Too Little, Too Late

DISCLAIMER: Frozen = not mine. The "Article", I found on Wikipedia. :D I copied and modified it.

"Those who are heartless once cared too much." – Unknown

Southern Isles. Article 226 – Treason Act – If any person or persons ... shall endeavour to deprive or hinder any person who shall be the next in succession to the crown ... from succeeding after the decease of their Majesty (whom God long preserve) to the imperial crown of the named realm and the dominions and territories thereunto belonging shall be punished with execution by hanging, but by exception of a vouch.

The hangman's noose stands tall and erect on its tall platform in the middle of the town square. The heavy rope is buffeted around a little in the breeze, and Hans can hear birdsong in the distance. There is no break in the blinding azure blue of the sky, and the sun beats down hot onto his back.

"It's a beautiful day today, is it not?" he comments absently to a guard.

The guard doesn't reply, but he can't mistake the snort of contempt from his right – coolly handsome brother Ivan, the fourth eldest, and the head of the Southern Isles militia. He bares his teeth in a look of contempt and jabs the butt of his rifle hard into Hans's ribs. "Shut up, treasonous scum." He says in a hiss.

Biting back a groan of pain, Hans returns a stiff smile. "As you like."

Crowds and crowds of townspeople have gathered around by now. They hover as far back as Hans can see, their faces a never ending epitome of suspicion, distrustfulness and accusation.

He catches a few phrases and words being thrown about, everything short of the usual babel and hum of activity in the city.

"I can't believe that our prince is a –"

"… Murderer"

"…Arrendale…"

"The King is –"

"Murderer…"

"Treason!"

Word has certainly gotten around, and fast.

Hans spots the face of a small child in the front row peering at him from behind his mother. A small hand clings onto the side of his mother's skirts. Hans offers the child the smallest of smiles, but as soon as he does, the small face is snatched out of his line of sight. Hans looks up to meet the gaze of the mother. She stares at him, her face as white as a sheet, and a wary, frightened look on her face.

Murderer.

He wonders what they see. Do they see a murderer? Did he look like he was going to break free from his chains any second and wreak havoc, cutting the throats of every single one of them there? He had caught a look of himself earlier, when he was passing a shop window. He didn't look like a murder. He looked unkempt, dishevelled, weak and thin. He looked like somebody that had been sleeping in a cellar for the last couple of weeks, which – he muses – was actually pretty accurate.

The crowd doesn't utter a word when Hans adjusts his wrists against the handcuffs he is strapped to. They clunk with a hollow sound against each other. They're incredibly heavy and they pull his flesh taunt, red and blistered, and he knows that they're going to leave scars when he takes them off. He eyes flicker up to the gallows. If he takes them off.

Ivan swaggers forwards and regards Hans with a cold stare. He follows his gaze, and smirks. "The punishment for treason is hanging, if you need reminding."

"What a welcome." Hans notes coolly.

"It would probably be a little more extravagant if you'd had the mind to keep your murderous intentions to yourself, darling brother."

Hans snorted. "You're not even going to give me a trial?"

"What's the point? We've heard it all, already."

"Not from me."

"No, not from you. But we've heard it all. Pretty much the entire kingdom has heard it all. You can still protest your innocence, however, although I doubt father – nor anybody else – will want to hear anymore after everything he's been told."

"Who told him?! The princess and Queen? How can he hang me without my side of the story?"

"Father is sorely disappointed."

"This is ridiculous."

"Your attempted treason was ridiculous."

Their exchange is broken by a loud cough from one of the King's attendants, Jorg. He stares lazily, uncaringly at Hans. Bastard. "Please make your way up to the gallows."

As they march past, Hans notices that they have even decorated the hangman's scaffold with ribbons and the red and yellow swan crest of the Southern Isles. A nice touch, Hans mused.

With a rough shove from one of the guards, Hans begins to ascent the short flight of stairs. They stand him on the tall platform, facing the searing sun, allowing him full view of all the people below him – or rather, grant them view of him. The guards and Ivan lead him to a small square cut into the floor, which he can clearly make out. When he stands on it, it creaks, making Hans feel slightly alarmed.

"Trap door." Ivan smirks, "A new touch. We're trying it out especially for you," He swiftly turns and walks up a wide flight of stairs to an overlooking platform, to stand behind the King.

