Archive of Our Own

Dead leaves are picked up by the shovel, the memories and regrets as well. And the north wind carries them away in the cold night of oblivion. You see, I have not forgotten the song you used to sing to me. But life separates those who love each other. And the sea erases on the sand the footsteps of lovers torn apart.

—Yves Montand, "Les feuilles mortes."

*

Paris, France - 1952

The gentle sound of pattering rain against cobblestones is the only thing that her ears register as she makes her way down Rue du Louvre that night. Puddles gather in the hollow spaces of the ground, reflecting the warm hues of the lights that line up the path of a nearly empty street. Glimmering, indecipherable shapes that move in time with the droplets of water that touch them; never quite still.

Elsa secures the hook of the umbrella in her hand as a gust of wind sweeps past. She pulls at the collar of her mink coat even though she isn't cold, and exhales a tempered breath that becomes vapor in the air. The corners of her lips twitch at the sight. There is warmth in her still; a part of her that is still human. Like a reminder of the things she hasn't lost, no matter how much she wishes she could trade them all just to get Anna back.

She walks alone, as she has for quite some time, to the small apartment she started renting from Mme Bernot when she arrived in Paris two weeks ago, after deciding that the feigned comfort of her homeland was no longer enough to make up for the memories that haunted her aching heart. When life, as it was, became no life at all and everything Elsa did, everything she saw and heard and smelled, reminded her of the life she once considered to have a beginning and an end. Because when the Queen of Arendelle died of old age and the kingdom set up a monument in her honor, and she went on to live in the memories of everyone who ever loved her, Elsa lost the anchor that kept her grounded.

So she wandered, like a ship lost at sea; borrowing from her sister's sense of adventure, searching for a meaning big enough to cover all the lives she was meant to live. Until she made it here on a whim. From Copenhagen, to Amsterdam, to Paris. She settled in the city without truly knowing why she'd chosen it, the same way she'd decided to follow that voice so many decades ago: a fearless streak of instinct.

Sometimes she wondered if Anna would have followed her here too, but she knew the answer before she ever got to finish the thought. Anna would have followed her to the ends of the world if she had asked and Elsa, too, would have followed her everywhere.

If only mortality hadn't drawn the line.

Elsa touches the delicate chain around her neck as she continues to make her way down the street. The rain goes on, and so does life in this city that she can't call home just yet. She stops at the intersection where Rue du Louvre becomes Montmartre and snaps out of her reverie. She is meant to cross the street, meant to catch the métro on the next block—the one that usually stops at 19:09 hrs and drops her off in Batignolles at 19:23 hrs. She'd have to walk three more blocks after that, enter Mme Bernot's building and walk up the two flights of stairs that lead to her small apartment.

The light changes before her but the only thing Elsa registers is the memory she's being immersed in. She remembers almost laughing at the sight of her apartment the first time she saw it—a nervous, ironic laugh fed by the fact that she'd never imagined she would be renting a place in Paris, a hundred years later, immortal and alone. But Mme Bernot had stood next to her, proud of the room she said she'd decorated herself, speaking in a French that Elsa had a hard time understanding. A language she only remembered bits and pieces of from her secluded childhood lessons, and later on, from the foreign relations she'd had to establish as queen. The language of love, Anna used to call it, even though she spoke very little of it as well. Random words that she would speak at random times. Always to Elsa. Only to Elsa.

Because French is the language of love, she'd say.

A car passing by takes her out of her stupor. She remains standing on the same corner, the rain incessant on its rattling against the fabric of her umbrella. The light has turned to red once more and she can no longer cross. But as she waits, frustrated at her own wandering mind, something catches her eye in the opposite side of the way she's supposed to go.

Down a street she has never walked, the innocuous entrance of a bar beckons her. Strangely so, for nothing about its façade is unique nor dazzling. A lonely bike rests against its front wall while the single street lamp that stands nearby casts a light on the entrance from which no one enters nor exits. Yet, like gravity, it pulls her in. She crosses the empty street as if in a trance, the clacking of her heels against the cobblestones barely noticeable below the sound of the rain.

When she reaches the front window of the bar, she finds that it is only mildly crowded. People, mostly men, fill up the space and line up a bar where they talk animatedly; drinking; smoking. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just another Parisian bar.

As soon as she enters, the scent of cigarette and liquor fills her nostrils. The sound of conversations envelopes her while a few pairs of eyes do a quick survey of her presence. She scans the room as if looking for something; perhaps someone; perhaps a reason that will explain why she's here. But nothing stands out, and Elsa presses through the crowd with the same grace that has followed her all these years.

She reaches the bar and perches herself on a stool, conscious of what she must look like right now: a woman alone, without company in tow, sitting in a room that comprises mostly men. She feels the leers piercing through her consciousness, sharp like daggers aimed to undress her. Yet, Elsa sits up, unmoving and dignified. She remains unfazed in a crowd where lively conversations are as copious as liquor tipping over the rim of a glass, and focuses on the menu instead. It is handwritten in a French she can barely understand. But maybe, she thinks, once she manages to figure out these scribbles that remind her of her sister's notes she might be able to discover why she was so heavily drawn to this place.

