Chapter Text
There is a particular colour that Princess Elsa is fond of. It exists on the surface of the oceans, the shallowest parts of the beaches, and it is, within the princess’ vivid imagination, the colour that defines a rainy summer day.
Such a colour is always found on the palette for her paintings. It is as soothing as it is lively, as spectacular as it is captivating.
It is a colour that often penetrates her dreams. Fills the skies, the rivers, the moon.
It is also the colour of this girl’s blood.
But the girl, despite the splendor that encapsulates her soft gaze, lies along the wet cobblestone, lifeless. Deep, purple bruises and scars are scattered around her bony limbs, and her back—it is littered with bloodied gashes, torn through that sorry excuse of a shirt. Her unkempt, copper hair is impossibly tangled with dirt and her own blood. She is merely lying there on her stomach, unmoving.
The sublime colours of the girl’s blood spiral like a cloud of cosmic dust, in the rain she lies in—a pool of aqua, a galaxy of blue.
Toying with the blood of the gods, Princess Elsa has been taught that the Vilebloods were abominations. The colour of their silver hair, their short lifespan, their strange blood—all so different from that of the pale-skinned, red-blooded Arendellians.
But now, as Princess Elsa stares at the body of this weak, dying child, she cannot help but to be amazed. Mesmerized.
Other than the magnificent colour of the blood, this girl is not so unlike herself. Her copper hair, likewise, does not coincide with the descriptions that the princess knows.
Curiosity consumes her, and the princess takes a cautious step forward, deeper into the dark alleyway. The rain soaks into the silky material of her white cloak—a direct contrast to the girl’s tattered rags, and the princess cannot contain the sob in her throat. What sorts of pain might this girl be going through, she wonders? How did she come to such a tragic state? So many questions. So everlastingly entrancing. Those teal eyes are, after all, tethered desperately onto her, almost as though they are begging her to stay, to come forth. Alluring. Like they are conveying a profound truth, and the princess is drawn in.
She kneels next to the girl, and although it is unbecoming for a princess to lay hands on something so filthy, her fingertips come into contact with the girl’s shoulder.
Summer solstice is but several days ago; the temperature in the country lingers in a benign warmth that is slightly higher than that of springtime’s, and—indeed—the rain has aided in cooling the afternoon down, but it is not enough to leave one freezing.
Which is exactly how the skin of this girl feels. Freezing, like ice. Is this yet another characteristic of the Vileblood?
Princess Elsa shirks away from the touch. She does not know what to do. How can she? How can a member of the royal family, a sheltered preadolescence who can indulge in any luxury, so as long as she wishes, know what to do?
But she wants to help. As the next in line to the throne, it is her duty to provide for everyone, no?
The colour of their blood be damned.
What should she do?
The princess hasn’t brought any gold out. Today is supposed to be a special day; today marks the first time she has successfully snuck out of the castle. Oh, the looks on Gerda and Kai’s faces when they find out that she is not attending to her studies. How angry might General Matthias be when she shows up late to her archery lessons? Today is supposed to be a time for herself, where she may wander into the lively market, browse through the trinkets that her father and mother would never find interesting. Yet, upon laying eyes on these meticulously crafted items herself, the princess wants nothing more than to purchase everything.
But she hasn’t brought any gold.
How can she help this girl if she cannot buy anything?
Perhaps she could give this girl something she owns? Princess Elsa’s eyes shoot to the bracelet wrapped loosely around her dainty wrist. She isn’t one to wear an excessive amount of jewellery like the other princesses she has met during the banquets hosted by the kingdom, but this one bracelet has always been special to her. The simplicity of the thin, silver chain and the single, dangling sapphire crystal in the shape of a teardrop—her mother has said that it compliments her eyes.
This is all that she has. She does not know how much it is worth, but she prays that it is enough.
Princess Elsa removes her cloak, draping it over the girl. The blood on the girl’s back immediately dyes the white silk in a faded, greenish-blue hue, and the princess fights to tear her eyes away from the horrid sight. She unclips her bracelet and places it into the girl’s opened palm, closing those cold fingers gently.
