Michael's stirs against the early morning light braking through the crevice of his curtains. He knew he is in his bed, the feeling of the mattress beneath him unmistakable. His smell is the second sense to awaken, it smells like his bed but . . . different.

It smells like home. Like paradise and like he knew he was exactly where he wants to be.

Michael's eyes flutter open to feminine softness and gentle breathing.

He had to stop himself from jolting out of the bed at the risk of waking her. But the shock still travels its way through him like lightning.

In the dim light, he finds his arm sprawled across Elsa's side, the queen curled like a cat at his chest. Her back is facing him, the low dip of her nightgown – his tunic, actually – revealing the porcelain smoothness beneath. With her braid tucked beneath, he couldn't help but follow the curve of her neck to her shoulder, then down her side to her hip –

She has her arm laying on top of his, securing herself to him as if was a safety belt, as if he would somehow slip away during sleep.

The clock on the mantle says it's six in the morning. It's not the time that surprises him, but the fact his mind is clear enough to think.

He carefully peels himself away from her, his muscles protesting only slightly. Thankfully, she doesn't stir. Michael quickly realizes her legs are bare. A wink of light has Michael jerking his head towards the fireplace, to the chair that has a tangerine dress draped over its back.

With quiet feet, he walks over to the chair and picks up the tangerine dress by the waist. Looking it over, he allows a second to be impressed by the intricate sequin designs along the waist, sleeves, and down the back of the skirt. Most of the dress feels dry, perfectly clean until he reaches the forearms. Soaked reaching just beneath the elbow.

She took care of him. Washed and soaped and soothed him. He can't remember the last time anyone had done that.

He's surprised no one – especially Anna – had come to check on where she might've gone. Then again, Anna probably won't leave Kristoff's side for a while.

Looking back at the Snow Queen snuggled down in the sheets, Michael folds his lips in, his cheeks warming. He doubts this kingdom isn't one to believe, let alone spread any rumors; but still he doesn't want to do anything that would hurt Elsa's reputation or image with her subjects.

However, the thought of having to carry her all the way to her rooms only makes his muscles heavier. The fatigue already has it feeling like there's liquid lead in his veins, and he understands his limits enough to know he won't make it twenty feet.

Draping the dress onto the chair once more, Michael pads over to Elsa's side of the mattress. She stirs only slightly as he scoops her into his arms and carries her over to the couch. He lays her onto the cushions, and she grumbles, protesting at the cool fabric. He goes and digs through his armoire and finds a spare blanket in the bottom drawer. He gently drapes it over her, careful not to tuck her in too much at the risk of waking her.

Still, he spares a heartbeat to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, pulling the blanket over her shoulder.

He's halfway across the expanse when there's a gentle knock on his door. Michael prepares an explanation while swallowing a groan. He opens it to find his usual servant, already starting her morning routines.

He must've looked as bad as he feels because he sees her eyes widen slightly, her brows lifting before she catches herself. She bows her head and whispers, "Good morning, Sir Tuller."

Michael clears his throat. "Morning."

"Have I come at a bad time?"

"A bit." He looks back to the still-sleeping queen. He braces one arm on the threshold, crossing his ankles. "Look. I'm going to be bedridden for a while. If she's not out of here by this afternoon . . . just, send someone to come and get her."

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder to Elsa and the servant woman balances on her toes to see. She doesn't show any signs of surprise of judgement, even when he sees her eyeing the tangerine dress the queen was wearing yesterday.

Seems like he moved her just in time.

"Yes sir." She says with another bow of her head.

"Thank you. And also, please send Kristoff my regards."

"Yes sir." She then turns and heads down the hall without any questions.

Michael trudges back to his bed, rubbing at his chest. As he slips back into bed, he sighs at the cool touch of the sheets.

He falls back asleep where the scent of her still lingers, like a phantom, cooling touch.

But it does so little to quell the growing silence, to suppress the bleakness of his heart.

He truly hadn't realized what a despicable human being he is; how other people might see him. That no matter how many times he can save a citizen, or beat a gang in an alley, there will always be fear.

