To those who followed and faved, thanks a bunch! I hope you enjoy this chapter. It was a whole lotta fun to write.

Chapter Two

Imperious Isis and Linguistic Recollections

Poke. Poke, poke. "Anna."

Through her sleep, the princess lightly bats at Elsa's gentle prodding.

"Annaaaaa," the queen softly intones, "We're stopping."

"Mnnnh, m'we're… stomphing…" eyelids flutter, a bleary smile graces, but she's still deep under.

Olaf has already left the carriage, and there just outside the door he stretches his back and touches his snowball toes. Snowmen get sore?

Outside, it's a dewy and young night. The sun has just fallen to sleep, and the storm had passed as swiftly as it came, as though banished by God Himself. Curious. Strange and curious. That storm had bested Elsa's winter, something she never thought was possible.

"Anna," Elsa shakes her sister again, making the princess's head bob, "You've napped for hours."

There is a long satisfactory exhale, and Anna blinks awake. She sits upright, "We've stopped?"

"Yes. We're staying at The Bee's Barb."

"Mmmmhhh," fingertips brush the carriage ceiling as Anna stretches, "It smells like rain."

Elsa privately marvels at her sister's once comatose state. Anna is left thoroughly unaware of the storm that had buffeted and jostled the carriage. She wonders as they leave the coach if she would someday manage such deep slumber.

Lanterns akin to bobbing will-o'-the-wisps bustle about outside their coach. It's as dark now as it was while the storm was upon them, and the first stars wink jovially in the midnight-blue of sky. Elsa parts from the carriage, followed by Anna, who's greeted by her ladies-in-waiting. They go about fixing her hair and unruffling her clothes as their princess begins dramatizing a dream.

"Glad to have that wretched weather behind us, Your Majesty," one of Elsa's own ladies-in-waiting, Helga, brings her queen a towel so she can further dry her platinum-blonde hair, "Which way do you think it's headed? My dear beloved is traveling to Corona. I hate the thought of him caught up in that deluge."

"Which way?" Scoffs Frigga, a round lady approaching her fifties. She helps Elsa out of her shroud, which is still heavy from the sopping rainwater. "Saw it dissolve into nothing with my very own eyes! Witchcraft, I tell you."

Elsa thinks of how the storm overcame her own magic. She doesn't completely disagree. Helga, on the other hand...

"You're being superstitious, Frigga," Helga examines Elsa's face, "The makeup will have to go for now, Your Majesty."

"It's all smudged?"

"It's all smudged?!" Frigga guffaws, "You look like a thespian jester!"

An amused Elsa accepts another cloth to wipe clean her face. Olaf has strode ahead to chat enthusiastically with a horse boy, who leads two clydesdales to the waiting stables. There's a distant 'bang bang bang!' as Sergeant Affersson beats his gloves knuckles against The Bee's Barb's front door.

"Have you the treasury box?" Elsa asks Helga.

"Treasury box?" Helga takes the cloth back and slings the rain shroud over her own shoulder, "Whyever would we need the treasury box?"

"Oh bless her!" Frigga suddenly gushes and takes Elsa's arm, "She thinks we'll need to pay!"

The two erupt into a fit of high-octave chortles. Elsa stares, uncomprehending.

"Elsa, dear," Frigga reels in her glee, "You're the queen. They should be thanking you that you choose to stay in their dingy little-,"

"I," Elsa interjects pointedly, "think it's a nice place. And we couldn't ask the innkeep to house us without pay."

"Of course we can." Helga makes for the servant's coach, "Benefits of royalty, my dear queen!"

An owl's call is heard, which turns Elsa's head to a forest bordering the road. It gapes at her, dark and beckoning, as though it dares her to venture amongst its pillars of trees and lose herself in the thickets.

A darting shadow draws Elsa's attention, eyeshine from some small and unseen beast gleaming at her. A wolf? No, too small. Perhaps a fox. She inches closer, careful not to startle the creature, and her heart quickens when she realizes what she sees is not eyeshine at all, but a pair of luminescent amber eyes.

Elsa blinks. They're gone, and she wonders if she had imagined them. It has been a long day...

"Olaf!"

Anna's half-amused outcry makes the queen jump. Heart adrum, Elsa clutches her chest and spins about. "Anna! Don't do that!"

"Do what?" Anna is busy tugging a fallen branch from where Olaf's carrot nose should have been, "Olaf is the one shoving strange things in his face."

"It's my belated third birthday!" the indignant snowman declares, "I'm do for a makeover."

"Olaf…" Elsa sighs in gentle reprimand as she stoops to take up the discarded carrot, "We love your carrot n-... third birthday?"

