Author's Note: Guys, I'm overwhelmed by your support for this fic, and so, so grateful for the lovely reviews. As promised, the thirteenth prince finally makes his appearance! And as always, I'm eager to hear your thoughts on his characterisation (and his interaction with everyone's favourite Queen of Mystery).

Read previous chapters of Winter's End

Chapter 7: The Exile

No matter how many times it happened—and it had happened too many times to count already that day—Hans was still incredulous at the notion that even eyebrows could sweat.

Not just sweat, no—practically drip with moisture.

He grimaced as he wiped it off with the inside of his arm, returning his attention to the task at hand.

Just one more hour.

The already-full sack of apples slung across his chest was starting to cause his shoulder more pain than he would admit aloud, but he merely adjusted it with stony determination, continuing to pick more of the red fruits.

Not that he would have complained, were he able to; doing so, after all, would earn him nothing but the scorn of the overseers, not to mention his fellow exiles. He'd found that out the hard way during his first two months on the island, when one too many smart comments—or merely an eye-roll—had resulted in more than a couple black eyes and fractured ribs.

Then the whistle blows.

His practiced hands glided from branch to branch in his work, and his feet easily balanced on the wooden ladder, though he was fairly high up. Having been a naval officer in his previous life, though, he supposed he'd never had much of a problem with heights. The ships he'd worked on in the past, anyway, had always had far less stable ladders, some made only of rope, to climb.

You'll even get to take a bath today.

The prospect of being able to clean himself for the first time that week easily overrode any reminiscing about his previous life at sea, and even managed to bring a small, thin look of contentment to his tanned face.

You're pathetic.

Not even that thought—frequent as it arose—could quell the feeling of anticipation he had for the occasion, imagining, even under the blistering heat of the late afternoon sun, how painfully he would scrub every inch of his skin in his weekly attempt to extricate himself from the perpetual state of griminess which he now inhabited.

Not that it ever really does anything.

He finally frowned at this mocking reminder by his eternally ungrateful brain, forcefully plucking the last apple off the branch in irritation.

You'll be just as filthy again by the end of tomorrow's shift.

Too agitated to continue—and feeling the sack weighing him down more severely than before—he finally descended to dump the contents of it in a wheelbarrow nearby, keeping his expression as blank as possible lest the others catch wind of his foul mood.

At least you're not cleaning the cow manure today.

He adjusted the ladder to reach another part of the same tree and ascended it again, wearing a grim look at the memory. He hadn't been able to wash that particular stench out of his clothes—or skin and hair—for several weeks after he'd slipped and fallen into a pile of it by accident, and the others had done nothing but give him grief for the incident, constantly reminding him of how badly he stunk.

As if I didn't know that.

He could have sighed in relief at the brief respite his torso had been allowed, now that the sack was empty again; however, when he thought he caught a contemptuous look from one of the other labourers in the grove, he quickly began to fill it.

It feels . . . endless.

It didn't seem to matter that it had now been nearly a year since he'd first been exiled to that horrid place, nor that he was, in some ways, used to it there. The time still passed like thick sand through an hourglass with the thinnest neck ever crafted, and nothing—not the changing seasons, the shorter days, the routine of farm labour—made it go by any faster.

In fact, in some ways, the labour itself felt like the slowest part. Under the puritanical leadership of the Queen's "distant relations"—or "your Aunt Agnes and Uncle Edvard," as she had told Hans on the day he was sent off—the workers were allowed few of the "distractions" (as they called them) that normal farmhands traditionally used to pass the time, such as singing simple country songs, talking amongst each other, or even just gawking at pretty girls as they passed by.

(Not that the latter was even possible, since his dear "Aunt and Uncle" only took on male labourers—another policy, he was sure, that was meant to further suck any hint of normalcy from their lives.)

He nearly glowered to think that "Aunt" Agnes had been the only woman he'd seen since he stepped foot on Vollan Island all those months ago. Combined with the dull ache that was beginning to make itself known in his shoulders again, that fact filled him with a kind of impotent aggravation.

And she's not even attractive in the slightest.