Maybe, just maybe...

"Pas français?"

Elsa looks up, and the sight pulls the air out of her lungs.

There is a girl standing on the other side of the bar, wearing khaki pants and a smeared, white button-up blouse that is tucked in and rolled up at the sleeves. But it is her face—the gentle curves of her cheekbones, the freckles that spread across her skin, and those eyes, almost green under the warm lights of the room—that has left her speechless.

A thin layer of frost has covered the menu she holds and Elsa can barely conceal the gasp that escapes her. It takes her a few seconds to gather herself even though the girl is still standing there, looking at her with curiosity, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear the same way her sister used to do. There is a myriad of thoughts going through Elsa's mind, drowning her almost all at once, and all she can manage to do is cover the thawing menu while she lifts up her shaking hand to place her index finger just above her thumb.

"Un petit peu," she mumbles.

The girl smiles, and Elsa's gaze follows the motion of her lips; the same lips that in another lifetime must have covered every inch of her skin. She feels a rush of heat travel up to her cheeks and she looks down in embarrassment. It doesn't matter who this girl may or may not be now. She is still nothing but a stranger.

Her struggle goes unnoticed, however, because the girl's attention has shifted elsewhere. To a Navy Sailor—a Yankee, Elsa had heard someone call them once—who's asked for another round of gin for him and his friends. He speaks to the girl in slurred English, and Elsa tilts her head at the possibility that she may speak some of it. She herself had to learn it eventually, no matter how often she'd thought of it as a cold and detached language. Then again, she'd had no real reason to use it for more than common formalities. She wasn't a talker, never had been. Not a hundred years ago and certainly not as of late. But at least she had her sister back then, who would hang onto every word that came out of Elsa's mouth as if it were the last.

And the same way that Anna used to listen to every word she had to say, so too does Elsa watch the girl's every move. She pours the gin swiftly, smiling politely at the men's slurred comments but not once humoring them with a single response. Elsa finds it odd that a girl, let alone a girl as young as she looks, would work a bar by herself.

When she is done pouring the drinks, she puts the bottle of gin away, turns around and walks straight back to Elsa.

"Alors?" she asks once she's close again. Elsa blinks a few times. She is not ready to order. She hasn't even looked at the menu.

Elsa fumbles with it, distracted and dumbfounded still by the situation. Her eyes scan a few words but they read none of them. Instead, she looks up again and asks, "Do you speak English?"

The girl smiles coyly before she mirrors the gesture Elsa used only a few minutes ago. "Un petit peu."

Elsa bites her lower lip to keep herself from grinning. Something about this short and silly exchange has her heart racing in a way it hadn't for a long time.

"I'll have a Merlot, please," she finally says.

Seconds later and an empty glass is placed before her. The girl pours the red wine while the close proximity of the action causes Elsa's heart to race again. It can't be, she keeps thinking. But the longer she stares at the girl the more she is convinced that fate isn't just playing a cruel trick on her. Those eyes... she could recognize them anywhere.

"Do you work alone?" 

"No," the girl answers, smiling, "I work with my uncle." She reaches down below for a white towel that she uses to wipe the bar. Elsa wonders for a brief moment if she is using that as an excuse to stay here, but she calls herself delusional for such thought.

"Do you like it? Working here, I mean. Do you enjoy it?"

The girl tilts her head and says, "Is one supposed to enjoy work?" There is a tone in her voice that doesn't go unnoticed. It is optimistic despite its meaning—secretly playful, like so many of the things Anna used to say.

"I suppose not always."

There is a pause; a brief moment of silence in which Elsa catches sight of something swarming in those teal blue eyes that is gone almost as fast as it came. The girl doesn't say anything after this. She simply smiles at Elsa and walks away to another patron calling for her. 

Elsa drinks her wine slowly as she watches her work around the bar. At some point a man comes through from the back. He is much older, perhaps the girl's uncle given the familiarity with which they work together. He appears to be kind, if perhaps a little boisterous. He beams at everyone he lays his eyes on and speaks loud French with people Elsa assumes are his regulars. Next to him, the girl would appear almost shy, but Elsa suspects this is only a façade. She looked into her eyes after all. They were nothing but fierce; full of life.

All around her people come and go, yet Elsa stays well after she's finished her glass of wine. She is waiting for something. Another answer perhaps; another sign. And she'd like to think she finds it the moment the girl approaches again to take her empty glass away.

"It's good?" she asks, eyeing the glass.

"Yes," Elsa says, then tries: "Merci."

There is a smirk this time, and Elsa swoons despite herself.

"Can I ask... How do you know English?"

"Many Americans stayed after the war," the girl explains, glancing back at her uncle before she takes a step closer towards Elsa. "Did you stay also?"

"I don't come from America."

"Where do you come from?"

"It depends who you ask."

The girl grins. It is the most precious thing Elsa has seen in decades. "A mystery then."