No welcome. No praise. No smiles.

Just fear.

Fear of The Reaper.

Michael fists the sheet in his hands. After he lost his parents, he pieced himself back together in the chaos of the rebellion. And when they were disbanded, he was so accustomed to the constant movement that he couldn't bear to sit still.

So focused, yet so lost. Always needing something to do.

He thought it was because he was trained so efficiently; because his life was always on the line and he had to be prepared for anything to try and take it.

Lies. All of it was lies to himself.

He was running.

Running from the silence that sometimes became so suffocating that he couldn't bring himself to even get out of bed some days.

Running from the memories of that cabin in the woods burning to ground, the smoke choking the air out of his lungs.

Running from the screams of his parents, the smell of their blood in the grass.

Running from the grief-stricken little boy; whose screams he can't quiet no matter how many times he tries to smother it in booze or drugs or fights.

His temple throbs at the sudden crash of the memory, and he nearly gags when he thinks he smells the smoke of opium.

That afternoon with Kristoff yesterday . . . it had been nice. Great even.

Because he forgot all about the demons and the assassins. Had forgotten he was a rebel soldier who slaughtered his own king. Had forgotten just how broken he really is, and just enjoying life as a normal citizen would.

He is such a fool. He'd been foolish enough to think, just for a moment, that he can get away with being happy.

Michael listens to his own breathing, rubbing his fingers together as if he can still feel the blood underneath his fingernails. The blood of all those men and women he'd hacked down, the blood of the king he carved into pieces, and the coldness of his own heart, where all those painful memories gather to further entomb it in a core of icy silence.

Death is his curse and his gift, and death has been his good friend these long, long years.

He has nothing to give, except that.

The white light of the afternoon sun coaxes Elsa awake. The blankets are warm, but the mattress feels harder than she remembered, and the texture of the pillow –

Elsa sits up, jostling the blanket that has been draped over her. The couch. She's sleeping on the couch, but she remembers falling asleep with Michael . . .

Had she not seen her tangerine dress draped over the back of the chair, she would've thought it was all a dream.

She tosses the blanket off and pads across the room to his bed in seconds. Michael must've moved her at some point. He'd been in no shape to do anything like that, and if he forced himself to train this morning –

She sighs as she glimpses at the golden skin of his muscled back, rising and falling with even breaths. Still sleeping.

Thank the gods.

The clock on the mantle reads eleven-thirty in the morning. Rubbing her hands over her face and through her bangs, Elsa grabs her dress and heads for the bathroom. She's surprised no one has some to fetch her, not that she's complaining. This is the most she's slept in since her coronation.

She slips the tunic up over her head, inhaling his smell of rain-kissed pine. She leaves it on the towel hook until she changes back into her gown, the cold fabric pebbling her nipples and sending goose bumps across her skin. She doesn't bother with her shoes, not even remembering where she kicked them to. Looking around the bathroom, they aren't there.

Stepping back into the living room, Michael still heavily asleep, Elsa leaves the tunic draped over the back of the couch, unsure of what to do with it. She quietly looks around the room for her missing shoes, her mind reeling for an explanation should the questions arise.

Kneeling down to peek under the couch, they're not there. She hopes they're not by the bed. She quietly pads over to the solarium: nothing.

She's about to give up as she wanders over to the front door, until she has to bite back a yelp as she nearly trips over her confounded heel. She catches herself on the console table by the door, her other hand covering her mouth. She whirls around to face the bed.

Michael barely moves an inch.

Heaving a quiet sigh of relief, Elsa glares at her little kitten heels as she picks them up by the straps. She places her hand on the silver handle when she pauses.

Looking back around at the room, at the rouge warrior asleep in the bed, she can't help but wonder why he moved her.

Why, after everything that had happened, would he want to be alone?

Why would he move her, not want her company?

Then again, what else can she do? If he doesn't want to talk about it, she certainly isn't going to make him pry, make him talk. Not after how haunted the encounter had left him.