But this isn’t enough. She knows it isn’t enough.
The girl is bleeding out; she needs proper medical care—she needs a physician to look after her wounds. The princess does not know what the girl has gone through, but she needs to do more.
That’s it. She will return to the castle, request to bring this girl back, and let her be examined by somebody who knows what to do. Vileblood or not, so as long as the princess commands, they will listen. But she must tell them before they inform her father.
“I’ll come back,” the princess grips onto the girl’s icy hand firmly, pouring every ounce of reassurance she can muster. “Please, just hold on. I’ll come back with help. I promise you.”
The girl’s bright eyes remain on her, and although she does not react, the very notion that she watches as Elsa leaves that alleyway ensures the princess that this Vileblood acknowledges her words.
She will be swift.
The princess dashes through the empty streets, where everyone has seemingly chosen to hide under cover. The rain is relentless; her white-gold hair clings onto her face as she runs. The flats she has barely broken into chafe at her ankles, yet the pain that she feels only serves to remind her how much worse that girl must be experiencing.
At last, she reaches the castle gates. The two gatekeepers watch her intently, and upon her approach, she speaks before they can.
“Inform the castle physician to come with me at once,” the princess attempts to be commanding, but it is difficult as she can barely catch her breath.
“Princess Elsa?” one of the men addresses. “Your Highness, what are you—”
“Fetch both him and myself a horse,” she interrupts, and when they do not act, she stands taller, confident. “At once! And do not tell my father!”
The two men eye each other warily, as if the princess has just told a lie.
But she would never lie. She despises them. She has been raised to always keep her word, keep her promises.
And Princess Elsa has promised that she would return.
“Yes, Your Highness. On your command.” One of the gatekeepers says with a respectful bow—one that her father the king would receive at his approach.
The other gatekeeper, a tall, fair, young man, walks up to her and bows as well. “Princess, may I suggest taking cover from the rain?”
“There is no need,” she answers. Adrenaline pumps rapidly through her veins; she feels all but invigorated, as though she has the strength and endurance to run back to that child. Only, much faster.
Soon, the first gatekeeper returns. He guides the horse towards the princess and gives her the reins.
“Princess Elsa,” the castle physician, mounted on a horse of his own, emerges from the gates. “What has happened? By the gods, you are soaked! Are you not supposed to be in the middle of your lessons?”
“Master Laurence,” she curtsies, as kindly as possible, “I will inform you of everything on the way. For now, please, you must follow me.”
It is perhaps because the princess has never spoken with such command; perhaps it is even because she appears so distinct from how she usually is, but the physician does not hesitate. He nods in earnest. Elsa releases a breath of relief, grateful that a highly respected member of the council is heeding to a twelve-year-old’s command, and they are off.
How does it feel to bleed to death?
How does it feel to lie in a dirty alleyway, alone and helpless?
How does it feel to be lied to?
Princess Elsa will likely never know. Because when she returns to where the girl is supposed to be, she is gone. Any traces of the aqua blood are washed away by the heavy rain.
“A Vileblood, you say?” Master Laurence asks, his deep voice layered with a hint of condescendence. “Princess, that is not possible. They no longer exist. And even if they did,” he walks deeper into the alley, stops right where the girl’s body was and turns to her, “They should be left well alone, for they were the ones who have chosen such a twisted path.”
Nothing.
The princess hears nothing.
All she knows is that she had failed to fulfil a promise.
That night, she dreams of an aqua moon.
Beneath, there lies a fishing hamlet, half sunken. A grey sky, floating corpses of faceless villagers, the stench of rotting fish overwhelms her senses, and she hears a piercing scream.
Princess Elsa wakes up the next morning, blood between her legs.
It is the first time she’s bled.
In the next five years, when she is not too busy sneaking out of the castle, she spends much of her free time studying the history of the ancient race. Many of the texts describing them are far too spectacular, much too fantastical for the princess to truly believe, yet she cannot rid away the intrigue.