Elsa laughs a little. "For now, we can call it that."

The girl falls silent and something in her eyes keeps Elsa from looking elsewhere. There is a sense of familiarity in them, so faint and unfathomable that Elsa thinks she must be imagining it. Yet, she feels drawn to them the same way it used to be so long ago, back when she could spend hours looking into her sister's eyes, counting her blessings every time they glinted with another laugh. Those eyes, so fierce and vulnerable in another lifetime, suddenly bring Elsa back to the warm summers at the castle gardens; to the nights spent under the northern lights; to the promises and the confessions and the love professed.

And suddenly, Elsa knows why she chose Paris.

"Will you be here tomorrow?" she dares ask.

"Will you tell me about the mystery tomorrow?"

Elsa bites her lip. "Maybe."

The girl's gaze falls momentarily to an empty spot on the bar before she looks up through her long lashes. "Then yes," she responds lowly, "Maybe."

She can settle for this, Elsa decides. A maybe. It sounds far better than a never. So she bids the girl a good night, unable to keep herself from smiling as she does so. Perhaps she looks like a fool, just another silly stranger passing by. But Elsa can't contain it the same way she can't contain her heart from fluttering inside her chest. She cuts through the crowd slowly, looking back only once to find the girl watching her. She sees her nod and Elsa does the same. There is so much she wishes she could have said tonight; so many opportunities she wishes she could have had to unburden herself off a past too long to cover a single lifetime. Because a mystery doesn't quite cut it and a single night in Paris doesn't seem like long enough time.

Because I was a queen once, she thinks, and then a legend. And I had a sister, who looked exactly like you.

*

Arendelle, Norway - 1849

Sunlight seeped through the nooks and crooks of the branches like warm specks embedded into the sky. It was a lovely afternoon. One of many. Each summer Elsa looked forward to them, a ritual set to repeat itself the same delightful way over and over again.

She waited for Anna—as she often did—reading a book taken from the library. Dickens this time, heavily detailed and awfully immersive. So immersive in fact that she did not register the faint whistling tune that kept drawing closer, nor the sound of dry leaves being softly crushed under her sister's shoes.

"Hey, stranger."

She looked up to find Anna standing a few meters away, carrying a burlap bag over her shoulder. She was wearing trousers instead of a dress. "They're constricting," she'd said the first time Elsa found her wearing them around the castle. "Trousers make it easier to be a queen." Elsa had only laughed as she hooked an index finger on their hem and pulled her closer. Sometimes she looked like a stable boy, her dear sister.

"I brought us some goodies," Anna announced, plopping herself right next to Elsa. She set the burlap bag to the side before pulling out of a pocket of her vest a crumpled linen napkin that held a handful of chocolate squares. They had been Elsa's go-to snack when she was a queen; the same snack Anna would often sneak out of the kitchen when Gerda's watchful eyes weren't looking. The same way she most likely did now, queen or not.

Elsa set the book aside to allow Anna some space to rest her head on her lap. She then took the chocolate handed to her with gratitude, and sighed when its sweet taste melted in her mouth. Heaven: that is what afternoons like these felt like.

"How did your royal duties go today?" she asked.

"Boring," Anna lamented, "Is work ever fun?"

"Sometimes," she mused, lightly tapping her sister's nose, "but not always."

Anna scrunched her face at this but focused on her chocolate instead of responding. Elsa could watch her all day, with her hair tousled by the summer breeze and her eyes full of life.

"What?" Anna asked, a smile playing on her lips.

Elsa shook her head. "You're adorable."

"Careful now," she warned, "I am a queen. I have a reputation to uphold."

"Reputation or not. You're sweet and charming and I love you."

"You think that now," Anna said, "But when I am old and cranky you won't think the same way."

Elsa brushed her cheek with the back of her fingers. "How could I ever run out of tenderness for you?"

*

Paris, France - 1952

She arrives earlier the next day, with high-strung nerves and excitement jumping at her throat. She'd spent the night tossing in bed, unable to catch the sleep that only teased with a vague sense of tiredness. For the longer she spent awake, the more she thought that she would be back in here only to find out that she was hopelessly dreaming of something that did not exist.

But when she enters and finds the same girl standing behind the bar, wiping the dust off a bottle of liquor, there is nothing left that can make Elsa believe this is just a dream.

She steps farther in, allowing her high-heeled footsteps to announce her entrance. There is music in the room today. It weaves softly through the air stained with the cigarette smoke of a lone drinker. How mundane it all looks under the lazy afternoon light coming through the window. It takes away from the essence of a dream Elsa kept irrationally clinging to. It makes it real.

The girl's gaze travels up to meet hers before a tiny smile flourishes across her face. There is that same pull Elsa felt last night, inexplicable but perfectly clear, drawing her closer until she finds herself standing at the bar.

"You came," the girl says.

Elsa smiles. "I said I would."

She takes a seat a few feet away from the only other person at the bar. He's paid her no mind—he is far too gone into his drink.

"It is quiet today," she observes.

