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Arendelle has a lot of visitors now that its royalty is no longer perceived as a hermit or a monster.
“I’m sure you’re supposed to be drawing up a marriage treaty soon,” Anna says, teasing; Elsa raises a significant eyebrow and Anna shrugs cheerfully enough. If their subjects mind that the current heir to the throne is living in sin with an ice merchant, they’re hardly going to storm the palace. Not again.
Elsa doesn’t particularly want to get married, and it’s not just because she’s still not completely certain that she can touch skin without leaving destruction behind.
“Ach, marriage,” the Scottish princess sighs over breakfast in the morning, when Anna doesn’t keep her mouth shut and Kristoff chokes his amusement into his coffee. “My da tried to have the clan sons compete for my hand, which was embarrassing for all involved.”
The Scottish princess is Merida, who has cascades of red curls, a fondness for bodices that frequently try to unlace themselves, and a loud sense of humour that Anna delights in. Elsa is uncertain around her, especially when Merida claims her hand for first dance at the night’s ball and spins her about the floor steadily but too fast.
Later, in the coolness of the night air, she says: “I haven’t been honest with you,” and Elsa thinks of stolen kingdoms and broken promises right up until Merida’s eyes gleam and her hands burst into pale flames.
Oh, Elsa thinks, and reaches to lace their fingers together.