The older woman and her husband were as common-looking as two farmers could be, with dark hair, dark eyes, and burnt, red skin from many years spent outside in the sun. It was only after the Queen had arranged for her youngest son—the traitor prince—to be cast out to their island that they acquired a bit of wealth in return, and now, as a result, they took great pleasure in retiring from outdoor work, leaving it to their free labour while they grew fat and lazy.

I'm certain they're not even related to her.

Even knowing that the Queen had come from low origins, he didn't see how she could have, in any way, been connected to them. For one thing, her appearance—the same one she had passed down to him—did not resemble theirs even a little bit, nor did her taste for fine wine, good food, and beautiful dresses.

Nonetheless, he had long since stopped wondering what debt the Queen might owe these plain, boring people to claim them as her own, let alone to ensure that they were living "comfortably," since doing so only managed to work him up into a fit of annoyance.

More to the point, his bitterness towards the Queen had generally waxed and waned over the months in as predictable a fashion as the moon, though recently he had been actively trying to shove it down. It was too difficult, otherwise, to keep up the pretense of the "good worker bee"—and that was the one he relied upon most to survive in that harsh environment.

They can smell arrogance here, after all.

On the rare occasion that he had let his frustration with the situation get to him—when he'd let it dig at him over a number of days, and even months, before finally bursting in a spit of anger or a fist in the face of one of the brutes he had the misfortune of working with—he had paid for it dearly.

One incident, in fact, had resulted in a concussion that had kept him confined to a flea-infested straw bed for nearly a week before he had practically dragged himself from that dark, putrid room back to the fields, desperate to see the sun (though the light caused his head violent pains). Needless to say, when he'd encountered the man who'd given him the blow leading to that condition the next day, he'd made sure to keep his mouth shut.

Not that it matters whether I speak or stay silent—they'll always hate me.

Although he had been told that he would be treated the same as any of the other prisoners on the boat ride to Vollan, with no belongings, money, or history to his name, his fate had been well-broadcast enough throughout the Isles by the time he arrived to raise the ire of the existing inmates.

He wasn't sure if it was his former title or his royal airs that bothered them the most, at first—probably a combination of the two, he suspected—but he had immediately been singled out upon stepping foot in the colony, and learned his place among them quickly enough (save for the occasional "incident," of course).

Over time, their utter disdain for the Thirteenth Prince of the Southern Isles had abated into a general sort of malaise with his presence; still, he had the sense that they could never fully accept him there, as they forever viewed him as a thankless, spoiled brat who threw away a life of easy riches in a futile attempt to pursue an even richer existence.

They're not unlike my own family, in that regard.

He held back a snort at the thought, his eyes narrowing as the pain in his shoulders—and his arms, now, too—flared up again, nearly making him wince. He grit his teeth and glanced down at the sack, full of apples, and descended the ladder for what seemed the hundredth time that day.

And as he reached the last rung of the ladder, the whistle blew—much to his surprise.

It's already over?

He supposed that sometimes, the minutes flew by faster than he gave them credit for, and shrugged a little to himself as he walked over to the barrow—only to find it being carted off just as he'd positioned his sack over it.

"Better luck next time," spat Arne, one of the more hostile men he worked with, as he roughly walked off with the wheelbarrow, some of his goons sneering at Hans as they made their way back to the farmhouse.

The former prince barely kept himself from scowling, adjusting the strap of the sack with unflinching resolve as he folded the ladder and tucked it under his arm with some effort.

At least this work has made me stronger, he thought, though that was hardly enough to console him as he trudged back, wiping sweat from his face with his free hand.

He looked down for a moment, his gaze hardening.

This used to be my sword hand.

If there was one thing he missed about his life before Vollan—really, truly missed—it was the exhilaration of holding glinting steel in his fist. Sparring with his fellow crew on the deck of a ship or practicing by his lonesome in the palace training grounds had been one of his favourite past-times, and in the rare instances when he'd actually been able to use his skills in combat, he'd gotten a sort of thrill out of it that was nearly impossible to replicate by any other means.

But then . . . that's how I got into this mess, isn't it?

He could still remember how powerful he had felt in that moment—that moment when he'd swung the sword down as hard as he could, expecting the blade to slice effortlessly through the Ice Queen's pale, vulnerable neck—and his chest tightened at the memory.

You were a fool then, Hans, and you're a fool now.