"You are early," the girl responds, and Elsa takes it as an obvious explanation. She wonders how many more hours it will take for this place to fill up again.

She ends up ordering a Merlot—same as last night—and as the wine is poured into a glass and she watches the liquid settle into a stillness, she begins to realize how strange this must be for the girl standing across from her. A woman, alone, coming to the bar two days in a row seemingly with no other desire than to speak with her. Shouldn't that be curious enough to incite questions? Or is this... thing, this pull of invisible strings, a mutual sensation?

"So." The girl props her elbows on the bar. "Have you come to tell me about your mystery?"

Elsa finds it amusing that there seems to be no need for small talk. "I did say maybe," she teases, "so perhaps we can wait a little bit more for that."

The girl sighs stubbornly. "There is one thing you must know about me," she states with feigned seriousness, "I do not have a lot of patience."

Elsa bursts out laughing, happy beyond comprehension.

"Just trust me on this," she says afterwards. "You can ask me anything else you'd like to know."

"Anything?"

"Yes."

Two men walk into the bar and the girl reluctantly goes to greet them before she has the time to ask Elsa something. She is away for a while: another man has followed shortly after the first two. She moves back and forth pulling bottles out of cases and glasses out of cabinets, busy enough that she doesn't stay in one place for too long but with enough time that, every now and then, she meets Elsa's eye.

Elsa is nearly done with her first glass of Merlot by the time the girl finally comes back with a question.

"Have you ever been to Paris before?"

"I have. Once. Very briefly."

"Why did you decide to come back?"

A pause. "I have been... trying to make sense of certain things in my life. And I came to Paris because I had a feeling that it would be good for me."

"And has it been good?"

Elsa smiles. "I think it has." She downs the last of her wine after this, and doesn't need to ask for another one because the girl has already pulled out the bottle to pour more. Something tells her that if she weren't working right now she would be joining her with a glass of her own.

"Do you like it?"

"The wine? It is very good."

"No." She chuckles. "Paris."

"Oh... I have not seen much of it yet. I don't know where to start."

The girl nods pensively while Elsa reaches for her glass and takes a sip. They're interrupted once more by the men occupying the bar. Another round, some of them want. One of them is asking for her uncle. He will be down soon, the girl says, polite albeit curt. It makes Elsa wonder how often she's had to deal with leery men who've had a little too much to drink before the thought makes her reach for the wine again. She feels the burning liquid run down her throat just as the girl comes back with another question: "Do you work?"

"I've recently found a job at the Louvre.

"What do you do there?"

"I work as a curator."

"So you like art."

"My sister," she says, the word falling from her lips before she can help it. "She used to love art."

The girl cocks her head. "Used to?"

Elsa closes her eyes for longer than a blink. She feels a wave of inconsolable sadness wash her anew. "She passed. A long time ago."

"I am very sorry."

"Don't be," Elsa murmurs.

A hand moves forward after this, hesitant on its way to graze the back of Elsa's fingers in a gesture of comfort, but lingering once the first contact has been made. It ignites something in her, settles deeply inside her soul. There are certain things in life which are incapable of concealing the truth and for Elsa, this single touch tells her everything she's been aching to know. A molten realization that engulfs her the moment her gaze sinks into the girl's and finds, for the first time in over seventy years of yearning, that same flicker of life; the soul of her sister looking right back at her.

"I—"

"Chouchou."

They both turn in time to find the same man Elsa saw last night holding a case of empty beer bottles. He flashes a broad smile in Elsa's direction before he begins to speak to the girl in a French so fast that Elsa only catches a few words out of the entire thread. He then walks away, leaving the girl with an apologetic expression on her face.

"I must go for a little bit."

Elsa nods in understanding.

"I don't know your name," she adds.

"Elsa," she tells her, not missing the way her eyes flash with something akin to recognition. "What is yours?"

The question hangs in the air for far more than it should.

"Anna," the girl responds. "My name is Anna."

She leaves after this while Elsa is left wondering if this is fate giving her a second chance. Hope swells in her, rising up to meet her racing heart, and she holds onto to it the same way she has held onto the memories of her sister all these years: bittersweetness interlaced with a vehement sense of longing. How extremely complex, yet how simple it is, to meet again in another life. To die and be born again only to have fate pull at the strings of one's soul in order to have it coincide with another's. And what is the matching of two souls if not to keep each other's company in life, over and over again?

Soulmates. Elsa thinks of this word with fondness. Because Anna was more than just the greatest love in her life. More than just her sister; more than just her partner in crime. She was her soulmate. Elsa knew it in life, and she knew it at death's threshold when she watched her sister take her last breath and felt a part of her soul leave with her too.

She drinks the last of her second Merlot in silence, watches as the bar slowly fills up until the music that once weaved freely through the air is nothing more than a faint tickle in her ear. Anna returns at some point but is too busy helping her uncle to approach her. It isn't until Elsa begins to feel as though she's overstayed that she comes back again.

"I should get going," Elsa tells her, pulling a handful of francs out of her purse.