"That's right." Olaf goofily giggles at his mother's silliness, "I'm three months old two days ago."

Elsa and Anna share a look, and at once they both crouch down to eye-level with the snowman.

"Olaf," Her voice soft and almost sing-song, Anna takes the carrot from her sister and pushes nose back into face, "That's not how birthdays work."

"They're annual," Elsa helps Olaf adjust his nose, "Not monthly."

The snowman looks from Anna to Elsa, and then vice versa. "I have to wait a whole year?"

"Unfortunately," Anna grumbles under her breath. She had long ago the very same misgivings for her own birthday, Elsa recalls.

"When your birthday comes, the entire kingdom will celebrate it," Elsa promises. Ahead, she can see the inn's door open, a shaft of firelight spanning over the path that leads to the porch. "I'm going to make it snow just for you. And there will be a parade."

Olaf Who Likes Warm Hugs wore a smile that was so wide, so outrageous and contagious that the sisters could neither resist its charm nor did they want to.

The landlady and innkeep of The Bee's Barb greeted the nobles and their subjects with grand vigor, introducing herself as Becky Barb. She is a burly gorilla of a woman, with a toothy grin of yellowing tombstones and hands that can likely crush melons. She apparently finds the royal sisters' arrival to be a splendid marketing opportunity, and she immediately sets about arranging mugs of draft for her abundance of shivering customers.

The whole company manages to fit themselves in the lounge, though a few guards stand aside occupied chairs and lean against tables. Lodging arrangements are made with a 50% discount, for the blessed privilege of their majesties gracing The Barb, so the innkeep had put it.

"Benni!" She beats her meaty fists against a door that must lead to the kitchens, "Git yer grubby behind out here an' greet our royal guests!"

There's a deep, prolonged moan. The entire floor positively shakes with heavy footsteps as something gargantuan approaches the door. When the door swings open to reveal who stands beyond it, Elsa wonders how the giant had fit through the threshold to begin with.

He has to stoop to peer through the doorway, revealing a face that boasts a jutting underbite, from which protrudes a large tooth. The humongous man bashfully waves with both hands, twice as large as his sister's.

An impressed Anna waves back.

Tables are moved from the bed of coals spanning down the middle of the lounge so that guards could lay their heavy and sopping uniforms out to dry. Heavy quilt blankets are passed, and Elsa politely refuses one; she is already almost dry and unbothered by the cold. Though she does choose a spot close to the warmth, and gratefully accepts steaming coffee from the ecstatic innkeep. Privately, she would have preferred tea.

Before an hour passes, yawns are rolling from mouths. A few horse boys are already asleep on the floor, and even the most resilient fight the heaviness in their eyes. One girl who Becky had said was her scullion, Tilda, had begun a soft tune on her nyckelharpa. Unlike her audience, she stares with a quiet focus into the burning coals, and Elsa distantly wonders on what could be on the girl's mind. She is occasionally glancing at the front door, as though she expects it to suddenly come crashing down.

Had the storm scared Tilda as much as it did her? Or is she expecting somebody?

Lodging arrangements are made. Elsa talks directly with the innkeep, making it clear that none of her men is staying out in the poorly-conditioned barn. They will stay in the inn where it's warm, even camp in the lounge if need be. When Becky betrays traces of indignation, Elsa adds, "Miss Barb, if it makes you more comfortable, I could construct a giant igloo just outside of your property."

The innkeep considers this. She doesn't know what an igloo is, but it sounds like a potential loss of revenue. At length, she concedes with a bow. "The lounge it is, Majesty."

Tilda finishes a number and when she stands to leave, there are cries for an encore. Claps, cheers, and whistles accompany her smiling return to her spot, and this last song is soft and seizes attention at once. This time she sings over strings.

Idle on the hill

Rest upon a heath

Lie upon a summit

Its stones an ancient wreath

...

Barley in the field

Honey in the comb

All is warmth and comfort

All is hearth and home

...

Lay down thy weary head

Let others lift thy load

Resume another day

Thy journey on the Road

All is still and quiet when Tilda finishes. The strings carry on a single note that keeps her audience captive, and it's when the nyckelharpa falls silent that Elsa hears it.

Skrit skrit skrit.

A faint scratching. Is it rodents in the walls? Olaf notices it too when the sound returns, his head lifting from futile attempts of drinking milk. "Who is scratching their claws against wood?" He loudly asks.

When Tilda spots the snowman, she nearly falls back into Sergeant Affersson. "What on God's good earth is-,"

Many things happen at once.

