray,” his smile so wide it could span a mile. “I’ve seen them off the Southern Aisle but never here. Come on!”

He grabs her hand and starts swimming in the direction of the creature. Elsa has no time to think, to complain and does her best to keep up with his insistent pull. When they have swam several dozen yards he stops, drops her hand, and dives under again before popping back up. 

“A bit further,” he says as she lifts her head in question. 

The swim until he stops once more and goes under. He is up before she can even join him.

“It’s incredible. It is using the reef as a cleaning station.” He is back under before she has the chance to ask what he means, but since he does insist on getting closer this time she joins him beneath the water.

They are much closer now and the creature that was impressive at a distance is now awe striking. Its body is twice the length of hers with wings that stretch out wide and a tail that extends behind its flat body like an arrow. It hovers in front of them by only a dozen feet almost completely still. Dozens of fish swarm its black and white back and belly biting and pecking at the ray’s skin. 

A cleaning station. She recalls. The fish are cleaning the ray. 

She watches until her lungs are on fire and kicks to the surface to breathe for a bit. He is up after her by a good measure. His capacity for staying under water is clearly much more developed that hers. He gulps down greedy breaths and leans on his life preserver. 

“Unbelievable. I should have brought my camera. They’re never going to believe this.”

Again there is no time for questions as he sucks in several quick, deep breaths before disappearing. When she finally catches her breath enough to go under again she is amazed to see that he has moved even closer to the resting ray. He is circling close, seeming to investigate every detail of the astonishing creature. When he sees her he waves her over, but she is afraid and not just of the manta ray. She is afraid of the joy he is showing, of letting it connect to her, of giving him the wrong impression through shared experience. This day has already gotten wildly out of hand and she does not want to feed into it any more. 

So she shakes her head and hangs back. She lets him explore, coming up and staying down for impressive intervals as she mostly watches now from the surface as the distance. After several minutes the ray seems to have enough of the fishes feasting and with a mighty wave of its fins it propels itself forward. Its motion is mesmerizing, the flourish of a master magician coupled with the grace of a prima ballerina, as it swims off into the ocean. 

He follows it, but she stays still and watches it go. She is always watching things move past her and she thinks that maybe soon she will be the one to go first - to move while the rest of the world stays still. A taste more bitter than the ocean salt stings her tongue at the thought and she forces it away as she surfaces.

She pulls her mask up to her forehead and rests her arms on her life preserver. Hans Westergaard’s preserver floats unoccupied only a few feet from hers, unoccupied, and wonders how long it will be before he returns to claim it. She sees Anna and Kristoff's snorkels bobbing in the water to her distant right, Eugene and Rapunzel to her far off left. She thinks she can hear the occasional muffled cry through Rapunzel's snorkel and while she is not thrilled with her youngest team member's earlier comments she cannot help but smile at her enthusiasm. 

She wishes they had seen what she had just seen, had experienced this unexplained magic, and wonders if they have seen anything they wish that she had been with them to see. Had they even noticed her rapid trek with their employer to a remote corner of the reef? Had they thought anything of it besides the consideration of Hans Westergaard’s persistent attention? The thought prickles her conscience and she chooses to ignore it.

She looks up at the sun and squints. It beats down warm on her face but still her teeth chatter. She supposes her body is not used to prolonged exposure to the cold water, knows she has not eaten enough today to justify this level of exercise, and glances back towards the ship in the distance as he swims up alongside her.

He  moves his life preserver under him as if it is a chair and tears off his mask.

That was incredible.” He shakes his head, droplets flying, and laughs. “I never thought I’d see that here.” When he looks at her his eyes are luminous and focused. “I may have to call on you to be a witness when my friends don’t believe me.”

The way he sits makes it so she can only see his shoulders, the heavy rise and fall of his chest. Drops of water cling to his jaw, his cheeks, his collarbones and glisten in the high sun like dozens of luminous jewels. There is an energy, an excitement, radiating off of him that is warmer than the ray of the sun. She can almost feel his heat from where they sit, can almost feel it melt something inside of her chest that has been frozen for too long. 

“Of course,” she keeps it neutral, not wanting to learn more even though she is curious who these friends are that he would need to tell and that would not believe him. 

Her voice seems to draw him back from whatever planet he had ventured to in his supposed discovery. He looks back to her with eyes that focus in on her with an intensity that she is certain she will never grow accustomed to: like he sees all of her faults and all and is still excited that she just exists.

"Your lips are blue," he reaches out and brushes his fingertips across her cheek, tucking a stray wet strand behind her ear. Heat tingles down the side of her face at his touch, so casually intimate it takes all her strength to not swim backwards and put more distance between them.

"I'm fine," her response is quick, biting in her discomfort, and she can tell he doesn't buy it. 

"Of course you are," he grins and playfully tugs at the end of her life preserver so she floats closer to him. "But I'm headed back to the boat. I have some people that need to know about what we just saw and as your buddy that means you have to go with me." 

She frowns, both at the increased proximity and the idea of leaving without her team. "But the others -"

"One of the crew followed us out on a kayak. See?" He points and she sees. She hadn't noticed them before now, had been too preoccupied with the beauty beneath the water. "If any of them need help they have a highly trained and certified lifeguard watching them like a hawk." 

It does make her feel better knowing that someone was there to look out for her people but going back to the boat alone with Hans Westergaard just seems like she is asking for trouble. Then again, going hypothermic on the account of pride also isn’t her finest idea. She looks around once more to find her team. They were scattered now, too far to call out to and while she is tempted to swim over to them she knows she should save her energy for the long swim back to the ship. 

“Hey,” he is talking again, voice low. “I won’t let anything happen to them.” 

She blinks as she looks at him. The sun is so bright off the ocean surface it throws strange shadows on his face that only accent the creased left from the pressure of his mask. She chooses to focus on that instead of the fact that he is so close right now, half naked, and reading her mind. 

“You mean your life guard isn’t going to let anything happen to them.” She does not mean to be cruel, but he frowns just enough at her comment to know the barb landed. 

“No one person can be all things to everyone,” he tips his head to the side. “But rest assured that I have personally been saved by Jameson and trust him to do the same for anyone else under my care.” 

Now she feels like a jerk, but is not ready to admit it.

She looks off towards her team, “Okay, but - “ 

“Hey,” he reaches out with his voice and draws her back to him. “They will be fine without you. I promise.”

Her mind explodes in a thousand directions. 

They will be fine without her. Would they? Her shivering intensifies and it has nothing to do with the cold water. She looks out and tracks for her friends, her family. She does not see them. Where had they gone? She should look for them. 

She is an instant away from swimming to discover them amongst the swells and sea when a warm hand touches his shoulder. Her eyes draw back to him and she swears he is only a breath away. The feel of his gentle treading waves against her legs through the water and she wonders if he feels her the same way, if the intangible contact makes her heart race and his mind fog.

She swims back just enough that his hand falls from her shoulder. “They’re safe. You’ve made sure.” 

It is less of a question and more of a confirmation. 

“Yes,” he is solemn as a prayer and, even though it takes a moment, she believes him. 

“Okay.” She says and he fixes his mask over his face, she does the same. 

“Follow me, he says before turning and swimming away. 

She follows, mask down to take in the last of the beauty she will probably ever see. Part of her mourns the fact that she had not allowed herself to get closer to the ray while the other part congratulates herself. It was the right thing to do. She could not entangle herself with this man or his memories when she would so soon be gone from them, from all of them. 

When the reef fades to the abyss she lifts her head above and remembers that the world is not all color and magic. It is hard sun and salt stained lips and exhausted muscles. He is ahead of her, but not by too much. She thinks he is most likely curbing his speed for her. She is simultaneously irritated and glad for the gesture. 

When they do make it to the ship he grips the side of the ladder and pulls up his mask. 

“Take off your flippers first and then climb.” He instructs, clearly waiting for her to go first.

If she was not wearing the least flattering swimsuit in the history of the world she probably would feel like he was using the opportunity to ogle her as she ascended. As it stands however she would consider it a miracle if anyone found the slightest bit of attraction to her backside in this suit. While she is glad of that in many ways - she also mourns the smallest bit of lost feminine pride. 

Then before she knows it they are both on the textured fiberglass platform where this all began. The sun has shifted so she knows that considerable time has passed but she has no idea how much. After beholding what was just in front of her the world around her suddenly seems less impressive. How could anything rival the majesty she just beheld? The colors, the life, the energy, the sense of endlessness and connectivity…. She is not one for sentiment but this place was beyond her sensibilities. So she stands at the deck looking at the vast blue beyond and just stares.

Her limbs are heavy. Her skin tightens with the lingering salt. Each muscle seems to separate from the bone as she considers collapsing to the floor of the ship and letting every concept, every thought fall to nothing. 

That will not be, however. He catches her attention with a quick wave of his life preserver. She turns to see him standing a few feet away. His sleek body is obscenely relaxed beneath the punishing sun and now she knows where he got those freckles.  

He nods his head to the left and she notices a rain style shower head. 

“It’s good to wash the salt off so your skin doesn’t dry out.” 

When she doesn’t move he takes her hand just as he had in the ocean and leads her over. It isn’t sexual, but the level of sparks that fly from this simple contact makes her want to sprint back into the ocean and not look back. Once they are at the shower he drops her hand and turns the nozzles. He sticks his hand beneath the flow and makes adjustments.

He turns to her, “There is soap in those dispensers if you want.” 

Her eyes go to clear plastic containers attached to the fiberglass wall of the ship. She crosses her arms over her chest suddenly very aware that while he is most likely being courteous - he is essentially asking her to shower in front of him. She is frozen for a moment and his brow furrows. 

“Unless you don’t want to?” His head tips to the side, eyes watching her every shift. “Because if you won’t then I will.” 

When she does not respond immediately, makes no move, he gives her a smile she feels down to her toes and steps under the stream. The water runs off the hard planes of his body, drips from the ends of his hair as he closes his eyes and lets it pour over him. After a few moments he brings his head forward just enough to flip back his hand and wipes down his face. In a practiced movement he dispenses the soap at the same time and lathers it between his hands. 

It isn’t until he catches her gaze and he begins soaping up his torso that she realizes she is staring. She turns around instantly, mortified, and looks absolutely anywhere but where she is certain there is an all too interesting display of lean muscle performing something so intimate that she blushes even thinking about it. 

A few moments later she hears a few footsteps and he steps past her. He doesn’t look behind himself as he passes, water running in rivulets down his well defined back, and goes to a locker mounted to the ship.

“It’s all yours. The water is warm.” He pulls a towel out and begins drying his hair.

The length of his ribs, the side of his abs, stretch even as his arm bunches in the vigorous motion. Her stomach clenches at the sight and she will never understand why she thought coming back here alone with him was a good idea. She turns and escapes under the water. 

He is right. It is much warmer than the ocean and she stands under the flow for several seconds letting it warm her, dilute the crusting of salt in her hair and on her skin. She opens her mouth and just breathes, allows her crossed arms to fall to her sides, and tries to force everything else away.

After several deep breaths she steps from the stream and wipes her face with her hands. She is tempted to soap up, but decides to call it a day. There is no chance her makeup has survived all of this, but this is not her primary concern. The disconcerting heat growing in her body, the way his own feverish skin seems to be infecting her, is what has her worried. She kills the tap and stands to gather her thoughts for one extra moment. 

Before she can turn and face him she feels the weight of luxurious cotton settle over her shoulders and he wraps a towel around her. She jerks around in surprise, to find him there smiling. She pulls the towel tight around her shoulders and somehow remembers her manners through the raging emotions inspired by the tender gesture.

“Thank you.” She says without smiling and she shivers but not because she is cold.

“You’re welcome.” He smiles and steps so close to her that their toes almost touch. He is backlit, the light around his face a halo and she can only just catch the glint of his eyes as his face hovers above hers. “Now I’ll tell you everything you want to know.” 

....

They sit on the edge where they had dropped into the ocean earlier in the day. Their feet dangle off the edge well above the water. Elsa can almost make out the figures of her companions still enjoying the sites of the reef. The bright orange kayak stands out along with the buoy and she is sure her people are safe. He made sure of that and she tells herself it is just a liability prevention. It is one of those rich people tricks to keep from being sued, but it doesn’t feel like that.

Nothing feels like it should with him and that is what leaves her the most unsettled. She wraps the plush, white cotton towel tighter around her shoulders as they look out onto the great blue beyond. 

“So now you’ve seen it.” He says. He’s leaning back on his palms, his torso creating the most intriguing pattern of muscle and sinew that she does her best not to notice. 

“Seen what?” She can hardly focus. 

“The reef. Its inhabitants.” She remembers his proclamation after they had finally made it to their destination. Welcome to the initiative!

She remembers his unbridled enthusiasm, the breadth of his smile, his uninhibited response to their interaction with the manta ray, and though she has seen what he had dubbed his initiative she is not sure she understands. 

“It is remarkable, Mister Westergaard.”

“Hans.”

She purses her lips. “I am still not entirely certain how E&A Events plays into this.” 

He looks towards her and squints. She is not sure why but the sight makes her heart clench. Maybe it is the humanness of it. Not even the infinitely self assured are immune from the brightness of the sun. He does not give her time to wax poetic. 

