Author's Note: I was inspired to do this after how much I enjoyed writing Strangers, which you might consider the "companion piece" to this two-parter. Be warned, though: this one is much darker, much more tragic, longer in length, and … well … a tad more, let's say, "explicit" than its older sibling. (It also takes a lot longer to get going, but I hope you stick around through the exposition to reach the gooey, smutty caramel deep inside.) Hope you enjoy.

Acknowledgements: Special thanks to my best friend, who again wrote the beautiful poem below for me as the intro to this story based only on the fever-dream outline of it which I concocted over the course of five minutes during a Skype conversation with her, and to her and another friend (jii-ro on Tumblr) for beta reading this insanity. I couldn't do it without you guys.

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The air will have to settle between us

I long to breathe what clean, untouched, unmingled

Unclouded air is left in this unchaste

Uncertain bed of yours. No longer try

To ravish me. No longer enthral me.

Yours eyes must close. I cannot see that

Each pupil widens every time I speak.

My body runs so hot and blushes red.

So inflicted it is by fever caused

From your soft mosquito touch. So stop!

Let ice from my rejections cool my veins.

Let resting heartbeats take over my love.

So fiery love decomposes flesh and bone

From embraces born in septic passion.

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Part I

She's looking at the man standing in front of her, and she's certain she seems attentive, and modest, and appealing all at once—even though she's not really there.

This one's nice, Elsa—at least give him a chance.

She smiles, thinking he said something witty, probably, since he's laughing nervously—not that she actually knows, though, since she hasn't been listening at all.

How many suitors have you had this year? Seven? Eight? Well, maybe this one's lucky number nine.

She holds back a grey chuckle, and that's best, really, since he now looks serious again, and he's leaning on her father's old desk with one hand and gesturing about something with the other—but mostly, she only notices his first hand, because it's leaning on her father's desk, and she almost frowns.

Besides, he's got it made, if you know what I mean. And being allied with Madris wouldn't hurt.

He hasn't noticed her staring at his hand, because he proceeds to lean his full weight on that same desk, and then touches her father's globe, and comments with a slightly surprised look that it's out of date, and would the queen like a new one?

Sure, he's a little ... awkward, but come on, Elsa—I'm the queen, I mean, princess of awkward, and he's not half as bad as me.

She smiles politely back (even though she wishes that he would just get off the desk and stop touching things that aren't his) and tells him no, she doesn't, but thank you for the offer—and he reddens and finally distances himself from the desk.

And just look at that portrait they sent of him—he's cute, isn't he? Real cute. Way better than a lot of the others.

She looks at him then, and she's finally seeing him, too; and as he nervously prattles on about something else, scratching his head, she scrutinizes his black hair, his olive skin, his brown eyes, his dark red suit.

I heard he really, really likes you, too. A big, fat, crush.

"Queen Elsa?"

Her eyes snap up to meet his, and she realises, somewhat embarrassedly, that she forgot to appear interested, lost in her own thoughts.

"I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

So he starts talking again, but she doesn't care anymore—actually, she hasn't cared since the beginning—but she pretends, and nods, and smiles, if only for her sister's sake.

There's no such thing as "lucky number nine," Anna.

She watches as the ship carrying the deflated Prince Diego of Madris leaves the fjord from her bedroom window, and now that the show is over, her eyes are cold, impassive.

So what was wrong with this one, Elsa? Oh, wait—there was nothing wrong with him. You were probably just being way too picky, as usual.

She traces the window pane with a bare finger, and ice trails it as it moves, creating beautiful fractal patterns along the glass. The sight is comforting to her in its familiarity, and she exhales a chilly breath, her gaze relaxing a little.

Look, I—I didn't mean it that way. It's just ... well, you know what everyone's saying, don't you? I mean, you've rejected so many of them, now …

She presses too hard against the glass in one spot, and it cracks under her touch.

You know it doesn't matter to me if you are or not—I could care less, actually—but to them ... it just—it looks odd, Elsa.

The ice is spreading, and her heart is thumping dully in her chest.

I just want to see you happy. I haven't seen you that way in so long, now, and I—I'm just worried about you, that's all.

The thumping pauses, and she draws the cold back inside of her—but the crack is still there in the window, and the wind from outside is seeping through it.

And she closes her eyes, because she doesn't want to see it.

No one was getting anywhere with her.

She's standing in front of her father's portrait when the words—the self-fulfilling prophecy, she thinks with a grim smile—echo in her head again, just as they do on so many other nights, and days, and all the hours in between.

"Did you see? The Prince is already leaving!"

Her eyes move from the golden sceptre in his right hand to the orb in his left, and then to the gleaming crown atop his head.

"What? So soon? But he only just arrived two days ago!"