First, in response to Tilda's shock, Olaf raises both his arms as though a crossbow is aimed at him. He has forgotten about the mug of warm milk he clutches in one hand, the contents of the mug splashing into the innkeep's face. As the innkeep roars, the guard who had thought to check the door for the scratching jerks and flings it open, and in charges a gray blur.

This gray blur tears through the crowded lounge. Guards, servants, and horse boys lunge aside, falling over one another in their efforts to avoid the creature. A dosing Sergeant Affersson yells and falls off his stool as the thing leaps into his lap, then dashes across the length of the counter. Mugs, plates, bowls, and spoons clatter to the floor as the blur streaks with an appalling speed.

One guard flings his uniform coat over the creature. "I got it!" He cries. He is wrong. The innkeep is still shrieking, scrubbing furiously at her face and cursing the 'damned snowman's slippery twigs'. Anna is offended by this, and demands an apology, which Elsa hardly thinks necessary given their frenzied predicament.

A game of catch ensues. Boys and large military men barrel after the little beast that zooms to and fro between legs, under chairs, and over tables, toppling every piece of kitchenware in its destructive path. Tilda is still pointing at Olaf, utterly speechless of a snowman who walks and talks, and she lifts her instrument as though she is fending off a demon.

An abrupt chill slices through the chaos, and many more things happen at once. Two snowballs slap Anna and the innkeep in the side of their heads, effectively halting their bickering. Every living thing in the lounge pulls back from Elsa, for the cold that wafts from her is near unbearable. The creature is on the counter again in rabid retreat. But before it reaches the counter's edge, Elsa points with one slender finger.

There's an aggrieved yowl; it's been trapped in an elaborate cage of ice.

"It's a cat?" A nameless guard squints.

"It's a cat!"

"What was it doin' outside?"

"It's a stray, you dolt."

As murmurs drift about the company, both Elsa and Anna lean over the cage to gain a better look. Indeed it is a cat. A wet, frazzled, rabid-looking cat that paces irritably about in its prison. When it stops to glare murderously at Elsa, she recognises those burning eyes of amber.

"You were in the woods," she mutters, touching the cage.

The arch in the cat's back recedes. Better to endure imprisonment with dignity, it must've supposed, for it sits on its haunches with regal posture and grooms the back of its paw.

"Isis..." Anna reads from its collar, "Hello, Isis."

The cat pauses only to stare blankly. Then it resumes its grooming.

A curious thing to find an owned cat so far from society. The closest speck of civilization, by her own knowledge and Odd's, is a farming village called Mazpils. Sigland is a day's travel north, but collared cats are often the property of wealthy folk. While Baron Sigir and his wife Henna are well off, they hate cats. How had that discussion come about… oh yes, they had mistaken Olaf as a royal pet. Anna was outraged.

"Where did you come from, Isis?" Elsa wonders aloud.

"Are you hungry, girl?" Anna leans closer, tracing the fanciful designs of the bird cage, "I can get you fish. Miss Barb! Do you have fish?"

The innkeep had just finished brushing the residue of Elsa's attack from her course brown hair. She makes a begrudging noise, "Aye."

The lounge had settled. Many eyes are on Isis and the cage their queen had conjured, but some are lifting tables and moving them aside to make room for bedrolls. Tilda is sitting in a chair, still staring at Olaf, albeit calmer. Her instrument rests in her lap now as she listens, completely enthralled, to the origin story of Olaf Who Likes Warm Hugs. Anna retires for the night, hugging Elsa.

Sergeant Affersson is rubbing his tired eyes, but immediately responds to Elsa's summons. He reports to her, wholly professional even outside of uniform. The image of formality isn't even shattered by his wooly socks, boots set aside to dry. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"My servants have retired," she gestures towards the open door that leads to the second floor, "And I know that nobody has worked harder today than you. But I must request that you accompany me for some business. It won't take long."

He bows his head without hesitation, without even a hint of despondency. And so as men begin their sleep all around them, Elsa and the sergeant sit at a table and work by lantern light. Affersson passes his queen unopened documents, through which she skims with but half a mind. Most of it is trade route sums: which goes to where and why. Her queenship is fresh, and the trade of Arendelle still requires study.

By the flickering lantern's light Elsa lifts a large map that shows color-coded routes. Thoughts returning to the mysterious Isis, the queen frowns down at their position. Even The Bee's Barb is displayed there, and the reality of their remote location is further realized. Sigland truly was far off. Even Mazpils was a two days travel. Could the cat have come from Vennesske? That wasn't much further than Mazpils.

Traveling merchants or nobles? Perhaps. They might have gotten caught up in the storm...

