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Hans of the Southern Isles was born on a balmy summer afternoon, the thirteenth son of an insignificant king of a tiny island nation.
His mother cherished him and held him close. His father snorted and said he was too small. Hans had been born early, after all.
With twelve older brothers already in line for the throne ahead of him, Hans was doomed to be superfluous. They had the advantage in every way. They were older, bigger, stronger, more experienced and more skilled.
Nobody needed a thirteenth son. Not when his father’s dominions were so tiny, there was not even sufficient land to give seven princes a fitting inheritance, let alone thirteen. His father knew this. His brothers knew this. Hans was just competition, and weak competition at that.
His father encouraged competition. “Only the strong survive,” he said often. “The weak get crushed. Do you want to be weak?”
“No, sir!” His brothers shouted.
“No, sir!” Six-year-old Hans squeaked.
Hans’ father was also dedicated to giving them motivation. His succession plans—which dukedoms would go to whom, who would rule which province, who controlled the best cities and ports and thus the most money and men—were constantly changing. There wasn’t a whole lot to go around, and whoever was left out of the succession plans would have to fend for themselves on the Continent.
Nominally, Hans’ eldest brother would succeed his father as king. But it was generally understood that if he proved weak in his father’s eyes, one of his brothers might just outstrip him and claim the crown. Hans’s father did not believe in seniority. He believed only in strength, or what he called strength, anyway.
It kept Hans’ brothers on edge. Their father dangled his favor over them, fickle and changeable, now given to one, now to another.
Their entire childhood was a game of one-upmanship.
Hans spent most of it getting one-upped.
—
Elsa was born on a crystal-cold night in the dark of winter, heir to a kingdom whose mountains scraped the heavens, whose fjords were deep and cold, and whose skies were banded with ribbons of light.
In the few seconds between when she was born and when the midwife handed her into her mother’s waiting arms, Elsa cried and screamed and the winter winds outside shrieked and howled with her.
When her mother hugged her close to her chest, and Elsa’s screams quieted to the soft breaths of a sleepy newborn, the winds dropped and the storm slept.
Elsa’s parents worried about her—she ran too cold for a normal baby—but they cherished her nonetheless, and they were a happy family.
However much they loved Elsa, though, they were not prepared when she produced her first snowflake.
Anna was born by then, a tiny girl only just old enough to crawl, and Elsa doted on her like nothing else. She would read her books and help her with her clothes and smother her tiny face with kisses. Elsa and Anna would play together for hours on end, creating little games that no one but the two of them understood.
One day, Elsa’s parents interrupted one such game between Elsa and Anna. Anna was lying on her back on the floor, gurgling softy baby giggles and reaching up chubby hands.
Next to her, Elsa was laughing, feathery snowflakes sparkling from her fingertips, falling down for the baby to catch.
Elsa’s parents gasped. Elsa started, the snowflakes wisping away. She looked up with wide, startled blue eyes that were a striking contrast against her unnaturally white hair. Like jeweled mountain lakes surrounded by snow-drenched slopes.
Elsa’s mother and father exchanged worried glances.
Anna giggled.
—
Hans lost every single sparring session with his brothers. This time was no different.
Hans stumbled and landed hard on the ground, the breath knocked out of him. His wrist hurt, and his sword lay a few feet away on the packed earth of the sparring grounds, having previously been knocked forcefully out of his grasp.
His brother Runo laughed scornfully, swishing his practice sword through the air.
“Really, little brother? Is that the best you’ve got?”
Hans could feel his father’s judgmental gaze from where he lounged on the sidelines, scrutinizing the brothers as they trained.
He gritted his teeth, got to his feet, and went to grab his sword.
He lost again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, his father raised an eyebrow and gave a disgusted snort. Each time, his brothers laughed among themselves, scoffing. Lars was the only one who stayed quiet. But he didn’t tell them to stop. He didn’t do anything, actually. Just watched as Hans lost over and over to Runo, who finally made a scathing comment about “useless little brothers” and went to spar with his twin, Rudi, instead.