“There are over five hundred unique species on that reef. More if you count what we saw with that ray. Each one is integral to the health of Arendelle’s bay, our local fishing industry, and the future of our planet and yet it remains completely unprotected by the government. You saw it happen. An oceanic manta actually came to this reef for cleaning! It is a hub for all kinds of oceanic creatures!” His tone is so full of passion, such a departure from his normally casual cadence, that she cannot help but be stirred by it. “Our initiative sets out to preserve this irreplaceable element of our ecosystem before it disappears. A sixteenth of the reef is already dead or dying. The rate is only increasing. Without intervention the entire thing will be bleached before the time we have grandchildren.” 

She watches him as he speaks, the expressions on his face and how they match the intent in his voice. This is not just another rich boy’s pet project, she realizes. He actually cares, perhaps more than cares, and she was not prepared for that. She also was unprepared for the mention of grandchildren. It was an idea she had never entertained even under the best circumstances. She may never have to endure the challenges of growing old, but she will never have the joys of age either. The thought of it now is bittersweet. 

She pulls herself away from that destructive train of thought and refocuses.

“And how are you exactly planning on doing this?” Her voice has more challenge in it than she meant, flustered not only by her train of thought but also his passion.

“By throwing a kick-ass party, of course.” He smiles and the world melts a bit. His irreverence mixed with his sincerity is a potent cocktail. 

She cannot help but feel a smile pull at her lips. 

“Of course,” she agrees and allows herself that because it will benefit her, the business. “So we are talking about a fundraiser?” 

He nods, but his expression floats back out towards the reef. 

“Yes, but not just a fundraiser. I want everyone to see what you saw somehow. I want them to know how important this is, how incredible. I can talk for hours about a reef and the ecosystems and their global implications but nothing compares to letting them spend time there, get to know her.” 

His voice is far away, but focused, as if he is letting her in on an internal dialogue previously unspoken. It feels deeply personal, like he is sharing more than he should for a professional relationship. She tries not to tense up and considers what Anna or Rapunzel would do to diffuse this situation. 

The sun has warmed her enough now that she is comfortable dropping her towel to her waist and resting her hands next to her thighs. 

“So you want to save the world.” She kicks her legs off the edge to keep that blood flowing as she warms up again. “That is what your initiative is.”

His mouth cracks a crooked line. “More or less.”

She looks at her lap and smiles before she can stop herself. “And here I thought the time limit on planning the event would be the most challenging part.”

He laughs and she likes the low, sincere rumble of it more than she should. His hand slides over hers as they grip the edge of the boat and her smile drops just like her stomach. The touch of his hand explodes up the length of her arm, electrifying her so she cannot withdraw. 

“I want a lot of impossible things.” His voice is softer now, as if trying to soothe the nerves he frayed with his touch. “I suppose you could say I am a glutton for punishment.” 

His eyes catch hers, vulnerable and bright. The world fades around the edges and she is not sure but she thinks he is leaning in. Her breath catches in her throat when his eyes dip to her mouth for a fraction of an instant. His fingers tighten and yes he is closer now. The tip of his tongue darts out to wet his full bottom lip as his eyes lower once more and - 

There is a flash in the water, the sun sparkling in a new way as the surface is disrupted. Elsa blinks and straightens (had she leaned in too?). The world comes back into focus and she sees Anna swimming back to the boat with Kristoff. Their heads and still down taking in the sites, snorkels high, and Elsa jerks her hand out from under his. 

Her heart hammers in her chest.

Had he just tried to kiss her?

Had she almost let him?

It had happened so quickly she hadn’t had time to react much less process what happened. Had anything happened? Surely she imagined it all. If it wasn’t for the slight head left on the skin of her hand from the weight of his she could have easily written off the entire thing.

But she cannot. She can still feel his heat, the tingling sensation of where he touched her and the way it awakened every other memory of his touch and this has to stop. This has to stop now. She is quickly realizing how powerless she is against him and his constant attention. Her defenses are crumbling around her ears. She needs to get out now, call this off, get back to the shore and her sanity, and her safe, sterile life. She needs to -

Anna’s head pops up. Her freckles are somehow both masked and magnified behind the enormous snorkel goggles. She spits out the mouthpiece and smiles at them. 

“That thing is incredible! I’ve lived here my entire life and had no idea this was here.” 

Mister Westergaard’s face breaks into a smile that she can only describe as boyish. He seems so genuinely pleased by the observation that she can almost feel his satisfaction at the comment. 

“Exactly, and you have only seen part of it. When the sun sets you will see the whole of why this reef is not only beautiful, but unique and in need of all the protection we can offer it.” The intensity in his voice winds a taut rope of conviction in her gut. 

Had she really just been thinking of calling off the event because she was nervous that he might have tried to kiss her? Is she really that selfish? Is she still trying to somehow make this all about her instead of where her focus should be?

Her paranoia was getting the better of her. She needs to relax and quickly. She isn’t quite sure how, but she knows it isn’t going to happen when she is sitting right next to him creating realities that simply are not there. 

“I’m feeling a bit thirsty. I’m going to go get some water.” She moves back from the edge and stands. “Excuse me.” 

She does not wait for any comment or request. She just goes. She grabs her swim wrap where she had left it, pulls it on, and ties it in place without missing a step. Her hands shake on the polished metal railing as she climbs up to deck with the swimming pool. The thin dark cotton does little to ward off the chill she feels entering the shade and then into the air conditioned interior.

There is no crew or staff about, but she supposes that isn’t too strange. They probably anticipated this as a time for preparation or a break before the rest of their service. She might actually be alone for the moment and the idea is a relief until a young attractive brunette in an all white service uniform appears from around a corner. 

“May I help you, Miss?” It is professional, perfunctory, and Elsa normally would appreciate such service but right now it makes her prickle. 

“Is there a place I could collect my thoughts... alone?” She needs this, to reacquaint herself with logic and process and reason.

The brunette nods, her smile glowing against olive skin and Elsa wonders if Hans has smiled at her the way he smiles at her. She wonders why it matters so much to her. She notes to breathe or else she really will go entirely crazy. 

“Of course, Miss. If you just go up those stairs to the left I think you will find the Sunset Parlor the perfect spot.”

She is all smiles and professional courtesy. Not a single strand of her dark hair is out of place and her uniform is spotless. Normally this would be the time Elsa would enquire about work history and if her employer hired her out for events or who her employer was and got to the bottom of how to make sure she had such an excellent contact - but not now. Not when her insides were quaking and nothing made sense. 

Instead she smiles as much as she can, gives a nod, and heads towards the stairs. 

When she arrives at the top she can see why this is called the Sunset Parlor. There is a single, enormous, curved pane of glass that spans two entire sides of the room. She is not entirely sure how that is possible, but it is certainly incredible. The elevation of the second deck with the panoramic view would be sure to grant the most incredible view of any sunset as long as the boat was positioned correctly and the weather cooperated (did the weather ever not corporate for people rich enough to bribe the gods?). 

The rest of the decor is simple by the rest of the ship’s standards. White leather furniture is framed by white walls atop plush white rugs and abstract white marble artwork standing over six feet high in waving wonder around the room. It is a space that seems made for anything other than viewing the endless horizon and sky. 

Her eyes go to the corner where a discreet mini fridge lives. It is one of those with the glass door, but the interior and frame are white so she hadn’t noticed it initially. She sees bottles of water inside, remembers the excuse she had given to leave the group, and decides to keep herself honest.

She is half way across the exquisite room when she hears footfall that is not her own. She turns and there he is.

It is Ariel and Eric’s wedding all over again.

Except this time they are on a boat in the middle of the ocean. This time she might be working, but she is working for him. This time she is standing in only a swimsuit and thin cover while he is only in his trunks - the fascinating cut of his shoulders, chest, and stomach on full display. His body is lean but well muscled. The cuts and shadows of his frame are distracting at the very least. When he had come into the bridal suite she had felt in control, her armor in place, him shrouded under multiple layers of fabric. This time, this very different time, she is not certain she has the high ground.

“Hey,” he starts, tilting his head down and keeping his distance. 

“Hello,” she backs up to where her thighs hit the edge of a couch. She stops and grips the edge for balance. The leather is like butter against her skin.

He nods towards the window, "it's pretty spectacular. The view at sunset, that is." He is still approaching, but slowly. "My father has made a lot of mistakes but this ship is not one of them."

It's a loaded statement, one she is sure she could find most answers to on the internet, but she is not going to do that. She is not going to figure out anything about this man besides what she must to do her job. 

"I am sure it is. Incredible that is," she glances over to the window then back at him. 

He is closer than before, only a few feet away, but he has stopped his approach. She notices his shirt hanging from his hand as he rocks onto his toes. She wishes he would put it on, but also - not. 

He has the lock pick expression on again. "Do I make you nervous?" 

The bluntness of the question catches her off guard.

"Excuse me?"

"Do I make you nervous? Because I don't want to but every time I am close to you you tense up."

And she is straightening golden satin seat covers ravaged by swan attack next to an infuriating stranger all over again. 

"I am not tense," her fingers clench. "I am focused. I am a focused person and that is not to my detriment."

She has more she could say, wants to say, but stops herself. The less she says on the matter the less chance there is of him being able to use it against her .

“I bet if I rubbed your neck right now it would be in knots.” 

She doesn’t want to agree with him, but she is certain he is right. He, however, has had plenty of access to her neck already today and she is not ready to broach that conversation. Probably never will be ready despite the urging from Rapunzel and Anna. He doesn’t need to know.

“I’m fine. Thank you.” Her mind races. So much for solitude and collecting her thoughts. “Was there something you needed? Something you wanted to discuss - the event perhaps?” 

“Oh. There is at least one thing.” He notices her eyeing his shirt and holds it up in front of him. “Would it make you more comfortable if I put this on?”

The unexpected courtesy offs her balance once again. She is loathe to admit the sight of him shirtless is distracting in ways she does not want to confess so she attempts ambivalence. 

“It’s up to you.” 

He grins that toothy smile that makes her heart skip a beat as he arranges the shirt and pulls it over his head. He shrugs it down his torso and she feels a twinge watching the shift and bunch as his lean muscles work to get the shirt in place. She does her best to look uninterested and hopes it works. His smirk seems to say otherwise. 

“So what do you think?” he asks and she blinks, not following.

“I’m sorry. What do I think about what?” 

He jerks his head towards the window. “The reef. The initiative. What do you think?”

“Oh,” she crosses her arms over her chest. “If we are going to talk about this we should get the others - I should get my tablet - “ she starts walking, trying to create space, intending to get around him and to the stairs but he has other plans. 

He steps in and grabs her arm just as she was about to pass him. His grip is gentle but it stops her in her tracks. Her eyes go automatically where he holds her. 

“I don’t want to know what they think. I want to know what you think.” His voice is earnest as if her opinion really matters, as if it is all he can think about. 

She looks up and he is close. His eyes wide and watchful and completely without artifice. He looks like an eager child awaiting the approval for his project, like he is trusting her with a small secret corner of himself. It is too much, he is too close. She steps back and he lets her go, but she doesn’t move further away as he turns his body to face her. His expression compels her to stay, to answer. 

“I think it is going to do a lot of good.” She tries to keep it positive and neutral all at once. 

His eyes scan her face, scavenging. “Tell me more.” 

She thinks to balk at his request, a companion to what she has been asking of him the entire day, but she can see the difference in shades between their words. He wants more than neutral, more than polite. She swallows hard, warning bells sounding in her head telling her to run but she stays.

“It’s wonderful. The whole thing,” she says and she means it. “You’re building something that will outlive us all and you should be incredibly proud.” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them and her ears heat at the pleasure she sees in his expression. This is too personal and she attempts to correct the course. “E&A Events will use all the resources at our disposal to capture your vision in its entirety. Now if you are ready we can go find the others and start in on this.” She nods her head and tries to get past him but he doesn’t let her.

“One more thing,” his gaze is too intense, his breathing as deep as it had been out on the reef, and she knows she is in for it now. “What did Rapunzel mean when she said you’d never really been kissed?”

Her stomach drops. The last thing she wants to discuss with this man is her romantic history, but perhaps she can manage it. Perhaps she can cover the fact that every time he touches her her skin catches fire and burns. Perhaps she can convince herself that she really does not crave his touch. 

She feigned nonchalance with a shrug. “She really doesn’t know what she is talking about.” 

He hums and steps closer.

“Because of the all important corporate hierarchy? Can’t let your subordinates know anything about your personal life?”

It is a fair question and she remembers how Rapunzel had cried when she told her the truth after an extended hospital stay when a surgery had complications. She has known the couple for four years before they officially knew anything and she is struck by the thought that they may know her most intimate information - they also are missing large chunks. She keeps them in the dark about doctor’s appointments, psych visits, the literal pharmacy on her side table…. 

So he is not that far off, but she cannot let him know that. 

She lifts her chin. “If all you are going to do is comment on my interpersonal relationships then perhaps we should take this back to the rest of the group.” 

He steps in closer still and she looks down.

“That isn’t all I came here to do.” His voice is low and smooth and sends chills down her spine. She hadn’t known a voice could do that.

His hand catches her cheek and it is a surprise. She had not known he had gotten so close. Was this man part panther?

Her gaze startles up to his.

“I’m going to kiss you now - really kiss you.” His eyes search hers with an earnest desire that she has never seen before. “I’m going to kiss you like I may never get another chance. Okay?”

[ previous ]

[ravenwritesstuff]

Best Laid Plans (9/?)

Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic) Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, Rapunzel/Eugene, lotsa frohana Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure A/N: Please go away and don’t read the stuff I write.

