The North Wind, a frozen fanfic | Part II

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who left comments/favourited this story so far! I'm eternally grateful for your support (especially for such a dark fic as this one).

Read previous parts of The North Wind

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"You're going to have to eat at some point, your highness."

She glared up at him with drawn features, and pushed away the plate of food towards the wall, where it joined several other untouched ones. She was three days into it by then, though it had seemed much longer than that.

"Why do you insist on addressing me with that title?"

He sighed at her refusal of the food before shrugging, unlocking the door to her cell and allowing himself in.

She frowned upon his entry, as she always did, though this did not deter him from proceeding to lean against the wall in his distinctly unconcerned way.

(It made her wonder, for the hundredth time, at how the formerly winsome, polite husband-to-be of her sister had so quickly become the vituperative snake that now slithered so freely in and out of her quarters.)

"Force of habit, I suppose," he admitted nonchalantly, glancing at the right cuff of his dark green coat. He gestured at it with a slight smirk. "Do you like it? I just got it tailored," he remarked.

Though her stare was harsh, there was the faintest hint of surprise in it.

That suit . . . it looks so familiar.

He looked somewhat critically upon the handiwork before continuing. "I have to say, the palace tailors are far better back home, but I suppose it was a difficult job—this being your father's previously and all that."

Her glare became a glower, and he observed a trail of ice going down her forearms from beneath her gloved hands.

"Now now, your majesty," he tut-tutted her, waving a single, scolding finger at her from his equally gloved hand. "Remember: you must learn to control your powers in here. Otherwise," he reminded her, raising a judicious eyebrow, "I can't guarantee your safety."

She scowled at him with an impotent rage, her hands curling into fists.

"If you thought I could 'control' this," she began, her voice low with anger, "then why won't you let me try to fix what I've already done?"

He scoffed at the question. "Oh, please, your highness," he said sceptically, "do you honestly think there's a way to break whatever spell you've put on this place?" His eyes narrowed. "Besides—how do you know that whatever you do won't just make things worse?"

Her expression revealed her self-doubt, but she refused to let him win on that point again. "Spells are made to be broken."

His stare grew cold at the remark.

"Some, perhaps," he assented, "but not this kind."

He took a seat next to her on the cot, which prompted her to immediately rise from it and stand stiffly by the window.

"You don't know that," she snapped, crossing her arms.

He held back a sigh at her stubbornness, patting a space on the mattress beside him.

"I don't bite, you know."

Her blue eyes were cold as death. "No—you just bark," she returned contemptuously. "And that's worse."

He grinned a little at that. "You know me too well already."

She ignored the comment, irritated by the casual way in which he had steered the discussion off-topic yet again.

He has a talent for doing that, it seems.

"Don't try to distract from the issue here," she warned. "Don't act as if you already know there's no way to turn back this winter."

He frowned suddenly, and she was internally grateful to dispel his false charm—if only for a moment.

"I never said anything of the sort," he countered, standing again. "If there is a way—and I'm sure there is—one thing is for certain," he said slowly, drawing closer to her until they stood mere inches apart. "You will have nothing to do with it."

Despite the fact that her back was directly facing the window, little chilled her more than the cruel, calculating gaze that held hers so fully.

He'll never let me leave.

Finally, unable to look at him any longer, she shuddered and turned away towards the window.

Not while I'm alive, anyway.

Satisfied that he'd sufficiently chastised her for one day, he walked away from her rigid figure, pausing only when he reached the door.

"You will eat, your highness," he told her sternly, "whether by choice or by force—it's up to you."

She didn't look back as he opened the door and swung it loudly shut behind him, though the sound of the key as it turned in the lock made her flinch.

She waited until his footsteps were out of hearing range before glancing back at the place where she had shoved the abandoned trays of food; she wasn't surprised to see all of them gone, save for the one he had brought her that day.

He must have taken the other ones back with him.

She looked away again, and though her stomach growled at the smell of the fresh dinner, her lips were set in a grim line.

You're right, Hans.

Slowly, the line spread into a dry, bitter smile.

It is up to me.