Chapter Text
i.
"It's an ancient curse against all those born into the royal bloodline," his governess says, as his thumb absently strokes the bandage over his palm. It's late; the world outside his window is nothing but black and his governess perches on the edge of his bed as Hans sits on the floor, the opened present on his lap the only acknowledgement that it's his birthday.
"It began with a princess who chose to marry a miller's son over the prince she had been betrothed to since birth," she says, and leans forward, her voice sinking hushed as a secret. Hans has only ever heard the versions his brothers tell him of this story, the ones with more knights and blood and conquering. He leans closer, eyes wide. "The prince's mother was secretly a great witch, and she was furious to be betrayed. In her vengeance, she cursed every royal child to have the name of their one true love seared onto the palm of their hand from the moment both were in the world."
Hans looks down at his palm, instead of rolling his eyes. He knows that already. "But why does everyone have to keep it a secret?" he asks, pulling his hand against his chest. He's nine, and he's had a name burnt stark and black into his skin since he was two years old. It appeared while he was being bathed by two maids - Edvin likes to tell him they were both taken out and murdered that very same night so they could never tell anyone, but Hans doesn't believe him.
His hand - like every Southern Isles prince's hand - is supposed to be bandaged until his ninth birthday, and old enough to understand the importance of keeping the gloves on. The pair on his lap are white and small and the only thing in this castle that's irrefutably his.
His governess sighs, and he looks back up. "The witch was very clever," she says, her smile small and sad. "There were those who spent their lives looking for the name that matched their palm, and went mad with grief or rage without ever finding them. Lives were thrown away. Family lines were reduced to nothing, entire dynasties brought down by the selfishness of princes searching for just one woman, or a princess refusing to marry anyone but her true love."
"So it's just a name of someone who doesn't exist?" Hans asks, frowning at her knees. That doesn't make sense. He's seen -
"No," his governess says. "That was only half the curse. There are those who searched and searched and did find someone with the name of their true love. Sometimes they were refused. Sometimes they even lived happily ever after. But those determined to find their true love were always most successful when they made the name they were searching for known throughout the land -"
"Oh," Hans says, eyes blinking wide before he frowns at their stupidity, and his governess smiles.
"Yes," she says, that soft line to her mouth like when he's pulled the right answer out of the air. "Names are easily lost and gained, especially when there's power behind them. There are dozens of stories of children snatched from their cribs, changelings and murderers and all kinds of people claiming that their name was the true match. It is only those of royal blood who are marked, remember, and it is only those of any importance whose names are recorded at birth.
"If the name on your hand is not someone royal" - and Hans keeps his expression unchanged, doesn't even blink, because he's old enough to know that secrets are everything - "with a name on their palm to match yours, how would you know your true love is truly who they say they are?"
Hans stares down at his palm in pretend contemplation. It works, because he can hear the laughter in her voice when she says, "Imagine it was my name on your hand." Hans doesn't look up; he imagines the words he knows are there instead, pictures them burning their way up through the bandage. "Just for a moment, imagine it. Now, imagine what someone could do with that, if they found out. A dozen women could claim my name as theirs, in the hope of ensnaring a prince. I could be kidnapped. I could be killed."
His throat wants to laugh and give him away, so he keeps his head down. His true love isn't some easily replaced commoner, but his governess takes his silence as understanding, and he can see the flex of her fingers over her lap as she considers reaching out to him. "That's why you must keep it a secret," she finishes, and brushes down her skirts as she rises.
"Sleep well. Put the gloves on as soon as I'm gone," she says, and he's barely said goodnight before she's out of the door.
The fireplace flickers as Hans looks at the gloves in his lap, thinking of secrets, and then he very carefully puts the velvet-lined box on the bed, and very quietly crosses over to the door and turns the key. The sound of the lock clicking shut seems to echo through the wood, too loud in the stillness of his chamber.
Hans stops, and listens. The castle is full of silence, the distant sound of footsteps and things skittering through the ceilings, but all he needs to know is that there's no one listening just outside, waiting for him to drop his guard. He holds his breath until he's certain everything's quiet and then pelts back to his bed and crawls under the covers, drawing his knees up to make a canopy up to his shoulders. There's no way anyone could possibly see, but he keeps his hand in the makeshift darkness and unpicks the knot on the bandage.
The fabric falls away quickly, and the two words on his palm are almost too shadowed to see but he knows them by heart. He would never dare say them out loud - the walls have ears (and eyes, and teeth, Edvin likes to say. Edvin is the reason Hans always locks his door) but he hides his face beneath the covers and mouths it into the darkness, over and over.
(He had almost ruined everything, the first time he heard her name spoken outside his own head. His tutor was reeling off the important houses of their neighbours, a long list of names that didn't matter anyway because he was already seven and his father still said he wasn't allowed to join him on any of his voyages - and then his tutor had said her name, and Hans had flinched as though struck because the gross girl he was never going to waste his life trying to find was a princess, heir to a northern kingdom.
"Sorry, sir. Cramp," he had said, contouring into a wince as he shook out his foot. His tutor had only frowned and carried on as Hans slipped back into pretending bored concentration; in truth thinking rapidly as he held his marked palm tighter in a fist. His brothers could never be allowed to find out - they all knew Klaus had the name of a duke's daughter on his hand, even though he was not supposed to tell anyone, and Edvin had joked about cutting it off more than once. They'd probably murder him if they knew he was destined to be a king one day.)
The fire crumbles to embers and Hans digs his fingernails over the name, reaching over the bedclothes with his unmarked hand and rooting around until his fingers catch on the corner of the velvet-lined box. He yanks the gloves swiftly towards him and burrows back under the covers, pulling them on so quickly he gets two fingers caught in one tube.
He'll wear them every day, and every night if he has to. He'll learn to be the perfect prince - he's already pretty good at fencing, and his tutor said he can finally start learning more of the Germanic languages, and if he gets good enough at riding he might even convince his father to let him have his own horse, one day.
He'll do anything, if it means he can get to Arendelle.
"The gloves will help," Papa says, and Elsa frowns, even though she's trying very hard to not let anything slip.
"I already wear gloves," she says, and looks at the neat blue stitching on the hem instead of her father's softly upset smile.
"Your old gloves were traditional. These are different; they're stronger. You'll be able to control it when you're wearing them."
She wasn't wearing any gloves when she hit Anna with her powers. She never wears them at night, or around the castle, really - her hand is kept neatly curled or covered if anyone other than Anna or Mama and Papa are around. Elsa knows why no one is allowed to see the name scorched into her skin like she accidentally put her hand on hot charcoal, but she's never had to be careful about it.
She's suddenly, stupidly furious with Papa for not making her wear them all the time - and then she takes a deep breath, just like he taught her, and forces it down.
"You'll be able to conceal it," Papa says, and he hasn't moved even though the fire has dampened down without anyone touching it. She keeps making the room cold, these days, even in summer.
Elsa takes the gloves, and slips them on. They're thicker, more like the winter gloves she has to wear even though her fingers never get cold, and the room feels warmer already. They must work, if Papa says they do.
She'll wear them all day and all night, if she has to, if it means she won't hurt anyone else.