Author's Note: Based on a prompt from SamAnderson: "Words I never said." Inspired also by the beautiful painting "Dream Of The Rain" by Leonid Afremov on deviantArt. (This was originally published as an installment entitled "Words" in my series of drabbles, In Pieces, but it really belongs here.)

Epilogue

She's surprised when she hears the tapping of rain on the windows.

It's unusual to see it in early spring, much less for there to be a downpour like the one that ensues; in fact, it's rare enough that the entire Council pauses for a minute to observe the storm outside in the midst of yet another discussion about a trade dispute with Weselton.

(Or perhaps it was Odens, or Madris—she'd stopped listening a long while ago.)

Even when they resume the meeting, it goes on for much longer than anyone could have anticipated, eventually turning into gentler showers.

She can't help but be drawn to the sight as she goes from one appointment to the next, glancing up during pauses in conversation and in-between signing letters pushed in front of her. Even the excited shouts of her teenage nephews as they engage in their countless competitions around the palace (poorly contained these days by an elderly Kai and Gerda) are not enough to distract her entirely, though they occasionally earn from her a lightly disapproving look or a barely-hidden smile of amusement.

In any case, she's sure that it'll be over by nightfall, and is disappointed at the idea that she won't get to go out and experience it herself; she rarely does these days.

But it goes on and on, right into the evening.

"I'm going for a walk," she announces to Gerda.

The older woman stares at her in surprise - she's only just finished getting her ready for bed, and her light blonde tresses flow freely behind her back, her face unmarked by cosmetics, clothed only in her evening robes - and frowns.

"In this rain, Your Highness?"

The queen smiles.

"In this rain."

There's a wonderful sense of freedom in the drops that patter against her cheeks and forehead as she steps out of the castle, her feet treading lightly along the stone path from the guardsmen's door at the gates.

She draws her cloak a little closer around her face as she nears the street lamps; though she loves her people, she cannot afford to lose this chance for privacy.

Not that there are many of them around to see her—the late hour, combined with the rain, has made sure of that.

She can't remember the last time she went unaccompanied like this somewhere, let alone into the city, and certainly never in the rain. She's glad she did, though, as she takes in the dim glow of the lamps and the warm colours they cast on the cobblestone streets below - the reds and yellows of flickering flames, the dark greens of the trees, the cool blues from the fjord - and she's sure she hasn't seen something so beautiful in many, many years.

(Not since—)

Her heart stops when she catches sight of him, and the rain turns to hail.

"Hans."

He appears to her just as he did the last time she saw him - like a phantom passing in the night - and in the blur of the rain, and lights, and snow, she assumes, just as before, that he is nothing more than a vision.

Until he speaks.

"Elsa."

They find a bench in an empty market stall, once the initial shock of their meeting has passed; the hail has turned back to rain, and it drums lightly against the tile roof overhead.

Her fingers twist around themselves in her lap, and she dares not raise her eyes from them to look at him.

(She can tell, though, that he's glancing at her from time to time from where he's sat next to her, his hands similarly knotted together.)

"You're not in Odens," she says at length.

He sighs (in relief, it seems) at the break in the silence. "No, I'm not."

"You're here," she continues, "in Arendelle."

"I'm here," he confirms, "again."

Her brow tenses, but she releases her fingers to rest atop her thighs lightly. "I won't ask why," she says, adding: "I'm not sure you know, anyway."

"You're probably right," he agrees after a moment, and she knows he's looking at her. "Even if I did," he continues, "I'm not sure it matters."

She breathes.

"No, it doesn't."

There is so much silence in the seconds, minutes, hours that follow - so much more, she thinks, than the last time - and she isn't sure if it bothers her, or if she prefers it.

In that quiet space, she tries to remember how long it's been, exactly, since she last saw him; she guesses it's been years, but it feels much longer than that.

(Like forever.)

"You left," he says finally, his voice strained.

She closes her eyes. "I left," she echoes.

He pauses, and then sighs. "I knew you would," he admits. "I always knew you would, and yet ... I thought for a second that maybe, somehow, you would stay."

"I couldn't," she tells him. "You knew that."

He's staring at her again. "I knew that," he concurs, "but I didn't want to believe it. Not after..."

He trails off, and finally, she looks at him.

He looks so much older than she remembers - grey hairs fraying in his sideburns, his skin burnished and aged from sunlight, his green eyes full of unspoken regrets - and yet, at the same time, he hasn't changed at all.

(And his hand meets hers among blades of grass under the stars and moon above, their fingers intertwining, and for a moment only they two can exist in the face of the wide, endless, sparkling sea—)

She shudders, and remarks: "That was a long time ago."

"It was," he concurs, and she can't take her eyes away from him. "But I remember everything. Do you, Elsa?"

She hesitates; then, she nods.

"I remember."

He presses his hand to hers, and she weeps.

"I'm sorry that I didn't give you - us - a chance," he says when her tears have subsided, his hand still holding hers. "I only realised what you meant after you were already gone."

She shakes her head. "It's all right," she says, her voice soft. "I should never have said that in the first place."

He frowns. "No, Elsa—you were right," he counters. "I was a fool then, and I still am."

"You're not a fool," she tells him. "But nothing can change the past."

His grasp tightens. "No," he agrees, "but you have to know, Elsa ... you have to know that I never wanted it to be like this."

She sighs; even to her, it sounds like defeat.

"And what did you want, Hans?"

He stares at her with an earnestness that reminds her of his younger self, and if she wasn't sure that he was an illusion, she might've felt her heart stir again in that moment—at that look.

"I only ever wanted you."

She smiles sadly.

"No, Hans," she says, "you wanted everything."