Then, her blue eyes meet his light green ones, staring straight ahead into the void, his expression unreadable.

"Well, it seems she wasn't happy with him, either, for God only knows what reason."

She wonders if that passive look is masking his fear, the way she had to hide hers on her coronation day; but when she looks over his figure, so tall and confident and regal, she guesses that she's just projecting.

"I know she's still young, but soon … time will be running out, and without children—"

Still, he must have had some fears, she reasons, as she gazes at his visage—but the longer she stares, her eyes boring holes into his painted ones, the more she starts to think those fears were all related to her.

"But there's still the Princess Anna, remember; and she's looking well now, four months in, isn't she?"

Her hands are gloved after the incident with the window earlier, but there's still ice crawling along the floor from where she's standing, and she pauses to catch her breath, because she can't let them find out that she can hear every word they're saying just outside the door.

"Yes, but her husband is a commoner, Gustav, and, well … that won't look proper either, will it?"

She manages to stop it right before it goes under the door—and she sighs in relief when it does, leaning on the table by the portrait as she shakes a little.

Stand up, Elsa. You need to look proper, after all.

With some effort, she collects herself again, and places a hand over her breast, hoping that its cold touch will slow her heartbeat.

"Better a commoner than a virgin queen, I say."

Some mutters of agreement follow this, and then she can't hear anything anymore as the conversation moves out of earshot down the hall—

—except for the soft tick, tick, tick of the small clock on the table.

"Your Majesty? What news from the Southern Isles?"

She's smoothing out the letter in front of her, surrounded by her advisers in the council room, and the daylight filtering through the large windows makes the text upon it impossible to read—but that doesn't matter, since she already memorised its contents hours ago.

Well, it seems she wasn't happy with him, either, for God only knows what reason.

It's the same man, she realises, but her expression doesn't reveal that fact, her lips still pressed in a thin, prim line.

"King Magnus would like to reopen our trade lines."

Murmurs of surprise and consternation are uttered up and down the sides of the long table, advisers turning to one another, whispering across the way, glancing at her nervously.

Finally, one looks at her—Lady Mona—and the rest of their gazes follow.

"Perhaps … perhaps it is time, Queen Elsa. After all, it's been a while since the … unfortunate incident involving his youngest brother, and this isn't the first request from the King."

Her eyes widen slightly at the comment, but after considering it for a moment, silent and grave, they harden, glinting like steel under the sun.

"Perhaps. But I would like to make a request of him, in return, should we accept—if you all find it agreeable, that is."

The councillors nod perfunctorily at their queen, and she nearly snorts in derision.

They're all so proper now, aren't they?

"I would request that the Southern Isles return the traitor, Prince Hans, into Arendelle's custody, and that he be given a trial under our laws."

Silence, deep and thick and heavy, fills the room, full of light.

"Your Majesty … is the traitor not already being subjected to adequate punishment? What benefit is it to our kingdom to bring him back here?"

I know she's still young, but soon … time will be running out, and without children—

Her stare narrows, imperceptibly, remembering her voice from earlier, too.

"But therein lies the problem, Lady Cecilie: he is being punished, yes, but to my knowledge has not faced any sort of trial. And I do believe I've earned the right, at least, to prosecute him properly here—and to ensure that his punishment is equivalent to the crimes he has committed."

The dubious and confused looks on their faces are enough to tell her that whatever consent she wins from her Council won't be by them agreeing with her, per say—just satisfying her demands—but that's good enough for her, since she doesn't really care what they think about it one way or the other.

"I can understand your feelings, Queen Elsa, but … how would we inform the public? Surely this might, well, be unpopular with them?"

Better a commoner than a virgin queen, I say.

She hides a morose smile, staring straight at the man who spoke with unfriendly eyes.

"On the contrary, Sir Gustav—I should think they'd be more than happy to see the traitor re-sentenced here."

And none happier than me.

She hears something akin to approving grumblings after this, but it doesn't please her; nothing will, she thinks, until she sees his face stuffed behind the iron door of the cell he once left her in, shackled and alone.

"Very well, Your Majesty. Now, concerning the specifics of reopening trade with the Isles, I think …"

Her hand relaxes against the surface of the table, and she closes her eyes briefly, her head buzzing—and she thinks of the clock in her father's study, tick, tick, ticking away.

A cloud passes over the sun, and when she opens her eyes again, the room is dark.

As heir, Elsa was preferable, of course.

She hears his voice mocking her even as she lays in bed, staring at the maroon canopy above her, and she wonders if, perhaps, Anna's outburst a few hours earlier wasn't warranted.

You did what?

She had been as patient as possible with her sister at the time, her voice calm and smooth, not wanting to upset her—but nothing had worked, and those big, impossibly angry blue eyes had chased her down the hallway back to her room.

