Warning: Graphic depictions of violence. Not for the squeamish.

The Monster They Fear

Elsa hates them.

All those years of repressing her powers and even her emotions, but now as ice rips from her fingertips, Elsa feels herself hate so violently her lips curl back into an inhuman snarl. Maybe the memory of Anna is still too fresh in her mind, but the sick chill that washed over her returns. Pappa had always told her she could control her powers, that she could stop herself from hurting Anna, from hurting anyone, but now Elsa knows better.

She can't stop herself.

Elsa knows now that she is not like Anna, the marvelous fluke who is genuinely kind and generous and loving. She is just another hateful monster with revenge in her bones and murder in her heart. Elsa looks at the two thugs and the beauty of her face twists into something ugly and unrecognizable. Why does everyone hate her? What has she ever done to deserve this exile, this disgrace?

Footsteps, and then gasps of horror.

"Queen Elsa! Don't be the monster they fear you are!"

She can hear him. Not distinctly but through the pounding of her heart and the dull roaring in her ears, the surge of adrenaline muffling her hearing like an irritating buzz. Elsa can hear him like they're separated by an ocean, like the sound of his voice filters through meters and meters of seawater before reaching the dark depths to which she's sunk.

But Elsa still hears him.

Not so clearly, but she does.

She turns back. Sees the undiluted, base, primal fear in their eyes. For the briefest of moments, there's a thrill of control, of triumph. She's been afraid of herself for so long, to see others afraid sends a jolt of vindictive pleasure through her spine. But then Elsa comes back to her senses and realizes the depravity of what she's thinking, and maybe she's been trained to seek approval, but seeing fear and anger makes her quail like the little girl she used to be.

Her Pappa's creed rises to the forefront of her mind.

Conceal it. Don't feel it. Don't let it show.

I'm revealing it. I'm feeling it. I'm letting it show.

Elsa releases a shuddering breath, lets her hand fall, and the pressure of her gale dissipates just in time for the mustached thug to survive. Standing dangerously close to the precipice of a hundred-foot drop, but alive. Even the protraction of her icicles halts just in time for the other man to survive. Pinned and with a needle poised at his throat, but alive.

Without the surge of power rushing to her fingertips, her hands start shaking. The heady rush drains out as quickly as it came, and Elsa realizes how close she came to killing two men. Not the drywall and plaster she used to destroy in accidental fits, but two real human beings of flesh and blood. The thought does not bring as much guilt as it should. All Elsa can think about is the breathless fear of confrontation.

And then a movement out the corner of her eye catches her attention.

Hans runs over to stop the assassin from firing, but Elsa whirls around and only sees the act of treachery. Rage floods her veins, not with the flush of heat but the chill of cold murder. Against her better decision, she had spared her would-be killers. Against every primeval instinct of survival, she had let them live. And this is how they repay her? By taking aim once her back is turned?

Let it go.

An instant before Hans reaches the man, an instant before the thug can press the trigger, Elsa snaps her hand outwards.

It all takes place in less than a second. Others only see the icicle burst forward to close the distance at last and impale his throat.

For Elsa, she feels its journey every step of the way. Sharpened ice pierces effortlessly through skin, cuts through flaps of muscle, and then slides between the ridges of the spine to reemerge out the other end, without even the slightest resistance. It's as visceral as doing it herself, driving her own hands through his throat and flaying it open for the world to see, and when Elsa draws her hand back she feels thick blood dripping down her fingers just like how it slides off the ice.

Hans jerks back from the corpse with a yell, stumbling as he tries desperately to get away.

His men are torn from their orders against harming the queen, but when Elsa turns to them, their choice is narrowed. Fight or flight. Some of them fire their crossbows, none of them dare approach with swords, and every bolt merely glances off the ice that protects her with a will of its own. And then they flee, Hans pushing through their ranks with single-minded strength, scrambling to save himself.

I can't let them leave.

She has to hide what she's done here. She can't let them leave and tell the story of the murderous queen. She has to make sure they stay quiet. Panic only fuels her power more. Elsa stomps the floor and a surge of cold travels under their feet, rising behind them in a wave of white and sealing off the exit.

Hans slams a fist against the wall of ice, but she meant it to be harder than diamond and no mortal force will ever even make a dent. Desperation giving way to fury, Hans turns back to her and draws his sword, forgoing his play at benevolence and ordering his men to attack.

Don't be the monster they fear I am…?

…But all of you already fear me anyway.

It takes only a minute.

Elsa kneels at the center of the room, eyes wide and unblinking while she stares down at the fractured fractal. Where the tip of a sword had stabbed into the ice, the snowflake she so painstakingly designed has been marred with a hole.

A drop of blood fills it in.

Elsa looks up at last and sees a mangled body strung up in the air, suspended on a thick spike jutting up from the floor nearly to the ceiling. Not just one. She is surrounded by a forest of penitentes spiraling out of ruptures in the floor, each one bearing its own victim, each one reddened by the blood flowing down in rivulets. Slowly, Elsa looks back to the fracture in the ground.

She extends a finger and touches the blood now filling the hole, and it freezes over, red. It spreads, reshaping the blood pooled all around her until it dyes the entire snowflake dark red, and Elsa stands to admire her work. It's a beautiful thing, blood, a sharp contrast in color from the transparent blue.

Blood.

I killed them. I killed them all.

Realization hits her like the shot of a ballista, caving her entire body inwards with disgust. Elsa looks up and then averts her eyes again, rakes her hands through her hair before realizing blood still coats her hands. If she could see her reflection, she would have seen a streak of red in her platinum hair.

Elsa leans over and retches, but nothing is in her stomach to come up. She kneels and gags on the realization that she is a murderer. She has killed. Not once but a dozen times, in the most gruesome manner possible, but Elsa retches not because of guilt but because she still doesn't feel guilt. They had tried to contain her. They had tried to kill her. She has killed them, but she cannot feel guilt.

She feels free.

There really is no more right or wrong, no more rules for her, no more lines she has yet to cross.

"What would Anna think of me now…?" Elsa mutters.

For the first time in forever, I finally understand…

"Would you still understand?"

For the first time in forever, we can fix this hand in hand…

"Would you still be willing to hold my hand?"

For the first time in forever, I will be right here…

"Would you still be right here?"

a/n: Strange idea came to me when I read about how Elsa was originally going to be resentful about having to restrain her powers. Personally, I think that might still be there a little, only repressed because of her fear of hurting people, and once you get over that...keeping your emotions so bottled up for so long has to be incredibly unhealthy, hence the violent outburst. I didn't go with a full villain portrayal like the original concept, because Anna is forever going to be her redemption. This is a close approximation to what Elsa feels in Tempest, my ongoing. Shameless plug. Check it out?