Drinking from the stars that have fallen from the sky? Infusing their children with the blood of the gods? Succumbing to insanity due to the malice coursing their blood?
These facts are akin to the horror stories that she loved reading as a child. There is simply no plausible evidence.
Yet, her history tutors describe with confidence that in the past, under the orders of the royal family, the Arendellian Executioners have bravely ventured north to Cainhurst, destroying every last being who has spawned from its mysterious bloodline. But when the princess delves into the scripts detailing the expeditions, invasions, and the battles pertaining to this particular subject, they, too, are as fantastical as the fairy tales she has once read.
Just glorified stories of how brave the Arendellians were, and how the Vilebloods cowered at the former’s approach.
They are all so nonsensical. The princess wishes for viable facts and evidence, not heroic fairy tales.
Even as she researches on the Executioners, there is no lead. Just as mysterious, the Executioners have long broken ties with the royal family, going their separate ways to establish a new organization. ‘The Assassins’ is what they are now simply addressed as. They reside far along the fjords, and although they are not affiliated with the kingdom, the princess has been told that they will always heed to the ruler of Arendelle’s call.
They are recognizable by their iconic hoods and hidden blades, but Elsa has never once encountered an assassin, either.
All smokes and mirrors.
All but an illusion, including that girl she saw that day.
Princess Elsa revisited that same alleyway, more times than she can remember. In fact, she can proudly proclaim that she has visited so many of these alleys, so many passageways in the kingdom that she herself can construct a more accurate map of Arendelle than any of the cartographers. Still, no matter how talented she is with pointing out directions, the truth in the matter is that she hasn’t encountered that girl.
She has disappeared, as abruptly as her kind did hundreds of years ago.
In spite of this, Princess Elsa is a diligent scholar; she has always been. She thirsts for knowledge, and until she can discover the truth for herself, she has no means to stop—it is in her nature.
And so, once a week, she is granted permission to visit the many libraries and bookstores in town. Her reasoning is that she wants to add to her collection of novels, to which her father easily approves, seeing how studious his daughter is. It helps that Master Laurence and the two gatekeepers never informed the king of what she had done that day.
On her outings, she is accompanied by Lord Alfred, a talkative and well-mannered soldier who has served directly under General Matthias for several decades. He would often await the princess at the entrance—occasionally browsing through the aisles himself—until she is finished with her task. They come to the town on foot because, at the princess’ behest, horses draw attention, and she does not wish to expose her identity.
“Any luck today, Miss Elsa?” Lord Alfred calls as she completes her purchase.
Somehow, being addressed as such rather than the usual ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Princess’ puts her at ease. Elsa smiles at the man, shaking her head. He is trustworthy enough; he is one of the few people who know of the truth, that she is out here to learn more about the history of the mysterious Vilebloods.
“Unfortunately, no. Although, I did find several books that discuss the scenarios in the past where stars have fallen into our oceans. There is also one regarding the story of a moon, tainted in blue.”
“That is most intriguing,” the man strokes his chin. The few grey hairs stand out in particular as his fingers move back and forth. “I will be frank with you, Miss Elsa, I have always been quite fascinated by these stories revolving around their race. It is unfortunate that I cannot read, however.”
“Well, Lord Alfred, if it isn’t too much trouble, once I am able to decipher all these mysteries, mayhap I share some of the knowledge with you?”
“That would be an honour!” he exclaims, voice ecstatic.
The princess smiles widely in response. Lord Alfred courteously opens the door for her as they head out the store, which is when they realize that it is pouring rain.
“Ah, what misfortune,” the man fixes his cap. “The sun was shining so brightly this morning, too.”
Elsa merely heaves a faint sigh. Weather, she has learned, has a mind of its own. It comes and goes, and it isn’t something that a mere human can control. She has also learned to enjoy it while it lasts. The colours of the grey clouds that loom over the kingdom on rainy days; the soft whiteness of falling snow in the winter; the gentle pinkness of cherry blossoms that drift with the wind in spring—all containing a personality of their own.