Elsa, do you even remember what he did? To me? To you?

Her brow tenses at the memory—your sister is dead because of you, a sword unsheathing, an ice sculpture in the shape of Anna—and her resolve wavers, slightly.

Hardly seems like a fair deal—they get our trade, and we get him in return? You've got to be kidding me.

Her advisers, at least, had to be diplomatic about their queen's demands; Anna, on the other hand, was under no such obligation.

I think you've officially lost it, Elsa. There's just no other explanation.

She turns over on her side, staring at the door to her room, and she can see every detail of the floral pattern painted on it, even in the darkness of night.

You know what? I don't need this right now. I'm pregnant, for God's sake—I can't believe you would do this!

She grimaces, closes her eyes, and breathes, slowly, because she can feel ice on the sheets clutched within her grasp.

I just don't understand you.

She pulls her hands to her chest to contain the burst of snow that they're threatening to release, and she shudders.

No, I don't want to hear anymore, just—just leave me alone for a while, okay?

She can still see the outline of Anna's figure as she stalks off back to her own room, her shoulders hunched in ire, her hands balled into fists at her sides; and, just as she did then, she watches the scene replay in her mind in silence, not knowing what to say to make things right—or even if she can make things right—but this time, when she finally turns away, the guilt is gone from her features, and sombre determination sits in its place.

You don't have to understand.

And suddenly, a wave of resentment towards her sister washes over her—resentment of her expectations, of her shocked face, of her I think you've officially lost it, there's just no other explanation—and it doesn't matter what Anna or anyone else thinks or believes, because they don't know, and they'll never know, what it's like to be—

—the preferable one.

"Has the traitor arrived?"

She doesn't look up from her work as she asks the question, even though her heart is thumping violently in her chest, and she feels sick.

There's a long pause before Kai speaks, and when he does … he sounds unexpectedly nervous.

"Yes, Your Majesty, but … well, he's not in the best shape, you see."

She remembers well the letter she had received from King Magnus a few weeks ago—how overjoyed he sounded at trade being reopened, how surprised he was at the Queen's request—and the description of the traitor's condition therein, which she had read aloud to her Council without shock, or foreboding, or even pleasure.

The traitor, formerly Prince Hans, has been held within a maximum security penal camp on Hetra Island for the past five years, and has, most assuredly, been doled the harsh punishment he so richly deserves—

She puts down her quill, rises from her desk, and greets Kai's gaze.

"I will see him, and determine for myself what sort of medical attention—or whatever else—he might require."

—but, of course, if Her Royal Majesty, Queen Elsa, wishes to put him on trial, then we will do everything in our power to accommodate her wishes.

He stares back at her reluctantly, but he doesn't dare challenge that cold, hard flame in her eyes. Instead, he simply bows, and gestures to the door.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

She sweeps past him without another word spoken between them, and a thin line of frost trails after her on the wooden floor below.

We understand, after all, that Her Majesty's justice, whatever it may be, is preferable to ours.

A ghost of a smile touches her lips, and the frost spreads.

The first time she sees him again, she's not sure if he's still breathing … or if she's too late, and there's nothing but a husk of a man left in his place.

—and has, most assuredly, been doled the harsh punishment he so richly deserves—

He's thin, so thin, and she can barely recognise him through the beard that covers his face, and the dirtiness of his clothes and body.

—we will do everything in our power to accommodate her wishes.

There's a smell, too, she notices—a smell of the unwashed, the hungry, mixed with the saltiness of the sea that carried him here.

—Her Majesty's justice, whatever it may be, is preferable to ours.

Worst of all, though, is the dead look in his eyes—the green eyes, she thinks, that she remembers so well—and she can't bring herself to enter the cell, to look into those eyes, because if she does, she might forget why she brought him back in the first place, and that she's supposed to despise him.

She turns away from the door, but she knows she can't show them how disturbed she is then—how sickened—and she conceals it, and looks at her guards with as much purposefulness as she can muster.

"Call the doctor, and if possible, have him washed, shaved, and fed—I won't have him stand for trial looking like that."

The guards are usually stone-faced, but she can see, even in their hardened expressions, something like perturbation—and that only makes her feel worse.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Her lip trembles, but only for a second; after it's passed, she raises her chin, refusing to give in, and her jaw locks.

"I don't want to hear anything else about this until he's looking healthy again, and when he is—you're to come directly to me with any news. Is that understood?"

The guards exchange a look—and she's sure they're thinking it's going to be a while until he looks "healthy" again—but they bow stiffly, and answer in unison.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

She nods curtly to them in return, and excuses herself, walking past them.

But once she's out of sight, she has to lean against the stone wall of the prison, because she's shaking.