Elsa crosses the lounge, careful to avoid splayed limbs of snoring men, and sits at the counter atop which the cat was still imprisoned. The collar is a magnificent piece of work, truly the craft of a skilled (and expensive) smith. Isis stares at Elsa with those sun-like orbs, apprehension giving way to apparent fascination. The creature dips her head and mews, leaning closer to the queen.

"I'll take you out," Elsa says, "If you promise not to make a mess of things."

No answer from Isis.

"I just want a closer look at that fine collar you have," she continues, "I know you can't talk. You can't even understand me."

The cat is still looking at her, unmoving.

"Okay." Elsa taps the cage and a door is fashioned out of the slim bars. The door swings open, and quicker than Elsa can react the cat darts from captivity and streaks across the room.

The queen winces, but there was no need. Not a sound is made as Isis alights on the chair on which Elsa had been sitting not a minute ago. Affersson, who's dozed off, is unaware of the lithe creature.

Elsa follows the cat. "Good girl." At least she assumes it's a girl.

Isis climbs on the table and prowls about its rim, pausing only to sniff the half empty cup of coffee that had long since cooled. Unperturbed, the egyptian mau laps at the contents and mewls when Elsa sits at her chair once again.

"Let me see…" the queen reaches for Isis's collar and the bronze pendant dangling there. When the cat doesn't move, Elsa asks, "Please?"

Isis concedes, drawing closer so Elsa can touch the pendant. She flips the face side to see if a mark of ownership is inscribed. No such luck. Even the collar itself is of high quality. Fine cord elaborately hand-woven. It's a meticulous work. Elsa almost feels guilty that she can replicate this artist's craft with a mere thought.

The cat finally pulls away from the queen's scrutiny and bends to examine the documents splayed on the table. Elsa props an elbow and cups her chin, watching as Isis sniffs about the large trade map.

"Cutie."

Tink. Splat. Isis has knocked over an inkwell.

Elsa gasps and draws back as the black ink spills over her fingers, "No!" She hisses, "Bad cat!"

But Isis betrays no interest in Elsa's scolding as she scampers across the table to leave inky paw prints over reports, summaries, and letters. Affersson snorts awake as Isis rebounds off his chest and stops again at the trade route map. Staring at Elsa, she raises one ink-soaked paw.

The queen's eyes narrow, "Don't. You. Dare."

Unimpressed, Isis slaps her paw down on the map.

Elsa rises, reaching out to snatch the cat, but she's half a second too slow. Isis is gone in an instant, a trail of black paws left in her wake. Simmering with quiet outrage, the queen slowly lowers herself back into her chair. She feels Affersson's eyes on her, and without looking at him she says, "Sergeant, shoot that cat next time you see it."

The sergeant checks his ink-stained shirt. "Yes, Your Majesty."

o0o

The morning yields smell of eggs and frying beacon, but that's not what wakes Princess Anna. Nor is the the shaft of morning light that beams from the room's only window. Rather, it's the singing.

Anna has always been a deep sleeper and a slow waker. Elsa tells her she's this way to make up for all the times she used to get up "when the sky's awake". Kristoff says it's because she must be half troll.

This morning's waking ritual is no different.

First comes the faint mumbling. A small corner of her mind recognizes the song, and her lips moves with the words. Then come the twitches, the mild shuffling, and the slight changes of breath.

And then, after a few long minutes crawl by, the demon rises. A mass of fire that stands and coils in every direction imagined, surrounding the half-asleep, freckled face of the princess who smacks her lips and tilts her head to the distant song.

Six men stayed behind

to guard their gold;

The other six in heathen lands

brandished steel cold.

...

They rode out of Frankish lands

With spoils in their saddles.

Blow your horn, Olifant

At Roncevaux.

The breakfasters downstairs begin drumming on their tables in time with the song.

They fought at Roncevaux

For two days, if not three;

And the sun could not shine clear

Through the stench of men's blood

...

They rode out of Frankish lands

With spoils in their saddles,

Blow your horn, Olifant

At Roncevaux

Tilda's nyckeharpa joins the brogue of baritones, soliciting the cheers of her fans. An acapella begins as men attempt to sing notes far from their range. The musically-inclined men choose lower keys better suited for their voices, which introduces an odd and somehow charming clash to the song that further spurs it along.

Roland placed the horn on his bloodied mouth

And blew with all his might!

The earth shook and mountains resounded

For three days and three nights!

When it finishes, Anna is wholly awake and clapping, although nobody is there. Rolandskvadet is an old favorite; her papa used to sing on their quiet evenings. Mama never quite approved, with its bloody imagery and violent words, but Anna has always loved it. Papa would laugh and say it's history, and therefore educational.