Finally, sparring was over. Their father left first, his brothers following behind.
Hans stayed. His muscles were trembling, but his grip on the practice sword was so tight that he could feel the grain of the wood as he lunged, stepped, twisted, blocked. Practicing the fencing forms over and over again.
The hot sun of their nation beat down on him, and sweat stung his eyes, but Hans was stubborn.
He was going to redouble his efforts at fencing. He was going to try and try and try, and sooner or later, Hans was going to be the victor. He was going to knock the sword from Runo’s stupid hand and send him tumbling to the ground and finally, finally, when his father looked at him, it would be with a smile of pride and not a glare of derision.
No matter what, someday, Hans was going to win.
He had to win, and win at any cost, because the other only option was to keep losing. Strength or weakness. Success or failure. Win or lose.
It was the only way.
—
Elsa’s parents hovered carefully over Elsa and Anna’s childhood, allowing the exercise of her powers, but also watching their use with a guarded look in their eyes. One that said that they saw the beauty and the wonder in Elsa’s powers, but they saw something else, too, something that they didn’t quite like.
It confused Elsa and Anna. And it dampened the fun.
Maybe that was why they started playing at night.
They weren’t supposed to. Elsa and Anna had been told by their parents that they could only play with Elsa’s powers if their mother or father were around to watch. But…there was so little time to play during the day. Elsa was already busy with “princess lessons”, as Anna called it, and they weren’t allowed to play this with other people around.
So they did it at night. When the stars were singing, and the sky was weaving a tapestry with glowing threads of purple, green, and blue.
Anna would bounce on Elsa’s bed until Elsa cracked open her sleepy eyes. Then she’d ask the question that always got Elsa to smile the soft, sparkling smile that meant she was going to take Anna on an adventure.
“Do you wanna build a snowman?”
It was glorious. Until suddenly, it wasn’t.
Until suddenly, Elsa looked at her powers and didn’t see the beauty or wonder or the fun, she only saw Anna lying white and still and cold, so cold, on the floor, and it was all her fault—
And Elsa finally understood what her parents had been seeing all along. She understood what the trolls saw now. She saw that she was a threat. She saw that her powers were dangerous. She saw that Anna had already gotten hurt, and might get hurt again.
And so she agreed to the plan the trolls had suggested and her parents had implemented. She agreed to cut off all human contact (cut off Anna). She agreed that she and her powers should be hidden and locked away where they couldn’t hurt anybody.
Where Elsa couldn’t hurt anybody.
It was the only way.
—
Rule number one of learning how to win: Don’t let anybody get under your skin.
Hans’ brothers were always mocking him, and it made him feel so angry. But when he let that anger get the better of him, he inevitably lost his focus and ended up wheezing on the floor of the sparring grounds again.
Han’s father was always frowning at him, and it hurt. It made his chest ache, but he knew he couldn’t let it show or do anything so inconceivably stupid as cry, because the instant he did that, his father would condemn him for weakness and he’d worse off than where he’d started.
Anger made him sloppy. Sadness made him weak. The only way to get ahead was to lock down those emotions, and control them. If he showed them to others he would be taken advantage of. If he let them overwhelm him, he would fail.
It was hard, but he pushed all those feelings down deep inside. He filled the hollow they left with steely determination and focus, masking it with stoicism and careless cheer. He was strong. He was strong.
Over time, he got better at it. But it never seemed to get easier.
—
Mama and Papa made all the arrangements. Elsa’s things were moved to a new bedroom. One closer to her parents. One farther away from Anna.
Elsa put her hand on the doorknob. It felt cold. She hesitated.
There was a gasp behind her.
“Elsa?” Anna asked. “Where are you going?”
Elsa looked over her shoulder at Anna. Her baby sister’s eyes were wide. She looked lost and confused. Sad.
