Work Text:
Bleak December midmorning sun cast its rays across the Queen’s dorms, illuminating the polished hardwood floor and accentuating the overall emptiness of the room. The small writing table on one end of the room lay under the window, bathed in the light; next to it was a chair upholstered with the finest reindeer fur, turned away from the table. A few papers and a pen lay scattered across the desktop, as if abandoned with haste. A tray with a chocolate cake, which must have been cut with the chocolate-smeared fork set neatly next to it, cast its shadow on a half-full glass of grape juice, specially imported from the Southern Isles. A few drops slid down from the rim. Shining. Glistening.
It was snowing heavily outside. The doors and windows were closed shut as to not let the biting cold enter. But what might have enlarged the suffering of an ordinary person had no effect on the sickly figure, curled up on the bed. And yet, the cold had started to bother Queen Elsa, as did the tearing pain deep in her stomach. With one hand over her abdomen, her eyes tenderly shut and forehead glistening with sudden sweat, she clutched the edge of the pillow with the other, letting out pained gasps in-between breaths.
Her slender frame trembled, rising in intensity. Her knuckles became white as she unsuccessfully fought the urge to retch from the pain, and so the foodstuffs she had just eaten splurged themselves across the bed. The sliver of her consciousness she had left cursed at herself just moments prior, only being able to remember her foolishness in accepting the snack. The moment the liquid touched her tongue—sharp, bitter, nothing like grapes whose color it carried—she knew, and she wished she said goodbye properly.