It was easy to see, in retrospect, how incredibly stupid he had been; he'd spent enough time, anyway, going over each moment of those days in Arendelle in painstaking detail to realise when and how everything had gone horribly wrong.

There's no point in reliving it over and over again.

After all, what was done was done—and there he was, caked with dirt, stinking of sweat and burnt skin and who knew what else for the rest of his days as a result.

Still . . . why did she do it?

In spite of his determination to put it behind him, he felt continually nagged by a sense of bemusement—and, frankly, annoyance—at the knowledge that he was only in that hellish place as a result of the direct intervention by the Ice Queen herself. She had been the one to request his change in sentence from lifelong imprisonment to, instead, a lifetime of hard labour in exile—a change of fate that he had, over many months, come to appreciate less and less.

Is this really better than prison?

He doubted that, even knowing how awful the cells for those who committed violent crimes were purported to be. Somehow, he'd always thought that he'd end up in one of the "nicer" prisons within the royal palace reserved for one of the many courtiers that'd had the bad luck to fall out of the Queen's good graces. Even knowing what cruelty she and his brothers were capable of, he never actually expected that they would cast him into a cell alongside real murderers and rapists if they had the chance.

Then again, he reminded himself morosely as he finally reached the farmhouse, none of them have inquired after me even once since I was dumped here.

It was this fact that made him rethink where his family would banish him to, had they gotten their way; perhaps, he reluctantly considered, the Queen of Arendelle had been correct in her judgment.

He glared at the notion as he propped up the ladder alongside the others in the building, his feet rustling the straw beneath them as he unceremoniously emptied the contents of his sack into the wheelbarrow by the haystacks. He rolled his shoulders a little as he finally shrugged off the sack, hanging it on a peg on the wall, where it would wait until the next day's toil.

But even if some part of him could accept that this was better than prison—after all, he could breathe in the fresh air, get plenty of exercise, and sleep on something other than a stone plank—his feeling of irritation towards the decision of the young queen to "intercede on his behalf" had never fully gone away.

And it's that pride that will keep you as invisible as you are now.

He stalked back to his quarters with a decidedly more unpleasant expression, his emerald eyes brooding.

As invisible as you always have been.

Hans breathed out a slow, relaxed sigh as he soaked in the cast-iron tub, his eyes closing.

Finally.

He was there at last, after spending too many hours feeding the assorted animals, and then eating a bit of dinner later in the evening than usual. The latter had been, as always, a dull affair, sitting by his lonesome at the end of one of the long communal tables and forcing himself to eat his ration of chicken, soup, and bread as slowly as possible.

Even after all of that, it didn't matter to him that the water was only changed after every third (sometimes fourth or fifth) bather, each equally as grubby as himself—nor that it had become, as a result, somewhat murky before he'd even had the chance to step foot in it. Even the fact that the water had already gone somewhat cold couldn't take away his enjoyment of that short, precious time he had in the washroom, and he grabbed the bar of soap and a rough scrub from the shelf.

At least they don't hide them from me anymore.

In the first few months of his exile, the others had been incredibly petty in their hostility towards him. Whether it was stealing food from his plate during mealtimes, tripping him while he was carrying a heavy load of crops or wood, or hiding the soap and scrub in the washroom before he got there—and thus rendering him incapable of actually cleaning himself—they had ensured that he would fall in line fast.

All he'd really had to do, in the end, was be patient; and while patience had never been one of his virtues, he had waited it out until, eventually, they grew bored of tormenting him. There were still the occasional snipes, of course—the apple cart being a prime example—but they were insignificant, and did little more than temporarily inconvenience him.

I've dealt with far worse before, anyway.

He supposed he had his older brothers to thank for his high tolerance of these pranks, taunts, and schemes. Without their training him, the attempts by the halfwits on Vollan to provoke him might have succeeded far more often than they actually did.

He scrubbed his skin hard at the thought of his siblings, a sneer working its way into his features as he remembered their irritating, selfish faces. In a way, he was glad to be rid of them all, even if it meant that he was stuck on an island out in the middle of nowhere, slaving away at farming crops which were intended for their consumption.

He grimaced in pain when he scrubbed one spot in particular on his forearm a little too roughly, the skin there turning a bright shade of red. Tenderly he dropped that arm to his side and focused on the other parts of his body with more precision—and, this time, without thinking about his family, as it seemed to be the one thing that always managed to distract him from the task at hand.