She sits for a minute longer, clutching at her heavy chest as she lapses back to warm, safe evenings before a crackling hearth, where Elsa would play with snowflakes and their father's tenor would lull them to long yawns and happy, sleepy smiles. It doesn't last long; somebody shifts in the bed next to her, which jolts Anna from her bittersweet reveries.

Elsa is in the bed with her! There mustn't have been enough rooms available for them to have separate accommodations. How had she not noticed? The queen is still fast asleep, face perfectly lax and contented. Initial shock melts to gentle joy, and Anna smiles to herself and down at the picture of peace that is her beloved sister.

We've come a long way.

Belly growls for food. Time for breakfast and, hopefully, more music. But first, she must change into something appropriate, and attempt to tame this feral mane.

Downstairs, breakfast is enjoyed by the few who's woken. Half a dozen men, a couple boys, servants, and that scullion, Tilda. Anna thought the girl seemed sullen and quiet before, but now she looks truly dejected. Is she sitting in the same spot as she was last night?

"Hi," Anna stops beside the girl with a welcoming grin, "Are you okay?"

Tilda rubs a sunken eye and nods. But when she sees that it's the princess who addresses her, the scullion abruptly stands. "My Lady," she gasps, bowing at the waist, "Forgive me, I-,"

"Pfffffft," Anna waves her off and sits down beside the girl, "Puh-lease. I left the palace to escape all that. Anna." She shoves out her hand in greeting, and when Tilda doesn't take it, the princess wiggles her fingers, "... wwwwhich is my name." If that isn't already clear.

Tilda looks from the smiling and ruddy face before her to the proffered hand, then takes it. The smile is weak and tired, but there, and Anna is satisfied.

"Eat breakfast with me," Anna insists, and against Tilda's denials and nervous laughs, she is dragged to the occupied counter.

Benson the cook can be seen working his magic in the kitchen. A gravelly bass reaches them.

Yes, the eggs are good but the beer is be'er

And beacon smells like heaven's te'er

...

But guests should know eggs have mothers

And diners might squeal like pigs under butcher

A deep breath.

Oooooooooooh!

The eggs are migh'y good!

The eggs are migh'y good!

Jus' wait till we tell their mothers!

Anna laughs, unsure whether to be horrified or amused. "That's awful!"

There's a grunt, and Benson's mountainous mass stoops to peer through the door and at the princess. No attempt to bow or any other pleasantries are offered, and Anna likes it.

"Scrambled?" He asks, "Scrambled cost extra. Wa'er," he points at something beyond view, "Wa'er free. Ale not."

"Who drinks at the crack of dawn?" Anna is bemused.

Benson blinks, uncomprehending. "Any… one who… thirsty."

Everybody at the counter laughs. Benson still doesn't understand, so he returns to what he does best. Soon, two more plates are bobbing on their journey to Anna and Tilda.

Anna leans over the bar to gain a better view. "Olaf?"

Indeed, the snowman presents the both of them with breakfast. He has a napkin tied around his waist like a makeshift apron. "Goooood morning, ladies. Today we have eggs, scrambled, with grape tomatoes and toast with jelly."

"So," there are no forks, so Anna scoops up some eggs with the toast and crunches, "you thinking ophh taking a jawb as a wait?"

"I can't understand you with your mouth full. Oh!" His eyes bulge with glee when Isis practically saunters down the counter, pausing occasionally to sniff at the contents of a cup or plate. Her subjects yield offerings of food, for she is the benevolent goddess come to bless them in all their endeavors.

Or so Isis believes, it seems.

"Helloooo," Olaf speaks slowly with exaggerated enunciation, "I am Olaf and I like warm hugs!"

The cat stops to stare, as though only just noticing the miracle before her. Her amber eyes flick to the flurry above the snowman, to his carrot nose and wide, dark eyes.

When no answer is returned, Olaf leans closer, "... and you are...?"

"Mew."

"I don't speak cat yet, but I will adapt." Declares the ever optimistic Olaf.

Breakfast is splendid. It's so good, in fact, that Anna thinks about offering Benson a job at the palace. Not that they have bad cooks, but they're just not quite Benson's level.

She was considering on, should Benson accept the job offer, how they'd manage to fit him through the door when there's a sharp pain at her hand. "Ow! Hey!" Isis had nipped her knuckle, making insistent cat noises.

"You can have my food, I don't care. But nipping is rude!" Anna wags a finger under the cat's nose.

But Isis seems altogether disinterested in the princess's eggs and toast. She hisses and snaps at Anna's finger. "What's gotten into you?!"

"Cat's spoiled, milady," a guard calls, "I'd leave it be."

"If my dog treated me like that, I'd put the beast down." Another murmurs.

