Chapter Text
The world was big and grand and beautiful. That’s what she learned when she traversed every continent— every place, in every timeline, across every universe.
That’s what she learned from living forever. Or maybe not really living at all.
She was a queen in her past life, Elsa of Arendelle, although the name is becoming increasingly foreign to her as the couple of years turn into decades into centuries.
And she had died before—knew how it felt to go cold and have your organs stop functioning and breathing come slow to a steady, permanent stop.
And there was the pain. She was familiar with the pain that came along with death and living and leaving things behind.
Although her life was far from peaceful, she was lucky. Even though she lost her parents and spent most of her childhood in isolation because of her ice powers, she had somehow made it out of the darkness and was able to live a fulfilling, love-filled life in the end.
There was Anna, her dear younger sister, who loved her through everything. And dying was one thing. But dying and then suddenly being able to see what was going on from a third-person perspective was another.
Even though she was starting to forget the details of her human life, she would never forget Anna’s ear-scratching screams and guttural sobs as she lay beside her still body for a week straight.
Elsa, Queen of Arendelle, died and became one with nature.
In other words, she became the winter spirit.
And even though she would continue to die over and over and over again at the hands of many people and suffer atrocities over the lifetimes and centuries and universes, that fact would always remain true.
She was a winter spirit. And apparently, spirits never really die. Or age. After dying, she’d leave the body as a soul and could return to it whenever she saw fit to.
Usually, when she’s buried or burned, or no one’s watching.
Physically, she was stuck as a twenty-one-year-old girl. Mentally, well, mentally—that might be too much to think about.
So was she really living? Perhaps not. That first life was the exception.
Somewhere in the east,
It was one hundred and fifty or so years after her death. During that span, she died an additional four times, once when she was a part of a shipwreck traveling (the irony), the second to a disease she had contracted when she first left Arendelle, and twice more when she died of murder, once accidental and once not, but that's a story for another time.
Sighing to herself as she looked at steamed buns in front of her, she wondered if those tragedies were signs that she shouldn’t venture outside of Arendelle.
But spending your time in the same place for over a century, one hundred and ten after Anna and Kristoff’s death, was… it wasn’t lonely—but she felt like she needed to be somewhere new. She had stayed to watch over the kingdom. Even when she could’ve gone back to the castle and continued living with them, it was hard to explain the return of a dead queen and how she looked fifty years younger than when she was on her deathbed.
She didn’t want to scare Anna to death either, because her sister had lived another healthy and love-filled ten years after the death of Elsa Arendelle.
When she no longer knew any of the faces in the castle, she decided it was the moment to leave.
So all in all, it took a bit to get here.
Elsa scrutinized the steamed bun in front of her, still sitting on its plate, her pair of wooden chopsticks waiting at its side to be used.
She had seen chopsticks before, knew how to use them even—her parents had made sure her and Anna were well-cultured.
It was a lovely day, even though her the dress she had on was a little thick for the unforgiving heatwave; the east was hotter than what she was used to.
“Are you going to eat that?” Nokk asks her.
He was her familiar, the water spirit. When he wasn’t in his usual form, a stallion made entirely out of water, he borrowed the look of a little boy who couldn’t be much older than seven.
Even though he was the renowned water spirit, he couldn’t have acted like someone older than seven; he looked torn between stealing her bun or asking nicely for it.
“What are you waiting for, Miss?” Hearing Nokk, the man behind the stand asked; he looked almost insulted that she didn’t dig in. “Do you want a fork or something instead?”
“Oh—” she gave him a sorry look and picked up her chopsticks. “This is just new to me, that’s all.” And supplied the truth.
He gave her another look, curious and wondering, but it was replaced with a smile. “You’re new here, we don’t get to see a lot of people like you here in Chang’an. Travelers perhaps?” But then he corrected himself. “But rather, from your garments, it would seem like you’re royalty.”
Elsa shook her head and smiled. “No, not royalty, just travelers.”
He smiled again, offered them another dumpling—as he would tell her—and smiled, the corners of his eyes smiling along.
After breakfast, she followed the man’s instructions and ventured to the markets to buy new clothes for her and Nokk. Even though they didn’t really need it—as she could make her own clothes with her ice powers and he could transform into anything—she wanted to at least fit in.
Even when she had blonde-white hair, pale skin, and bright blue eyes, she supposes Nokk looks more normal to the people of the east than her; he decided to go with wavy black hair, slightly tanned skin, and navy blue eyes.
She knew they weren’t going to really fit in,
But it was more so an excuse to buy a changpao, the robes that the women and men wore in this part of the world. She walked out of the shop wearing a muted blue one, content.
“This is so hard to wear!” the boy complained as he raised his hands. “And walk in.”
Elsa gave him a stern look. He was wearing a navy blue set.
“Behave, Nokk.”
They traversed the rest of the market, talking about what foreign cuisine they should try for dinner. She couldn’t be faulted for not paying attention to where she was heading. And with the bustling nature and crowds in the market and vendors running onto the streets to attract customers, it wasn't really her fault when she bumped into someone.
“I-I’m sorry,” she was still looking down, trying to navigate the feet and steps and stones of the road.
She looked up to see a man from the west. He had messy brown hair and potent brown eyes.
He didn’t say anything to her apology at first; no apology of his own or any sign that she was forgiven, or not.
He just stared at her, brown eyes widening in recognition.
“Queen Elsa?”