It wasn't long before there came a loud, impatient knocking on the door, and he sighed again as he placed the soap and scrub back up on the shelf, drawing himself reluctantly out of the tub.

Seems like less time than usual, today.

The knocking started again as he dried himself off with a sheet, and he frowned at the sound, pulling on his clothes from a chair nearby as quickly as he could.

They can't wait even a minute longer, can they?

At last, once he'd put on a clean change of garments—a white, long-sleeved shirt with a tan vest on top, brown trousers, and dark brown boots—he made his way to the door, opening it as calmly as he could.

He had to refrain from scowling at Arne, next in line; doing so, however, was difficult when he saw the man smirk smugly back at him, stepping past the former prince with a fresh bucket of hot water to bathe in following him.

I would be the last man before the change, he thought bitterly, but kept it from his face as he walked down the hall from the washroom back to the sleeping quarters. He passed a few others still waiting their turn, wanting to claim that as some sort of little victory for himself—after all, he used to be last every time.

The reality was, though, that he rarely took comfort in such trivial triumphs, even over the men he disliked the most. There didn't seem to be much of a point when, in the end, he would be returning to the same cramped, uncomfortable, shared room with the others, trying to sleep through the night without being awoken by violent snorers, sleepwalkers, or sleep-talkers.

This skill of being able to sleep soundly had, in fact, been one of the most difficult to acquire, since he'd been a light sleeper for as long as he could remember. It had been a kind of defensive mechanism growing up, giving him a few seconds—or even a few minutes—in advance before his brothers tried to spring some trick on him in the middle of the night. Often he had been able to escape just in the nick of time, crawling out his window or hiding in some remote part of his bedroom where they (usually) didn't find him.

By contrast, his bunkmates on the farm were usually too worn out, like him, by the end of the working day to do much besides spit out some nasty remark or other; still, it had taken many months before he'd been able to get more than a couple hours of sleep at night.

It's not as if I sleep much now, though.

It was late, he realised as he glanced out the window by the mess hall—later than he'd thought it was—and he breathed out resignedly, his eyes falling to the floor.

But there's nothing else to do.

He ran a hand through his still-wet hair, then scratched his stubbly face—which, had he been allotted more time in the washroom, he would have properly shaved—and then shuddered a little when he realised how tightly his clothes clung to his equally damp skin.

Well, they'll dry soon enough, he told himself, shrugging. Though the sun had long since set, the nights were still warm that time of year, and he could already feel some of the water evaporate off him as he reached the end of the hall and opened the door to the bunks.

It smelled slightly better than usual in the room on account of it being bath night, though not enough to rid it of its permanent, stale scent. Although most of the men were already asleep, a few remained awake—but even these only talked quietly amongst themselves, read the religious texts left for them by his "aunt and uncle" (the only such texts allowed in the whole place), or stared into space, doing nothing at all.

He himself preferred the latter of these options, since he couldn't be bothered to converse with any of the fools he lived with (frankly, his trusted horse, Sitron, had been far better company—and oh, how he missed him then!) and he had read and re-read those same, boring books so many times by then that he could recite them practically by heart—not that he had any desire to do so.

If I did, I might spoil what happens next for these cretins, he thought, hiding a smug grin as he watched some of them slowly mouth out the words in the book to themselves in silence.

He landed with a thud on his back after climbing up to his bunk, and he shut his eyes for a moment, breathing in (through his mouth of course, lest he ruin the moment) the humid night air. Even knowing that the eyes of the others were on him all the while—likely narrowed, with spite buried deep in their squinty irises—he simply didn't care.

I can't care, he corrected himself after a moment, fighting to keep his eyes closed as his forehead wrinkled. I can't let them have power over me.

With that mantra replaying itself in his head, he began to give in to sleep; nevertheless, he could still hear the Queen's voice, sharp and clear as daylight, ringing in his ears.

You can't let them win, Hans.

A rough shove in his side woke him up a few hours later, and Hans nearly hit the ceiling in surprise.

"What—what do you want?" he hissed groggily, placing a hand protectively against the back of his head. He peered into the darkness with bleary eyes—though, in truth, he was more concerned that the others hadn't awoken than he was with finding out whom, exactly, had so rudely jabbed him.