Elsa’s eyes blurred with tears. Ice grew on the door handle.
“I’m so sorry, Anna,” Elsa whispered, and slipped inside.
The door closed.
Elsa resolved never to open it again.
—
At first, Hans hated diplomatic gatherings. In the throne room, during the formal reception, he stuttered over his words. During the long state dinners, his jaw ached from trying not yawn of boredom. The sickly-sweet negotiations, filled with half-truths and empty promises, made his head spin.
Every time he dared to open his mouth, his father or brothers talked over him.
So, Hans kept quiet.
He shut his mouth and he watched. And beyond merely watching, he observed.
And that was when Hans’ perspective began to change.
He began to see the subtle games that the ambassadors and his father played. The duration of a handshake, the angle of a bow, the body language of a speaker—they were complex messages all on their own, carrying context that gave a double meaning to the flourishing words being spoken aloud. Hans analyzed expressions, reactions, conversational foibles, each one giving an insight into motivations and mentality.
He learned how to look at lies in a new way. Lies were meant to cover up, to misdirect, to confuse—but, like an arrow that pointed one way, could just as easily be followed in the exact opposite direction. The lies a person told gave away as much, if not more, information than their truths.
He began to learn how to manipulate a conversation. How to read people. How to leverage the dynamics of power in a room to your advantage. How to know when to assert your dominance, and when to feign submission to further your goals. How to infuriate or charm with equal ease. How to adapt yourself to fit the people who surrounded you, like a chameleon blending into the rainforest.
Hans watched and he learned, and while he still hated political maneuvering, he began to understand it. And understanding a skill was the first step to using it. And using a skill was the first step to mastering it.
And mastery, above all else, was what Hans wanted.
—
It was hard to sleep at night.
Before, Elsa would have welcomed the chance to sleep without her noisy little sister jumping on the bed and clamoring to play.
But now, she just missed Anna.
She missed when Anna would want to have “sleepovers,” which Elsa used to say was silly because they shared a room, but Anna would have them anyway. She would insist that they wear their best nightgowns and braid each other’s hair, and then come and curl up in Elsa’s bed, a tiny pile of little sister with warm cheeks and cold feet, and they’d stay up whispering stories to each other for hours.
Elsa missed Anna’s little piping snores. She missed the sound of her wriggling around in bed to get comfy and cuddle with her many stuffed animals. She missed the constant, soothing in and out of Anna’s breathing, the rise and fall of her chest that Elsa could look over and see any time she had a bad dream or couldn’t sleep, and then she felt better because Anna was there.
But now she wasn’t. Elsa was alone.
It’s for the best, she told herself.
Snowflakes drifted down from the ceiling, and Elsa curled up into a little ball and breathed very loudly, so that she could pretend there were two people breathing instead of one.
—
It always took Hans a long while to fall asleep.
Partly it was because he was savoring the silence of his room. Nighttime was the only time he got to be alone, away from the company of his dad and brothers.
Well…Hans always felt like he was alone, honestly. But it was different when it was just him. Father and his brothers always made him feel lonely, because they were so united and powerful and strong. When he was with them, he was constantly struggling to keep up.
At least here, he didn’t have to compare himself to them. He still would—it’d sour in the back of his brain, eating away at his thoughts, drip-drip-dripping and burn-burn-burning like acid—but at least some of the pressure was relieved.
At least he was alone by himself instead of being alone with other people.
Partly it was because the events of the day kept flashing through his brain, taunting him as he analyzed them, agonizing over them. Over how could he have been better? What could he have done different? How did he need to change, what did he need to do to gain recognition, respect, appreciation?
How did he win, when it seemed like he was always losing and was always going to lose?
Outside, he was always competing. Competing with the courtiers, competing with his brothers, competing with the world.