They have been out to sea for twenty minutes now, Arendelle’s coast disappearing in the distance the same way Elsa’s hope for this day to go any way even close to how she hoped vanished before her eyes. 

After the safety briefing from the crew (which she barely heard) she had attempted to direct the conversation towards the contract, the parts and pieces that needed to still be negotiated and finalized, but Mister Westergaard had other ideas. 

Eat first. He had said. We have all day.

Bits of polite conversation had floated around her. Hans Westergaard entertained the group with intentional questions, occasionally including her but in some ways almost purposefully excluding her. She is simultaneously thrilled and annoyed, but she is not prepared to deal with either emotion.

So she had picked at the sumptuous fare: cold roasted squash wrapped in hickory smoked bacon, miniature parfait cups with berry compote and tangy greek yogurt topped with a sprig of mint, delicate quiche bites that even served cold are still creamy and without a hint of the rubbery texture she always achieves when cooking eggs. There is mixed fruit salad with a lime reduction glaze, brown sugar crusted salmon delicately seated on lemon buttered crostini, and single waffle quarters served with ten dozen options for toppings including jalapeno infused maple syrup. The list goes on.

Elsa is accustomed to tastings and decadence when it comes to food but nearly always when planning it for someone else, some other occasion. She had little experience being the recipient of such gourmet assortments and has never bothered to learn to cook. Still knowing they will sail she does not feel a great need to indulge as she is not sure she will handle the sea well. Her stomach is already a mess.

Her team dives in, filling actual china plates with their choice delicacies as the crew comes to take drink orders. They are each handed a menu printed on thick card stock that feels like silk. The drink options are embossed into the surface of the luxe paper. The feel of it in her hand along with the weight of her plate in the other and the heat of Hans Westergaard at her side is a sensory overload she never imagined having. 

“Coffee,” she does hesitate, “with just a splash of cream.” 

The crew member nods and takes her drink menu for her. She notices later that a smattering of those menus were artistically mounted on stainless steel stands just in case she wants to indulge in a mango-passion-fruit mimosa or a mint lemonade slush infused with vodka. While both sound tempting she needs to stay alert. Especially with him sitting so close. 

His plate is balanced on one thigh with an assortment of the fare that errs on the sweeter side. She notes the same way she would for any client. Hans Westergaard likes dessert. 

She does not consider why knowing that makes her uncomfortable.

He also orders the same coffee as she. 

Again she cannot be certain if this is intentional or just another ploy to generate a doomed connection. She will always lean towards the latter. 

He is still close, but at least she had the sense to extend his arm over the empty seat away from Elsa instead of behind her back. There is a limit even to her control and if he touched her she may explode right out of her skin.

Her team seems to be enjoying the royal food treatment. Rapunzel feeds Eugene her favorite flavor combination, something unusual certainly, and slaps his chest at the grimace. Kristoff loads up on the protein while Anna selects sweeter alternatives. Elsa takes a single quiche, vegetable options, and crostini. She does not want to seem ungrateful but she also does not want to appear over eager or succumb to sea sickness and never be able to eat salmon again. 

She nibbles the barest tip of the roasted summer squash and tries to not notice his plate while also engaging him.

“This is lovely. Thank you,” her team was watching, nodding and eating politely in agreement. 

“Of course. I want you to get a sense for what I want.” 

He now has retreated even further, inches between their bodies, an appropriate distance but still somehow feels too close. She is thankful and suspicious all at once. He leans in again, but just his head. The rest of him is conspicuously distant. His eyes had been green at the wedding but now they almost appeared gold. Were they hazel? 

“That is my team and I would love to talk with you about. We know so little about this initiative, what we are creating, and while this is lovely -”

He cuts her off by pressing two fingers on her mouth.

She had not seen it coming and the feel of it shoots heat previously unknown through her body. She can practically hear the collective gasp from the watching four and her embarrassment is palpable. His fingers are gone as quickly as they had arrived. She didn’t even have the chance to pull back. The heat and pressure of his touch lingers and it takes every bit of self control to not pressed her lips together to try to erase the electric tingling dancing there. 

If she had not been so caught off guard by the sensations racing through her body at the contact she would have had the sense to be furious.

“All in good time.” He leans back and puts the hand on his knee, the other gripping his plate. “But first a tour perhaps?” 

He is already standing and Elsa can just barely catch a breath. 

Her team all stand, albeit cautiously, watching her while she attempts to mentally reboot. Hans Westergaard offers her his hand, the same hand that had pressed her lips just moments before in a facsimile of a kiss. What would it be like to kiss him? 

That inquisitive thought is enough to launch her to her feet without assistance. She sets her plate and attache case down with more force than necessary, straightens, and steps away from him. It takes all of her mortal strength to meet his gaze. 

It is soft and warm but also fearful. That disconcerting humanness there again like he never did anything to upset her. Like he is afraid of rebuttal for his forwardness, like he knows he oversteps but couldn’t help himself just like she cannot bring herself to truly be upset by the touch. Like maybe it undid him the same way it undid her. 

That idea is just as bad, if not worse, than his action.

She needs to put it behind them. Now. No. Sooner than now. 

She lifts her chin and clears her throat. “I think it is best if we stick to business.”

She is responding to his offer for a tour and hopes that is how her team takes it, how he takes it. Clearly she does not need to invite trouble when he is more than willing to produce it on his own. His expression rearranges itself to something more polished, but no less intense. She can practically see his strategy shifting behind those color changing eyes and she steels herself against it. 

Whatever he dishes out she can take. She has overcome more than most and there is not much that can throw her, but the way he looks at her makes her realize she has met her match. 

This is not an arm’s length situation.

But to be close to him?

Close to anyone?

“I agree.” The sound of his voice snaps her back. “Which is why I absolutely insist on a tour of the vessel. It is integral to the process.”

She does not understand. Her mind reels, but she acknowledges that a tour could give her time to regroup and she needs that. 

“Then by all means, lead the way.” She takes several steps away from his projected footpath putting the ornate seat they had shared well between them. 

If there is any hesitation she cannot be certain. Instead he sweeps to the front of the ship where more chrome and glass greet them. “This way then.”

Thus begins a tour of a yacht that is more ornately equipped and furnished than most homes. Right of the main bow deck there is a leisure room filled with plush royal blue and rich chocolate furniture, stainless steel fixtures along with cream carpets and accents. There are florals, books, and staggering decor pieces that would be excessive and gaudy in any other context but here they all flow together seamlessly. The streamlined design of the furniture and the ship is accentuated with the extravagant accents. No. It this the height of refinement, elegance. 

And this is just the first room.

There is more.

There is a board room with a massive white oak table and yellow leather swivel chairs that scream their cush. There is a movie theater complete with leather reclining seat, popcorn maker, and a custom bar.  The floors are either lush carpet, marble, or white oak that gleamed so brightly she swore it was covered in glass. There is a large bathroom that is all Italian marble with fixtures that may actually be gold plated.

The second level bow mirrors the first but without the infinity pool. Instead it boasts more seating and several marble top cocktail tables that almost seem to grow out of the pristine deck. He takes them back then through the main bar, the library, and the gaming room complete with a billiard table that was once Marlon Brando’s. 

“There is more above, but those are the private quarters. We have capacity for up to twenty guests to stay comfortably. Plus the sauna.” He says. “But since those are not strictly business I doubt they will interest you.”

He is teasing, directing his attention at her specifically for the first time in this tour, but she will not take the bait. She is almost ruffled by the sudden attention, by the lack of it beforehand, but the majesty of the ship had distracted her. 

She had never conceived a vessel could be as luxurious as anything she had seen in the last twenty minutes. 

She thought she had understood wealth, had worked with her share of affluent clientele, but nothing like this. Outside the challenge of Hans Westergaard she is quickly realizing just how out of their depth they may be. The challenge of it looms like an insurmountable cliff face. Thirty eight days to meet the highest standards she has ever faced professionally all while tiptoeing through the minefield of working with a man that clearly lacked any sort of boundaries. If she even had a chance of scaling that rock wall it they needed to start immediately. 

“As curious as I am sure we all are I think it best we maximize what little time we have, Mister Westergaard, and begin discussing how we can help your initiative.” Elsa responds diplomatically. 

“Your every wish is my command.”

He smiles at her then, teeth impossibly straight and white. The look in his eye seems to say he only sees her. Like somehow the whole world melts to nothing and she is the sole light of his entire universe. The intensity of it is staggering and she sways a bit under the weight. His hand is on her elbow immediately, close and hot. 

“Whoa there. You’ll get your sea legs before long.” His breath hits her burning cheek as she extracts herself from his hold as quickly as possible. 

She steps away, careful to not make eye contact with any of the group, and gives a sharp nod. “I’m sure I will.” 

There is the slightest pause before and she can feel him staring, willing her to meet his gaze, but she doesn’t. “Right then,” he says. “Let’s return below board and we can discuss what comes next.” 

Elsa is careful to fall behind, and Anna matches suit with Rapunzel. 

“So you weren’t kidding about him coming on strong. Is this okay? Are we okay? Do we need to call this off?” Anna rattles off her questions on a quiet breath as Kristoff and Eugene engage Hans about some of the more technical aspects of the ship.

“Yeah. Or do we need to get you two a room?” Rapunzel asks, green eyes wide. “When Eugene looks at me like Hans looked at you I know we are about to have a really good time.” Typically her innocent honesty is one of her more endearing characteristics but now the implication of her sentence makes her grit her teeth.

“He’s a flirt. That’s all. We’ve all dealt with his kind before.” She tries to keep her whisper lighthearted, but she can sense how little her companions believe her. “I’ve got this under control.” 

She gives them both a pointed look at Anna lifts a brow and purses her lips. “Do you? Because you really don’t have to.” 

Elsa gapes, nearly stopping in her tracks at Anna’s presumptuous question. 

And just like that she swears the ship rolls and she nearly loses her balance only to be caught by her sister and friend. 

“Look. All I’m saying is the guy clearly likes you and isn’t afraid to show it.” Anna forces her to keep pace with the men ahead of them as they venture through one well appointed room after another. “And to be honest - you could use a little fun.” 

“Yeah,” Rapunzel nods emphatically. “You literally have nothing to lose anyway since you’re totally into him too.” 

Elsa stops in her tracks, red from head to toe. “I am not!” 

Anna rolls her eyes and grabs Elsa’s wrist to drag her along. “Okay fine. You’re not, but you could be. I know you want to keep your professional distance or whatever, but why not just tell him the truth about everything and let him make up his own mind?” 

Elsa’s mind goes blank for a moment at the possibility she had never considered.

Tell him the truth? She never told her clients the truth. Hell, she hadn’t told Eugene or Rapunzel until they had been on board long enough to get suspicious after her second unexplained, prolonged absence. And she definitely never told any of the dates she has had the truth. She just gave them enough time to get bored, to move on, and enjoyed a few less lonely nights. She never looked for long term because she wasn’t going to last long term. So why couldn’t she just approach Hans Westergaard with the same fatalist sensibility?

Why did the idea of telling him everything seem appealing? 

She knows why, but she is not ready to admit it, never will be. That niggling What If that has haunted her since that first insanely frustrating day: what if this could work? 

What if he wouldn’t be afraid, would be down for the ride as long as it lasted? What if she had the luxury of considering the possibilities? 

But she doesn’t. She made her choices two years ago and she is not going to put herself through that again. She is not going to put anyone else through that. She is just going to enjoy what time she has left and leave it at that. And she is going to do it in the familiar comfort of solitude.

“The truth isn’t relevant to the job, and that is all this is. This is a job and it is a bitch of a job. If we are going to pull this off I need to focus on what is important, and dating my client is not one of those things.” 

Anna and Rapunzel share a meaningful glance. 

“Don’t do that.” Elsa shakes her head. “This is professional. Nothing more.” 

“Okay,” Anna rolls her eyes again.

“Okay,” Rapunzel echos with a gallic shrug. 

And somehow even though they are agreeing with her Elsa feels like she lost this conversation at some point. 

She knows what they want and she doesn’t suppose she can blame them. They want to give her a reason to stay, to fight, to try. They want to give her a reason to change her mind as if it was that simple. She cannot blame them for not understanding but she cannot make this harder on herself than it already is. She has enough goodbyes to say without adding one more.

They are back to where they started now. The original spread is still in place but their requested drinks are waiting, all just the right temperature, wait in addition. 

She stays close to Anna as she takes her coffee and conspicuously jams herself between her sister and an armrest. Between Anna, Kristoff, and herself the new seating arrangement is a bit tight but she has a point to make not only to her crew and Hans Westergaard, but to herself. She is a professional adult and is perfectly capable of acting like one.

So there.

He seems to take it all in stride, not batting an eye when he takes his coffee in hand and sits comfortably spread out on the couch that Elsa had strategically vacated. As they all settle in, Mister Westergaard reaches for a few more treats for his plate and the rest follow suit. Elsa carefully balances her coffee as she selects one or two choice morsels. The sea hadn’t caught her yet but she couldn’t be too careful. Her stomach is already in knots. 

He leans back, thick auburn hair catching just the smallest corner of light and setting aflame. His high cheekbones cut with highlight and shadow of the mid-morning light. She remembers the feel of his cheek sliding along her own, the slightest brush of the silk fringe of his hair against her fingers as she had clung to him, and her eyes jerk back to her coffee. 

“This is a lovely ship, Mister Westergaard,” she breaks the strange silence. “I assume you have a purpose for showing her off?”