Despite her better judgement, despite what he revealed to her last night, maybe leaving him alone was best. Maybe she can come and check on him during a break in her schedule. She'll offer her company then and see what he does.

Her eyes fall upon the tunic draped over the couch. The stark color of blue in the light shines like a sapphire, like the color of his eyes.

Before she can think of a proper reason, Elsa is walking over to the couch, snatching the tunic, and is briskly walking out of the room.

She reminds herself to close the door quietly before she continues her pace down the hall. To where, she doesn't really know.

Her rooms. That makes sense. She's wearing the same dress as yesterday, and she's carrying Michael's tunic for a reason she can't find.

She was sweating in it last night. Her perfume is all over it; and he will probably hate the smell and think she's rude for not washing it. So she has to clean it; it's the right thing to do.

Keep telling yourself that, a small voice says.

As she turns the corner, heading for the spiraling staircase, Elsa yelps when she nearly careens into a young servant woman. She places her hand on her chest with a sigh as the woman says, "Oh Your Majesty, I'm so sorry."

"No, no, no, no it's fine." Elsa says between breaths. "I was lost in thought."

The young woman nods, smoothing the apron tied over the skirt of her castle uniform. "I was actually on my way to get you."

Elsa blinks, her breathing finally steady. "Y-you were?"

"Yes," she clears her throat. "Sir Tuller had requested I come and retrieve you if you weren't out of the room by this afternoon."

The words slowly seep into Elsa like molasses. Did he really not want her there . . .?

No, not after what he revealed to her – that vulnerability, the rawness in his emotion . . . maybe her idea of him wanting to be alone wasn't far off – at least she hopes.

"He – he spoke to you?" Elsa asks, trying to ignore the jealously seeing into her heart.

The woman nods, but quickly adds, "He looked really exhausted, Your Majesty. Maybe he just needs time to rest."

So it would seem.

She'll still check on him in the early evening. He likely won't eat lunch, but he should be up in time to eat some dinner.

Elsa clears her throat, blinking out of her trance. "I see. Well, I'll be returning to my room. Tell Kai to meet me in the council room to go over my schedule today."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

With a quick bow, she turns and hurries back the way she came. Elsa turns her back to her and exhales through her mouth. She continues to her room, hugging his tunic closer to her as she turns down the familiar hallway.

She doesn't bother knocking on Anna's door under the assumption she's probably still sleeping with Kristoff. She hasn't even seen Olaf, another person she thought would come looking for her. Her heart hurts at the wonder of where the snowman went after what she had to tell him what happened.

Her skin crawls as she remembers the image of his foot stained with someone's blood. Permeated from stepping in a puddle of it and not even realizing.

Elsa shakes her head, forcing herself to forget the image when she reaches her room. As she walks over to her closet, she tosses his tunic onto her bed, her hands reaching back and unzipping the dress – an exact remodel of when she took it off last night. Her cheeks warm at the thought.

As she tosses the dress into the whicker hamper, a chill whispers across her arms and legs, pebbling her nipples. And she can't stop the next image to appear in her head: Michael's arm wrapped around her waist, tugging her closer to him as she feels his warmth, so similar to cuddling up next to a fire on a rainy day. Feeling of his breath against her hair, the way he rested his chin on her head; the steady beating of his head as she nuzzled into the crook of his neck –

A knock on her door snaps Elsa out of her trance, like being pulled out of a witch's spell.

Through the wood and metal, she can hear her sister's voice. "Elsa?"

If it still hadn't sounded so pained, wobbling with fresh sobs that make her sister's voice tremble in that way that made Elsa's stomach sink, she would've just pretended she was asleep.

But Elsa calls out, "One second! I'm getting dressed!"

And in a flurry of skirts and petticoats, slips and socks, Elsa is settled into a new gown of mint green. It's fitted bodice and sleeves somehow compliment the blooming skirt that comes to hover barely an inch above her toes.

She runs her fingers through her hair in an attempt to smooth it before opening the door and finding her still-distraught sister wringing the tip of her thumb.

"Anna." Elsa says with raised brows.