Inside his room, there was no competition but the one inside his chest and heart and mind, as he clenched his fists and strangled his pillows and took advantage of the one moment where he could let his turmoil leech out into the open.
—
It was the first day of spring, and the crocuses were peeking up through the snow, timidly, as if to say, is it time? Can I come out yet?
Elsa was glad winter was over. The storm inside was harder to control when there was a storm outside, too.
Elsa looked out the window. She was curled up on the window seat, hands braced on the sill, drinking in the view greedily. If she wasn’t a princess, and therefore supposed to be dignified, she’d have her face smooshed up against the window.
Outside, a little robin hopped along the garden path, stopping every so once in a while to peck at the ground in hopes of catching a worm unawares. It had rained yesterday, and the pebbled path looked glossy and dark with the sheen of rainwater.
Elsa leaned closer to look, fascinated by the robin’s quest for a snack. She didn’t notice the ice that crept slowly across the windowsill, spreading out from her fingers.
The little robin lost interest in the garden path. Instead, he looked up to the sky and let out a trill. His song wavered through the garden, thready yet powerful. Elsa wondered who he was singing to. Did he have any robin friends nearby? Maybe a mate?
The robin finished his song. He hopped and spread his wings, preparing to fly, and Elsa leaned forward wistfully, eagerly, hoping he won’t leave, yet wanting to see him fly—
Only to recoil in fear as ice shot up the window. In an instant, the panes were streaked with frost and snow, cutting off her view.
Outside, the robin soared away on the breeze.
Inside, Elsa clutched her hands, took deep breaths, and went to put on her gloves. After that, she pulled the curtains closed. No more birdwatching today.
It wasn’t safe.
—
Hans smiled. It felt like a crack in his face. But he kept up appearances.
The ball was glittering and gaudy, and some part of him was wondering how on earth his father paid for the expense of throwing it. The Royal Treasury was not large, and it kept getting smaller and smaller the longer his father was king.
His face ached from smiling, and his head felt like it was about to fall off from nodding.
Oh well. Back at it.
He waded through the masses of people, none of whom really cared about him, none of whom really knew him, exchanging pleasantries the entire way.
The effort was worth it, though. He was getting better.
—
“I’m scared. It’s getting stronger!”
The words burst out, panicked, as Elsa held her shaking, gloved hands before her. The room was ice-cold, and the temperature dropped with every breath she took. Ice spiraled on the walls, spreading and growing and cracking and spiking.
The gloves were supposed to help, and they did, but it wasn’t enough. The gloves weren’t enough, and it was getting stronger, and nothing was working, and Elsa couldn’t—no, no, deep breaths, conceal don’t feel, her parents were in the room, she couldn’t freak out, she couldn’t lose control, conceal don’t feel, don’t feel, push it deep down inside and lock it away and never let it out—
“Elsa, calm down,” her papa soothed, hands held out in front of him in a placating gesture. Mama hung on his arm, looking at Elsa with so much love and worry in her gaze it made Elsa hurt.
“Getting upset only makes it worse,” Papa continued, reaching for her, and her Mama held out her arms for a hug. Elsa recoiled.
“No!” Her voice rose, ragged and desperate. Then it dropped down to a whisper.
“Please. I don’t wanna hurt you.”
Elsa took a step back and clutched her gloved hands to her chest. Frost bloomed beneath her footfalls, coalescing in delicate lacy patterns. Elsa wasn’t fooled. It wasn’t pretty. It was dangerous.
Papa was still holding out his hands, a look of defeat on his face. Mama put a hand on his shoulder and looked like she was trying not to cry.
“Please,” Elsa’s chin quivered. “Just leave me alone. Just leave.”
—
It was all the same. Glittering balls, stuffy negotiations, sumptuous state dinners…everything.
Courtiers yammered.
His father glowered. His brothers mocked.
Hans did his best, but it never stopped. They never stopped.
Hans wished they would just leave him alone.
—
Suns set and rose.
Winters came and went.