Hans looks at all twelve of his brothers, lined up behind his father. Their faces are an odd mix. Some stare at him with disgust, such as Ivan, whereas others stare at him with pity mixed with horror. The rest, the oldest brother Niklaus included, and like the King stare on expressionlessly, avoiding his gaze.

His brother, Lukas comes to fit the noose around his neck. He moves hesitantly, and stares at Hans, his eyes impossibly wide. "You must plead for forgiveness, brother." He hisses, "Please tell me you're going to plead."

"Now why would I do that?"

"Brother? Brother, please. This – this is – you've got to beg, cry, anything, otherwise he will kill you! I beg you, Hans –"

The King's voice rumbles out, and resonates through the square, and Lukas retreats back to his position.

"We are here today to witness the hanging of Prince Hans Westergard, on evidence of treason." He begins, and Hans shuts his eyes to the blinding glare of the sun. He supposes he should feel fear, or dreading for what is to come next, but there is a kind of emptiness in his chest, and he feels completely fearless. He can still feel his heartbeat, granted, but it feels almost as foreign to him as the noose around his neck.

An attendant begins to read out from a scroll in a reedy voice. "The Treason Act 226 dictates that if any person or persons ... shall endeavour to deprive or hinder any person who shall be the next in succession to the crown ... from succeeding after the decease of their Majesty (whom God long preserve) to the imperial crown of the named realm and the dominions and territories thereunto belonging shall be punished with execution by hanging, but by exception of a vouch. Do you understand and abide by this, Hans Westergard?"

Hans doesn't reply.

"Do you abide by this, Hans Westergard?"

"No."

"You must – you have no choice."

He hears a series of heavy footsteps, but he doesn't move, and he doesn't flinch.

"Hans." The Kings voice sounds, closer than it was before. Hans opens his eyes and regards his father nonchalantly.

"Father."

"Will you beg forgiveness?"

"Would you forgive me?"

The King regards Hans with a steely gaze. His voice is, rough, harsh and cutting. "Do you repent for your sins?"

"No."

The King gives an almost guttural growl and snaps in a heartbeat. His voice rises, and shakes with anger as he utters his next words.

"I implore the Gods every day – how your kindly, good mother could have possibly given birth to so… so shameful and heartless a son!" he spits the last words out, barely holding back his fury. "A murderer in cold blood, with no remorse, no pity nor mercy for those he brings pain to. With no thought to any other than himself, be it princess or his very own people. No – I refuse to call you a son of mine. I hereby denounce you of your status and strip you of any relation to me. You are less than the dirt beneath my shoes."

The King turns to face the crowd, who had gathered below him. A deathly hush has fallen upon them, whether out of surprise or fear. The King was not known for his temper, being regarded as a man who consistently kept his feelings in check, not bellowed across a town centre like this.

"Does anybody vouch for this criminal? Does anybody want to postpone his rightful fate at the gallows, to be delivered to the pits of Hell, to rub shoulders with his own kind? Other criminals, other blood lechers, vermin, monsters? Does anybody vouch?!"

His anger is met by only stunned silence.

His next words are calm and devoid of emotion. "No, I would imagine not." He says hoarsely. "Release the trap door."

His demand is set in motion immediately. His executioner, a deceivingly young-looking man with unruly blonde facial hair and hooded eyes to match his hooded executioner's robes stumbles up the steps, shaking out of the stupor the king's outburst had apparently left him in. He flexes his fingers and places his hands on the brass lever, eyes emotionless and looking elsewhere.

Hans doesn't even feel resigned, only empty. He braces himself for the inevitable rush of air around his feet where the ground should be, and the tightening of the rope around his neck, but it doesn't happen.

A tinny, but unmistakeable voice rings out from the masses of people, quieting the murmur of the townspeople and stopping the executioner in his tracks.

"I do."

The executioner looks up at the King uncertainly, not knowing whether he should carry on, but the King does not meet his gaze. His eyes scan the crowd, hands clenched into fists. Hans looks too, but he can't find the source of the voice.

The King clears his voice before continuing, "Do you understand the magnitude of your request?"

"Yes. I do. I vouch for Prince Hans."

Hey guys! Woah that took me way too long to write, and now I have about 500 tonnes of homework I need to be doing.

I've wanted to write some HansxAnna fanfiction for ages now, and finally, I managed to churn out this, be it good or bad! It's not HansxAnna quite yet though, but [screaming] I PROMISE IT WILL BE.