Over two months pass before she hears any news about the traitor—well, official news, that is.

Unofficially, of course, plenty has been said, and spat, and shouted about him in the meantime by the public, the courtiers, the councillors, Anna—and though, at first, it's all outrage and confusion, it quickly turns into something else, something unexpected—whispers of King Magnus's cruelty, of the Southern Isles's inhumanity, of pity for the former princeling.

And all because the guards couldn't keep their mouths shut.

She should have expected as much, since they're people, and she knows how people like to talk; but she couldn't help being annoyed when she first caught wind of the fact that they had been gossiping in the city taverns and markets about the haggard conditions of their prisoner, the scars on his back, the hollowness of his gaze.

But it works in your favour, doesn't it, Elsa?

There's her sister's scathing voice again, her tone bitter, her hand placed protectively over her belly.

Now they all see you as some kind of … admirable person, because you "saved" the poor, tortured Prince Hans.

She knows Anna's not completely without sympathy, herself—in fact, she's sure she saw a look of horror cross over the girl's freckled features when her handmaiden described his appearance to her, based on whatever hearsay she had gathered from the other castle servants—but she doesn't trust her older sister's intentions, and obviously never thought they were good.

It doesn't matter that he's not dangerous, or that he can't hurt us—he shouldn't be here in the first place.

Maybe Anna's right, she thinks, or maybe she's just being hormonal—but at least she's not ignoring her anymore like she was for the first week after his arrival, and she can accept her younger sister's anger, and brooding, and irritated stomping against the floor if it means she's not invisible to her anymore.

Besides, how is he going to stand for trial when he can barely stand?

She's not sure how true this is, since she hasn't actually seen him in so many weeks; but it's not as if the people of Arendelle are clamouring for a trial now, knowing what they know, and neither is the Council, since there are far more pressing matters than that of sentencing the ex-prince, still safely hidden away under lock and key.

And now it doesn't even matter that we signed that agreement with the Southern Isles, does it? Because no one is buying their stuff.

She should probably care more than she does about this fact, especially since her advisers have been doing nothing but wringing their hands over the silent boycott of the Isles's goods by the public, too peace-loving and kind to buy anything made there once they realise what their money is actually being used for—but she remembers that letter from King Magnus, those awful words, and she can't bring herself to feel anything other than a strange sense of satisfaction from the fact that she has gotten the better end of the deal.

Relatively speaking, of course.

In truth, she wonders if having him there as her prisoner can really be considered the "better end of the deal"—Anna certainly wouldn't agree with that characterisation, anyway—but then, she remembers how thrilled she felt when she was able to sadly decline several requests from potential suitors over the past few months on account of having to address a matter of national security, and she shrugs off her doubt easily enough.

I can have this one victory.

As time passes, however, it feels less like a victory and more like a temporary relief measure, since all the usual burdens of power are weighing down on her again: the settling of territorial disputes between rich courtiers and poor farmers alike, compensation battles, petitions to clean the streets of the autumn muck, arguments over tax collection …

You're the queen, after all.

And though she reminds herself of this often—of who she is, the Queen of Arendelle, the ruler of her little realm—she knows that's not what she is.

Because what she is, in the end, is just—

Preferable.

The day she hears the news—officially—it's the middle of November, cold and raining and wet, and she's sitting by her window, staring at the crack she left in it over two months ago.

"Your Majesty?"

Her gaze flickers over to the door, and she gestures, gently, for Kai to enter; when she sees his pursed, discomfited lips, however, her brow furrows in concern.

"Is something wrong, Kai?"

He fidgets under her stare, and lowers his eyes out of respect.

"It's—well, it's the prisoner, Your Majesty. The guards—the guards say they must speak with you about him."

Her eyes widen in realisation, and then, remembering where she is—and who she is with—her placid façade returns, and she nods, rising from her seat.

"I see. Thank you, Kai."

It's obviously an invitation for him to leave, quietly; but he raises his eyes to hers, and looks hesitant at her assured manner, clasping his hands worriedly in front of him.

"Queen Elsa, are you—would you like me to accompany you, ma'am?"

She's annoyed by the query, at first; then, seeing the older man's kind, distressed eyes, and remembering how they have watched over her for practically her entire life, her gaze softens, and she reaches out, resting her gloved hands atop his.

"I'll be fine, Kai—I promise. But thank you, anyway."

He finally sighs, relenting, and then bows a little—but when his stare meets hers again, he looks just as unhappy as before.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

When he departs, she feels her stomach drop; and when the door closes, and she is alone, a familiar voice jeers at her.

Elsa—you can't run from this.

The second time she sees him, she can't believe that this could really be the same man—no, husk of a man, she reminds herself—whom she saw two months ago, sitting, shrivelled and lifeless, in the corner of his cell.