They'll be intolerable tomorrow if they don't sleep.

Once he had confirmed that, for the most part, no one else was up, his eyes finally focused back on the intruder, his gaze narrowing in recognition.

"Well, if it isn't Uncle Edvar—"

"Come on," the man snapped impatiently, cutting off Hans's attempt to be smart. "I don't have time for your insolence right now."

Hans was sorely tempted to return the order with something equally rude; however, seeing the grave look on the man's face, he refrained at the last moment, biting back a sigh as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, climbing down as quietly as he could.

Good thing I fell asleep before I could change, he thought as he landed on the ground. Would've been too noisy, otherwise.

He straightened out his vest—something of an old habit he'd never been able to kick, he supposed, though it hardly required the constant maintenance of a formal jacket—and ignored the dirty look his "uncle" shot him as the man turned around to open the door.

Just before he could follow Edvard out the door, however, he locked stares with none other than Arne in the darkness—that loathsome, lumbering toad of a man—and the look in the brute's eyes was easy to read.

I'll make you pay for this, Prince.

He merely smirked back, knowing it would infuriate the idiot; somehow, walking through that door after Edvard gave him the smallest feeling of power over the others, even if he didn't actually know what the point of the visit was—nor where, exactly, they were headed.

His smirk dropped as this fact dawned more pressingly upon him, though he followed the man in front all the same as they left the farmhouse and crossed a small field to the main house, entering through a side door.

Hans's brow furrowed as they stepped inside, his eyes suddenly suspicious.

Why are we in the main house?

He had only ever been inside once, on the day of his arrival, when his "relatives" informed him of what would be expected of him on Vollan and what behaviour they would (and would not) tolerate. Since then, it was completely off-limits to the exiles, though the smell of good food and the heat of warm fires during winter often wafted outdoors, driving them all near-mad with resentment and envy.

Needless to say, then, that to be brought to the main house—and in the middle of the night—was a strange thing indeed, though he hardly had the time to ask what the purpose of the bizarre rendezvous was before he found himself being led into the sitting room, and there, in front of him, was . . .

He swallowed.

"M—mother."

The Queen of the Southern Isles sat with a nonchalant expression in an armchair by the unlit fireplace, and "Aunt" Agnes stood just across from her with a tray, a pot of tea and some bread sitting atop it.

She turned to her son with slight surprise as she took in his appearance.

"My, how you've changed!" she remarked lightly, and gestured for Agnes to set the tray down by her on a small table. Her eyes remained on Hans as his "aunt" poured the tea. "Tan, strong, and . . . did you grow taller, as well?"

She daintily lifted her cup as Agnes walked away, and the common woman sent Hans a reproving glare as she returned to watch the proceedings from the other side of the room.

The Queen gave his "uncle" an approving smile. "You've done well with him, Edvard," she complimented him, sipping her tea. "You've been working him hard, I hope?"

The man nodded humbly—something Hans was sure he would never see again—before he replied.

"We do the best we can with what we were given, Your Majesty," he said simply, "but I'm honoured you should think that we've done well."

The scene reminded Hans more of someone purchasing a particularly nice cut of lamb from the butcher's than a mother seeing her son after many months apart, and his lip curled.

"Why are you here, Your Majesty?" He crossed his arms, staring back at her spitefully. "Simply to gloat?" A cruel grin tugged at his lips. "Or has the old man finally kicked the bucket?"

The Queen's good humour vanished for a moment, her gaze coldly regarding him. After a pause, she calmly rested the cup back on the tray, and looked sweetly upon his "aunt" and "uncle."

"Edvard, Agnes," she said gently, her hands primly folded in her lap, "would you mind leaving us?"

He nearly scoffed at her kind tone, his nose wrinkling with an unbidden sneer.

Maybe one day I'll be as good an actor as you, mother dearest.

The two bowed with stony expressions and departed the room, closing the door quietly behind them.

Even when left alone, however—and contrary to his own expectations—the Queen remained just as mild as before, and gestured to the chair across from her.

"Please sit, Hans."

He frowned. "I'd rather not."

Her lip twitched at this, and he smirked.

Good. Let's stop playing pretend, shall we?

"Oh, don't be stubborn, dear," she persisted. "Just sit."

