Author's Note: I have no legal claim whatsoever to either the Frozen or the How to Train Your Dragon franchises. These belong respectively to the Disney Corporation and Hans Christian Andersen's estate, and Dreamworks Animation and Cressida Cowell. Please support official releases and merchandise in order to subsidize further expansion of the existing stories.

Of State

Prologue

The door clicked open on the third night. Three nights since she had commanded the snow and ice to leap off the ground and let the green rule in its natural time. Three nights since she'd first dropped—energy gone—into bed without locking her bedroom door for the first time in thirteen years.

Three nights since she had truly felt relief, the freedoms of her flight and her dream-like palace notwithstanding.

One bright blue eye—almost glowing—opens slightly at the turn of the handle. A figure in soft pink slinks in on slippered feet, making her way to the bed.

"Elsa?"

The Queen of Arendelle opens both eyes, smiling in tentative welcome. Anna climbs onto the mattress and settles on her knees beside her extraordinary sister.

"Sleep here tonight?"

In answer, Elsa shifts herself to her left, signaling Anna to gleefully crawl beneath the sheets. Giggles erupt from both women—girls, really, if youth denied is simply youth deferred—as slippers fly off, nightclothes tugged and blankets adjusted.

(Elsa barely needs blankets, though she can stand the warmth.)

Finally, they are both situated and content, looking up at Elsa's white and soft blue awning, aware of each other's presence and breathing. They are warm (one, by her nature, more than the other) and safe, in what is a home again, and not a castle where two people simply happen to live.

"Did you mean it?"

Elsa looks at Anna, waiting for the question to be complete.

"About the gates? Never closing them?" Anna pauses thoughtfully, "Well, except at night, 'cause that's just normal, right? I mean, everybody closes everything at night so nobody can see them in their…" she glances at Elsa, who would sweat regally if she ever did (or could), "unmentionables."

The Queen giggles again, "Captain Heversson would quit if we did. But yes, no more closed gates."

Or doors.

"Good," her little sister breathes. Her little hand—warm and ruddy—slips into Elsa's—pleasantly cool and milk-white—and gives a little squeeze. There's silence for a moment.

"Kristoff loves his sled," Anna suddenly declares, "and his new job."

It was a title that was created from thin air at Anna's prodding and Elsa's genuine wish to thank the oversized stranger. Ennoblement had been ruled out; knighthood in the Order of the Golden Crocus is still a possibility, and Elsa has plans for a Crown Order to reward personal services to the monarch. What Kristoff thinks is still a mystery to her; the chamberlain faithfully reported that he'd asked about the salary, looked pleased, and then promptly left to join the impromptu skating party. Were titles not interesting? Her sister certainly is.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!" Anna practically screams, so proud of keeping her promises and going further on them, "Its freshly lacquered, got reinforced runners—"

"No, I mean the…" she turned her head to face her little sister, "the job. He's really happy?"

"Well," Anna turns and purses her lips, "he—he said something about how it's not a real thing, but he'll change his tune."

Elsa scoffs—the iceman is not wrong—and wonders. It's early yet, but of all the things to happen to Anna recently, she can't help but feel that the end of her first romance was among the worst. It would kill her if it happened again. And whatever wounds Anna cuts Elsa just as deeply.

Slender arms suddenly reach out, and before Elsa can decipher their intentions they pull her closer in a surprisingly strong embrace. Anna's eyes are the color of a breach in a mass of stormclouds, and they reflect what moonlight penetrates Elsa's chamber.

"He's so sweet, Elsa," she pauses, "when he isn't being gross. Or acting like everybody's crazy except him."

The irony is obvious to the Queen, and she generously supposes Anna sees it as well.

"He's no prince, he's got trolls and reindeer for family, and he doesn't like chocolate that much…"

Then how could he still be happy?

"…dance. Oh, and he thinks ice hockey should be declared a national sport. Kristoff's nothing like Mr. of the Southern Islands," the last words are said with an unpracticed sneer.

"No marriage proposals?" Half a joke.

"No," and Anna suddenly sounds tired, afloat on the first tides of sleep, "Love experts. They told Kristoff that marriage's an anchor, but love's the boat."

Trolls as love experts. Elsa searches her memory of that awful night, remembers a galaxy of sympathetic eyes and a hard but strangely warm hand. Yes, there's love in Arendelle's trolls.

Anna's breathing softens, evens. She trusts her sister, trusted her even when Elsa thought herself a menace. There's love here too, in this castle, in this room. So long as there is, the cold is leashed.