Hans grew up with two parents, twelve brothers, an entire palace of attendants, servants, and courtiers, and he grew up alone.
Elsa grew up with no parents, one kept-away sister, the bare minimum of tutors and servants, and she grew up alone.
Fate is a funny thing, and when Elsa was finally forced to face the world, Hans was where he always was: slipping smoothly through a crowd, looking for an edge, intent on winning.
This time, however, the crowd was the audience at Elsa’s coronation.
—
Another ball, like so many. And yet, unique.
A ball to celebrate the coronation of Queen Elsa of Arendelle.
Hans’ brothers weren’t there to mock him anymore. His father wasn’t there to glare at him. He was far, far away from the islands he used to call home.
Even still, he felt the weight of their eyes on his back. Some primal part of him flinched at the thought of attracting their notice by making even a single mistake.
Luckily, Hans didn’t make mistakes anymore. He was too good for that now.
He had left his family and that backwater of an island behind, and now, he was closer than winning to ever before.
He had never had a chance at the throne back home. Had never had a chance at anything.
But here, here was a young queen, newly crowned, who was sure to be uncertain of the challenges of ruling alone. Hans was experienced and charismatic. He could convince her of the value of having someone by her side.
And once he was King, he would take the reins of power, and no one would ever be able to get the better of him again.
All he had to do was to persuade the Queen.
—
Just another challenge. Just another challenge.
That was what Elsa was trying to tell herself. This ball, this whole awful coronation, was just another test of her self-control. She’d had so many of those—had so many moments where the power inside of her tried to get the upper hand, and she had to slowly, agonizingly, wrench back control. She was surely well trained by now.
It would be okay. It had to be. She’d prepared for this moment her entire life.
She couldn’t mess it up now.
—
The Queen and the Prince met.
He bowed.
She curtsied.
Their eyes met.
And like…
Recognized like.
—
Hans looked at her, and he realized something.
Hans was well experienced at being alone. He was always alone. He couldn’t depend on anyone but himself. He had hidden himself beneath layers and layers of lies and charisma. Prince Hans was a mask he wore like a second skin. It was a disguise to keep him safe.
Queen Elsa had locked herself away behind high towers and impenetrable walls. She wielded her isolation like a shield, a suit of armor with not a chink to be seen. Her eyes were like closed doors. She acted as if at any moment she must be prepared to retreat.
Her walls protected her, Hans realized. Even as they trapped her.
Hans…wondered if he was trapped. Maybe he was. He had gone too far now to stop being what he had had to become.
—
Elsa looked at the prince, whose pleasantries dripped off of his tongue like honey. His smile was fixed and unwavering. She wondered, in a tired sort of way, if he ever got sick of it. Of having to be fake. Of having to put on a face that is not his own. Of having to not be genuine, for reasons no one else could understand.
Of always being alone, because truth knocked walls down, but lies and secrets built them up.
Still, it was what she had to do. It was what she accepted the day she closed that door. Her duty was to her kingdom. To rule it, and care for it, and protect it.
Even from herself.
—
The Prince and the Queen looked at each other.
They were trapped.
They had accepted this. It was too late now to do anything else.
He would continue to wear his masks and craft his lies. She would continue to build her walls and keep her secrets.
They would be alone, because it was the only way to do what needed to be done.
They would be alone, because it was the only way they knew how to be.
They would be alone, because they didn’t know how to stop being alone, and they weren’t allowed to be.
The party continued around them. People laughed and talked and danced. Music played and dancers spun, food was eaten and drinks were poured. Men shook hands and slapped backs. Ladies hugged and chattered. Couples intertwined their fingers, like if they could, they would unravel their very souls to weave them into each other.
Hans and Elsa stood in the middle. Two solitary citadels guarding their loneliness.
They reached out to no one, least of all to each other.
For Hans, that was the way it had always been.
For Elsa, that was the way it would always be.