It is not the most graceful entrance to a negotiation, but it is all she can muster. She lifts her gaze to his and sees the calculation, the wants - feels it.

“It’s my father’s. My ship - well - it won’t do for what I have in mind but I think this ship will do nicely.” He sips his coffee as Elsa sets hers aside to reach for her attache case and open it. 

She withdraws her multi-function tablet. “And what exactly do you have in mind?” 

They have loaded his client file with offline capability for which she is glad as she cannot bring herself to ask for a wi-fi password. She notes that the rest of her team are also bringing out their matching tablets and she hopes that they will not have too many corrections and overlaps when they finally get back to the mainframe. 

He settles further into his seat with a smirk and it almost feels like he is building fortification, bracing himself for a fight he is all too sure to enjoy. 

“Your company primarily plans weddings,” he does not ask as he pops a berry into his mouth. “According to your online portfolio your business is about seventy-two percent wedding related, a few baby shower, a Quinceanera, and a few corporate events. Would you say this is a fair assessment?”

So he had done his homework. Or had someone else do it for him. Had he known all of this before he came in yesterday and asked her to recite job titles and functions that were all available on their website? Was this a test the way she had felt yesterday had been a test? 

She sits a bit straighter: “I don’t have the precise statistics in front of me but the majority of our clients have been wedding related, yes.” 

Her mind goes to the contract, unsigned and un-amended. Had he not signed it because he didn’t want them anymore? Did he want someone with more experience outside of the wedding industry? Would she have to go to battle to prove to him that weddings were just as demanding, if not more so, than a standard corporate event? Would she have to fight for this client she wasn’t even sure she wanted? 

It takes all of her self control not to fidget. 

“Why is that? Why the wedding specialty?” 

It is a good question. Most would assume it is the money, but there is much more money to be had planning outside of weddings and for less stress. She has a prepared answer, the standard line, but she nearly chokes on it. 

She holds his gaze, levels the barrel, fires, “We believe love is worth it.” 

The corners of his eyes tighten in - amusement? She cannot quite be sure yet. 

“Has that been your professional experience?” His eyebrow quirks and it appears he takes a bite of his mini-berry tart to keep from smiling. It irks her just how much he irks her. 

Anna clears her throat and Elsa realizes she has leaned forward, gripping her tablet between her hands like her life depends on it, and dear gods she might as well be foaming at the mouth for how crazy she is acting. She straightens, squares her shoulders, and meets his gaze. 

“Our professional experience has been delivering exactly what our clients ask of us to create their ideal atmosphere and execution.” 

She mentally pats herself on the back.

He nods as if to agree with her hidden sentiment. “Good. I don’t want something cold and corporate. I want something beautiful and intimate. I want what you did with Eric and Ariel’s wedding. There was - what? Two hundred people there, three?” 

“Two hundred and eighty eight,” Rapunzel offers with a  grin and Eugene squeezes her knee. 

Hans looks to Elsa with raised brows as if asking for confirmation. Elsa nods her head. “Rapunzel is never off on numbers.” 

“It never felt like that. It was a big event but it felt like having the most amazing dinner party with your closest friends. I don’t know how you did it, but you did.” He addresses the entire group and Elsa feels her insides warm involuntarily at his praise. She doesn’t want his approval to matter, but apparently it does. Then he meets her eyes and everything runs cold, hot, frigid, scalding. The look in his eye sends her heart soaring and stomach plummeting all at once, “It is a night I will never forget.”

And then they are the only two in the world again and her only saving grace is that she is sitting down. She looks down at her tablet screen but her eyes will not focus. 

“We are happy to hear you enjoyed the event,” Anna jumps in this time. “We thought it was a smash. What stood out to you as being a highlight?” 

Elsa’s head jerks up at that question. His gaze catches her with an easy smile that she can feel all the way to her toes, but it isn’t self-congratulatory. He is not commending himself. He smiles as if he is savoring something sweet, something secret.

“There were too many to single out just one, but I remember the dancing being outstanding,” he speaks as if the words are for everyone, but when his gaze settles on her she knows they aren’t. They are for her. 

“So you want dancing at your event, Mister. Westergaard?” She uses his proper name as always, instating her distance the same way she had by forcing her seat next to Anna. 

He shrugs. “To tell the truth I am not a big dancer. It all depends on the partner.” 

Elsa’s ears burn and she nearly chokes on a swallow. No one else knew about their rendezvous. There was no way they could pull the subtext from what he said, but she stills feels it creeping across their conversation like steaming lava. 

She forces a laugh to offset the tension she feels and is relieved when it comes off sounding halfway natural. “Well that does not give us much to go off of, Mister Westergaard. While we are thrilled that Ariel and Eric’s wedding left such a positive impression on you that does not particularly give us a trajectory for your event.”

“I understand.” He nods and turns his head towards the horizon off the bow before bringing his gaze right back to hers. “So why don’t I show you?”

[ previous ] [ next ]

[ravenwritesstuff]

Wandering Hearts (30/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (for real) A/N: how have you all not murdered me yet?

OUCH OUCH OUCH

[ part one] [ part two ] [ part three ] [ part four ] [ part five ] [ part six ] [ part  seven ] [ part eight ] [ part nine ] [ part ten ] [ part eleven ] [ part twelve ] [ part   thirteen ] [ part fourteen ] [ part fifteen ] [ part sixteen ] [ part seventeen ] [ part eighteen ] [ part nineteen ] [ part twenty ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-two ] [ part twenty-three ] [ part twenty-four ] [ part twenty-five ] [ part twenty-six ] [ part twenty-seven ] [ part twenty-eight ] [ part twenty-nine ]

The day she learned her parents were gone she had been in the West Library. 

It was the smallest of the libraries the castle possessed. It hadn’t the splendor of the Portrait Hall nor the grandeur of the Rose Parlor, but those things had never truly mattered to Anna. What mattered was having a place where she felt like she belonged.

The West Library with its warm colored walls and plush carpets that she laid on as a child and pretended she rode on the backs of wild beasts had been exactly that. It felt cozy, or as cozy as any of the expansive rooms in the castle could truly feel. It was much more welcoming than the East Hall with its icy blue walls Grand Ballroom that reeked with the ghosts of festivities she would never know. It felt nicer than her room that had grown so empty when Elsa had left her.

It was in the West Library that she could read with her back on the thick rugs, feet on the voided velvet couch, abundant skirts bunched up and falling over her thighs without fear of discovery. Here she could practice dancing with imaginary partners until her arms ached from lifting them in closed waltz position. This was where she’d practice tumbling or jumping or short sprints from one side of the room to the other and any number of other unladylike practices that would have horrified her mother if she had discovered Anna amidst any of them. 

But it wasn’t Iduna that came in through the rosemaled doors that day. It never would be again.

Anna had been scribbling at letter to an imagined suitor, flirting with paper and ink just in case she ever had the chance to do so in reality, when Kai entered. Her hand skated across the page smearing each carefully scrawled letter into an unintelligible smudge. Her hand would be stained by the rich India ink for weeks afterwards. The rapid sweep of her hand tipped the pot and the black mess spilled onto the pristine polished wood of the desk. She attempted to smother the puddle with more pages, begging the pages to be thirsty, all while coating each finger, her palms, with shades of midnight.

Kai had stood in the door, face strained and white. Anna had thought it was because of the mess she’d just made of herself, the desk she knows is at least five generations old. It is inlaid with the family crest on the side. The legs are carved with intricacy of Corinthian columns. The writing surface hinged with beautiful metal pieces cast with filigree detail and mounted with precision she would never understand the author of their missives might easily store the implements of their endeavor with minimal effort. 

And she just spoiled it. 

If her father came home and found out - if her mother - if Elsa - 

She shuddered. She already knew what Elsa would say. 

Or not say. 

It took all of her energy to not cross her arms over her chest, clasping hands onto fabric that would stain just as surely as her skin had. 

Being an unholy, ink-stained smudge of a girl was not becoming of a princess, but she was so used to being left unattended - along and uninterrupted - that to have any kind of visitor has shaken her. Her mind scrambled for justification, excuse, but this wasn’t a member of her family. It was only Kai - who often felt more like family than some of her blood.

She tried then to remember the last time someone had sought her out in this or of her sanctuaries around the palace, but none came to mind. Had it been when her mother had found her in the kitchen, learning the finer points of dough making, before she had summoned her to polish Anna’s needlepoint skills? Had it been when her father had sent for her in the stables where she had fed her horse Kjekk and brushed him with a curry comb until his coat shone in a high gloss? She had run to him to only find him agitated and desirous to drill her on her studies, to quiz her on policy and the history of Arendelle’s monarchical follies and failures. 

At least she knew it had not been Elsa.

She had not seen her sister since before her parents left on their sea voyage some weeks before. 

She tried to remember the last time she had seen her sister - the last time they had spoken. Had it been spring when they had accidentally passed in the hall/ Or winter when Anna had slipped a new drawing under her sister’s door and waited for any kind of respond? She held each moment with such reverence that sometimes the details blurred. The nuance crushed by emotions so strong, so delicious that all else got lost. 

It all came back to the fact that she could not recall the last time she had seen or spoken to her sister. She thought that perhaps if her sister ever made her way into the West Library she would remember each instant, every word, in crystal clarity. 

Perhaps. 

She did not raise her hopes. 

She stood from the desk, blushing as she tried to hide her mistakes and frivolity. She had scribbled so many horribly embarrassing things on that page. She should be glad that her hand and her spill had ruined it entirely. That way if Kai had any suspicion, any sense of wonderment regarding what she was writing or why, it was already handily destroyed. 

After all: he was a butler. He was professionally suspicious, and she - though royal - had never taken to or had great encouragement towards academic pursuits. Any tutelage she had received had been that that her parents had seen fit to give as one second to the throne. They had not been obligated to educate her greatly on many matters and Anna knew that. Her ultimate purpose at some point would be to marry for political alliance. The emphasis of her foreign language and court etiquette studies had been proof enough of that. 

Still she wondered just how she would marry when neither she nor Elsa had been presented in any court? Would she ever have the chance, the reason, to write love words to someone? Would she ever require Kai or Gerda to bring her wax and seal and see to the proper posting of her missive? Would she ever see an open door again?

She cannot help but imagine the bleakest truth.

It was like her parents wanted them to be forgotten.

She attempted to stand with dignity, poise, as her mother had shown her. She drew back her shoulders, planted her feet, and raised her chin. She looked at the servant in the door that she had known her entire life.

Kai had always been kind in his own aloof kind of way. She had climbed on him as a child when her father and mother had been too busy with state affairs or her sister. He had timed her with his own breath for countless hours as she had tried to beat her own time darting down corridors as a child. He had taught her many of the dearest facts and curiosities of many of the pieces in the palace. When she had nightmare and her parents were already attending Elsa - Kai had often been the one to bring her to the kitchens and serve her heated milk stirred with melted chocolate. He would stand as his position dictated as she drank in his nightshirt and crumpled socks and listen to her babble on about ice and monsters and all the rest her dreams always held until her eyes grew heavy. Then he would take her back to her room and see that she was secured under her covers

Now Kai, this same man who had served her and her family with an undying devotion, stood before her as she had never seen. His uniform was immaculate, his hair perfectly coiffed, his stance that of a practiced and trained butler, but his face had changed. His skin had an unearthly pallor to it, sweat beaded his brow - his upper lip, the edges of his eyes were raw and red, and in that instant she forgot her letter. She forgot her imaginings of love and life beyond these closed doors and windows. All she knew was the sickening drop of her stomach, the rising bile in her throat at Kai’s desolate expression. 

“Of what do you speak?” Her voice did not shake even as her hands did at her sides.

Kai’s voice held an equal, but darker, purpose: “It is His and Her Majesty, the King and Queen of Arendelle,” he began, eyes never quite meeting hers as was proper. “Their ship never -” his voice broke and it was a long moment before he was able to draw a fortifying breath to continue. “Their ship never reached its intended port. Vessels were sent to search their charted course - but it has been weeks with no sign of them.”

Anna was transported to another time entirely. She is small - so small - she can hardly make out the edges of any of these recollections, but they are there. Her mother is there, her father, Elsa - they are all together. They were laughing. It was a warm day in the gardens, the sun shone bright, and they were having so much fun - 

But then it stopped, not just the fun, but her memory. She knew there should be more, but she cannot find it. She cannot find them. They were gone. 

Her mind scrambled. 

They could not be gone.

Yet - she had heard his words even if she had not understood them. They washed over her like a frigid wave before pulling her down to a depth previously unknown. Her knees threaten to buckle and she planted an ink stained hand on the desk in front of her - soaking up more of the black dye in the process. It was cool and slick against her skin. She focused on the sensation in an attempt to make sense of everything else she was trying to understand. Her mouth worked compulsively to swallow nothing again and again and again. 

“Hide not the truth from me. What are these words in you speak, Kai?”

She did not want the answer, knew there was no escaping it. Kai breathed deep and she knew the truth would come on the breath. She knew her already fragile reality would shatter as soon as he exhaled them, but still she could not shrink from it. 

“There has been no trace of King Agnarr or Queen Iduna’s ship nor the crew nor any other body upon it. The ship itself must as well have vanished for none can find it.” 

Anna knew what that meant.

She had grown up upon the sea, knew the risks the merchants and traveling vessels took upon the waters. She also knew it was customary for royal pairs to sail separately in case the worst should befall one of the other.

Why had her parents not…?