There was an edge to that last word, and that small reveal was enough to convince him, finally, to do as she asked.

She smiled, satisfied. "That's better, now, isn't it?"

He stared back, uninterested in her false niceties. "I don't have time for your games, Mother," he said bluntly, watching as her expression dropped. "Just get to the point."

"My, aren't we impatient tonight," she tutted, sipping her tea as she gestured to the bread on the tray. "Won't you have some? I'm sure they don't feed you enough here," she added knowingly, a fierce glint in her stare—the stare, he knew, that was so much like his own.

He looked away, ignoring the complaining of his stomach. "I'm fine."

She sighed as she placed the cup back down again. "If you say so."

He glared at her.

You can't fool me, Your Majesty.

"So I'll ask you again—why are you here?"

The Queen looked up at him at this repeated question, and their gazes met for a while in silence.

In hers, he could see a real, lingering darkness—a quiet one, but there nonetheless—and he wondered if, in fact, he had been right about the King.

After all, he mused, why else would she bother to come here in person, unless—

His eyes widened slightly, and then narrowed again.

Perhaps it isn't the King, but one of my brothers?

He wanted to say that the possibility of that being the case bothered him, even a little; the truth, of course, was that it didn't faze him in the slightest.

"You're aware that the Queen of Arendelle is visiting our humble homeland, I presume?"

He froze at the question.

The Queen of Arende—Elsa is visiting?

His gaze hardened after the shock abated. "You know I wasn't," he said, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.

She shrugged indifferently at his accusing tone. "Well, I wasn't sure if news of her visit had travelled this far south," she returned with a lilting taunt in her voice, holding back a smile. "But no matter. Now you know. In fact," she continued, "she arrived earlier this afternoon at the port of Strande."

He swallowed at the revelation. "Did she?" he asked flatly.

The Queen went on with a pleasant expression, though she watched her son's obvious discomfort with keen eyes throughout.

"Yes! I sent some of your brothers to meet her there and bring her back to the palace, where we gave her a tour, fed her dinner, had a ball," her eyes flashed with amusement, "but she went back to her quarters a bit earlier than expected—she was quite tired from the long day, I suspect, the poor dear."

She couldn't help but stare at him with a kind of cruel enjoyment as she added: "It's a good thing we gave her your old room, refitted with all the newest and most beautiful furnishings a guest of honour could desire." A small but Cheshire grin pulled at the edges of her pink lips. "I'm sure she's sleeping soundly there right now, having peaceful dreams."

Hans's bare hands twitched in his lap before he clasped them firmly together.

She's just trying to get a rise out of you.

His brow furrowed.

Don't give her that kind of satisfaction.

He looked up at her with a grim expression.

Don't give her that power over you.

"And what does any of this have to do with me?"

The Queen seemed surprised, at first, by the question; then, her smile relaxed into a more genuine one, her eyes cool but interested.

"You really have grown up a bit, haven't you, Hans?" she remarked, a little impressed. "Well, better late than never, I suppose."

He regarded her coldly, and said nothing.

Don't let her win.

"Fine, fine," she said after a minute, taking another sip of her now lukewarm tea. "I'll 'get to the point,' as you so crudely put it earlier."

She paused to look him straight in the eye, and her expression was finally entirely serious. "As you might have guessed," she began again, "her visit to the kingdom did not just happen by some happy accident—we had sent her several letters over the course of the past year inviting her to court, in fact, making sure, in every instance, to emphasise that you were being properly punished for your crimes—and that, should she choose to visit, you would be nowhere near the palace."

He merely raised a tired eyebrow at how forcefully she spoke.

"Yes, we get it—I'm the bad guy; I'm the reason Queen Elsa refused to return your letters for so long," he commented dryly. "But now she's here, so . . . obviously I wasn't that much of an obstacle, now was I?"

The Queen glared at her son. "Enough to delay her for nearly a year," she returned, irritated. "Anyway," she continued, brushing off the interruption, "our continued assurances to the Queen no doubt played an important role in her eventual decision—and we had assumed, upon her arrival, that she was still comfortable with the arrangements as stated in our correspondence over the past two months or so."

His brow furrowed in bemusement. "What do you mean?"