"Hey."

"I didn't expect to see you this early in the morning."

Anna steps in without being invited; not that she needs to. After years of keep her door shut in her sister's face, Elsa found it a miracle her sister still bothered to knock at all these days.

"Yeah, I just – I needed some air; go for a walk."

With the curtains of her room pulled back, Elsa can see her sister's eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks pink. "Have you been crying?"

Anna nods, her eyes watering as if the words had released whatever self-control she managed to scrap together before coming here. Her sister turns away, rubbing her nose along the back of her hand with a heavy sniff.

Elsa walks up to her sister, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. They embrace for a minute before she guides Anna to the bed. "What's wrong?"

"Well, at first it was all from worrying about Kristoff and seeing him in that state with Sven –"

"Are they okay?"

Anna nods, managing a smile that reaches her eyes – only just barely. "Yeah. Yeah, they're going to be fine. Some bad bruising along both of their ribs, Sven has a sprained ankle, and a slight concussion, but he should be fine if he just rests."

"Anything else with Kristoff?"

A shake of her sister's head. It catches in the white light, making it look like liquid copper. "No. Other than that, the doctors said he should be fine. He's got some bumps on his head, but he tells me he'll be fine. Thick skull and all."

"Then what's the matter?"

"Nothing really. Now, it's just all the relief." Anna sniffs, Elsa fetching her a handkerchief. "The relief to know that he's not going to die, or he doesn't have any life-threatening injuries; that I'm not going to lose him, even when I almost did. And just . . . a gratefulness towards Michael. Because without him . . ."

She can't bring herself to finish the sentence. Anna folds her lips in, and Elsa places a hand over her sister's – Anna's hand holding the handkerchief so tight her knuckles are white.

"I just, can't believe his first instinct was to save Kristoff, and not himself."

Elsa is quiet for a moment before saying, "I can."

Anna looks to her. More color has flushed to her cheeks, and the tip of her nose. Elsa shrugs. "He's a soldier, Anna. Or, was at least. He doesn't just forget all that training; especially if it's all he knows."

"I just didn't realize how much he cares about Kristoff; and probably cares for all of us." Elsa nods. "I mean, we're on good terms – have been since the ball – but I thought there was still this, disconnection, that we had. Glad to see I was wrong, but I wonder what else he might be hiding."

"Or shielding, for better words."

"I'm just so touched. And forever grateful." She blows her nose, Elsa cringing at the sound, and wipes her eyes on the back of her hand. She turns to Elsa. "So, how's Michael."

Elsa's heart jars into her throat, even when she feels the sudden fast beating in her chest. She swallows it down, clearing her throat. She turns her gaze to her knees. "He's . . . coping."

Anna's brows knit together in worry. "Is he okay?"

Elsa shrugs. "Physically: he'll be fine. But his mind . . ."

Her shoulders slack as she remembers the haunted gleam in his eyes, the way his voice choked upon his confession of what that woman dragged him through.

"Look, this has to stay between you and me. Do not mention anything else unless he says so. Okay?"

Curiosity and an underlining seriousness fills her sister's cerulean eyes.

Elsa takes a breath as she closes her eyes. "Michael confided to me that he lost his parents. He didn't say how, and I didn't pay it much heed because, we had something in common. But now . . ." she swallows past her tightening throat. "Now I'm wondering . . . he might've lost his parents in a horrible way."

She can't stop the hitching in her tone, not as she drifts her gaze outwards, staring into nothing.

"He said that, at the temple, before he had a magical eruption, there was a woman there. And she was in town during the explosion. He . . . he said she dragged him through his memories . . . and not the good ones."

Anna has gone completely still.

"When I got out there, all I saw was this . . .mass of darkness. It had no distinct shape, until I saw Michael break through it. And he looked . . . so different. The color was drained from his skin, he was covered in his own vomit and . . . that's the most terrified I've seen him look."

"I didn't know." Anna says, almost as if to defend herself.

Elsa gives a lifeless chuckle. "It's not your fault. He didn't tell us, and we didn't ask. But look, I'm telling you this in confidence. Don't. Say. Anything."