And just like that - again she sat. The weight of her body too much to carry in addition to his words and her thoughts. So she crumbles. It was inelegant at best - the sprawl that overcame her.

Kai spoke once more but she did not hear exactly what he said. Her mind was distant, in that place trying to remember spaces and times where she had lived alongside her family in unity happiness, and failing. She made out snatches of his sentiments, of more crucial snippets concerning things relating to counsels and regents and lines of succession. They all float in and out of the air around her, barely grazing her, and none of it meant anything until:

“- Her Highness, Princess Elsa -”

Then Anna was up in a snap. 

The solution was suddenly so clear.

Her parents had always been the ones they insist they be apart - had worked so diligently to keep them from each other. Elsa had been her closest and dearest friend, her sweetest companion, until her parents had seen fit to pull them apart. Perhaps this was the sweetness that would outline an otherwise bitter story: that she and her sister would love each other once more. 

Anna stood with a snap.

Surely Elsa realized this, knew this, wanted this, just as much as she did. 

If what Kai said was true the Elsa would open her door. Elsa would need Anna just as much as Anna needed her.

Anna was out of the West Library, practically shoving Kai out of the way before he had a chance to stop her. 

“Princess Anna! Wait!” Kai called out to her - but she was too fast, too strong, from her secret practices. 

She made it to the doors of Elsa’s chambers before Kai was even around the second corner of seven. Anna pounded instead of her usual melodic tapping. This was important. Surely Elsa knew that? 

Anna never knew anything before Elsa did.

That was the way of it.

If it was true - if their parents truly were gone - then Elsa would know.

Elsa would make it better.

Elsa would fix this.

They would be friends again.

They would walk through this together as sisters and - 

She hears Kai call in the distance, down the hall, she pounds again. 

Elsa was always in her room. She never left. It was where she took her studies, her meals, her appointments. Anna’s fragmented memory hardly recalled her anywhere else. Elsa was always isolated, self-contained, either their father or mother sequestered within the damned door, but not now. Surely not now. Surely not if all Elsa had left was Anna. Surely -

Kai made it around the corner, his pace just below a jog, his round face beet red.

“Your - highness - “ he gasped around words, not quite to her but also not close enough to stop and assume his official posture.

“Kai. Where is my sister?” Anna stepped towards him - begging him with her movement to help her usher in the grief she knew would hit at any moment. 

But she would manage. She would survive. As long as she had her sister.

Kai looked around a bit as his steps slowed several meters from where Anna stood. She swore she could still, even at this distance, make out the distinct marks of perspiration on his temple, his cheeks. Perhaps that is why he stops short of his traditional distance for address, breath coming sharp and quick. 

Even in her corset she was hardly gasping. 

“Princess Anna - “ even those two words cost him. He nearly doubled over. The size and weight of his duty coupled with physical weight just enough to end him. 

“I need to know,” Anna was not one to beg, had never needed to, but she senses his resistance. 

She did not understand it then.

Did not question it.

“I need to know where my sister is. Where is Princess Elsa?” 

She could hear the edge in her voice, something hard and rough. Something she had never used with any level of confidence. She knew the hypocrisy of it, the fact that royal should never bow to servant, but she had never quite been able to get that right. She had never quite been able to believe she was enough. 

Kai stared at her a single moment then something so bleak and incomprehensible behind his expression that it made her anxious. She could feel her heart pounding harder than it ever had dashing down corridors and hallways against her parents’ orders and something dark clicked in her chest, something she had not considered fully until this moment. 

Kai knew more than he said.

Kai had made warm milk and melted chocolate for Elsa when she needed it the same as he had for her. 

Kai knew just why Elsa had been kept from Anna all these years. 

Anna would know. 

She reached out and turned the handle. The door clicked open. She pressed it open, breath catching at the rarity. This was not something she had come to expect.

She had only seen this sight once - twice? - it was rare. In the past years she had imagined it so many times. She had envisioned ten thousand and twenty beautiful memories into each space. She had envisioned so many possibilities into this room - into what it could have been - that seeing it leaves a cold knot in her stomach.

There was so little that could be personal on display.

All she saw were the stark lines of the bed, the desk, the wardrobe. The room was twice as large as her own, but had less within it. Each line was economic. There was no grace, no elegance in any part of it, and Anna felt a splinter of niggling regret somewhere in her chest only to dismiss it as soon as it came upon her.

Elsa had made her choices.

Anna had never hid from her.

If this was what Elsa wanted then that was what she got. 

But she was not there. Elsa was not in her room and Anna needed to know. She needed to see her sister. She leveled her eyes at Kai and she knew he knew. She knew by the way he trembled under the intent in her gaze and not just from the physical exertion. She knew by the way his fingers twitched by the pocket at his hip that kept his function kerchief that he wanted to dab the sweat running into eyes. 

Anna was not cruel.

She never had been.

She never wanted to ask Kai a question he couldn’t answer because she knew how this worked.

Instead: “If I were to, supposedly, stumbled upon my sister in this palace - where might I find her?”

Anna strategized the question off several previous that she had learned as she realized the limited staff would always answer in cold allegiance to Elsa but would bow out of compassion if she asked correctly. Anna was lucky to be forgotten by the many at most times. The forgotten were the ones that moved outside of the limitation of circumstances. 

She used that now. 

Kai’s face contorted, serving two masters. 

Anna knew she had the advantage, typically would never press it, but if their parents were truly dead: “Tell me, please.”

The ‘please’ was unnecessary, consolatory, and honestly embarrassing. Kai was a servant and she does not need to apologize to him for wanting to know where here sister was - but something in her twisted at the use of the word even more than if she left it off. Perhaps it was that she has grown so used to speaking to the staff as equals, friends, that to address them differently burned a traitorous taste into her mouth. 

Still she did not correct herself. She held herself tall, even if she swore ink bled from her finger tips. She waited half because she knew she could do nothing else and half because she had never been taught the proper request.

She she had been asking for years to see her sister, to speak with her, and they had all been denied with diplomatic grace. Today, however, was not a day for subterfuge. Today she needed her sister no matter what had come between them before.

Kai seemed to understand. The worried wrinkle between his brow softened the slightest bit, though the concern in his expression did not change in the slightest. 

“Princess Anna,”  he seemed to sigh in resignation - as if the years of deflecting her inquiries had finally broken him. “Princess Elsa is in the Grand Chamber.” 

And with that Anna understood.

With that, for just one instant her feet were nailed to the floor. 

The Grand Chamber was a place closed off for most, it was never entered unless the circumstance required. Despite its name it was not overly large, but the occasions that rose within it were. Occasions like the entire monarchy shifting hands, like her sister not being old enough to legally take the crown, like who was going to be regent in her stead, like what that meant for both of them as sisters in the same kingdom that was peaceful mostly only because of its stability.

And losing both monarchs in one blow as the opposite of stable. 

Anna ran.

She knew she shouldn’t, but she did. 

It was all she knew to do. 

It was all she could do. 

Maybe Elsa would make this right. Maybe Elsa was fix this. Anna had always felt so safe with her sister. She had always felt heard and secure settled into her arms. She remembered that if she didn’t remember anything else and that made this strange absence so much more bitter. It drove Anna’s steps faster. 

By the time she reached the Grand Hall she was not out of breath, but she was shaking. There was a guard that the open door (when was the last time she had seen an open door?) but she knew him. She knew all of the guards. So he didn’t give her much more than a tormented look as she reached out her blackened hand to grip the handle and push inside. 

There was a room, not much larger than the West Library with men twenty years older than her father all clustered around Elsa with maps and scrolls and books and bony fingers pointing to dozens of considerations and all Anna thought was: 

Was this what Elsa did all day?

Her sister, snow blonde hair swept up high on her head leading the line down her graceful neck and framing her elegant face, sat looking unhurried and unconcerned with all they said. She wore long sleeves, a high neck, and gloves as she always did when Anna saw her. It took a moment but Elsa’s eyes wavered from where one elite counsel member tried to draw her attention.

Blue eyes locked over the distance and Anna lunged forward.

Elsa needed her.

She could sense it.

Customs and protocol and political needs be damned. 

If Elsa had just heard what she had just heard there was no way she would be ready for what these savage bureaucrats had to offer. Anna would save her. Anna would keep Elsa from these old vultures. 

She was not but three steps when Elsa gave a small nod and all Anna knew was vice like grips on her biceps. It was more guards. They caught her before she was too far into the room, and were escorting her out before she even had a chance to protest. The Grand Hall door closed with a definitive thunk before she even has a chance to cry out against it. 

And even though she knew better - even though she knew it wouldn’t matter - she turned the moment the guards released her and slammed her entire body against the closed door. She raged against it for several moments, fists ricocheting off the surface, feet crashing against a citadel she would never topple. 

That was the first moment she truly felt it - truly knew her hope of ever knowing her sister again was gone. 

It would take many more months before she understood but she knew.

She knew what this was. 

When her rage subsided - the door still unopened - she slumped against it and wept. 

She buried her face into her hands.

It took weeks for Gerda to finally scrub the ink marks from her hand and cheeks.

[ previous ]

[ravenwritesstuff]

Best Laid Plans (10/?)

Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic) Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, Rapunzel/Eugene, lotsa frohana Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure A/N: Fun fact about why it takes me so long to write stuff. I write everything out of order. The very first scene I wrote of this fiction is in this chapter.

She cannot help but be wary. She has seen what happens when Hans Westergaard shows what he wants and she is all too familiar with that heat and tension. Her body tightens in anticipation of what he means, and does her best to hide her apprehension behind professionalism.

"While I am sure we all are thrilled with the mystery of your offer, it really is critical that we establish exactly what you want as quickly as we can as our timeline is so limited." 

She has never had a client be so withdrawn about their event or purpose before. Most clients could not wait to throw ideas and concepts and colors in her direction or instead all the things they didn’t want. So far she knows he liked the wedding because they danced and that he likes the ocean. She is in no way prepared for an event where that is the center. His lack of forthcoming throws her off balance and makes her irritable. She is not sure if it is just the Hans Westergaard way or if she is actually losing control of the situation. Whatever it is, she does not like it, but she hides her discomfort behind a Mona Lisa smile.

"Of course. Which is why I am going to show it to you as soon as I can. But it will require the wearing of swimsuits and the ability to swim. Are you all up to the occasion?” He is in full showman now, the elegant host, and while she feels more at ease when he is in this space she also likes it less. The conflict leaves her with feelings she promptly ignores and shoves down beneath the mental checklists ticking through her mind. 

“Per your vague instructions I believe we are all prepared for a swim,” she looks around at her team to get their confirmation even though she knows they all packed accordingly. “But really we have so much to cover. I think it will be best if we work through a few more steps before we get distracted.”

“Oh this is not a distraction. I promise.” He peers out over the ocean, shielding his eyes to make out something. “We have ten minutes before we need to get suited up so let’s talk until then.” He leans back and sips his coffee. “I would love to hear more from the team personally. Why do you all do what you do? What part of the events you manage is your favorite?” 

It is an unconventional question, but what other kind can she expect from Hans Westergaard? 

She watches as the team all look at each other with puzzled expressions and she is glad that at least this time she is not the only one befuddled by what Hans Westergaard has to say. 

“I mean - I guess my favorite thing is that I get to work with my family.” Anna chimes in first, smiling at Elsa and Kristoff. “We make a great team and I don’t know many families that can say that!” She turns to Rapunzel and Eugene as well. “And I’ve gained new family members I never knew before. So it is a win all around.”

“As someone deeply acquainted with the complications of family - I appreciate that Anna.” 

It is strange to hear her sister’s name on his lips, to see him smile at her and smile in return. 

Anna nudges Kristoff with her elbow and he grunts before offering:

“I get to work with my hands and make my wife happy. Not much better than that.” He chuckles when Anna throws her arm across his stomach and side hugs him. “Plus there is something awesome when a client sees you build the thing they wanted just like they wanted. Makes you feel like Santa or something.”

“The tables and altar at Eric’s weddings were incredible. You made those?”

Kristoff tilts his head, not one to enjoy outright praise, and then nods. 

Hans returns his nod with a smile. “Excellent work. Truly. I have ideas for you.”

Elsa sees an opportunity and cuts in: “We would love to hear more about those ideas so we can really talk them over and -”

“Hold on,” Mister Westergaard holds up his hand and focuses on the petite brunette across from him. “What is your favorite part of planning events?”

“Oh. I love weddings and I know you aren’t planning a wedding, but they are my favorite.” Rapunzel’s eyes widen. “But my favorite part of my favorite weddings is the kiss. You can totally tell who is going to make it and who isn’t by the kiss. When the groom really kisses the bride - or bride kisses the bride - or groom and groom - oh you get it. When they kiss them in the way that you can almost feel it from the back row… yeah. That’s my favorite part because I know we did something to give them their happily ever after.”

Leave it to Rapunzel would say something fantastical. Never mind that it has absolutely nothing to do with her role in the company or what is at the heart of their events, but it is water under the bridge. Elsa sniffs.

“Is everything okay?” It is Mister Westergaard. He is arching his brow in the most annoying fashion because it makes her stomach flutter and her mouth go dry and she screwed up. She drew attention to herself at the worst time possible.

“Don’t mind her.” Rapunzel interjects before Elsa can even force a smile. “It’s just that Elsa has never really been kissed.” She smiles a little too broadly at her boss before looking at Eugene (who is honestly at a loss). 