We did like you asked, Your Majesty—and it took a little while, but not as long as the doctor said it would—and you can see for yourself that's he's better now, can't you?

Indeed, she thinks, staring through the small, barred window into the cell with large, blue eyes, he looks "better" by every stretch of the imagination: he's dressed acceptably well in black trousers, a white shirt, and a blue cloak over top, and his body has filled out again enough, she realises, so that he can actually fit in these clothes; his skin has returned to its normal pallor, unbeaten by the sun for some weeks, and the smell is gone, too; his face looks smoother, with only a hint of a few days' stubble (though, she notes with some irritation, he's managed to maintain those perfectly sculpted sideburns); and when he realises that someone is watching him, and casually turns around, she can see that his eyes—

His eyes.

They're alive again, resuscitated, she presumes, by the return to a normal diet and clean water … but they're also gleaming with a feeling that she recognises all too well.

The eyes of a caged animal.

He looks that way to her then—beastly, somehow—and she has to keep herself from shivering, and from coating the whole prison in a layer of ice, because her hands, though gloved, are itching to dispel her uneasiness in the quickest way they know how.

"I will speak with him—alone."

The guard with the key set stares back at her, uncertainly; but it only takes one sharp, sudden glance from her for him to quickly comply, and he unlocks the heavy door.

When it shuts, and they're together in that cell, alone, her stomach stirs—but, unlike before, it's not a heavy feeling, full of dread—and it takes more effort than usual to ignore the sensation, but she finally breathes in, and stands taller, and keeps her gaze level with his.

"And here I was starting to think that you'd forgotten about me, Your Majesty."

Her lip curls a little at the remark, and he grins at that tiny movement.

"But I can't blame you for waiting so long to grace me with your presence—I wasn't anything pretty to look at before, was I?"

She bristles at the description, her shoulders tensing.

"That had nothing to do with it."

His brow rises curiously; then, he nods in false understanding, smirking.

"Oh, right, of course—how could I forget? There was no point in coming before I was fit to stand trial, correct?"

Her teeth grit together, and her eyes narrow at him.

"Correct."

He stares back with faux curiosity.

"So, when's my trial, then, Your Majesty?"

She's scowling, now, and she can't stand that smug, knowing look on his freckled face—nor can she stand the fact that she is noticing his freckles at all.

"Two weeks from now."

His expression drops at that answer, because it sounds hard and certain; he doesn't need to know, she thinks darkly, that she's just pulled it out of nowhere.

But after a short pause, that infuriating expression returns to his features, and he looks bored.

"And here I thought it might be sooner, seeing how much better I am under your attentive care, Queen Elsa."

Her heart races when she hears him say her name again, for the first time in five years—but she assumes it's racing out of irritation, because he should be addressing her only as "Your Majesty," as anything else is far too presumptuous on his part.

"Well, you thought wrong."

His eyes—those green, predatory eyes—study her curiously then, and she wants to shrink under his scrutiny, but she can't.

"Oh—I see."

The reply is too simple—too simple for him, anyway—and she frowns, her arms crossing unconsciously.

"What?"

He goes to sit back on the stone plank, and he's sitting much too comfortably on it, resting his head against his hands, stretched out behind his back—but then his gaze sharply snaps up to hers again, and it startles her with its intensity.

"You didn't come before, because … you were waiting until I looked like the bogeyman in your nightmares again, weren't you?"

Her mouth goes dry at the question, and her lips part, ostensibly to answer, but—

"You were afraid, if you came before then, that you'd forget why you hated me—that you might even start to feel sorry for me. Isn't that right, Your Majesty?"

Her eyes are wide, and still, and full of confusion—and he stares back at them with a sneer on his lips, his words dripping with derision.

"Don't worry—I'm still grateful for your hospitality, my Queen. It certainly beats the camp, anyway."

That's his final comment, it seems, and it's also the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back, because she's furious now, and she can feel the ice coursing, rippling through her veins.

And she smiles smugly when he yelps in surprise at finding his hands—once casually resting behind his head—now frozen in shackles of ice to the wall behind him.

He struggles against the restraints, for a minute; then, seeing her menacingly pleased expression, he stops, and glares at her haughtily.

"I guess I'll just have to wait for these to thaw, then."

Her smile disappears for a moment, and a smirk begins to form at the corners of his mouth.

But then, it's back on her pink lips, and it's wider—and colder—than ever.

"Don't you remember, Hans? My ice doesn't thaw so easily."

He refuses to eat or drink, Your Majesty, until you come to see him.

She's practically storming through the hallways en route to the prison, her mouth set in a hard, irritated line, and she ignores the burst of flurries that follows her every step—as well as the looks of surprise on the tired faces of the attendants she passes swiftly by, not expecting to see their queen wandering the castle so late at night.