An aghast Anna whips her head about. "Who said that?"

Before the speaker is revealed, Isis pounces on her shoulders. Anna yelps and would have fallen over if Tilda had not righted her. The cat drops to the floor on nimble legs and darts across the room, whose occupants give a wide berth.

But a vexed Anna follows, her face growing red. "Now listen here you dreadful beast! Everybody knows that it's your duty and calling to be a furry little jerk, but who let you in, huh? Who gave you food?"

A young guard raises his hand, "I let it in." This gains him glares from his comrades, much to his embarrassment.

"He let you in!" Anna points, still glaring lightning at the cat, who now sits upon a table overflowing with parchments, "Start by thanking him!"

How the cat would do that is beyond anybody, but nobody seems privy to say so. They leave the eccentric princess be, returning to their idle chat and warm food.

Isis watches her with those unsettling bright eyes. Her gaze holds silent intensity, tail flicking with impatience. What is she doing? Is she waiting for her? Anna's scowl morphs to a puzzled frown as she reaches the table. The parchments there are covered entirely with splattering paw prints.

"Elsa's work?" She gasps, "You ruined Elsa's work?"

Anna doesn't have much experience with cats, which is why she thinks scolding one might get somewhere. If this creature isn't a stray, then it was thrown out by its owner! The princess reaches out to grab the cat, but stops short.

Paw prints stain the queen's work all over, but the spread map has but one. Not only that, but that single print covers their very location. Well, approximately. It half covers the illustration of a forest on the roadside, right next to The Bee's Barb. The prints everywhere are all in close proximity by comparison. So why is it that only one paw smudges the map, on a place so relevant besides?

The cat makes a gentle sound, prodding the same spot.

Is she… there's no way. Anna looks from the cat, then back to the map and the ink paw. There's absolutely no way…

"You," the princess tugs on her braids, "You're communicating."

Anna has beared witness to many strange and fantastic things. Her sister wields winter, Olaf is an animation of snow and sticks, her Kristoff was raised by trolls who tap into forces beyond her comprehension. Yes, she does believe magic exists. How could she not, with what she has been through?

There is much she does not know. There is much more she'll never understand, and in the years to come, she'll never quite aptly describe what folllows.

She stares into the cat's eyes, and somehow, someway, a voice without language or tone finds her mind. It's not loud or obtrusive. In fact, she can hardly hear it, like someone is calling from across a long tunnel.

Help me. I'm so afraid. Help me, please.

Anna is trembling now, her face inches from the cat's, whose eyes burn brighter like the heart of a star.

Is anyone there? I'm trapped.

Lips tremble. Emotions that are not her own spill into Anna. Fear, doubt, pain. Fear, doubt, pain. Fear, doubt, pain.

"Isis," Anna's breath quivers, "Isis, I don't understand."

Just as she says this, an image comes to her. A well, slouched in the center of a clearing. Moss clings to it, and it's riddled by scorch marks, as though Thor himself had cast his fury down upon it.

A forest. A well.

Help me. It hurts. Someone, please.

A refreshed Sergeant Affersson has just sit down for breakfast, greeted by claps on the back from his subordinates and (when off-duty), good friends. Even before food and coffee he is planning the trip ahead, and the route the queen had chosen last night.

Just as he digs a wood spoon into his oatmeal, the door opens and slams shut. He turns to find nothing but the rustling of parchment and that Tilda girl standing at the window.

"Who was that, girl?" The sergeant calls to her.

Tilda only glances at him as she makes for the door. There's a peculiar anger in her eyes as her fingers curl about the knob. "Nobody, mister. Enjoy your breakfast." And then she's off.

Affersson throws an arm over the backrest of his chair and watches her go with steady, hard eyes. Wasn't the princess just here a second ago?

"Everything good, sir?" Emil asks him, one of the youngest in his unit.

"I'm not sure, kid." Affersson takes a sip of his coffee and stands. He wishes it was whiskey. Mrs. Affersson would be glad it isn't. "If I'm not back in thirty, alert the queen."

"Yes sir."

And so he too leaves The Bee's Barb. As the door closes behind him, Emil glimpses a flintlock pistol tucked in the back of his sergeant's trousers.

o0o

She's not certain of what's come over her. Anna is chasing Isis, and her feet moves almost of their own volition. But that voices is still with her, spurring her along with an urgency she feels, yet doesn't understand.

She breaches the woods. Trees whip by as she pursues Isis, who dashes with grace under precarious roots and rocks of the narrow path. "Wait, wait!" Anna waves her arms as the cat bounds out of view.

She stops to rest against a tree, panting and looking up at the swaying branches. Sunlight peaks around them at her, and the leaves fall around her in orange and yellow swirls.