Elsa is flummoxed by the comment and she can practically see the mischief dancing across Rapunzel’s features. She is living for this, needling her like the second younger sister she never had. Anna is hiding laughter behind her strawberry lemonade where Kristoff’s eyes are wider than she has ever seen them. 

She cannot even look at Hans Westergaard. 

Eugene clears his throat and swoops in while Elsa’s mind sputters at Rapunzel’s brazenness.

“Well to be completely honest I had a bit of a rough start. I didn’t exactly use my super negotiation skills for good, but Elsa gave me an opportunity to do what I do in a productive way and that is what I enjoy the most. I like knowing I can con a deal for my client,” it is a joke and they all force a laugh. “Plus I like parties.”

Even Hans Westergaard manages a smirking chuckle without all of Eugene’s history. Chances are he has files on all them from some sort of private detective or something invasive like that anyway. There is no need for elaboration.

“So what about you, Hans?” Anna says, sipping her drink, deflecting from what was to inevitably be Elsa’s turn to share. “Why E&A Events? What do we bring to the table that you want for your event?”

Elsa could hug her sister for the segway. 

Anything to focus past the horrendous mess Rapunzel insisted on introducing and keep Elsa from having to answer Hans’ time wasting question.

Hans looks at them all and smiles. It is wide and easy, like he has never had any other job besides smiling at them and his response makes her boil. She hates his smile, his calm, that he had somehow gotten her on this ship where her insides are being flipped and churned and turned upside down. 

“I want you because you are unexpected,” he says matter-of-factly. “You aren’t what I thought I would want but somehow you are exactly, wholly, and perfectly what I need right now.” 

Elsa does not need to look up from her tablet to know he is speaking directly to her. She can feel his gaze as sure as she can feel the hammering pulse in her throat. It takes her best efforts to  take rein of her stampeding thoughts and draw a deep breath.

“That is very nice of you to say Mister Westergaard,” she pretends to be very busy taking notes on her tablet. “We are excited to dive into the particulars about why you chose us but right now I think the question we all have is just what exactly we are endeavoring to initiate.” 

He nods and looks again at the horizon just as the ship’s pace slows dramatically. His smile spreads. He looks back at them.

“You’re about to find out. It is time to suit up.”

….

Elsa put on her incredibly conservative one piece in the stark privacy of a marble and gold bathroom. The couples were given other rooms and while she knows the lighting is not flattering all she can do is look at flaws in the mirror. The suit had been specifically chosen because it did not show any of her scars. The navy suit had no cut outs, barely scooped below her collarbones and shoulder blades. The suit is made out the same fabric that swim athletes use. It compresses every inch it encases but it covers everything and is not flashy in the slightest. 

She had told Anna and Rapunzel to leave the bikinis at home.

She hopes they had or else her suit is going to look impossibly old fashioned.

She turns sidewise in the mirror and sucks in. She is not certain why. Her shape is her shape. There is little much she can do about that now. Her swim wrap is her saving grace. It looks much like any of the other dresses she might wear throughout the week though  is slightly sheer. The almost black is burned out with floral patterns and wraps at the waist with a feminine sensibility she normally eschews, but she had nothing else that would serve on such short notice. 

She looks at herself once more, feels her bare feet on the cool tile and breathes. This is fine. She is simply winning over a client that her company needs to impress. That is all. 

She presses her hands against her stomach and breathes. 

She does not tell herself it will be okay. She has not done that in years. Instead she tells herself it will all be managed. It will happen and she will handle it, whatever it is. This is a test and she intends on passing it. 

There are risk to swimming with her condition, but she knows her team has her back. They will watch her. It will be okay.

She tosses her braid over her shoulder, makes sure her personal items and stacked tidily in the corner, forces herself out of the bathroom.

The rest of them are already waiting on the aft desk. She hopes she hadn’t taken too long, not wanting to raise suspicion by her lengthy change. She assesses everyone’s dress as she approaches. The expression of personalities under the instruction of ‘dress appropriately’ is not lost on her with Anna’s tankini beneath a loosely tied robe, Kristoff’s rash guard and the longest possible swimmers available. Eugene trends towards more fashionable Bermuda cuts and Rapunzel’s suit is a one piece that hardly qualifies with all of the crazy cut outs. That leaves Hans Westergaard who stands in shorts similar to Eugene’s and a plain white t-shirt that is too tight to be decent.

She tries to not notice the shape of his calves, the size and shape of his feet, but it is a lost cause. Her rebellious mind grabs onto these facts before she can convince it not to. He smiles as he sees her and it is the same earth shattering power that leaves her shaky and uncertain where the rest of the world went.

“Shall we?” he says to the group before leading them out of the shaded part of the deck out into the bright sun. 

She squints and pulls her sunglasses down over her eyes as he leads them out past the infinity pool. There are wide steps beyond it railed with stainless steel grips and she clings to them as they descend to what appears to be a small launching platform.. At the base there is a large white space where three crew members wait. They demonstrate general snorkeling protocol that she vaguely remembers from when she was six, before this all began. They offer up equipment. They fit it to them. Then the worst comes. 

Every swimmer must have one buddy. Pick your buddy and know you are responsible for them out in the water.  

And the lines are so clearly drawn. 

She stands fidgeting with her mask and flippers knowing she is now responsible for Hans Westergaard. Anna casts her a knowing glance, but Elsa knows that damage that would be done if she let Anna be her partner. The affront will be obvious, personal, and honestly this is the least of worst case scenarios. 

It is just swimming. They won’t have to touch or speak. All she has to do is make sure that Hans Westergaard does not die. Easy peasy. 

With a return glance she calms her sister’s concerns. It will be okay. This is okay. She is okay. 

Then the crew is distributing sturdy plastic bottles to everyone named with only the words BODY and FACE This time though Mr Westergaard steps up to explain the reasons.

“This is just a little project I’ve been working on - a new line of sunblock. If you don’t mind using this instead of the kind you brought I would love to know what you think.”

Elsa holds both bottles in her hands thinking it is a bit strange, but she would rather have him be strange than charming. She had applied sunblock that morning in her apartment just in case, but the sun is bright and she is not interested in burning. 

She opens the bottle labeled BODY and starts with her legs and feet. The scent and feel of a lotion is pleasing. The texture is not oily or rough but actually absorbs into the skin easily. The scent is not overwhelmingly tropical but instead has the essence of eucalyptus. It is refreshing. She hates to admit how much she enjoys it.

They are all standing fairly close together but the couples have sectioned off into their own little bubbles. She and Hans are on the outside, reasonably spaced. Anna has lost her robe as has Rapunzel. She is next and the idea of him seeing her in something so opposite of what she normally wears makes her heart race. What if he was cataloguing her traits the way she inadvertently was his? What if he liked what he saw? What if he didn’t? 

She reprimands herself. None of that matters. This is a job just like any other job and she needs to stop losing her mind over things that don’t matter.

Her fingers work the tie at her side, thankful now more than ever that they all were wearing sunglasses. If he did look at her she wouldn’t know. She shrugs and the wrap falls to her elbows and then slips all the way to her hands. She carefully draws it in front of her and folds it neatly before setting it next to her snorkel gear and hopes it is bright enough that no one can tell she is blushing. 

She retrieves her sunblock and works her way over all the parts she had missed before until she arrives at  the exposed part of her back that she cannot reach. She is struggling to bend her arms to cover stubborn spots between her shoulder blades, head bent down, and a pair of feet comes into her field of vision. She looks up and Hans Westergaard stands there with his  sanctioned sunblock in his hand. He looks at her with a smile that is nothing but warm, sincere, and if he wasn’t wearing sunglasses she is sure that his eyes would hold that defenseless, human look that always rattles her.. 

“Need some help?” He offers. “The back is always the first place to burn.”

Her decline is on the tip of her tongue but she hesitates. She can always just ask Anna for help but how will that look? No matter how infuriating and unsettling this man is he is still her client and she is trying to make a point. She can handle his flirting and still maintain a professional nature.

“Okay.” She gives a stiff nod. 

He circles around her and that is worse. She is standing there in a garment that shows every lump, bump, and irregularity. It is not cut for flattery and she should be glad of that at this moment, but she finds herself wishing she has the more daring choices of her counterparts. Or at least something that doesn’t look like she is about to take a water aerobics class at senior citizens center.

No. She mentally reprimands herself. This is for the best. She is here to be professional, and he cannot create ideas about her interest in enticing him in any way when she is wearing the equivalent of a nuns habit in modern swimwear. 

She hears him open the bottle, make the necessary squirt, and she waits then for the first touch. It takes longer than expected to come, but when it does her entire body stiffens. 

She had expected cold but there is none of that. The lotion and his touch are warm. He spreads the cream over the available skin before he begins the process of massaging it in. She stays perfectly still, not daring to move, and does everything in her power to not consider that he is touching her, she is allowing it, and that the strength of his fingers is enjoyable.

His thumbs trace the fragile wings of her shoulder blades. The slick of the lotion gives his touch a silky glide as his hands work across her skin, tracing the delicate bulbs of her spine. He comes up to where her braid hangs across her neck and pushes it to the side before she can stop him. 

She knows exactly when he sees it. She can sense it in his hesitation. The scar creeping from the base of her neck up under her hairline is a wide pink line, made wider and more noticeable with every cut, and is something she hides with low lying hairstyles and high collars but now… 

She can practically hear his breath catch at the sight. 

His thumbs run in tandem up along the length of her scar in impossible reverence. She is sure that he can feel the rapid rhythm of her heart against his fingertips where they rest on her throat before she pulls away. 

“I'm sure that's good. Thank you.” she flips her braids back over her neck in an attempt to not rub the spot his thumbs had branded and looks at him with a dare to ask her.

It would be a relief in so many ways if he would just ask. If she could just tell him and scare him away before they get any further in this unnamed dance. Behind his sunglasses it is nearly impossible to tell what his intent is until a smile spreads over his face. Instead of probing he hands her the bottle of sunscreen.

“Return the favor?” It is a question as much as it isn't and she can hardly keep from blushing when he strips off his t-shirt. He winks as he turns his back to her and she recognizes a challenge when she sees one.

But that isn’t all she sees.

Her eyes trace the ropes of his muscles as they bunch and pull as he adjusts his posture to do his own application on the front of his torso. A wide smattering of freckles swaths his broad shoulders in frenetic clusters. Despite his fair complexion there is a tawny glow that speaks of his love of being outdoors. 

For a long moment she stands there frozen just staring as he worked his hands down the length of his arms. She watches his hand slip over the enticingly sharp cuts and swells of his shoulder and then down lower. He turns his head a bit to cast a look in her direction with a smirking grin. 

“If you need more lotion, just let me know.” 

Then he is back to it. His short phrase jerks her out of whatever spell she had been under and now it feels like all eyes are on her. Is her sister watching, is Kristoff? Eugene definitely would be and Rapunzel probably was brokering some sort of wager about what is actually happening and what will happen. 

She grits her teeth. 

She knows if she looks to see if any of that is true she will not be able to do this, which is exactly why she doesn’t. She’s spent the better part of today convincing everyone that this is nothing more than a harmless flirtation and that she can handle it. Running away screaming because he needs help applying sunscreen is not going to do much for her case, but she knows she is going to hear about this later.

So she might as well put on a show.

She grabs a nearby bottle and squares her shoulders. The cap opens with a snap. She focuses on each motion as she squirts a generous amount into the palm of her opposite hand. It is too much, she knows, but it is the only shield she has. She rubs her hands together to coat them thoroughly and then, before she can lose her nerve, reaches out to touch. 

Even with the thick creamy coat of sunblock she can feel the heat of him rising to her touch. The broad lines of his back are long with foreign trenches and cords of muscle telling their story of use. His body is not exaggerated in size like her brother-in-law’s, but it is well formed, athletically cut. There is a kind of feline grace about him and the way he moves, the way his calculating eyes watch her move in this game she can hardly remember starting.

She is more rough than she needs to be, pressing hard enough that she feels him brace. She does not take the care he did to make sure that every inch of skin is absolutely slathered and rubbed in. She works from the center of his back up over his shoulder blades and then down close to the line of his swim trunks.

She stares at her own hands moving across his skin and she tries to think of anything but the idea that she is just inches away from dangerous territory. As if this entire exercise isn’t dangerous territory. She lets out a breath she did not know she was holding  and steps away.

"There. All set." She holds her hands down at her sides, palms still tingling with his heat.

He turns and faces her. 

"So," he sets his sunscreen on the deck and straightens. "Snorkel buddies? What do you say?"

She has to respect that he is actually asking instead of just assuming. It gives her the opportunity to negotiate.

"We could always triple up. No sense in creating a superfluous twosome."

"There is no possible way that any group you are a part of could be superfluous," he grins. "But it's statistically safer in pairs. Trust me one we get out there you will have so much to see that I promise you will be glad you only have to keep track of one other person."

She is not going to ask for his source on those stats, but instead she asks: “What exactly are we going to look at?” 

She had not thought it possible, but his smile grew three sizes at her question.

“My initiative,” he pulls off his sunglasses, puts them off to the side, and fits his mask over the top of his head. “Ready to see?” 

She looks over to the others and they all have their gear ready to go and are watching them. How long had they been watching them? She looks back at Hans and nods. 

He leads them to the edge of the platform. It is a few feet above the water with a plastic and metal ladder on the side. Hans sits, pulls his flippers onto his dangling feet, and then slides off into the blue water. He pops up only an instant later and swims back a few feet to look up at them. 