Anna nods her head in agreement.

"He's resting in his room and has been since last night. He seemed more, clearheaded than before, but his eyes still look so . . . haunted."

"Should we check on him?"

Elsa shakes her head "I just left his rooms not too long ago. Let's just let him sleep for now and we'll see how he is for dinner."

Another nod from Anna, and a knock at the door turns both sisters' heads. Elsa gets up, smoothing the skirt of her gown as she answers. Behind it stands Kai, his hands folded behind him in his usual posture, but Elsa can see his eyes still clouded, his face seemingly gaunt.

"Your Majesty." He says with a dip of his chin.

"Good afternoon, Kai."

The steward's eyes flick to Anna behind him, giving another dip of his chin. Anna rises from the bed and wipes her eyes before balling the handkerchief in her hand.

"How are things around town?" Elsa asks as she motions Anna to step outside. She lets her sister go first before following, silently closing the door behind her.

The three of them begin to walk down the hall. "Well, the courtyard has been cleared, workers are already cleaning up the . . . mess." He says with a tight swallow. "Unfortunately, we did have losses in the initial explosion; the numbers between the dead and the injured are constantly changing."

In her periphery, Elsa could see her sister grow pale.

"What did they discover, if anything?"

"Well . . . the Captain of the Guard is still waiting for some confirmation from Michael, as there have been many reports matching his description – indicating he was in the area – but it's been led to believe that the initial incident happened at the clock tower. Some guards found evidence tying it to the incident."

"Anything else?" Kai's silence makes her turn to him, and she finds him gravely pale. "Kai?"

The steward snaps his gaze to her, as if broken by a witch's spell. He folds his lips in and clears his throat. "Yes, well. The did find . . . a body."

The three of them pause their walking. To Elsa's surprise, it's Anna who asks, "Of what?"

Kai looks like he's going to be sick. "I wish to not recall the exact details, Your Highness, but . . . it was something that looked very similar to what was at the Suitor's Ball."

Elsa can feel her heart jump in her chest. A cough from Anna makes Elsa think she's going to be sick.

"A demon?" Elsa asks. A grave nod from the steward. "Was it . . . dead?"

"Yes, thank goodness." The steward's face seems to lighten at the fact. "And there was another thing, the captain reported about some strange markings found under the soot and smoke of the scene."

Elsa turns to Anna, speaking to her directly. "Michael had mentioned about a strange looking alphabet at the murder scene."

"Think they could be related?" Anna asks.

"Maybe, but I'm not certain. I'd rather have Michael look and confirm."

Kai asks, "Shall I fetch him for you, My Lady?"

"No. No let him rest, for now. I'll check on him later this evening."

The steward gives another dip of his chin. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Should I even ask what's on the agenda for today?" Elsa asks, unable to hide the groan in her tone, but Kai doesn't seem to mind.

"Well, we do have plenty of paperwork from yesterday's events."

Papers that she has to write and sign, giving her condolences for the loss of so many loved ones – men, women, children . . . She'll also have to sign insurance papers, granting the mourning families the compensation. And all the while, it will never feel like enough.

Her stomach churns at the thought: of people starting to grow restless, and angry; staring to lose faith in her because their magically endowed queen couldn't save their loved ones. Because their magical queen didn't spring into action when a magically summoned demon had invaded the town square. She's still making it up to all of them for the eternal winter she set of three years ago – though truthfully, in her mind, she will never be able to make it up to them. And though she may bear the weight of the crown, she doesn't want to live in constant fear of trying to please her people.

She will always do what's best for Arendelle and will do everything she can within both realms of her power to protect them and listen to their problems. But she will never grovel at the feet of her subjects.

Anna must've sensed her growing anxiety, because she feels the warm fingers wrap around her hand, locking them together like two fitted puzzle pieces. Elsa looks to her sister and gives an appreciative smile.

"If you need any help, I'm here." Anna says.

Elsa gives a sad smile and nods. "I'd like that."