"Mrrrow." Isis is perched ahead, waiting for her.

"Okay," she takes a breath, "I'm coming. How're cats so fast?"

This time she follows the cat at a jog, careful of the woodland dangers. When she stops at another tree, it's for a different reason. It's face is a blackened crater, which Anna gingerly touches. Still warm.

Looking about her she finds that there are more trees dotted with scorch marks. Anna lifts her skirts as she steps over a protruding, gnarled root. "What happened here?" It's a question that isn't answered. Still, it unnerves her.

Minutes later, she finds the well.

It's a sad, squat, crooked thing, neglected by people but not time. The pulley system lays in a heap on the hillside, blown aside by the wind. Or perhaps it's been there for years. Anna orbits the well, looking about. "Hello? Anybody here?"

She stops to listen. Nothing. Isis sits on the well's lip, watching Anna intently. The princess calls again for who she heard in her mind, and again there's no answer. Leaning against the well's side, she gestures dubiously at the unblinking cat.

"Well? What's going on? Was that you I heard?"

Isis ignores her, instead bending over the well's mouth in search for something out of sight.

"What is it?" Anna asks the cat as she too cranes her neck to stare down at the shadowy bottom of the well. It doesn't go down too far, roughly twelve or fifteen feet. The diggers might have gotten lucky and struck water earlier than most. Or it was a failed well.

Something shifts, followed by a groan.

Anna pushes away from the well, crying in astonishment and shoving free a handful of pebbles.

Clatter, clatter. "Ow!" A male voice grunts, "that's my head!"

"Sorry!" Anna understands enough that he was hurt, "Sorry. You're…oh Holy Mother, you're in the well!?"

A length of silence. Then, "... What?"

Oh, English. He's speaking English. A traveler? Anna taps her temples and squeezes her eyes shut as she approaches the well, searching for the right words. She discarded much of her tutorship growing up, choosing instead to roam and play by herself in the palace. As royalty and possible heir to the crown, it was required of her to learn at least the five romances. Spanish, Italian, French, Portuguese, and English, as Arendelle is such a pivotal center of trade and one of the only kingdoms steadily producing ice. Anna failed her classes miserably at first, but was unbothered by her failures and irritated by the vast burden weighing on her. So her father came to her late one lonely evening. Not to yell or even lecture. King Agnar sat at the edge of teenage Anna's soft bed and told her how he was just like her at fifteen.

"Just like me, Papa?" Anna giggled in disbelief.

"Welll," Agnar chuckled and scratched his head, "Well maybe not just like you. I didn't have your… freckles," he poked her face, soliciting more giggles, "Or your pigtails."

"They're not pigtails."

"Oh really?" Agnar feigned surprise, "They were just a couple days ago."

"Nooo. That was years ago, Papa."

"It was, wasn't it?" The king's smile grew somehow distant, "Doesn't feel like it."

"Not to me."

They sat in silence for a while. Agnar seemed to be seeking the right words, but they died in his mouth and he settled for the quiet and the ticking of the clock on the wall. His gentle eyes went to the clock thoughtfully.

"Do you know where this clock came from?"

Anna stared at it. "Uhhh… a tree?"

"Very true," the king barked a laugh, "Very true, Anna. A tree from France."

Anna inched further under the covers, sensing where the talk is going.

"Arendelle is…" he mulled for the right words. It came easy to him, as the honey-tongued king he was. "A conduit of trade. Many people from many kingdoms come here all year 'round. Do you know how many languages that is?"

Anna mimed him as he answered his own question. "Twenty three languages. And that's just Europe. Do you know how much I know?"

Anna pretended to think about it. "Twentyy… three?"

Agnar laughed again. He did that a lot. "Oh I wish. Well I know Latin, French, Spanish, Italian, English, German, Danish, a little Portuguese… even some Irish."

Big eyes grew bigger with every tongue listed. Soon, they're twin teal moons, staring at her father as though he were a genius. Agnar noticed and waved a hand. "Pfff, d'you know how much Mama knows?"

"Twice as many," it was a guess but Anna didn't doubt it.

"That's right."

"Really? Wow."

The king grinned down at his beautiful daughter as he lowered himself to splay horizontally on her bed, legs spilling over one side and his head hanging over the other. "Yes ma'am. I may have an official advisor, but your Mama always helps me with last decisions. She's smarter than I am."

"That's shouldn't be too hard." She saw the pillow coming and ducked under her covers to avoid it, giggling. But he was laughing with her, and she felt warm and happy.

Warm and happy and safe.