“My lady, may I suggest waiting here while I return to fetch a carriage? It does not appear to be a squall.”
The princess blinks. “There is no need, Lord Alfred. We may return together. I do not mind a bit of rain.”
“Now, you know I cannot do that, my lady,” he says. “Your father would have me executed if you caught a cold!”
She chuckles, covering her mouth with her slender fingers. “If my father decides to execute you, I will usurp the throne,” the princess says softly, careful to not be too loud despite it being a jest.
Lord Alfred laughs, his deep voice reverberates the space between them. “You would make a fine queen, my lady. But, in any case,” he steps out from the covers of the awning, the rain already drenching his fair blonde hair. “Even if you do not mind the rain, I am certain that ruining the books you have just purchased is the least of your interests, yes?”
Fair point.
“I…” the princess hesitates. “I do not wish to trouble you, Lord Alfred.”
“Nonsense! It is my duty to serve you,” he says.
The princess gives in. “Very well, then. Please, do take care. Try not to push yourself.”
“I may be well into my age, my lady, but I am still much swifter than many of the new soldiers.”
She smiles and watches the man dash towards the direction of the castle. When his figure is obscured by the heavy rain, the princess shifts her attention elsewhere. The smell of rain, the sounds of the gentle tap-tap-tap on the awning above her. The naturalness in her surroundings envelope her in a gentle, delicate atmosphere.
The princess takes the handkerchief from her pocket and dabs at her cheeks. A bit of the moisture is carried to her skin by the breeze. It refreshes her, cools her down, so to speak, especially on a summer afternoon. And, despite being told to stand idly by, she quite enjoys the normalcy. It is a rare opportunity to observe.
The good people of Arendelle running about, their footsteps splashing into the puddles on the road; their struggle to find cover, adults carrying their children through the rain—so, so fascinating.
They come and go; several stop under the same awning to catch their breaths, only to venture out once again, to run to the next cover, and so on.
Until a tiny flash of sapphire strikes her peripherals.
The princess flinches, shuts her eyes for a hint of a second as she is momentarily blinded. And when she searches for the origin of the brilliance, she sees it. Right next to her.
She sees her.
Alive.
Fiery, copper, and, thank goodness, healthy hair, tied in two braids. She stands tall, almost at the princess’ height, and she has a slim, beautiful figure despite her conservative outfit. Donning a dark leather cap, the girl’s trench coat and knee-high boots match in sophisticated colours. The crimson half-cape covering her left side that reaches just below her hips compliments her overall attire handsomely.
It brings the princess so much joy that the girl is no longer in rags. Growing up, the girl must have been eating well. She must have found a place she can call her own.
It brings the princess so much joy that she is wearing the bracelet she has given her. It dangles at her gloved wrist, the light of the blue sapphire as dazzling as the princess remembers.
She cannot wipe the smile away. Princess Elsa turns, looking ahead to keep herself from staring, but the slightest movement from the girl puts her on full alert.
Such as, when the girl removes her cap, flinging it dry. When the girl breathes out in exasperation, perhaps because of the rain. When the girl fixes her hair, pushing stray strands behind her ear.
Princess Elsa sees everything, and she is so happy.
Will this girl recognize her if she spoke up? Will it be possible to engage in a normal conversation? Will the princess finally make a friend who isn’t fake like the children from the other kingdoms? Will—
“Oh!”
A gust of wind comes by, the princess tucks the books to her chest, and the handkerchief slips out of her grip. But in that instant, she sees the girl effortlessly catch the handkerchief with one hand, almost as if it is a reflex.
It all happens within a span of a few seconds, but it is spectacular. The action, swift and elegant.
And, just as well, when the girl turns to face her, it is as though the stars in her galaxy have aligned; those teal eyes glow, sparkle, in sync with the droplets of rain that fall around them.