You were waiting until I looked like the bogeyman in your nightmares again, weren't you?

She'd been hoping, until then, that she could get through the rest of the day without having to see him again, or hear his venomous tongue; but it's a futile hope, because she's been seeing him and hearing him all day anyway—at the council meeting, at tea with Gerda, and at dinner with an exceptionally moody, petulant Anna—and even though the messenger had knocked on her door at such an unseemly hour, she had been wide awake.

You were afraid, if you came before then, that you'd forget why you hated me.

She's been replaying it all in her mind, just as she has for the past five years with the other things he's said—but this time, they're somehow worse, because they're all things he actually said to her, not just disembodied words spoken about her to her sister in dark rooms with cold hearths.

… you might even start to feel sorry for me. Isn't that right, Your Majesty?

Just remembering the way he had used that term so sarcastically sets her teeth on edge, and by the time she finally sweeps through the entrance and down the stairs of the prison, she realises that she's been grinding them.

"Your Majesty—"

She's in front of his door now, but she doesn't bother meeting the guardsman's gaze.

"Let me in, please."

He only pauses for a second this time before obeying, and when it's open just enough for her to enter, and she steps inside, blue eyes locked with green, the snow disappears, and so does the ice under her feet.

"Oh—did I wake you, Your Majesty?"

She realises, flustered, that he's looking her over—observing her dishevelled white hair, still loosely collected in a long braid down her back, her dark purple robe and the white nightgown peeking out from underneath it, the matching purple slippers on her feet—and she crosses her arms automatically, glowering more darkly than ever at him.

"No, but that's beside the point. What do you want, Hans?"

His brow rises at the question, and then he's staring at her expectantly.

"Well, to get these off, for a start."

His eyes flicker behind him, where his hands remain uncomfortably strained behind his head, encased in solid ice—but her expression only hardens at the request, and her arms remain stiffly folded across her chest.

"Not until you say you're sorry for what you did."

He's surprised by the reply, at first; then, he seems amused by it.

"And what if I don't?"

Her lips turn down in a scowl.

"So you're not sorry, then?"

He frowns at the suggestion.

"I never said that."

Her voice is thin, and she's practically hissing at him.

"Then what, exactly, is the issue?"

He shrugs, nonchalant.

"I don't like being forced to confess to things that I would otherwise say willingly, Your Majesty. And besides—shouldn't I save it for my trial?"

She scoffs scornfully at his answer.

"I want to hear you say it now—and I won't thaw a single shard of that ice until you do."

His eyes look disbelievingly back at her, his brow raised again in insufferable scepticism, but there's a touch of a grin on his lips in his retort.

"Then I guess you'll never hear the words you're so desperately longing for, and I'll hang here until I die of thirst—and that wouldn't benefit either of us, now would it?"

Her nose wrinkles at the jesting tone of his voice, resenting it more and more with each passing minute.

"It would benefit me more than you."

His eyes narrow—those light, emerald eyes—and she can feel the heat of his stare on her skin.

"If that were true, Queen Elsa, then why bring me back in the first place? I was as good as dead back on Hetra."

"I already told you, it's for you to stand tria—"

"And I don't believe you, Your Majesty."

Her lips snap shut, and she's silent, because she doesn't have a good response—or any response—to spit back at him.

That curious glint returns to his gaze as he regards her then, in her muted state, and she hates that her mouth isn't moving, or producing sounds, or words, to stop him from saying something she knows she'll be hearing inside of her head for days on end.

"Come on, Your Majesty—you must have had some reason other than to make me formally apologise, surely? I can't imagine that Anna was clamouring for me to come back, just for that—"

"Don't you dare say her name. You don't have the right."

She finds her voice again, to her own surprise—but it's only after he's started releasing his poison, and she feels her blood, unusually hot, pulsing, throbbing in her skull.

He rests his head back, looking away from her, and closes his eyes briefly.

"No, I suppose I don't."

She eases slightly then, arms gripping each other less tightly; but then, that grin is there again, and it's spreading with a feline grace.

"But what if I said Princess Anna, Your Grace? Would that be more to your likin—"

"Did you not hear me the first time?"

She's standing directly in front of the stone plank he is confined to, her hands balled into furious fists at her sides, and her palms are scalding.

"I said—don't you ever, ever say her name."

She's expecting him to be silent at this—to know his place, and shut his mouth, and be humble, for once—but instead, he just looks at her with slightly widened eyes, and then he smiles furtively, and lowers his voice to a sweet, dulcet tone.

"Oh, Queen Elsa … you're blushing."

The anger in her brow disappears, replaced with bemusement, and she doesn't comprehend the smirk she sees on his face.

