What if Anna hadn't thawed?
For a moment a terrible silence hangs over the fjord.
The storm stops. Snowflakes hang suspended in midair. Everyone's gaze turns to the brilliant blue figure in the middle of the ice and the collapsed queen by her side.
Kristoff doesn't seem able to take his eyes off the awful sight of Anna, frozen mid-leap like the most lifelike statue he's ever seen, her eyes open but unseeing. He barely notices Sven nuzzle up to him sympathetically. He's numb, and not with cold.
Then, from his distant vantage point (too far, too far to have reached her), he sees the queen get up. She's tiny, he realises, about the same size as Anna, but somehow much, much more fragile.
She recoils at the sight of her sister. Almost faints. Then slowly, slowly, she's running her hands over Anna's lifeless face, her own contorted in pain.
Only for a second does Kristoff allow himself to think that: it's your fault. You caused this. Because the next she's crumpled into her sister's icy arms, too overwhelmed even to support her own weight, and crying like he's never heard anyone cry before, much less his sovereign.
Her sobs are as soft as whispers, yet they carry across the fjord.
And he knows she never meant for it to be like this.
He's about to leave--there's nothing he can do for her now--when he sees Hans, the redheaded Prince of the Southern Isles, begin to raise himself from the ice, already clutching his blade in hand. Anger boils. Knowing he can never defeat an armed swordsman, however, Kristoff does the next best thing. He charges across the fjord with Sven close at his side, sweeps the queen up as he slings himself onto his reindeer, and heads into the mountains, never once looking back.
~~~
As Sven climbs away from the fjord, Kristoff's mind races ahead, but he's too agitated to think straight. He isn't sure what happened to Olaf, and hopes that the sentient snowman finds his way to safety. In his arms the queen weeps softly, seemingly too overcome to even protest at the mountain man who's taking her away. The mountains are silent, too silent. Sven's hooves cut through the eerie stillness, leaving deep marks in the pristine snow. All around them the falling snowflakes are still frozen in place.
Finally they've run far enough that Kristoff feels safe. Only then does he allow Sven to slacken his frenzied pace. Only then does he look down at the queen in his arms.
She's fainted, or maybe fallen asleep. Her breathing is heavy and laboured, and a frozen tear halts midway down her cheek. And even swaddled between the coarse fur of Sven's back and the thick material of Kristoff's jacket she trembles. But not with cold. Anna said she isn't bothered by cold.
She's so young. The thought strikes Kristoff. She's older than Anna, but still only about as old as he, maybe not quite that. And delicate, as if carved out of fine porcelain. The kind that breaks with the lightest touch.
Again he pulls off his cap and places it on her head, watching her thin shoulders--shoulders burdened with an immeasurable weight--rise and fall as she struggles in her sleep. It reminds him too much of his last ride with Anna, and he feels a sharp tug at his chest as he once more urges Sven into a run. He has to get her to safety, and quick.
They whip through the forest, the urgent pounding of Sven's feet stirring the snow into mounds like crumpled paper. Every once in a while he glances down at the monarch in his arms. She still sleeps fitfully, but Kristoff guesses he should be thankful for that.
Kristoff doesn't know what he's feeling. He's never been good with feelings.
Pity, he supposes. He pities her. She's been through far too much.
Maybe a little resentment, for keeping her secret so long, for hurting Anna. But Anna never blamed her, so he's not going to.
Fear. Not so much fear of her, not of the tiny woman curled on the back of his reindeer, even if she is the queen, but fear for her. And for himself, too.
Anna loved her, he knows. And he loves--loved--Anna: Anna endlessly brave, Anna hopelessly hopeful, Anna overflowing with life and laughter and love.
Anna loved her, and, looking at her, he thinks he feels a little bit of that love, too.
She's fainted, or maybe fallen asleep. Her breathing is heavy and laboured, and a frozen tear halts midway down her cheek. And even swaddled between the coarse fur of Sven's back and the thick material of Kristoff's jacket she trembles. But not with cold. Anna said she isn't bothered by cold.