The girl gasps in realization.
She remembers.
Princess Elsa witnesses the phenomenon. How, as the girl breathes in, her shoulders rise slightly. How, as their gaze connects, time stops.
There are no words. There is no need for words. The rapid beating of her heart and the smile they share speak volumes. The princess swears—the girl’s smile is as radiant as the sunlight that slips between the cracks of the clouds, like silver linings. Yes, that is what it is. This girl’s smile is the sunshine; it is the closest Elsa has ever experienced such otherworldly warmth.
Her sun-kissed skin, the freckles, those pink lips, and those kind eyes. Princess Elsa takes everything in. When has she ever come across such beauty? The girl is statuesque, and the princess is stunned.
But the moment ends abruptly.
Lord Alfred returns on a horse-drawn carriage as promised, stopping it directly in front of the princess. On Elsa’s part, because she is still so captivated by the girl, she fails to notice the man’s presence, not until he calls her name.
“Miss Elsa, my apologies for the wait,” he steps off the carriage to open the door for her. “Please, step inside.”
She does not react immediately. Her focus is still on this girl, still attempting to process what has happened, what is happening.
“My lady?”
The princess shakes herself back to her senses. “Ah—yes. I’m sorry, thank you.” She stammers, scrambling into the carriage. In her wake, she chances one more glimpse at the girl before the door behind her shuts. And as the carriage drives away, Princess Elsa looks through the back window. The girl is there, standing still, looking her way.
As much as the princess wants to speak with the girl, as frustrating as it is, the only thing that comes to mind is that she hopes the girl has forgiven her.
However, if she has not, then the princess will surely fulfil that promise someday.
That night, she dreams of the same, aqua moon.
The dim, eerie glow illuminates that very village she’s dreamed of years ago, but now, it is completely sunken. It stands directly under the water that she, for whatever reason, has the ability to stand on.
Below her, a series of shadows impend the sight. Like a school of fish, they swim underneath her naked feet, loom over the sunken hamlet in the same manner a storm cloud does, and then they arise from where the aquatic moon stands.
In the shape of a gargantuan clam, standing as tall as the moon, thick, blue paste oozes out as something emerges from the cracks.
Princess Elsa cannot react; she stands there, petrified, as the monstrosity of a figure—pure white, faceless, formless—spills out, sheds its placenta, crawls and crawls, until it connects its hollow gaze with the princess.
She jolts awake, drenched in her own sweat. An indescribable ache throbs between her legs, and she itches, she itches. From the inside, it writhes and writhes. Desperate, heated, and fervent, she moves a hand down. She does not think twice to thrust into herself, to satisfy the pain.
The princess does this until she screams into her pillow, her other hand clawing at her sheets.
It is the first time she has touched herself in such a sinful way.
At the ripe age of eighteen, Princess Elsa now has very little time to look into subject she used to be so fully immersed in. Research surrounding blood infusion, cosmic elements, and the supposedly extinct race has steadily diminished, for it is prudent that she readies herself for suitors. It is inevitable. As future monarch, she must prolong the royal bloodline; as queen, having a trustworthy partner to rule alongside her is the optimal thing to do. It is her duty, and she will never question it.
In the upcoming month, she will be meeting several, potential suitors from neighbouring countries. The third prince from the country of Corona, the Duke of Byrgenwerth, the sixteenth prince of the Loviisa, the twelfth prince of the Southern Isles—all of whom are described to be tall, handsome, and intelligent, but the princess wishes to judge them for herself. Whomsoever she chooses will, after all, be her husband, and while she is not one to believe in love at first sight, she certainly hopes to know them personally before the idea of matrimony concedes. In all honesty, she does not care for their appearance nor their talents. So as long as they are loyal to Arendelle, she will be content.
Whatever happens, only time will tell.