"Don't tell me you're … jealous, are you?"

Her lips part, but she still doesn't understand what he's saying.

"What are you—don't be ridicu—"

"I'm not totally unaware of the world outside this cell, Your Majesty."

He interrupts her sputtering, and the smirk is gone, but that knowing, teasing lilt is still there, taunting her.

"I hear the guards talk, sometimes: they say the Princess is pregnant, and married to a commoner—an ice harvester, no less."

She's grinding her teeth again, impatiently.

"What does that have to do with anything, Hans?"

He sighs at the question, giving her a slightly incredulous look.

"Isn't it obvious? She has everything you don't—a husband, a child on the way, and practically zero responsibilities, save for showing face at balls and public events—why, it's natural that you should feel jealous, in those circumstances."

Her heart slows in her chest, or at least she thinks it does, but she's not sure, since she can't hear anything anymore—let alone her own heartbeat.

I'm … jealous? Of Anna?

—a husband, a child on the way, practically zero responsibilities—

She sees Kristoff, and imagines the bright-eyed faces of her blonde and blue-eyed future nephews and nieces, but … jealousy?

No—that can't be right. That's not right.

How can it be, she thinks, when she sees Anna playing with the children in the castle courtyard—her children, but also ones from the city—and there's a beautiful, happy smile on her face, and then she's dancing with them by the fountains, inside the castle, in the ballroom—

—and there she is in her green coronation dress, her hair pinned up in a pretty bun with ribbons laced throughout, and she's saying you're beautifuller—I mean, not fuller, you don't look fuller, but more beautiful, and then she's gliding gracefully across the floor,and she's gone for a while, but she comes back, and she's arm in arm with him, and they're asking in unison that they would like your blessing of our marriage! and oh, we can invite all twelve of your brothers to stay with us, and—

"No."

He's taken aback when she speaks again.

"What?"

Her gaze is cloudy—blurred —and her voice sounds far away.

"I said no. That's not it."

He seems to catch on that she's finally replying to what he said earlier; but, noticing her distant expression, his auburn brow quirks enquiringly.

"Oh? Then what is i—"

But he never finishes, because suddenly, her hand is pressed against his mouth, muffling his words, and his lips are sealed in a film of ice.

Don't tell me you're … jealous, are you?

His light eyes are wide and bewildered and disdainful all at once as they regard her, one hand still gripping the ice around his mouth, and the other suddenly resting against his chest, on his heart, feeling him shiver beneath the cloak—from cold or from fear, she doesn't know—and as the thump, thump, thump of his heart courses through that hand, the other on his mouth relaxes.

… why, it's natural that you should feel jealous, in those circumstances.

Then, the ice is gone, and his lips are cold and blue beneath it—but her fingers are lightly running over the outline of them, and they're quickly warming again under her touch.

Oh, Queen Elsa … you're blushing.

She snaps her hands away from him, and turns forcefully back to the door of the cell; then, she pauses, and glances at him one last time, a pink glow lighting her cheeks, and the icy shackles that bound his hands behind him disappear.

"I'll be waiting for that apology."

And then she's gone again, leaving him sitting there, on a stone slab, the moonlight burning his skin.

"Elsa."

She's staring at her plate at breakfast when Anna says her name, and from the way she says it, she guesses that it's not the first time.

"Sorry, I was just … thinking."

Her sister frowns a little at the reply.

"I don't like it when you go quiet like that, Elsa—especially since this is the one time of day when we actually get to catch up, you know?"

Their stares lock, for a moment, and she can see the resentment behind Anna's eyes—the lingering, hurtful disappointment that's been there for the past two months, and throughout their entire lives—and when she can't bear to see it anymore, she pinks and turns away, embarrassed.

"I know, and—I'm sorry, Anna. I didn't mean to, really."

Anna relents at this, sighing, and roughly cuts through her hardboiled egg with a fork.

"It's fine, Elsa. I just—well, ever since he came back, you … you've been acting strange. Well, stranger than usual."

She wants to take offence at the remark, but she knows there's some truth to it—and so the most she can muster is a slightly straighter back, and a defensive tone.

"Nothing's changed, Anna; and besides, I haven't even seen him since he arrived, since he's still so sick."

She doesn't need to know.

She sips her tea, and Anna's forehead wrinkles disbelievingly.

"That doesn't mean you're not thinking about him, though. I know I have been, anyway."

It's hard to swallow the drink after that pointed comment, and even though she eventually does, it tastes far bitterer than usual going down her throat.

She can't know.

She's suddenly transported to the cold confines of that cell, where the moonlight streams through the tall window and highlights the redness of his hair, the freckles on his cheeks, the danger in his eyes—and his lips are under her bare fingers again, and she can see them changing from icy blue to a fleshy pink, and she can feel his slow, shuddering breaths tickling her unbearably hot skin.