"I have one last question before you go."

"Of course."

Anna bites her bottom lip. "Will you be here tomorrow?"

Surprised, Elsa watches her for a moment. She can feel herself swooning and the smile on her lips blossom into a grin. "Do you want me to be here tomorrow?"

There is no need for a worded answer. Elsa can see it in her eyes.

*

Arendelle, Norway - 1843

The reading room remained dark except for the warm light cast by the fireplace. Its flames flickered, sprouting from the burning wood as though reaching up to the ceiling in yellow and orange hues that snapped, crackled and spat out sparks that soon faded in the air and became nothing. Elsa sat, entranced by it all, as she waited for Anna to say something.

But silence met her ears for moments on end, until a gust of wind touched and rattled the large window in the room. She looked up to find her sister standing next to it, unmoved, the pale moonlight shining over her to provide a single, ethereal image. Her loose hair cascaded down her back. Her crown sat discarded on the desk like a trinket. It was just Anna tonight. Not a queen, but Elsa's sister.

"Immortal," she said, her soft voice piercing through the silence in which they were suspended.

"That is not... exactly the word Yelena used."

Anna turned around. "But that is what you are."

She didn't respond.

"So what happens next?"

Elsa slowly left her place by the fire so that she could close the distance between them. She stood before her sister and ran her fingers delicately down her covered arms. Anna's hands were warm. In this everlasting cold with which she surrounded herself day and night, they brought her comfort.

"Nothing has to happen next," she murmured, "I am still me."

Her sister's eyes glimmered under the moonlight with an overflow of emotions that Elsa could read as clearly as if she were feeling them herself.

"I'm scared, Elsa."

"Why are you scared?"

There was silence. The crackling of the fire. The wind rattling against the window. Anna's voice: "I feel as if we're being separated again."

Elsa cradled Anna's face in her hands. "I would never let that happen."

"But I'll get older," she said, her voice breaking. "I'll get older with each year that passes while you'll stay the same and then one day I'll be gone." She stopped, exhaling deeply and raising her hands to cover Elsa's. "Is it selfish of me to think that one day I'll become nothing but a memory to you?"

"You will never be just a memory to me," Elsa murmured, brushing the skin of Anna's cheekbone with her thumb. "I would trade a thousand lifetimes just be with you in this one."

Her sister didn't respond. She simply allowed herself to be held while Elsa, too, chose to relish this moment in silence. They leaned into each other until their foreheads touched and they were sharing the same breath. In this castle that once echoed during the cold, desolate years of her childhood, Elsa felt once again at home. Even if she knew, with as much clarity as the warmth that enveloped her the moment she wrapped her arms around Anna's waist, that her sister had always been the reason behind it. Anywhere she was and anywhere she went, Anna would always be her home.

*

Paris, France - 1952

She returns the next day, and the next week, and then the couple of weeks after that. Her visits last as long as the time she spends drinking a single glass of Merlot and sometimes, when she is feeling rather bold, two. It isn't that she doesn't wish to spend more time in Anna's company—she would spend day and night shamelessly glued to her if she could—but rather, the fact that incertitude still pervades her actions. She feels as though she is imposing herself on the life of a girl who still knows nothing but superficial scrapes of her current self. But the bigger problem is that, as awfully embarrassing as it sounds, Elsa cannot stay away for too long. She yearns to see her, constantly and unreservedly.

And how could she not? How could she stay away when Anna's face subtly lights up every time she enters the bar as if she were looking forward to these visits just as much as Elsa herself?

She arrives later than usual this time. The bar is hosting its late night patrons—men submerged so deeply in wine and liquor that only a couple of them lift their heads up enough to take a good look at Elsa. Yet, she treads the ground without diverting her eyes away from the girl working behind the bar.

Anna smiles when she sees her. "I thought you were not coming tonight."

"Work," she explains as she removes her princess coat. The collar of her blouse has been left unopened, and Elsa doesn't miss the way Anna's keen eyes glance down at her collarbone before being pulled back up. "We have a new exhibition at the Grande Galerie," she adds.

The girl arches an eyebrow but says nothing.

"What?" Elsa asks.

"Your pronounciation is getting better."

She rolls her eyes with a smile. A glass of Merlot is placed in front of her before Anna asks, "What is this new exhibition about?"

"Léonard de Vinci," Elsa responds, punctuating each word with the thickest French accent she can muster.

Anna throws her head back in a laugh. "Very good, very good," she says. "I've read a lot about his inventions. He was a smart and very interesting man."

"Most people recognize him from his paintings rather than his inventions."

"I don't know a lot about art," Anna responds easily.

"I can teach you if you want." Her voice comes out sounding far more suggestive than she expects and she feels the need to hide her blushing cheeks behind her glass of wine.

Oblivious, Anna rests her forearms on the bar. "And how does one teach art to a person?"

"You... take them to a museum."

"Like the Louvre," she says, her accent thickening at the last word. Elsa feels herself burn up at this.

"I—yes. Or," she clears her throat, "any other art museum of their preference."