She's so young. The thought strikes Kristoff. She's older than Anna, but still only about as old as he, maybe not quite that. And delicate, as if carved out of fine porcelain. The kind that breaks with the lightest touch.
Again he pulls off his cap and places it on her head, watching her thin shoulders--shoulders burdened with an immeasurable weight--rise and fall as she struggles in her sleep. It reminds him too much of his last ride with Anna, and he feels a sharp tug at his chest as he once more urges Sven into a run. He has to get her to safety, and quick.
They whip through the forest, the urgent pounding of Sven's feet stirring the snow into mounds like crumpled paper. Every once in a while he glances down at the monarch in his arms. She still sleeps fitfully, but Kristoff guesses he should be thankful for that.
Kristoff doesn't know what he's feeling. He's never been good with feelings.
Pity, he supposes. He pities her. She's been through far too much.
Maybe a little resentment, for keeping her secret so long, for hurting Anna. But Anna never blamed her, so he's not going to.
Fear. Not so much fear of her, not of the tiny woman curled on the back of his reindeer, even if she is the queen, but fear for her. And for himself, too.
Anna loved her, he knows. And he loves--loved--Anna: Anna endlessly brave, Anna hopelessly hopeful, Anna overflowing with life and laughter and love.
Anna loved her, and, looking at her, he thinks he feels a little bit of that love, too.
~~~
It takes all the way to the trolls' dwelling for the full reality of what he's done to sink in.
As he lifts her off Sven, a queen featherweight in his arms, his heart pounds in his chest.
He's just practically kidnapped the queen of Arendelle. They'll be out for him, he's sure. But he can't bring her back, not now.
He has no idea what happened with Anna's fiance. The last he saw the man was attempting to murder the queen. And Anna's heart finally killed her, so he knows it couldn't have been true love.
Carrying the queen deep into the troll lands, he curses the fact that nobody else witnessed Hans' deed. Kristoff guesses that Hans probably is a skilled strategist and a polished speaker besides being a prince--there's no way either the broken queen or he, the man from the backwoods, can do anything against him.
Arendelle is in the hands of a murderer now, and he, Kristoff Bjorgman, is giving its unconscious monarch to the rock trolls.
What has he done?
And, more importantly, what is he going to do?
~~~
The horde of trolls is respectfully sombre, a far cry from their usual boisterous selves, as Kristoff brings Queen Elsa to Grand Pabbie.
The troll leader motions for him to lay her down. He hesitates. It doesn't seem right to put the queen on the forest floor. Finally Kristoff settles on leaning her against a moss-covered stone. She stirs, and moans a little, but doesn't awake.
"What happened?" Grand Pabbie's tone is serious as he places a hand on the queen's forehead.
He explains, slowly and painfully, stumbling over his words. "I...I don't know what's wrong with her."
Bulda tugs at his pants leg and pats his arm comfortingly as he kneels. "You did the right thing, Kristoff."
The man gives the troll he's come to think of as a mother a grateful, harried smile before turning anxiously back to Grand Pabbie. The trolls saved her sister once. They can save her too. "Will she be okay?"
Expression apologetic, the troll heaves a heavy sigh. "You know, Kristoff, that matters of the heart are beyond us."
"You mean--"
Before he can finish the thought, Elsa awakes--whether it's the shock wearing off or the cold ground he doesn't know. At first she seems stunned at the stone creatures leaning over her, her eyes wide, and then she starts to go into a panic, breath coming short. The trolls disperse, giving her some space, but she's too far gone for that. Mute and giddy, she stands uncertainly, eyes darting about like a hunted animal, and then she starts to run.
She doesn't reach the edge of the clearing before Kristoff tackles her. As he brings her back, his grip firm, she shudders violently, heaving. There's a wild, haunted look in her clear eyes.