The look she gave him in reply was indecipherable; and he, unable to read it, assumed the worst, his face turning ashen.

She wants me dead.

His mother snorted suddenly, jolting him out of his frightened stupor.

"Oh please, Hans—don't look so traumatised." She looked entertained by his pale features. "It's nothing like that." She added mysteriously, after a moment: "Actually, it's . . . quite the opposite."

Some colour returned to his face, though he felt as puzzled as before by her cryptic words.

"What—what do you mean, 'the opposite'?" he managed finally, his eyes tight.

She smoothed back a strand of her auburn hair that had gotten loose from its braid, and eyed him with a sudden, penetrating intensity.

"She wants you to return to court."

He stared at her uncomprehendingly.

What?

She continued as if she hadn't just said the most absurd thing in the world, speaking in an almost infuriatingly casual manner.

"Yes, well, I was just as surprised as you, at first," she said, looking into the distance as she recalled the incident, "especially since she made the request so suddenly, and in front of all the court!" The Queen's expression betrayed her admiration for the young woman. "It was quite remarkable, really."

Hans's face heated at the remark, hardly processing his mother's babble.

She . . . asked for me to come back? Today? In front of the entire court?

"Of course your father and I tried to dissuade her from such a course of action, but she would not be persuaded otherwise." She gazed thoughtfully down at her tea, which she now took up again in her hands. "She really is a determined young lady, that Snow Queen of Arendelle."

A "determined young lady"?

It was too unfathomable in every possible respect—Queen Elsa being at the court of the Southern Isles, announcing that she wanted the traitor prince to return, and somehow charming his mother, the indomitable Southern Queen, all at once—and so he shook his head, wincing.

"And did she . . . explain why she would make such a request?" he grit out after a time, glaring up at her. He had forgotten, evidently, how talking to his mother could be like pulling teeth.

She breathed out her nose at the question, annoyed by his tone. "She did, actually," she said, and relaxed a little. "It was something . . . something about how she wanted to 'face the past' and 'move forward with confidence,' if I remember correctly."

The coy smile that he hated returned to her unnaturally youthful face. "And with a reason like that—how could we refuse her?"

His hand moved to ruffle his red hair in frustrated incomprehension.

She wants to "face the past"? "Move forward"? What does that even mean?

His brow darkened, and a look of realisation passed over his features.

She just wants to use me—to see me face-to-face and "prove herself," or some useless drivel like that.

"And so what? You've come to collect me so that I can entertain the Queen for a few weeks, and then you'll dump me back here, just as before?" he deadpanned disbelievingly.

Dark amusement flitted across his mother's irises. "Something like that," she replied simply.

He went cold at this, though he didn't allow himself to shudder.

Not in front of her.

His jaw tightened.

She sees everything, after all.

"And what exactly am I meant to do?" he inquired sarcastically. "Stand around like one of your useless Royal Guardsmen while she . . . 'faces the past'?" He sneered at the idea, leaning back in the chair and resting his head tensely in his hand. "It all sounds incredibly thrilling, Mother, but you'll understand if I have to refuse, of course."

The Queen scowled instantly, and Hans grinned.

Oh—that seems to have hit a nerve. Good.

"Don't be stupid, boy," she snapped, setting her now-empty cup back on the tray more harshly than before. "You have no choice in the matter."

His eyes narrowed at her just as viciously. "Of course I don't," he retorted. "I never have had one."

She laughed, suddenly—an icy, short bark of a laugh that raised hairs on the back of his neck—and her scowl returned full-force afterwards.

"Don't be so dramatic, Hans," she reproached him, her teeth baring themselves unattractively as she spoke. "You did this to yourself, and thenceforth you will suffer the consequences of your actions."

He quietly glowered back at her, after this; in his silence, she went on, and her words cut into him savagely.

"You should have been satisfied with what you had—and you already had the world at your fingertips," she said, her disappointment thick. "But no—you had to go and be the ungrateful brat that you are, and ruin any chance you might have had for lasting contentment."

Enflamed by her castigation, he suddenly felt unrepentant. "And what was that 'contentment,' Mother? Marrying some grovelling courtier's daughter like my brothers and remaining in this little, insignificant kingdom for the rest of my days? Watching as those same brothers occupied every meaningless position of power, leaving me with no chance of ever even achieving success on their pathetic level?"