The corners of Anna's lips curl into a mischievous smile. She pushes herself away from the bar in order to go back to cleaning glasses as if nothing had happened. Meanwhile, Elsa goes back to her wine where she can hide her embarrassment. No other sound fills the space except for the music coming from the vinyl record player Anna says she uses for her personal collection. There is a man near the far end of the bar leaning heavily against it and slurring out words at random.

"Will you be closing soon?" Elsa asks her.

"In an hour or so. We close earlier on weekdays."

The man slurring his words suddenly lifts his head up, exclaims something unintelligible and goes back to taking his drunken nap. Elsa frowns both in distaste and concern before she looks away. She doesn't get to ask her question; Anna reads it off her expression.

"The men who stay at this hour are more sad than angry," she says, "a small push and they know it is time to go home."

"Are you usually alone at this hour?"

She nods, pauses, then beams. "Do you think I'm scared, Elsa?"

"No," Elsa drawls, relishing the way her name sounds coming out of her lips. "I just worry."

"Don't worry too much."

"But what happens if a man is too stubborn to leave?"

"I call my uncle."

Elsa looks bewildered.

"We live upstairs," Anna explains, "This bar belongs to my uncle, but he is an old man and he likes to sleep more than these men like alcohol. Anyway, we do not have too many problems. Only a man or two too heavy to carry out by myself."

"I'm glad," Elsa says sincerely.

A comfortable silence falls upon them as the girl continues to work while Elsa goes back to the last of her wine. She lets the warm liquid sit in her tongue while she recalls an argument she once had with her sister—a rare occasion, she now realizes. Anna had gone horse riding late at night. She couldn't sleep, she'd told Elsa, but Elsa had still scolded her, called it a reckless decision. "You do it all the time," Anna had grumbled. But they were different, she'd responded. This had angered her sister. She'd called her condescending and patronizing. Elsa had called her obstinate. They threw foolish retorts at each other for a while, empty words that neither of them were able to remember days later.

Elsa finishes her Merlot with a vague sense of longing stirring in her heart. She allows it to wash over her, this never-ending yearning she holds for her sister, before she releases it. It's taken her decades to learn how to do this: to feel and let go.

Anna tells her she needs to go to the storage room and leaves Elsa alone with her drunken companions. Drunken and sad, she thinks. There is only enough time for her to wonder about the kind of sorrows that turn them into gloomy and despondent beings, with their backs arched and their heads lowered until they're almost touching the surface of the bar. Her attention leaves them, however, when Anna returns carrying a case of liquor bottles. They rattle and clink with every step she takes until she places it at the top of the bar with a small grunt. Two men turn their attention towards the noise. One of them asks for another glass of whisky but Anna shakes her head.

"T'es très bourré," she tells him. He's very drunk indeed. So he mumbles something under his breath, stands up with some difficulty and stumbles out of the bar.

"Three to go," Anna says to Elsa with a playful expression. She pulls every bottle out of the case in one swift motion: one Bénédictine bottle of two compartments. Two of Courvoisier and one of Croizet cognac. Trotosky triple sec. Cointreau. White Horse Scotch whisky. All in all, it takes her only a couple of minutes to arrange everything and have it ready for the next day. She then turns to Elsa, who has been looking on rather enthralled, and smiles.

"One more?" she asks. "It is—what do people say—on the house?"

Elsa rises her index finger. "Only one more. Half. Or else I'll become très bourré as well."

With a smirk, Anna pours. Then she takes out another glass, sets it down and pours but a trickle. Leaning closer with her elbows on the bar, she grabs the glass by its stem and lifts it up. Elsa does the same. They cheer in silence, without looking away from one another.

The deep, red color of Merlot tints Anna's lips for a moment before the tip of her tongue comes out to lick them clean. Elsa watches it all, captivated.

"There is something I have been meaning to ask you," Anna then says.

She nods and waits for the question. Anna twirls the glass by its stem and casts a glance to the side. Two of the three men have struck up a slurred conversation—the third man looks about ready to go—but Elsa goes on ignoring them and, after a couple of seconds of stalling, so does Anna. 

"Would you like to see Paris with me?" she asks in a gentle voice.