She shuts her book—another anthology on the legends of fallen stars. The little time she has before slumber is all that there is to read on her one, genuine interest. While these stories do not entirely relay her the truth about the past, they still mention briefly on what happens to people who come into contact with the celestial elements. Certain tales suggest that they would lose their minds; others hint that they ascend into the heavens, transforming into higher beings. Yet again, no matter the results, they are undeniably ludicrous.
The princess lies down, pulls the covers over her stomach and closes her eyes. Although the more adventurous side of her continues to long for the truth, an unspoken, pompously mature side of her insists that she should no longer indulge herself in such fantasies. Such is for the naïve, for the dreamer.
And she is neither one of those.
Indeed, she may tell herself to let go of the many, pointless years of study she has poured into a myth, but she may never tell herself to stop dreaming.
Dreams, unlike interests, cannot be controlled.
As such, when she dreams of the reoccurring aqua moon yet again that night, she is in complete surrender.
This time, the monstrous figure no longer crawls; it stands. The grotesque umbilical cord, dripping in deep blue blood, hangs at its navel, dangling, dragging along the water that it, too, has the ability to walk on. And when it is close enough, the cord moves. It binds the princess, wraps around her delicate neck. And she can see it, can feel it.
Its pure white, fish-like skin; its deformed, overtly hunched back; its alien bodily structure, and its hollowed eyes, gaping mouth. All resembling so much of the features belonging to that of a skull. Claws that pin the princess down into the water, keeping her in place.
What frightens her most is that she is not scared. Not one bit. Even if the smell is repulsive, even if the same stench—rotting flesh, dead fish, a plague—makes bile come to her throat, even as she chokes on her own vomit, she does not feel fear.
Rather, she is enraptured.
The pupils wrapped in her blue sphere eyes dilate. Her stomach churns; heat pools at her core, and she spreads her legs, throws her arms above her head.
She submits.
“Princess.”
Don’t.
She bucks her hips. Her centre comes in contact with the creature’s smooth, fish-like skin. It’s so cold, so hot.
Not enough.
“Princess Elsa.”
More.
Its claws scrape along her pale skin, leaving shallow slits in their wake. Red oozes out and streams along her curves, dyeing the body of water around them in bright scarlet.
The creature moans.
Take more—
“YOUR HIGHNESS!”
She wakes, nearly tumbling off her bed, but she quickly composes herself.
In the dark, her vision fights to adjust, and she finds Gerda, her caretaker, standing next to her.
“What…” the princess croaks, “… Gerda? What is the matter?”
The woman appears apologetic. “Princess, I am sorry for disturbing your sleep, but His Majesty requires your presence, immediately.”
“Father wishes to see me?” Princess Elsa pushes the strands of platinum blonde behind her ears, fixes her braid that hangs on her shoulder. “What is the time?”
“It is two hours to sunrise,” Gerda answers promptly. “Please. Your Highness, we must hurry.”
She is in the process on putting on her shoes. “Gerda, you are scaring me. What has happened?”
Her caretaker heaves a sigh. “It’s Master Laurence,” she starts. “He… he has taken his own life. I do not know the details, but he has left a note that is directed to you. Please, Your Highness, come with me.”
Without a word of protest, the princess follows the woman. They hurry down the halls, the darkness that surrounds them ever so prominent, and Elsa finds herself lightheaded, like she is about to lose consciousness.
Perhaps it is because of the dream? She has, after all, yet to recover from it. The heat radiates between her legs. It throbs, makes her sweat; her heart pounds, and she struggles to catch her breath.
“Your Majesty.” Gerda calls once they enter the king’s study.
Her father sits at his desk, her mother standing closely next to him. Several council members are present as well; General Matthias, Lord Petersen, even Lord Alfred—all of whom merely in their night dresses. When she steps through the threshold of the room, all eyes are on her. As princess, she has been through many occasions where she is the centre of attention. Giving speeches in banquets, attending her father’s council meetings, conversing with other kings and queens is common practice by now. So, she stands her ground, tall and confident.
“Father, you have summoned me?”
The king, clutching onto some sort of parchment in his hands, rises from his seat. “Elsa, come.”