His scowl was just as fierce as hers then, and just as stubborn. "At least I tried to reach for something better—and you, of all people, should understand that."

She looked unimpressed by his speech, her tone just as harshly judgmental as before.

"Yes, you tried—and you failed."

It was a bitter reminder—bitter enough, even, to make him drop his petulant façade, if only for a moment.

You're a failure, Hans—and that's all you'll ever be.

She sighed suddenly, taking him off-guard. He guessed that she had read the defeat in his eyes.

"It's a pity, you know," she said regretfully, not looking at him. "If you had only been a bit more persistent, you could have won the heart of the Snow Queen herself."

He scoffed at the notion. "You obviously don't know her that well to say something so naïve."

She raised a sceptical eyebrow. "And did you ever really 'know her that well' before you wrote her off as a lost cause, Hans?" she challenged him, frowning. "You were far too impatient—but, I suppose," she said resignedly, "that you must have inherited that unfortunate trait from me."

Hans snorted. "Impatient or not, it doesn't take long to realise one, simple fact about Queen Elsa of Arendelle," he remarked bitterly, and snapped:

"That no one can really love her—since she can't even love herself."

The Queen stared back at him then with eyes that could freeze the sun.

"If you honestly believe that," she said stonily, "then you're even more of a fool than I thought possible."

She rose from her chair after a tense moment, her hands still folded in front of her as neatly as before. "Now come," she said stiffly, and walked towards the door, "our ship is waiting at the beach."

Hans shook a little, seeing how quickly she had shifted in her personalities once again; somehow, he managed to stand his ground.

"No," he refused. "I'm not going."

She whipped back around and walked up to him until they were mere inches from each other, her hands dangerously coiled at her sides.

"You will follow me, now," she repeated, her tone more threatening than he had ever heard it before, "or so help me, I will put you in the dungeons, where you belong—and this time, I'll make certain that no plea from Queen Elsa will save you from the miserable fate you deserve."

He could see that she was waiting, then—her brutal, unflinching stare boring into his own—and though he desperately wanted to defeat her, to finally overcome her unbearable force of will . . . he merely averted his gaze from hers, and said nothing.

I can't win. Not this time.

Mollified by this, she turned back around again, opened the door, and exchanged a few words with Agnes and Edvard in quiet out in the hall. Soon after, she gestured rudely for her son to follow, and he did, not sparing his "distant relations" even a parting glance.

I'll see them soon enough, anyway.

They exited the house through the main entrance, where a group of Royal Guardsmen waited in stoic silence. He recognised a few, though they only returned his glances with looks of disapproval and disgust; he easily shrugged those off, turning his gaze instead back to the front of the group, where a carriage was being readied.

The Queen glanced back at Hans briefly before gesturing for him to step inside the carriage after her, and the guards made a point not to assist him.

He nearly rolled his eyes.

As if I need help getting into a carriage.

It was a strange feeling, nonetheless, since he couldn't remember the last time he had ridden a horse, much less ridden inside a vehicle pulled by horses. His mother, however, didn't seem to care in the least that he might have had some trouble adjusting back to this reality, and spoke suddenly as the journey to the beach began at a bumpy, rapid pace.

"You're to live in the servants' quarters for the duration of Queen Elsa's visit," she informed him brusquely, "and you're to bathe and shave once we arrive back on Strande, after which you will be given a change of clothes to wear while at court."

He looked out the window of the carriage sullenly. Oh, joy. New clothes—likely also made for peasants.

"You will remain confined to your room and under constant surveillance by several members of the Guard outside of any events during which the Queen specifically requests your presence," she continued, ignoring his brooding look, "and you will likewise be under watch at these events, whether they be dinners, or balls, or lectures."

"I sound like quite a handful," he observed mockingly, earning a sharp glare.

"And if," she cautioned, "the Queen at any time feels uncomfortable on account of your temper or language towards her, you may rest assured that I'll have you on the next boat back to Vollan."

Her brow lifted. "Is that understood?"

He was too angry to look at her. "Yes," he replied nastily, scowling.

Her lips were thin, and her expression fraught with aggravation.

"Say it properly, Hans."

He turned to her, finally, and his teeth set in a hard line.

"Yes, Your Majesty."