Taken aback, Elsa does nothing but stare at her for a moment. She takes her in, unabashedly, feeling her heart fluttering inside her ribcage. "I would love that very much," she breathes.

~~~

She's agreed to meet her that same weekend at Le Consulat, a small but lively café in the heart of Montmartre. She's arrived but a few minutes early, asked for a table outside, and settled down to wait. It is sunny outside, bustling with life. There's the scent of freshly baked bread in her nose and the sound of engines in her ears. Automobiles cruise back and forth, their motors rumbling and their tires rolling on cobblestone streets. On the sidewalks, people cross each other's paths: two nuns, walking side by side and carrying bags full of groceries, encounter a group of rowdy kids chasing after each other—no parents in sight. A glimpse of motherly instinct flashes across the nuns' faces; a mixture of fondness and disapproval. Young friends and older couples stroll with leisure, passing by the tables set outside long-standing cafés, many of them occupied by men smoking cigarettes and sipping on their dessert wine glasses. There is music coming out of a window somewhere, a low but smooth tune. Jazz. Elsa takes it all in and thinks of how much things have changed, yet how little. Pastimes have changed. Lifestyles, people and their tastes have changed. But the need for fulfillment remains. That quiet, humming desire to enjoy life in the moments that feel like a standstill in time. That joie de vivre Elsa had heard so much about but had not quite experienced for a very long time.

It suddenly makes her feel like the wait has been worth it.

"Hello, stranger."

Startled, Elsa turns her head around at the sound of Anna's voice. She is standing with her hands in the pockets of her gray capri trousers, looking at her with bright eyes shaded by a black beret that Elsa finds utterly charming. She is smiling with a hint of mischievous expectation, as if waiting to see Elsa's reaction at the term she's used. She's come to call her a stranger even though Elsa isn't quite that anymore—even though she doesn't want to be, at all.

"Is this what you do on weekends," Elsa asks as she stands up, "make friends with strangers?" It is the first time she is this close to Anna; the first time she greets her with a proper kiss on each cheek. She feels like a mess on the inside. A fluttering, quivering mess.

"Only special strangers," Anna responds cheekily.

"I should be honored then."

They settle at the table and, minutes later, they order. Over food and coffee, they share small details about themselves—the little things that comprise a whole being. Elsa finds it refreshing to be sharing things with Anna outside of the bar's dim space that smells of cigarette and liquor; of decadence and self-indulgence. It is different. It feels different. And this ease with which they interact—which rules their actions, and their words, and their expressions—, it cannot be attributed to mere coincidence. There is something else. Something different from the magic that courses through Elsa's veins. Something that perhaps shouldn't be questioned, but accepted.

When they have finished and stayed awhile, Anna takes Elsa through Rue Norvins, using the monumental dome of Sacré-Cœur the same way ships make use of a lighthouse at sea. She points at things excitedly, explaining bits and pieces of everything. She tells her about the buildings whose decayed, painted walls pulsate with history too stubborn to be washed out, all whilst telling her how very, very old they are. "Some are from the past century," she gushes with wide eyes while Elsa smiles and thinks: If only you knew.

She takes her through Place du Tertre where they spend some time skirting amidst the artists that have covered almost every inch of the square. She lets Elsa take the lead here, at times asking about certain paintings that have caught her attention, always attentive to the things Elsa has to say. She tells her about Van Gogh and Picasso and Monet, and how they all lived here at some point.

"I thought you didn't know a lot about art," Elsa teases.

"When you find out a famous painter has moved to your city," she tells her, "it is called gossip."

After a while, they reach the steps that lead to Sacré-Cœur's entrance. Elsa had seen this same view numerous times before on paintings and photographs, on pamphlets of Paris and sketches, knowing it is always different in person. Far grander, far more alive. History speaks, and many times its loudest messages come in the shape of its monuments.

"Come on!" Anna exclaims as she reaches for her hand. She takes her up the steps—slower than she probably wants to go because Elsa is not wearing trousers but a dress—never once letting go. Her hand is warm and soft. It makes it hard for Elsa to not trip over her own two feet.

They move through the crowds of people who stand and sit idly until they reach the last landing. Anna stops there, smiling from ear to ear, looking at Elsa from under the beret that she has now pushed slightly back. She turns around and takes Elsa's gaze with her.

The view of Paris from where they stand is clear; unexpectedly breathtaking. Elsa, who has sat below the night sky colored by northern lights and who has stood before the opening of her home's fjord. She who has seen her own ice castle glimmer under the sun from its place high up in the North Mountain and who has galloped across a dark sea in search for answers. She who has seen so much, now stands breathless from disbelief.

A gentle bump against her leg pulls her out of her musings. Elsa turns around to find Anna already sitting on one of the concrete steps with an extended hand towards her. She reaches out slowly, her fingers touching Anna's palm and then slipping further so that they're wrapped around her hand. They stay like that for a moment, lost in each other's eyes, until Anna gives her a tiny squeeze and Elsa tucks her dress under her thighs in order to sit down.

When she is right by her side, Anna bumps her shoulder. "We are seeing Paris," she tells her, and Elsa's smile widens. She looks briefly at the city below them and takes a deep breath, with enough contentment to fill her entire being.

"My uncle used to take me here when I was a child," Anna says after a while. "He would buy me a—" she gestures with her hand "—an ice cream? Strawberry. It is always been my favorite."

"I prefer chocolate."