I said no. That's not it, Hans.

"Elsa? Are you …"

Oh? Then what is it, Your Majest—

"… blushing?"

Something draws her back to him that night—the memory, perhaps, of beating hearts, of soft lips.

You've been acting strange. Well, stranger than usual.

The guards let her in soundlessly, and her feet are just as silent as they glide into his cell, stepping into moonlight.

That doesn't mean you're not thinking about him, though.

He's standing by that tall window looking out on the fjord, and she knows that he knows she's there from the way his shoulder shifts, ever-so-slightly, beneath the heavy cloak.

"I'm surprised you're here, since I behaved today, Your Majesty."

It's a glib remark, but that's not reflected in his voice, which carries an odd tension in it that it didn't have the day before—and she can guess why.

"Yes—I heard the same from the guards."

He doesn't snort, or scoff like she expects him to; instead, he still seems stiff, and he's still looking out the window.

"So why are you here, then?"

Somehow, it's annoying that he should ask such a direct question without even facing her, and she frowns unconsciously, taking a few steps closer towards him.

"Look at me, Hans."

It's an order, and even though she suspects that he might just ignore it—since he hasn't proven himself to be the most exemplary prisoner thus far—he complies, and his gaze is suddenly fixed on her with disconcerting intensity.

"I'm looking, Your Majesty."

She purses her lips at the remark.

"Yes, I can see that."

His feral eyes stare thinly at her.

"So—now what?"

She's observes him with the same, calculating way look that he usually wears towards her; and when he takes a few steps towards her, and they're only a foot apart, she feels herself release a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding.

Yes—now what, Hans?

Now that he's so close, and the light is shining on him, she can make out his features far better than before—the finely-sculpted, royal nose, the natural pinkness in his cheekbones, the fiery colour of his bangs—but she also notices other things that she hasn't seen … or, perhaps, that she didn't want to see until then.

First is the white scar by his right temple, near his hairline; second are the faint lines in his forehead, revealing, as they do in her own, the passage of time since their first meeting; third, a patch of burnt skin by his left ear, covered, like the other scar, by his auburn hai—

She's so caught up in staring, in fact, that when she suddenly feels her back shoved up against the stone wall of the prison, and his bare, callused hand pressing on her throat, she's too shocked to shriek for the guards—because her eyes are glued to his noxious grin, and her mouth is twisting as he chokes her.

But no one was getting anywhere with her.

It takes more effort for her to only target the hand that's around her neck than it would have to just knock him back completely to the hard ground below—and indeed, when he winces in pain and his grip on her relaxes, allowing her to breathe again, she wonders why on earth she didn't simply freeze the bastard's heart, and let the guards take care of him afterwards.

As she sucks in the dank air of the cell, glaring daggers at him, the hand that froze his is still tightly wrapped around his wrist, and she maintains a temperature there that is somewhere between uncomfortable and frostbite.

"You 'behaved' today, did you?"

He looks like he's in pain—and good, she thinks, since that's exactly how he should look right now—but he somehow still manages the faintest of smiles at this, looking from his pale, cold wrist to her spiteful eyes.

"I might have spoken too soon, Your Majesty."

She can't believe he has the gall, in this moment, to wear such an expression—and to make such a frivolous reply—when she literally has his life in her hands, and she is baffled, too, at why he would even try to come near her in the first place, being "acquainted" with her unique set of powers as he is.

And though she's furious, and puzzled, and scared all at the same time, his hand is still hanging by her neck, above her collar, in her icy grip.

As heir, Elsa was preferable, of course.

She wants to ask him about it, then—about all of it—and that's an absurd desire, she chides herself, considering he just tried to kill her for the second time in five years.

But the longer she stares back into those cruel, hollow green irises, the more that desire grows—enflames.

Why did you say those things about me?

Her grip relaxes a little, and his skin starts to warm again.

How could you say those things about me?

He's still standing so close to her, his head hovering just above hers, and her fingers are only loosely wrapped around his wrist now—in fact, they're slowly tracing their way across the back of his hand, his knuckles, and she's hardly aware of it, but his fingertips are beginning to press into the flesh of her neck again.

You didn't even know me, then.

It feels different than before, though, because his thumb is roughly caressing the dip between her throat and collar, and his eyes—those lovely, vicious emerald eyes—are darkened by something indefinable.

And you don't know me now, either.

There's a tremor running through her body, but she refuses to allow it to take hold of her—she can't let it, because if she does, then he'll know, and he'll use it against her.

I'm not who you think I am—who anyone thinks I am.

And so she grasps his face in her hands, pulls it towards her, and kisses him.

That perfect girl is gone.