Chapter Text
“Are you aware of the damage that you had done.”
Hans’s eyes were fixated on the carpeted marble floor. His ears heard clearly his father’s voice. Deep, slow, and devoid of any questioning intent.
For many years he could no longer bother to count, he was practically demoted to below the class of peasants’. He was forced to live in an old shack by an unknown, distant stable. Each day consisted of him lying on a dirty rag until almost noon, contemplating his sorry state and, if the day was slow, all of his past mistakes. Then he would tend to those horses, then the stable, scooping loads and loads of waste, then the People From the Castle would come to inspect his work. If it was good enough, he might get a bowl of pea soup with stale bread, or sticks of dried sardines. However, what he often got was mushy, boiled potatoes that were tasteless and cold.
Or nothing at all, if they did not feel like it. And Hans had, slowly but surely, grasped the concept of cruelty. Wickedness. Evil-of-heart. The thing of sort that has many names. And he must admit that it was what he once intended to inflict on another innocent, undeserved person. On a princess. On a queen.
On esteemed women, in positions of powers, of a kingdom his father was working on establishing an alliance with.
And so, commenced a punishment fit for the crime.
He had long given up the thought of returning to the castle. Hell, he did not dare even to set his sight on its tower. He had resigned to his current life, as a horsekeeper, or a waste-sweeper. The former has a nicer ring to it, though.
When the People From the Castle announced to him that he had been summoned by his father, he could not help but raise his eyebrows in confusion. Nonetheless, he obeyed the call, and, after a brief cleaning session and a new outfit on, he was ushered to the familiar room. The Meeting Chamber was its name, and a ten feet stone table was still on its usual place. The floor was still that spotless marble, and the carpet still deep maroon.
However, unlike the usual view of no-less-than-twenty people seated around the table, loudly debating and consulting with each other, there was only his father at the other end, before a large portrait of his family. His eyes, fixated on his thirteenth son, were cold and sharp.
Hans felt small and suffocated.
Then his father said to him, deep, slow, and devoid of any questioning intent.
“Are you aware of the damage that you had done.”
He was not aware of Anna’s coronation. Apparently, her being in power and spotlight had made his infamy resurfaced. Of course, people who inquired about Queen Anna would soon find out about her Brief Cold Death, and the betrayal that led to it. They would learn about a once-unknown prince who almost single-handedly ended the Arendelle’s bloodline. Eventually, his name would be synonymous with a filthy, greedy opportunist. A liar. A slit-tongued con-man.
And it would be synonymous with the Southern Isles, too.
He learned, from his father, how his action had ruined the reputation of the kingdom. Whispers on the dock, warning not to trust the people from this place. Trades steadily plummeted. Kingdoms expressed their doubt on the alliance. Some even considered revoking their signed pact. A greed for power from one, unimportant man had shaken the kingdom to the very foundation. In a twisted irony, Hans had become important, like he had always wished. He had become a notorious criminal. He had become a powerful poison that was slowly killing the Southern Isles.
And so, his father had revised a sentence for him. A pilgrimage, for Hans to reflect on his sins.
“Maybe one day, when that crime no longer trails after your name, then you may return.”
Hans would have preferred a quick execution. This pilgrimage that his father had proposed sounded like an elaborated exile. His crime? It would forever be remembered. He would always be Hans the Usurper. His father basically ordered him to be removed from the Kingdom, and Hans was sure that he would have his portraits burned, his name scrubbed off from all recording. Hans would no longer exist in the Southern Isles. He would, at most, be a whisper among the merchants. A tale about a sullen, traitor prince, forever lost on his pilgrimage. Then they, too, would forget about him.
When he was ushered out of the room, his mind was blank. He could feel a dried trail of tears on his hollow cheeks. He wanted to thrash and scream, but his limbs were numb, and his throat closed.
He was led to a small boat, fit for no more than three people. He heard himself asking about it, and someone told him about how no one would want to spend any more copper coins on him. That having to provide this boat for him was a waste of a good, functional boat. And that nobody would miss him, for his name carried with it an atrocity. He refused to listen to anything after that, and barely registered himself being seated on a boat. A wool rug that was thrown onto him. There was a slight shift in the weight of the ship when a bag was put on the boat. Then, unceremoniously, the ship was kicked away, and slowly drifted into the sea.
The boat was well into a vast unknown of the sea when Hans curled himself, his throat finally opened, and a sorrowful cry came out, voice and all.
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Hans did not know how long the time had passed. The bag that was dropped on his boat had some food in them, but he had barely touched anything. His mind was resigned to the inevitable that could not come sooner, but his body somehow refused to give up. The sea was also calm, its wave small and steady, rocking his boat forward without threatening to overturn it.
As resigned as his mind was, it was not enough to drive him to throw himself in the water. It would be a lot easier if a storm just came, and a huge wave would swallow everything into the deep dark below. That way, he would be able to blame his death on the raging sea.
It was like everything wanted to keep him alive.
A wave passed by, and the air slowly became chilly. Hans slowly reached for the wool rug, and wrapped it around himself. All done instinctively. The rug barely kept him warm, but he did not really care.
Another wave.
Another wave.
Another wave.
Hans closed his eyes. Hoping that he would not have to open it again.