The girl makes a face and she laughs.

"Tell me more about your uncle," she then prompts.

Anna scratches her chin while she thinks. There is a thin, faint scar along its side that Elsa had not caught before. "He is a good man," Anna says with fondness. "He likes to tell jokes. Sometimes they're so bad you can't help but find them funny. And he likes to become friends with strangers very often. That is how everyone knows him in the neighborhood." She pauses for a second, lost in thought. "He can be scary when he is angry but he has never become angry with me."

"You're his favorite," Elsa comments, recalling the term he often used.

Anna chuckles. "I am his only one."

"Really?"

A nod. "He is not my father but he treats me like I am his daughter. It has always just been the two of us, so we try to take care of each other."

Elsa understands the silent implications that lie below her statement and finds within herself not a streak of sympathy, but of understanding.

"Do you not wonder sometimes?"

Anna looks at her with tenderness. "I am happy. Why should I question that?"

Elsa accepts her answer, wishing that she had applied it to her own life once. How different things would have been if only she had.

"What about you?" Anna asks.

"What about me?"

She stares intently until Elsa looks away. Only one person in her life has ever been able to read her that way. It is both thrilling and terrifying.

"Your life," Anna says lowly, "It feels like a mystery to me."

"You know more about me than most people have in years."

"I know where you come from," Anna goes on, moving so that she can face her fully, "I know about your travels. I know where you work. I know you had a sister. I know some of the things you like and some you don't. And I know you drink Merlot, only one or two glasses every other day."

Elsa doesn't look away this time. Her heart has started to hammer inside her chest. Her breathing has become heavier, laden with all the secrets she wishes she could unfold but is still too afraid to do so. How much can she bring herself to confess? How many secrets would Anna be willing to take?

"You don't have to tell me now," Anna says, a little defeatedly, "But when you are ready, I am here."

Elsa nods, grateful. If only she could be a little bit braver, she would tell her everything right now. Here amidst the crowd, while the sun still shines and the playful shrieks of children can be heard in the distance. But things like this, she thinks, take time. They cannot possibly be unleashed all at once. So she chooses to wait a little longer; to share with Anna everything else there is to know about her.

Not, however, without asking one last thing.

"Do you believe in magic, Anna?" 

The girl tilts her head in contemplation, and Elsa doesn't realize she's been holding her breath until a soft smile tugs at the corners of Anna's lips.

"I think life would be a little bit boring if we didn't."

*

Arendelle, Norway - 1852

It was dark by now inside the room. The candles they kept on the bedside had long ago been blown out. The scuffing of the castle staff in the hallways had long ago ceased. All that remained was the moonlight that peaked through the large window of their room and the quiet rustle of Elsa's magic as her fingers danced around in the air. It was something she'd come to find comforting and something that Anna had said she never got tired of seeing. They were often nothing more than swirls and indecipherable shapes; a playful yet subdued invocation of the powers she had grown to fear and then embrace as a unique part of herself.

Anna lay next to her, with her head resting on Elsa's shoulder and an arm wrapped around her torso. And while she did not speak, Elsa knew she was awake. She could tell by the way her thumb kept grazing the skin on her belly, and the way she kept holding her breath at certain shapes Elsa created. Even after all these years, after so many things had changed, her excitement had stayed the same.

She went on moving her fingers, rotating her wrist, fascinated by the way her own magic worked. She had been afraid of it for so long, she often felt like she was making up for lost time.

"You know what makes me sad sometimes?"

Elsa stopped her movements before shifting her head to press her lips to Anna's forehead. "What?"

"The memories Grand Pabbie changed in my head," she said, propping herself on her elbow, "They feel like a lie."

A gush of sadness took over her as Elsa was brought back to that night. "I'm sorry," she breathed.

"No, hey," Anna brought a hand to her cheek, "None of it was your fault. If I'd had the chance I would have kicked and screamed to keep him from doing it." When Elsa didn't respond, she continued, "You punished yourself for long enough time, my love."

"Thirteen years," she whispered.

"Way too long," Anna insisted. "But my point is that I miss those memories with your magic in it."

Elsa brushed her bangs away. "You were insufferable in most of them," she teased.

"Hey!"

"You always pulled at my hand," she recalled, her mood lightening, "you clapped and jumped... 'Do the magic!' you always said. You almost fell down the stairs once because you couldn't contain yourself. And another time we were grounded because you made me freeze the kitchen's floor and Gerda fell on her bottom." She was laughing freely by now while Anna covered her face with her hand.

"Poor Gerda," she mumbled.

"She couldn't walk straight for the rest of the day."

"That is horrifying. Please, remind me to apologize tomorrow."

Elsa giggled. "Yes, your majesty."

Uncovering her blushing face, Anna looked down at Elsa while her expression shifted from embarrassment to affection. They gazes at each other until their laughter winded down and silence settled once again in the room. Elsa could feel herself grow warmer and her heart beat harder inside her chest, the same way it always did when Anna looked at her like this. And when she leaned down and cupped Elsa's cheek, and kissed her with as much breathless passion as if it were the first time, Elsa felt entirely consumed.

They held each other for a long time after Anna broke the kiss, firmly, without any sign of wanting to let go until Anna shifted in order to brush her lips against Elsa's pulse.

"I love you," she whispered.

"And I love you."

"Remember that," she pleaded as she threaded her fingers in Elsa's hair and nuzzled her neck with palpable, vehement yearning. "Even when I'm gone, please remember it."