Again, Grand Pabbie sighs. "There isn't much we can do for her," he says. He cups her cheek, mutters a few words in a strange, guttural tongue. Elsa's eyes slide shut, and she crumples in Kristoff's arms.
"Sleep will help her forget," Grand Pabbie explains. "Sleep heals."
"There's nothing else you can do?" Kristoff can barely believe that this powerful rock troll can only provide Elsa with a nap.
"Bulda and the others will take care of her when she awakes." Grand Pabbie turns to leave. "Otherwise, there is nothing else we can do."
The troll leader motions for him to lay her down. He hesitates. It doesn't seem right to put the queen on the forest floor. Finally Kristoff settles on leaning her against a moss-covered stone. She stirs, and moans a little, but doesn't awake.
"What happened?" Grand Pabbie's tone is serious as he places a hand on the queen's forehead.
He explains, slowly and painfully, stumbling over his words. "I...I don't know what's wrong with her."
Bulda tugs at his pants leg and pats his arm comfortingly as he kneels. "You did the right thing, Kristoff."
The man gives the troll he's come to think of as a mother a grateful, harried smile before turning anxiously back to Grand Pabbie. The trolls saved her sister once. They can save her too. "Will she be okay?"
Expression apologetic, the troll heaves a heavy sigh. "You know, Kristoff, that matters of the heart are beyond us."
"You mean--"
Before he can finish the thought, Elsa awakes--whether it's the shock wearing off or the cold ground he doesn't know. At first she seems stunned at the stone creatures leaning over her, her eyes wide, and then she starts to go into a panic, breath coming short. The trolls disperse, giving her some space, but she's too far gone for that. Mute and giddy, she stands uncertainly, eyes darting about like a hunted animal, and then she starts to run.
She doesn't reach the edge of the clearing before Kristoff tackles her. As he brings her back, his grip firm, she shudders violently, heaving. There's a wild, haunted look in her clear eyes.
Again, Grand Pabbie sighs. "There isn't much we can do for her," he says. He cups her cheek, mutters a few words in a strange, guttural tongue. Elsa's eyes slide shut, and she crumples in Kristoff's arms.
"Sleep will help her forget," Grand Pabbie explains. "Sleep heals."
"There's nothing else you can do?" Kristoff can barely believe that this powerful rock troll can only provide Elsa with a nap.
"Bulda and the others will take care of her when she awakes." Grand Pabbie turns to leave. "Otherwise, there is nothing else we can do."
~~~
Kristoff is disappointed, maybe even angry, that his hero cannot do more. He follows Bulda to the tiny cave where she's laid Elsa on a bed of soft moss. The troll is singing a whispery, soothing song as she bustles about preparing a salve.
"Can you save her?" Kristoff asks. He can't bear the thought of Anna dying for Elsa only for her to slip away, too.
Bulda looks at him with sympathetic eyes, as if she knows what he's thinking, and perhaps she does. "I'll try my best, child."
Every day the troll cares for the queen, preparing panaceas, offering comfort. She scours ancient troll magic for useful spells, but their incantations provide no remedy for grief. And Kristoff returns daily with herbs he finds in the forest, plucked with rough hands not mean for fine work. They both do their best.
But their best isn't good enough. She cries out in her sleep, coating the walls of the cave with spiked ice. When she does awake she is silent and terrified, shaking for hours, curled up into a tight ball.
They try to help her, but she fades away before their very eyes.
They bury her in the forest. Bulda tells him there will be crocuses in the clearing come spring.
For as she goes, the winter melts away, and it seems cruel to Kristoff that the summer birds should begin to sing when their queen is dead.
News comes from below the mountain. Hans has seized the castle, they say. He will be crowned king come the morrow. The people rejoice, celebrate the hero who saved them from the ice witch.
Kristoff does not return to Arendelle.
(I CAN'T BELIEVE I KILLED ELSA IN A FIC. I HAVE REACHED A NEW LOW.)
No comments:
Post a Comment