She will always be safe with him, she realized. Her handsome, strong, smart Papa. Unbeatable. He could conquer a storm if he wanted to. There's no doubt in her. Not even a little.

"Modus vivendi," She said, still under her heavy blankets.

"Huh?"

"I thought you knew Latin, Papa."

"Way of living. But what has that got to do with-,"

"I read it in a book." Anna sat up and snatched the pillow to hug, "Two heroes couldn't get along well enough to defeat the evil sorcerer. They tried again and again but their ambitions always got in the way."

"Yeah?

"They both wanted the riches the sorcerer hoarded like a greedy dragon. But both wanted it all."

"Wow. How much was it?" He sounded tired. Agnar was too comfortable. He grunted when she poked his side with her toe.

"Mountains of precious stones. Rubies and sapphires. One of them wanted to impress a woman. Another wanted to have a castle, with servants and guards and his very own tower.

"So anyways, on their seventh failure where both of them nearly suffered a terrible death, they agreed on a modus vivendi. A compromise. One of them would get all the blue stones, and another would get all the red. So when they faced the sorcerer for the eighth time, they didn't get in each other's way or try to stop each other when they got close to the riches.

"They defeated the sorcerer together. All because... " Anna rose her hands, "Modus vivendi."

"Huh." the king mused, "You coulda just said compromise."

"Yeah but I like the story and never get to talk about it."

"So," Agnar rolled over to peek at his daughter through one cracked eyelid, "What's this compromise?"

"I learn one language at a time," Anna said, "Papa, learning three at once is too much for me."

The king continued to look at her, before finally closing his eyes. "I'd have to bring it up with Mama."

"That's okay."

"And your tutors."

"You're the king, they'll do whatever you want."

More silence. His gears were turning. "I need a promise. The cross-your-heart-hope-to-lose-all-your-privileges kind." He took a breath and groaned as he sat up. Anna didn't know why; he wasn't that old. "Promise me, if we do this, that you'll learn."

Anna thought about it, about her ability. She never made a promise lightly, and she liked her privileges. "Okay," she made an X over her heart, "Cross my heart, hope to lose all my privileges."

"Which won't happen because...?"

Anna grinned at her father. "Because I'll learn. We're royalty. I have to be smart."

"You're already smart, strawberry," he pecked her head and rose from the bed. She bounced slightly as the bed was relieved of the king's weight, "It's what you do with your smarts that matters."

"Goodnight Papa."

"Mmh," long strides took him to the door, but as his hand found the knob, one more question sprung to his daughter's mind.

"Papa?"

"Mmh?" He glanced over his shoulder.

"How many..." she swallowed, an uncharacteristic anxiety hammering at her chest, "H-How many languages does Elsa know?"

He stood very still, then, spine gone just stiff enough for Anna to notice. Looking away from her, he stared for a moment at the door, then lowered his head with a quiet sigh, reluctant to speak at all of his elder daughter. "Five."

Without another word of Anna's ghost sister, he leaves the room, the door closing harder than he probably intended.

The next day, Anna was approached with what she wanted to learn first. She chose English. She did better than French and even German. But to truly be fluent was to constantly speak the language, and there are never any Englishmen in Arendelle that Anna knows of. Until now, that is.

She can hear him moving again. There's a sharp breath and agonized chuckles.

"I don't speak English unwell," Nope, "well. But I hope you…understand me."

Labored breathing. God, he sounded hurt real bad. Fear, doubt, pain.

"I know you… are afraid. And confuse. And that you pain." Her accent is thick and choppy, but the man seems to be listening, "But I… am here to help."

No immediate answer. After a moment there are ragged coughs. "You sound fine."

"Thank you." Anna beams with unreasonable pride, and pictures her Papa grinning down at her. "My name is Anna. What is… you are… your name?"

More coughs. Isis mewls with concern and rounds the circumference of the well, searching for a means of descension.

Finally, the man responds, his voice grating. "Hi Anna. Thank you, but I'm afraid I don't know."

"Don't know what? You are- your name?" She can see a pair of boots shift into the narrow spot of sunlight, but his face and body is still in the shadows.

Wan chuckles, as though he himself can't quite believe it. "Miss, the only thing I know about myself is that I am a wizard."

Magics Index

Familiar's Link - A familiar and the mystic with which it's paired share a mysterious and strange bond. Sometimes, should the need arise, the familiar can tap into the mystic's mind, even project the mystic's emotions and thoughts to somebody else entirely.

Oof, that was fun. Isis is a joy to write, and I hope you loved reading about her as much as I did writing her. Present tense is still new to me, so beg pardon if there're any mistakes. There shouldn't be though.

I say that but I know there will be. The Fates love jinxes.