Chapter Text
The wind up on the mountain side was colder than Hans expected. The thick, heavy winter furs he wore kept most of the frost at bay, but even with the soft gloves covering his hands and the warm scarf wrapped around most of his face, the cold still found a way to seep through. Hans turned, shrugging his pack higher up his shoulder as he looked down across the bay below.
It was quite a lovely view from up here. The dark green, snow-covered pines, swaying back and forth, framing the crystal clear waters of the ocean shore could have easily been in a painting, hanging in the warm halls of his father’s castle. And if he closed his eyes, breathing in the crisp pine-scented winter air, he could almost believe he was on a hiking trip with his brothers, tailing behind as they raced each other to the mountain’s peak. But when he opened them, when he saw the small ship sailing off into the distance, little more than a dot on the horizon now, his fantasies vanished into the thin air of the mountain top. Memories of the shame he had felt, of the disappointment that had filled his father’s face came flooding back.
He watched in silence, nothing but the sound of the wind surrounding him, as the ship finally slipped across the horizon line. Hans knew long ago that there was no going back. Ever since he dragged himself out of the water back in Arendelle, nursing the large welt on his cheek from where Anna had hit him, he knew. But somehow, seeing that small, fragile little ship dipping out of sight, taking the last he’d probably ever see of his family’s crest and colors with it, something felt different. Final.
Hans turned back to the mountain before him. He still had quite a ways to go if he was going to make camp before night fall. He shivered, glancing towards the now empty horizon one final time before shrugging his bag back up his shoulder and continuing forward.
Hans paused when he made it to the top. He held out his hand, watching as several delicate flakes landed on the palm of his glove. Dark, swirling clouds were forming over the waters, and they were coming towards him fast. With the speed of the wind blowing into him, it was unlikely he'd have enough time to set a fire. Hans looked out across the valley. It would be warmer down there, and the air wouldn’t be as thin, but, having spent most of his life by the flat shores of the Southern Isles, he was unfamiliar with this area’s environment. He didn’t know how likely avalanches were, but he decided he wasn't going to take his chances.
His eyes drifted towards the trees. It was a bit unconventional, but they were tall, and their branches would provide much needed insulation from the cold. He picked one out that seemed reasonably sturdy enough, shrugged his bag further up his shoulders, and began to climb.
If he was being honest with himself, his banishment was a mercy. His father knew just as well as he did that his actions could have started a war. And right now, with his mother as sick and frail as she was, that was the last thing the country needed. He was reckless, and acted on his own will instead of that of the kingdom’s. His father could have had Hans executed, and no one would have batted an eye. It was high treason after all.
Hans sighed as he made it half-way up the tree—this was probably high enough—and began rummaging through his bag for a length of rope. Kindness had always been a weakness of his father’s, one he used to think he shared. For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, he wondered what had happened. Hans certainly remembered his plan. He remembered seeing naive little Anna looking so lonely by the chocolates table, and thinking how easy it would be to gain her favor. He remembered connecting over shared isolation, and talking about how much he hated his brothers. He remembered feeling joyed at the look of terror on her face as he backed away from their almost-kiss, and the overwhelming sensation of pure, gratifying blood lust when he tried to kill her sister.
Hans faltered. He had tried to kill someone. He had actively tried to kill someone. Considered, reflected, and spent hours carefully plotting and carrying the idea out. More than that, though, he had been thrilled. Exhilarated. The power and adrenaline rush he had felt was pure bliss. And that disgusted him. Churned painfully in his stomach and left him wanting to hurl. Not once, not a single time, did he think that maybe, just maybe that might have been a bad idea. He tried to slaughter another living, breathing being with his own two hands, and, at the time, he didn’t even bat an eye. Since when had his lack of a throne bothered him? Since when had he felt jealousy towards the twelve kind, caring siblings he had the pleasure of growing up with? Since when had his heart grown so bitter and cold that he'd want someone dead? It almost felt like he was a different person.
He continued with the rope, looping it around his waist then making quick work securing his bag and bow. Reason told him he should eat something before he slept, especially with his long trek up the mountain, and what was looking to be a blizzard starting to billow around him. The cold was seeping further into the cracks of his furs, and deep down he knew he needed the extra nourishment, but looking down at those strips of dried fruit and salted meat, he just couldn’t. Hans closed his bag.
The wind howled and wailed around him as the storm grew louder and the light of the sun began to fade. The dense cluster of branches and pine needles above and around him kept him cramped and uncomfortable, but they kept most the storm’s rage at bay, and for that he was grateful. Hans shivered once again, wanting to curl up, but the fear of the branches snapping under him kept him stretched out. He pulled his hood down and his scarf up. His current means of shelter was less than ideal, but it would work for tonight, and probably tomorrow night too if he couldn’t find something better.
As he closed his eyes for the night, he willed himself not to think of the eternity of his sentence, and how he'd never sleep in a real bed ever again. He willed himself not to think of his food, and how the meager month's worth of rations would run out before winter's end. He willed himself not to think of his unfamiliarity of the terrain, or his lack of knowledge on sewing or construction, or just how likely he was to starve or freeze or fall out of a tree and die.
Instead, Hans’s mind filled with thoughts of his father’s castle, warm and filled with laughter, and how today had been the first day in all of his life that he had been alone. Truly, utterly alone. He'd never share a meal with his mother, or go horseback riding with his brothers, or get to lose a game of chess to his father ever again. He'd never hear a single other human voice ever again. No matter how hard he struggled to keep it in, a single, silent tear slipped down his face, and into the warm, comforting fabric of his scarf. He breathed it's scent of orchard flowers, and hearth fires, and home, but the smell was faded, and slowly being overpowered by that of the pine needles brushing up against his face. He found himself drifting off to the realization that, just like the scent of his scarf, his memories of home would fade.
For the seventh night that week, he cried himself to sleep.