Perhaps it'll also mean more to the families to have condolences from both the queen and princess.

Elsa loops her arm around Anna's, the two sisters pressing their heads together as they resume their walk towards the office.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur, Elsa too preoccupied with Michael and wondering when he'll get up. She had only managed to shift her focus as she and Anna took turns writing out all the letters and signing all the documents that needed to be sent out to the affected families. Despite the overall template being the same, Elsa is both grateful and hurt at the seemingly insensitivity.

She and Anna would always start their letters with the same introduction, expressing their condolences for their loss, and ending it with a sum of money that is to be granted to the persons. With every stroke of the pen, Elsa can't fight the oily pit of despair in her stomach.

How old was the one couple's son?

How long until the fiancé was to get married?

How long would they have they been married?

How many relatives did they have?

Was he a father? A grandfather? An uncle?

Was she an aunt? A sister? A mother?

Who are they leaving behind?

The questions kept burning with each sign of her name, but Elsa kept going until her hand cramped, and even then, she would only allow herself a minute to massage and rest until she resumed writing despite Anna, and even Kai's protests.

By the end of the grueling signing – for today – one of the servants had fixed a pack of ice for her, wrapped in a cold cloth and telling her to rest it on top of her hand until she turns in for the night. Elsa wanted to do more, insisting she can just use her magic to cool her frayed nerves and tendons, but Anna had to literally pry the pen from her hand – not because of Elsa's refusal, but because her fingers were stuck in that position. Kai ended the signings for today, promising to send them all out tomorrow morning.

As she now walks down the hall, alone, constantly flexing her fingers and pressing the ice pack to the back of her knuckles, Elsa sighs as she meanders her way towards the dining hall where she can already smell the sweet steam of a large buffet.

Anna had left her once the meeting was over to go and check on Kristoff. She had mentioned he'll be bed ridden for a couple of days, and she now has the job of checking on both him and Sven, since the reindeer has to be kept in the stables.

Elsa passes by a grandfather clock, noting the time to be five in the evening. If there was any time to check on Michael it would be now. None of his servants came to her with any concerns, which she hopes means he's at least out of bed. She takes the stairs to his floor, becoming more and more familiar with the route to his rooms. As she approaches his door, she realizes she should have stopped somewhere just to get rid of the ice pack.

Regardless, she's here now, and balances the pack on her forearm as she uses her left hand to knock. She's gentle at first, careful not to startle him too much. But there's no answer.

She presses her hear against the wood of the door, not able to hear anything beyond. She knocks again, harder this time in case he's somewhere on the other side of his suite, perhaps even in the solarium.

Still nothing.

With her heart starting to race, she has to remind herself that none of the servants came and told her anything was wrong. None of them came to her with concerns or worried expressions –

Still Elsa grabs the handle and nearly flings to door open, the handle catching on her fingers, preventing it from crashing into the wall. At first, she scans the room too quickly to notice the lump of sheets on his bed. As she approaches, her heart sinks when she can't see a trace of sun-tanned skin. There's no rustling of the sheets, no sluggish moans –

There he is.

Sound asleep. The sheets and comforter have been twisted and tossed around, and Michael lays belly-down on the bed, wrapped around a pillow. The position is almost identical to the one he had been in yesterday, flung over Kristoff.

He really has been asleep this entire time.

She knew she should wake him, get him up and eat something, at least. Yet she can't bring herself to touch his bare shoulder. Can't bring herself to stir him from the gentle cradle of sleep that has softened his features into handsomeness. It's the most at peace he's looked, even if he spoke to a servant about getting Elsa out of his rooms.

Carefully approaching the bed, Elsa minds the sounds of her slippers as she comes up to his side of the mattress. She can only hope his mind is as peaceful as he looks.

She traces her finger along the tips of his hair, drawing a line across his forehead until she tucks a few behind his ear. He doesn't stir. This kind of exhaustion, it's bone deep. The kind that has the whole-body ache in a collective soreness that can only be solved by rest.