So long as love thaws, she has no curse.

She died on Tiw's Day.

Her hand had been in his—light and deceptively slender—and there was a smile on her face. It was for him and no others.

Because he'd wreck himself for the ones he loved.

The war he left in the hands of his uncle; the tribe governed itself, for the most part, and he had plenty of proxies; Gobber had his own helpers again (and complained bitterly about it, as he'd done when Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III could not fit his name). All of his responsibilities were tossed in the air and left to hang. He bent over boiling cauldrons of stew, amassed a mountain of furs that were piled on and off her bed, slept a few feet away, read old sagas and made up new ones, and retrieved every single thing she wanted. Or that he thought she wanted.

And on that last Tiw's Day, she looked up at him and smiled—and he allowed himself to hope.

She said she loved him.

That he was a dork, but he was a wonderful dork.

And it was okay to be afraid, but he'd be fine.

Be strong.

Then she'd closed her eyes.

Take care of Stormfly.

His mother had thrown herself against him and pulled him away when they came to prepare her. Valka was as strong as he was, and buried her face in his shoulder, tightening her grip with every protest he made.

I'm fine, Mom.

I'm fine!

She's—no, she…she'll be cold if you do that!

Stop that! What are you doing?

She's going to get worse if you take her out!

No, no, there's…

There's nobody stronger than her.

But they took her, perfumed her, and dressed her up in blue wool, fur, and armor. They placed her axe in her hands and it's so much worse because it is the same one that she carried the day she discovered his secret.

The day they really met.

A pyre of dry wood was stacked on a small ship. The village comes to mourn with him. The other tribes—present in the form of emissaries, traders, or visiting warriors—came to mourn. Its evening before the last condolence is given and acknowledged.

May the Valkyries welcome you and lead you through Freya's endless fields.

The rites were not the same as those that saw his father away. She had gone in peace, in her bed.

May your ancestors greet you by name in acclamation, so that we may hear it from Fólkvangr and know that you are among the loved and the brave.

No one lets him lift her funeral bier. Their friends—old classmates, students—raise her above their shoulders and he follows them to the docks. His eyes follow her face—smile long gone—as they carefully place her on the pyre. Then Gobber places a meaty hand on his shoulder, turning him away from the funeral ship and towards the village proper as ropes are untied and strong hands propel her away from the dock, the island.

Him.

For a great woman has passed: a warrior, a leader, a friend…

He stands on a cliff, overlooking the sea. A bow is handed to him, followed by an arrow with its sharp head wrapped in resin-soaked strips. He stands there, dumbly, though he can feel the heat from a nearby fire pan. He looks at Gobber, at Toothless, over the gathered village.

Hiccup feels small again, ashamed—as if Stoick may appear at any moment and demand to know why in Odin's name he was outside again! But his father is gone, he's a man of twenty, and he turns to face Astrid's drifting pyre.

Hiccup breathes, strings the arrow, and turns its head to the flames. He blinks suddenly at a harsh sensation in his eyes. Through a peculiar haze he notes trembling hands. His head shakes and his teeth bite lips. Hiccup lifts his bow with a shaking breath, pulls the arrow taught against his shoulder, tries to remember what she taught him.

…a wife.

The haze rises again and the arrow flies. The flame arcs high over the cliff, the water, then dips down, accelerated by gravity towards the moonlit sea and her pyre. He watches it drop, a single point of flickering brilliance that sails beyond the mast of her ship, dropping into the dark waters.

Hiccup's mouth drops open with a choking gasp.

Nonono…

He seizes another arrow from a horrified Gobber, and with trembling hands stabs it into the flames. The tears flow freely.

…sostupidstupidsorryAstridsorrysorry…

Hiccup blinks hard and shakes his head again. The arrow is crooked and as he whispers a brief prayer to Odin and whatever gods may listen he lets it fly.

...sorrysorrysorryiloveyousomuch.

This second flame arcs high again, but falls true. The arrow pierces the deck, well away from the pier, but it is there and Hiccup is half-relieved and half-broken. Other mourners step forward and light their weapons. He stumbles forward, places his knees on the ground as a volley of arrows soars.

"Goodbye," he whispers.

The flames spread, begin to climb the mast, eating up her pyre. Soon they'll reach Astrid herself.

"Thank you."

For seeing what I saw.

For believing in me when I couldn't.

Thank you.

Thank you.

I love you.

Goodbye.