She moves forward. Under the few candles lit in the room, the princess makes out the dark circles underneath her father’s eyes. He has never looked so dishevelled.
“The physician… Master Laurence. He has taken his own life.”
“Yes, Gerda has informed me,” the princess speaks in a calm voice. “Have you found the reason?”
Her father shakes his head. “No. His attendant discovered that he has hung himself in his chambers. There is no suicide note, nor were there traces of murder. However…”
Elsa follows his eyes. They wander from the parchment in his hands to the queen, and then back to her. Confused, she takes another step forward. “Father, if there is something I must know, please do not hesitate.”
The king takes a deep breath. Wordlessly, he hands his daughter the parchment.
She takes it, shoots him a suspicious glance before observing what’s on the paper.
“Elsa,” the king starts.
Her eyes widen.
A drawing. It is a vivid, picturesque drawing of herself lying on her back, exposed, nude. It is treason to depict any member of the royal family in such a way. Yet, she is not disturbed by this. No, what disturbs her is something else.
“My child, you must be honest with me—”
Her father’s voice is muted, distant. Princess Elsa’s attention is on the creature in the drawing. The same, monstrous creature that she just dreamed of; the one that binds her down—the one that makes her centre throb. Down to the last detail, it is exactly as it appeared in her dream. Disfigured, malformed, dripping with liquid that, while monochromic in this illustration, was a silky bluish hue found within her dream.
“Elsa.”
She snaps out of her trance. “Father?”
The king sighs. “I asked, has the physician ever approached you… inappropriately?”
Princess Elsa swallows the lump down her throat. Her heart races, be it nervousness or humiliation, she can no longer tell. “No,” she affirms. “The last time I have spoken to him in full was two years ago, when I came down with a mild cold. He merely prescribed me a tonic. I would pass by him in the halls occasionally, but he would always greet me in kind.”
“Are you certain of that?”
She tears her eyes away from the drawing. “Father, I would like to believe that your instinct is to understand that I am not naïve, that I would know if somebody was behaving improperly towards me.” The parchment in her hands is scrunched up as her grip tightens. “Is it truly necessary to question me of such a topic in front of your council members? Do you wish to bring shame upon your own daughter?”
“Elsa.” Her mother calls, her voice harsh and scolding.
But the king stops his wife, raising a hand. “It is fine, my dear,” he says. “You are right, Elsa. It is my fault for bringing you this unwanted attention. I apologize. Please, forgive me.”
Not much is there left to be addressed for the rest of the night. Her father seems to be in a rush to dismiss everyone; he urges her to return to her chamber and get a good night’s rest. He claims that he will provide her with the details the next morning, but the princess thinks that her father is being over-protective, which, in her opinion, is utterly ridiculous. She is fully grown, seen as an admirable member of the royal bloodline by the citizens of Arendelle, and she is much respected by the staff of the castle. For her age, she has accomplished more than any of the previous crown princes or princesses in their time. And this includes her own father.
By the time she is escorted back to her chambers by Gerda, dawn has broken.
The sky is tainted in soft violets, pinks, and yellows. Her balcony faces east, and so quite often, when she rises early enough, she has the luxury of witnessing the sunrise.
It is unfortunate, however, that on this fine, summer morning, there is a bit of drizzle.
It would have been nice to step out to breathe in the morning air. Princess Elsa walks up to the glass doors, resting a palm there as she stares out, beyond the horizon.
She is in need of sleep, but she is restless. She is afraid to close her eyes because she is scared. Master Laurence’s drawing, the reoccurring dream—each time increasingly vivid—it is at last getting to her. The fact that they are so real, that they make her feel so… strange.
That they make her yearn for more.
It’s unsettling, to say the least. Princess Elsa wraps her arms around her stomach. A fruitless gesture, yes, but it calms her, nonetheless.
“You mustn’t let your guard down, Your Highness.”
Elsa jumps. She spins around, turning to the feminine voice. “Who’s there?”