He can't stop her eyes from drifting to his broad shoulders, following the dip of his spine down his back. She can't stop her cringe as her eyes settle upon the brutal scars that commandeer his skin like jagged claws. Littler ones lay sprinkled about, some small and thin, other thick and deep. She can't help but wonder what scar came from where – or whom. A map of adventures, some would say. Badges of honor; made to be worn like the finest jewelry, to prove to the world that a person can get through anything.

But Michael isn't one to flaunt, and yet why wouldn't he get the scars healed?

Elsa's fingertips drift to his shoulder, bumping over what looks like a little necklace of scars, as if he got bit by something. She moves her hand until her palm presses against his shoulder, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath.

Her hand moves up his shoulder towards his back, following the curve of his spine and feeling the bumps of the scars as they pass under her palm.

She makes it to middle of his back before he shifts, near frightening her out of her skin. She claps a hand on her chest as she takes three steps back, but Michael just quietly moans before rolling onto his side, cocooning himself further into the mess of sheets as he faces her direction.

When he settles, she approaches again, but this time she keeps her hand on his shoulder as she attempts to awaken him.

"Michael," she whispers, as soft and as melodic as she can. He barely moves his head, his black hair spilling onto the white sheet of the pillow. She tries again. "Michael."

This time his eyes tighten for a second before they flutter open, staring directly at her.

They look more aware than before, their color resuming to look like the sapphires she uses as her tell.

"Hi." She says with a smile. The only one she hasn't faked today; but it's short lived when she gets little reaction from him. "It's almost five in the evening, if you want dinner."

His gaze averts her in contemplation. He almost seems as still as a mountain lion before it pounces, safe for the rising and falling of shoulders. She didn't think anyone could become that still.

He still doesn't say anything.

Instead, when she removes her hand from his shoulder, he reaches out and grasps it. He looks at it as if it were a precious gemstone, rubbing his thumb along the back of her knuckles. She almost wonders if he's delusional – though he's awake, part of his mind is still in the dreamworld, unaware of what's going on, or what he's doing.

But when his eyes look to her again, they become the most focused in recent days. Like he's fighting back the wave of exhaustion enough to utter these words to her.

"Thank you." His voice is hoarse; likely from not drinking enough – if any – water today. But she doesn't have the heart to demand even that from him.

So all she does is cradle his hand between hers, leaning over and brushing a delicate kiss along his knuckles. "Please consider coming to dinner."

It's all she can request. It's the simplest suggestion she can offer, and even then, she can see his eyes cloud again at the thought of having to move. She doesn't blame him. How could she when he's saved her, her sister, and her kingdom more times in a few weeks than some can in their lifetime.

She brushes another encouraging kiss on the back of his hand before setting it down. With not much to lose, Elsa runs her fingers through his hair, combing all the way to the back of his neck. He can't get over how little he looks, like a lost child looking for the comfort of a mother.

He blinks twice as his response, and Elsa clears her throat before turning and stepping down from the dais on which the bed sits. She makes it to the door before looking over her shoulder at him.

Now he's shifted to lean on one elbow, the other arm draped along his hip where the sheet settles just below his waist.

Elsa bites her tongue on how enticing the image looks. She looks away and forces herself to open the door and step out into the hallway. She closes the door behind her without another glance.

She keeps her chin high and her head straight as she heads towards the banquet hall. She walks in and finds Olaf sitting at the table for six. A door opens from the opposite side of the room and in steps Anna, looking like she's just come from tending to Kristoff. The sisters round the table to one another, sharing a deep embrace before giving one to Olaf.

They each take their seats, the servants immediately coming in and presenting napkins and silverware, and wine.

As they begin the first course, Elsa keeps peering at the door on either side of the room, hoping he'll walk in at some point.

She keeps waiting, keeps looking, even as they work their way through each course. It isn't until the desserts come does she let her heart sink; only kept afloat from the way he looked at her – with such pain and fatigue.

Michael never joins them for dinner.

Michael doesn't even get out of bed that day. And he doesn't get out of it the next.

Or the day after that.

Or the day after that.