“Water’s great!” He treads, powerful shoulder muscles rolling. “Come on in.” 

They all follow suit. Elsa is the last to slip from the safe edge of the boat into the water below. It is cold, not freezing, but definitely not bathtub water. The temperature is jarring at first. Her body cramps and hesitates as she stays submerged, but she manages to kick to the surface. She pops up on a sputtering gasp, reorients herself, and swims to the others. 

“We’re swimming to that buoy over there.” He points to a yellow speck a few hundred yards away. I recommend using one of these to help with the swim.” He raises his arm out of the water and gestures. Several life preserver belts fly over the edge from a helpful crew member and they all grab one. “Also once we are out there it is a strict look but don’t touch policy. Ready?” 

“When will we know we are seeing what we are supposed to be seeing?” Rapunzel asks, her intrepid curiosity shining through.

“I have a feeling you will know.” He smiles and pulls his mask over his eyes. “Follow me!”

[ previous ]

[ravenwritesstuff]

Wandering Hearts (29/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (like if you don’t know why at this point go away) A/N: *ducks and runs*

HOW WORDS CAN KILL YOU

[ part one] [ part two ] [ part three ] [ part four ] [ part five ] [ part six ] [ part  seven ] [ part eight ] [ part nine ] [ part ten ] [ part eleven ] [ part twelve ] [ part   thirteen ] [ part fourteen ] [ part fifteen ] [ part sixteen ] [ part seventeen ] [ part eighteen ] [ part nineteen ] [ part twenty ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-two ] [ part twenty-three ] [ part twenty-four ] [ part twenty-five ] [ part twenty-six ] [ part twenty-seven ] [ part twenty-eight ] [ part twenty-nine ] [ part thirty ]

In retrospect it is unclear exactly what she had expected to see. Her mind had seemingly abandoned any hope of reason, sanity, in this inexplicable place but still found a way to expect - well - something. So when she sees him from her perch atop the giant troll’s shoulder she feels her mind jump to places hazed with pain and shock in search for what she is sure she is missing from the tableau. The darkest places in her mind throb. 

He is not as anticipated though she cannot quite draw the picture of what exactly that is. 

Instead he looks much the same as he always has, though worse for wear. 

At the apex of the swirling quartz, a wild unfurling of thick winding moss spills in a circular bed. The lush green, so similar to that she grips in her fingers upon a giant’s shoulder, cushions his prone form. The white of his skin and gold of his hair is stark contrast to the colors around him. At this distance he seems so small, so still. She cannot tell if he breathes. She needs to get closer. She will get closer. 

The trolls have stopped on the ridge as the woman continues forward, but she will not be made to wait. Not when he is so near. Not when he needs her. 

She starts to scramble down the lengths of moss growing like ropes from it's gargantuan host but does not make it far. A jagged crystal hand catches her before she even leaves it's shoulder. Despite her exhaustion and the futility of her efforts, she struggles.

"Wait," the rumbling order is low and firm.

 The troll scoops her into its gasp and holds once more with her arms trapped to her sides, feet dangling a great distance above the ground, head and shoulders popped just above the shining surface of its fist. It is clear this is not a negotiation and she is about to scream in frustration and rage against this treatment when something catches her eye. 

The group of trolls has encircled the ridge of the crater. They had moved swiftly, silently, and she can see more clearly their number - over twenty. Is this all there are? Did more exist somewhere else? How had these massive creatures existed for so long without being known, without her knowing? And if they are as real as they seem then just what else could be? What other mysteries lies behind the veil of this new reality that continues to unfold around her?

Then more important questions press into her consciousness. Questions she is perhaps afraid to ask, but her mind charges forward anyway. 

What exactly is to happen to Bjarg that these creatures see fit to guard this seemingly sacred ground? What event permits that this strange wisp of a woman alone allowed to approach the green epicenter with slow strides? What means it that whatever strange force brought her here did not deposit her in this place alongside Bjarg? 

She has so long denied herself inquiry, so trained her tongue against it, that she swallows them down until only one question remains screaming at the front of her mind. 

Is he all right?

Nothing else matters. 

She squirms in her captors's hand. Rough edges dig through her clothes. 

"Let me go to him." She begs on a gasp. "Please let me go."

The same low rumble replies, "Wait."

She hates that word. She has been waiting her entire life. Each blind shuffle the woman takes, that Anna must watch from her captivity, grates at her already shot nerves. If she was free she would have already been at Bjarg’s side. She would be able to touch him, to see his face clearly. She would be able to settle her mind, her imaginings of impossible things. She would be able to still the most important of the urgent questions swirling inside because she would be sure of him and that was all she needed. 

She squirms again out of the insatiable need to go to him, but the hand does not budge. 

The woman is at the edge of the creeping green now. Her steps measured and deliberate. There is nothing Anna can do to speed her progress and she wonders again at the wisdom of allowing this blind, tongueless, cripple to go forward before the rest of them. At least she does until her foot first touches the moss. 

The moment the woman pressures the soft, squishy surface a pulse rocks through the air. It stuns Anna, but the woman moves forward. The next step sends a second wave of energy and the trolls begin to sway, to hum, as if the force awakens this new purpose. Even her host is caught in whatever thrall this phenomenon has created. She feels it swing side to side with her in its grip. 

But then the real revelation happens.

This woman, strange and foreign and deformed as she is, finally meets Bjarg where he lays. The space and size of them together is small in her vision and she craves details. She will not have them at this distance, but she squints and tries to understand what she sees.

The woman kneels, back to Anna, thought she does not find this to be deficit. What benefit could come from this woman and her eyeless face being presented to her? There will be no tell there. Still her mangled hands run the length of Bjarg’s body. She touches him with an intimacy unknown to Anna and he makes her blood heat at what this woman knows that she doesn’t. 

A low moan comes from the woman’s throat, deep and soulful. The trolls respond. Their cries somehow a harmony to the woman’s. 

Even if the sounds make no sense to her, the trolls accept and revel in them. 

The woman gives a second cry, deeper and louder than the first, and the trolls respond.

This time Anna feels it.

She has not felt the cry of the trolls yet upon this visit, but the reverberation this time shakes her to the core. It is a strange vibration, a deep one, and the very core of her being screams that she has felt it before.

She knows this feeling.

She knows this place.

She doesn’t understand exactly how or exactly why, but she knows that she does and that she is watching something she does not have the slightest chance of understanding

But here she is.

A third cry comes from the woman and this time only the troll that holds her respond. The isolation of the cry startles her, but the reason comes.

“You must go to him,” the stoney creature commands even as he lowers his hand to the ridge beside them. “You must seek out why she cries.”

And then what she wants is hers. 

Her feet are on solid ground. She is allowed to move, unfettered. Yet she hesitates, if even for one moment, before she moves. 

She does not understand what she sees. She does not trust it, but she steps into the scared crater without a second thought because he needs her.

She needs him.

And that is all there is. 

The world that was warm before turns stifling. The heat of the earth rises to sting her eyes and lungs with each breath. Each step sends new aches through her already pained body, as if the weight from the forest had chased her to this spot. The stagnant, thick air squeezes around her until she can hardly shuffle one foot in front of the other. 

Has the woman before her felt this effort? 

If she had - she hadn’t shown it. 

By the time Anna reaches the edge of the moss her breath is sharp and short. 

But she can see his face now. 

It is sallow, his skin taking on an almost gray appearance, and she thinks he is dead. He is dead and that is why she was called. This is why they were brought to this place in different ways, ended in different locations. He, her Bjarg, her rock, is gone. 

She hits her knees just before she can step upon the moss. All of her strength leaves her. There is so much she wanted to say to him. So much she needed to say, but there was no time for that now. 

He never knew her name.

Bile rises in her throat and she thinks she will vomit but the mutilated woman turns her horror of a face in her direction and whimpers.

It is a sound unlike anything she had ever heard uttered by man or beast, something seeking and plain, that it pulls her out of her mourning before she sinks too deep. Her sound is followed by a deep hum of the trolls that surround them and she feels it this time. For all the resonance she had experienced before from them this is the first time that her actual bones rattle within her skin. 

The sound alone seems to rise her to her feet and push her forward. 

She doesn’t understand it.

Hardly has time to. 

Because before she knows it she is standing beside his shoulders, her body alongside where the battered woman kneels at his midsection, and she can barely think beyond the idea that this is all there is. 

This is it.

Just a body.

She is close enough now to see he is not breathing, the rise and fall of his chest non-existent.

He defended her to where his body had given out. 

She brought him to this point: with her foolishness, her curiosity, her inability to leave well-enough alone.

This is her fault.

Through no outward compulsion she slumps to the mossy floor, body crumbling over his as tears come without bidding. Her entire frame is wracked with sobs, the weight of the air around her making each breath a monumental task, and before even a few moments pass she is lightheaded - dizzy.

Her tears let up, body relenting in its fight to stay conscious, but she hardly notices the horrid woman grabbing her left hand in her own mangled claws and drawing it close. Then there is a blade flashing. Anna doesn’t have time to react, to respond, before her scar is sliced open once more. Her blood wells to the surface of her palm, but she doesn’t feel the pain she felt when she was cut before at the binding.  

The blind woman manages the same blade with surprising precision considering her crippled grip as she severs the skin on her own palm before reaching for Bjarg’s. 

It is only then she reaches out - tries to stay the hand that would create more damage to Bjarg’s body, but it is too late. The cut is made and blood, slower and darker than it should be, barely reaches the surface. The woman, though blind, grabs Anna’s left wrist and brings it alongside hers atop the cut in Bjarg’s palm. 

Anna feels the tears come again. 

Why this effort?

Why this pain?

She is close enough now to see his lack of breath, of color. She is close enough now to understand that when he told her monsters were real that he had been sincere. She is close enough now to know she had lost him.

So why this motion? Why this effort? Why this pain?

She attempts to withdraw but the crippled woman’s mangled hand tightens, the strange knobs and knuckles digging into Anna’s skin, and she turns her face with a growl. Anna doesn’t understand, doesn’t know what words to use in this unspeakable grief. 

She is free of Bjarg but it is nothing like she wanted it to be, nothing she anticipated. She does not want to run. She wants to stay. 

For the first time since she left the palace all she wants is to stay. 

But how can she now that he is gone?

How can she when she doesn’t even know where she is, how to escape? 

Tears rise again as she realizes she has not wanted to escape, has not wanted to leave his side, for longer than she even entertained before. She had wanted to be with him, had wanted to stay with him, consequences be damned. 

But that wouldn’t happen now - couldn’t happen. 

They had made their choices and they had led them here.

She opens tear ruined eyes and looks at his face. It is peaceful despite the lack of color, his warm eyes closed like he was sleeping, his lips slightly parted as if he were about to speak, but she will not hear his voice again. He is too far gone. 

What would he have said if she had given him her name?

What if she had told him truly who she was?

Would it have mattered? Would he have flinched, blanched, sent her back? It does not matter now. 

Nothing really does. 

Her vision blurs once more and it is all she can do it keep herself from collapsing again. She does not understand why she needs to be there, why her flesh was laid open against his when he was already gone.

There is a low rumble, so low she almost cannot hear it, but she feels it. Her bones rattle again as they had before and she looks up. On the edges she sees the trolls with their mouths open, feet stomping, and the sound carries - encircles. The air around her seems to swell. The crushing pressure changing to an inexplicable buoyancy that threatens to lift her from the ground and thrust her into an entirely different oblivion. 

The feeling is so deeply foreign, so very strange like all she has encountered up to this point, that her first thought is to panic. Then the grip on her wrist tightens - the disfigured hand clamping down as if she senses each thought and feeling Anna has without word or sight. A profound groan issues from the mysterious woman’s throat and she throws back her head.

Anna knows the sound. 

It is the wail of grief. 

They are grieving. 

This is the end.

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[ravenwritesstuff]

Best Laid Plans (12/?)

Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic) Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, Rapunzel/Eugene, lotsa frohana Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure A/N: I ain’t gonna be back to this fic for awhile, FYI. So savor this. Gotta write something Kristanna soon or the natives will riot

She tries to speak but no words come. Her body flashes hot and cold. Her heart hammers. Her feet are nailed to the floor as her head wars with her heart and she does not have time to reason this thing through to completion. All she can do is stare at his lips and that is all the permission he needs. 

He leans in. All the air goes from her lungs at his approach and he chases the sound. 

The pressure of his mouth is pure heat and friction. He makes her keep pace, demanding and unshakeable, molding her mouth to fit his own. His free hand loops to the small of her back, and pulls her tighter against him, the other stays on her cheek to steady her - steer her - but the whole event sets her off balance. Her hands grab at his sides to steady herself. He takes this as encouragement. She cannot blame him. Her traitorous body bows into his.

He buries his fingers into the thick of her hair and tips her head back so that her mouth opens under his. She thinks to protest at the gentle pressure of his tugging, at the way he commands her mouth to do his bidding, but the thought is swept away in the rushing warmth of sensation.

This must be what Rapunzel meant when she said there was a difference between kissing and being kissed. Elsa can feel the difference tingling up and down her spine as Hans grazes her bottom lip with his teeth. She can feel it in the pooling heat at the base of her stomach. She can feel the weight and size of the difference as if it were a tangible thing. 

He is everywhere. His heat pours into her from his fevered skin and it is like she is falling into the sun. 