A figure—petite, no taller than herself—stands casually at the other end of the room. She leans against the door, reaches behind herself to lock it without looking, and walks forward. Slowly, the light of the sun shines upon her. The person wears a hood, her attire is dark, intimidating; her left wrist dangles with a familiar blue crystal, and then the princess realizes.
“You…”
Her presence is highlighted by the natural sunlight, yet when she removes her hood, the princess thinks this girl is much brighter than any star in the universe.
“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” The girl says with a beaming smile—the same one she has blessed the princess with at that bookstore, one year ago.
A burst of warmth. Elsa’s heart flutters. Her breath hitches, and in that moment, the feelings of shock and happiness simultaneously crash upon her. It happens with such abruptness, she cannot find the words to move, let alone respond. Shock, because she does not know who this person is. But mostly happiness, because she is so glad, so glad.
It has only been a short while since that fateful day, but the girl has matured so much. Freckled cheeks, beautiful teal eyes, a womanly figure underneath her outfit. She ties her hair up in a single bun, pinned elegantly behind her head.
“I…” the princess hears herself say.
The girl tilts her head, confused.
Elsa tries again. “I’ve searched for you.”
“I know,” the redhead chuckles. “As have I.” She raises her hand, the one that has the princess’ bracelet around it. “If you had told me that you are the crown princess of Arendelle, it would have been so much easier.”
She cannot help it. Elsa hides her laugh behind a hand. “My apologies,” she says. “Your appearance on that day was much too shocking. I could not exactly gather my thoughts to speak to you.”
“Oh?” The girl purses her lips, tapping her chin curiously with a finger, as if deep in thought. “Was I too dashing?”
A blush spreads up the princess cheeks. She prays that the girl cannot see. “Y-you jest.”
It is the girl’s turn to laugh. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”
When Elsa stops pouting to look to the girl, their laughter is in sync. It is comfortable. Safe.
“Princess Elsa,” the girl says when they quiet down.
“Yes?”
She comes close, teal orbs gleaming with such intensity it makes the princess aware of her own breathing. The girl does not break eye contact as she takes Elsa’s hand, and then she bends her knee, lowering her head to let it touch their joined hands.
The princess stills, surprised by this girl’s knightly gesture.
“It is my duty to protect the royal family,” she says softly.
At that, Elsa’s eyes widen.
“And I will rid everything and anything that comes to harm you,” the girl pauses to look up. “May it be a member of the council, a demon, a god; I will not hesitate.”
The princess wraps her mind around those words. They are so weighted, filled with so much gravity, she does not understand. Why would a child bear such an arduous task? Why must this child walk such a dangerous path? Why—
“Tell me,” Elsa speaks, “… assassin,”
The girl does not flinch.
“What is your name?”
“Anna,” comes the immediate response. “My name is Anna.”
Anna.
Princess Elsa lets the sound of her name repeat in her head. She lets it ring gently, like the chimes in the wind, and then she goes on, “Assassin Anna,”
“Your Highness?”
The girl’s voice is soothing, calm, beautiful. Elsa decides that she likes it.
“Master Laurence’s death. Was that your doing?”
“Yes, princess,” Anna says, yet again without hesitation. “I will rid everything that brings harm to you.”
No words, no sound. Simply the light tapping of the rain outside, hitting against the glass doors. Elsa breathes out, oddly feeling relieved when she does so.
“I see,” she says, gripping onto the assassin’s hand. “Would that include your own kind?”
A strange phenomenon then happens. The corners of Anna’s lips arch upwards—menacingly so.
“Your Highness,” she whispers, “I did say: may it be a member of the council, a demon, or a god. There is no reason that I will not slay a Vileblood.”
Hearing that, Princess Elsa returns the smile.
“Very well.”
When she finally gets the opportunity to rest that day, she dreams of an aqua moon.
The same creature appears, but it does not move this time. It merely sinks back down into the underwater village.
Princess Elsa wakes up rejuvenated, invigorated.