By the time he eases his mouth off of hers, she can hardly breathe. Her body feels tight, overstimulated, like a clock wound too far. He gathers her tightly against his chest and holds her there. She trembles, or he trembles, or perhaps they tremble. Pressed together like this, with her ear resting heavy over his thundering heart, she cannot deduce the origin of the tremors but can only accept them as they race through her entire body. 

This is bad. 

“Don’t.” He pulls back enough to peer down at her face, finger crooked under her chin.

“What?” She does not recognize her own voice.

“Don’t start thinking about all the reasons I shouldn’t be kissing you.” 

She almost smiles at that, but she doesn’t have time. He takes her lips again, softer this time, but insistent nonetheless. Her mouth plies beneath his request, caught off guard, and he groans low in his throat at her response. The sound frightens her. Everything about this frightens her and she breaks away on a gasp. Her eyes land on his chest.

“I’m thirsty.” She says like it matters, like she came up here for any other reason than to see if he would follow. 

“Mmmm.” He hums softly, like he is agreeing, but he doesn’t move. He stays pressed against her like this is business as usual, but it isn’t. She does not just go around kissing clients - or anyone for that matter. 

He does not seem to understand that however as he leans in again to take up her mouth. Her hands brace against his chest, panic rising at how hard she must fight her every instinct to just melt into him. She cannot do that to him - to herself. 

“I need some water.” The words bubble up in a frantic breath just before his lips meet hers.

He freezes. Each muscle of his body tightens at her words. Whatever he had expected in this moment - clearly that was not it. She keeps her eyes on his chest, not trusting herself to meet his eyes just yet as he pulls back, hands lingering at her waist. He steps to the side and walks to  the mini-fridge she spotted earlier. It is only a few steps away but it gives her space enough to breathe. 

He returns and hands her a bottle of water, the fancy glass kind she stocks for clients in her own office but would never purchase for herself, and she does everything in her power to keep her hands from touching his because she is quickly learning that touching this man in any capacity is dangerous. She unscrews the metal cap and drinks. She hadn’t realized how dry her mouth, her throat, had become and she takes long, deep swallows to slake her need. It is the ocean water, she is sure, and not the inferno burning inside of her. She breaks off for a breath and finds him watching her with a calculating expression. She does her best to keep her calm.

“Thank you.” She says and he huffs half a grin as he crosses his arms. 

“It’s no problem.” His brow furrows and he cocks his head to the side to inspect her, always gauging something with those keen green eyes.

“Well, I think I’ll head below and see if the others are back yet.” Her tone is overly light, and she manages to get halfway to the stairs before he slips around in front of her, blocking the path. 

“Mister Westergaard, please.” 

“Hans. My name is Hans.” He steps closer and she clutches the glass bottle at her chest like a shield. 

“There is work to be done. They might be back. They might be wondering where we are,” Trying to change the subject, to avoid the inevitable outcome she sees barreling towards her like a freight train and wondering if she really wants it to stop.

“Let them wonder.” He hooks one hand around her waist and cups her jaw with the other. "There's still more we need to discuss.”

He stops any reply or protest by ducking down and clamping his mouth over hers with a speed previously unseen. Her entire body tightens under the onslaught. The water bottle slips from her hands and falls to a plush white rug with a thud that dully echoes her surprised gasp. He is merciless now - as if answering a challenge she had unwittingly laid down. Her insides quiver and pull at the relentless power of him - at her own weakness to turn him away. 

Her mind spins trying to find a way out of this, to find a way to want to stop kissing him, but fails. All she can feel is the heat of him, the faint rasp of stubble against her chin, the slick of his tongue dipping past the boundaries of her mouth. All she can hear is the syllables of his kisses, his serrated breath. All she can smell is the thick scent of sunscreen and the increasingly familiar combination of musk and man. All she can taste is the flavor of the insides of his cheeks, the tang of the ocean on demanding lips. If she opens her eyes she knows she will see him - only him - as an inescapable entity and the idea makes her dizzy. 

Her hands slip into the damp salt-laden silk of his hair, clinging to him for balance. He pulls her closer. The thin swim cover she wears, his shirt, does little to conceal the hard lines of his body and even less the truth of how well she fits against him. She does not know how she got here, does not know how to stop it, as she is swept along in the hot, rushing tide of desire. 

Someone clears their throat. 

It takes a moment to register that the sound comes from a third person, her mind scorched beyond reason, but they pull apart on a mutual breath. Hans’ face lingers above hers for a just a moment, eyes dark and starstruck as if he had anticipated several different ways this scenario could have gone but none of them quite like this - none of them quite this devastating. His expression is that one of complete humanity, no pretense, that always catches her off guard. The intensity of it, his honesty, his need, is enough to make her forget their company for just one more breath.

Then it is gone, whatever mask he had let drop in the moment is back in place as he pulls a smile from the corners of his mouth and turns towards the intruder. 

The turn of his body releases her and she stumbles back a few steps, trying to regain her bearings. She braces herself the plush back of a smooth leather couch, clutching it like a lifeline, the nearly imperceptible pitch and roll of the boat having nothing to do with her unsteady feet. As reality takes hold once more she meets the familiar brown eyes of her brother-in-law across the room where he stands on the stairs and her cheeks light aflame. 

“Anna was - uh -” It is Kristoff, his voice cautious - taking in and assessing the entire situation before jumping to any conclusions. A voice of practical reason when there was nothing practical or reasonable happening. “Anna was wondering if Elsa was okay.”

Even steps away and with his back to her Elsa can practically feel Hans’ grin at that. “We were just coming to meet you all. Are you okay, Elsa?”

He does not mean it to humiliate in the way he tosses the words over his shoulder towards her, in most cases with most girls it would not, but she is not most girls and it does. The words sting of defeat. What had meant to tease instead taunts. She had been so weak. Every inch of her body burns with embarrassment until she can hardly breathe. 

She stares at the water bottle on the floor. The lid hadn't been properly tightened and there is a water stain spreading on the carpet worth more money than she will ever see in her life - no matter how long it is - and she is going to be sick. 

Still she manages: “Yes.” 

What she does not manage is to make it convincing. 

Hans cheats towards her then, brow furrowed, and gives her a look that rocks her to her core. He looks at her like he sees her, like he caught the single frantic note in her voice that most would have missed, like he wants to check in - apologize - do something but cannot and she never expected that. She is coming to realize that she never expected most of what has come with Hans Westergaard, at least not the parts that really count. 

She looks back to Kristoff, back to safe territory, heart rebelling at the idea. In her periphery she sees Hans slowly turn away. 

The look in Kristoff’s eyes is similar and she wonders if she is actually unraveling. If she looked in a mirror right now would she see the thread of her calm, reasonable exterior being pulled from her body row after carefully crafted row?

“Well we’ll see you down there.” Kristoff is not exactly close but the way he steps to the side is a clear message. Hans hesitates just an instant, clearly weighing options, then with a nod crosses and heads up the steep staircase into the sunshine.

Elsa’s gaze goes to where her hand white knuckled at her sides. She is fairly certain it is the only part of her body that is not bright red with humiliation. She does not look at her brother-in-law, but she knows he is shuffling his weight between his feet - as awkward and uncertain as she is. 

“You - uh - you okay?” He asks, but there is so much more to that question than meets the ear. “I’ll tell Anna you’re seasick and we need to head back.”

It will be that easy. He will do just that. No one will know what he has seen. No one will be the wiser, and she loves Kristoff for that. For as much as he protects her sister, he protects her as well. 

Part of her very much wishes she could take up his offer. The need she has to run is strong enough to leave her head muddled, to lose track of exactly why they are there, of what they have all just seen at the reef.

"No," she bends down and retrieves her water with shaking hands. "I'm fine. I just - I need a minute."

There is a long pause and then, "You want me to drown him? Make it look like an accident?"

Elsa chokes out a laugh that almost tips into a sob and looks at her brother-in-law. He is smiling too, his dorky half smile that he saves only for those who know him best. He is a good man. She is glad Anna will have him in the end. 

She shakes her head. "No, nothing like that."

"If you say so," he rubs the back of his neck. "But Elsa, if he hurts you -"

She holds up her hands and shakes her head, knowing where this is going but Hans Westergaard is not that type of guy. 

"He didn’t. He won’t," she is not sure why she knows this so certainly but she does. If she is honest she knows that between the two she will be the one doing the hurting. He has no idea what he is asking of her, and that is by her design.

They are going to break each other in two if given the chance, but it will be by no fault of his. 

“What do you want me to do?” Kristoff asks and she appreciates that. Her sister (and Rapunzel even more so) just barge forward without concern which is not always a bad thing, but this situation has her frazzled enough as it is. 

“Don’t say anything to anyone. I will handle Mister Westergaard,”

He nods. She is not certain if he agrees with her but that is not the point. She knows she doesn’t need Kristoff to agree with her in order for him to respect her wishes, but just to smooth things over a bit in the wake of this awkward tidal wave:

“But if I ever need a mysterious disappearance, you will be my first call.” 

The dorky grin is back and she laughs down towards her feet. They are bare. She hadn’t grabbed her sandals. She just realizes that now. She had kissed Hans Westergaard more than once while barefoot and she is not sure why that makes it feel that much more intimate but it does. 

She just needs a few moments to collect her thoughts. Those few moments should have already been hers. If she had just had them then she may not be in this position right now, this place where she knows just how Hans Westergaard tastes and she is going to need another one of these bottles of water STAT. 

“I’ll be down in a second,” she says, mind racing. “Just tell Anna I’m making some notes or something. She’ll understand.”

She looks up and Kristoff nods. “Okay.”

He goes to the same staircase where Hans had disappeared a few minutes before and if it was anyone but Kristoff she would reiterate the need to discretion, but she trusts him. It isn’t that he is intentionally reticent, it is just that Kristoff knew how to be economical with his speech.

“Oh - and Elsa?” He stops at the top of the stairs. “Whatever you decide with - well, all of it - I’m in your corner.”

She smiles and she is thankful for her brother in law. She appreciates his steadiness, his ability to differentiate his choices from others while still wanting the best for them. It is a trait that neither she or her sister had mastered. 

“Thank you.” 

Kristoff nods and is gone.

It takes several breaths for her to understand her solitary state, that she does not have to wonder if Hans Westergaard is going to burst into her space and crowd her with his overwhelming presence again. Instead all she has to do is stand and breathe. 

She squeezes her eyes closed and tries to remember the resolve she felt when they had pulled into the parking lot. This has all been business then. She had been prepared to shoot him down at every turn but step by step, touch by touch, he had broken her down. How? 

How had she let that happen?

She considers each contact with academic precision but her own emotions cloud the results. The heat of her reaction burns away everything else and makes her question her own reason. She shakes her head. That is nonsense. She is drawn to him, yes, but that does not mean that she cannot control herself. She knows she needs to control himself because this is a professional relationship, because she is personally unavailable. 

He may not understand the personal aspect but surely he can latch onto the professional one. 

If they sign this contract then he will effectively be her boss. There will be ways she can terminate the contract, and she is tempted to phone their lawyer right now to update their sexual harassment clause even if she is not sure what that is. Despite Rapunzel’s claim she has kissed enough men to know she can pull away when she wants, but that hadn’t been the case with him. With him she could not pull away and not because of his own force but the strange electricity that dances, joining them the second they connect.

And that is the danger.

She cannot go down this road where she does not have control. 

She cannot even chance the idea that he may feel the same shocking heat and intensity that she endures with every brush of his fingers. 

She knows that she only has thirty eight days left with him in theory but if he can do this much damage in only four she hates to think what he can do in over a month.

Another deep breath and she unscrews her water bottle and chugs the rest. She is not sure what to do with the canister and then remembers the stunning brunette below. Surely someone like he will fix her mess on the carpet and pick up her discarded bottle. That is their job after all. She has had that job for years and it feels strange to assign it to another, but something breaks loose in her chest at the idea. Maybe someone else can be in control for once? 

It is dangerous. The very idea shakes her to the core. She has not been ready to cross that bridge, to fully admit that she is not going to be here much longer, but it is a reality she must face now. 

This is her final event.

If they sign this contract they will make their annual revenue goal in one month. Their company will be set during her departure in a way that will make reorganization less stressful. They will be able to hire and train and rearrange as needed. 

She lets out a single, caustic laugh. She has worked for almost a decade to bring them to this point. She has strategized and fought and battled this goal along with her illness. She has hired and fired and strived through each and every goal. She just never imagined someone like Hans Westergaard would be part of the process. 

It is poetic somehow that this final challenge will be met with an ultimate stressor, that all that she has so carefully suppressed would be awakened in his vibrance and joy. It makes sense that the universe would continue to laugh at her with how he looks at her with unsettling focus, touches her with unscrupulous casualness, and stirs something deep inside her just by proximity.

Life has never been fair to her. So why start now? 

She sets the glass bottle on an end table made of marble and stares at it.

Someone else will see it.

Someone else will clean it up.

Someone else will make sure it is taken care of.

Someone else.

She needs to start removing herself from the equation. She needs to remember that she is not long for this world. She needs to consider just what she wants to leave behind. She needs to forget how her lips still burn from his kiss.

She clenches every muscle in her body just to feel the pressure of it. She breathes into it and holds it until she cannot anymore. The tension melts from her and she is ready. She can move past whatever hold Hans Westergaard has supposed to claim over her. She will. She knows her motive, her purpose. She is ready.

With that Elsa heads downstairs to face whatever the rest of this day held for her.

She leaves the empty water bottle behind.

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