𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒, she would always remains sanguine. blackened waves and splintering ships could rip her mother, her father, away. unforgiving winds might accompany endless winter, and frost could erode the warmth from the pink of her flesh. but she would always persevere. in her darkest hours, a candle would forever remain lit. nurtured by TENDER LOVE, SWEET CARING. it never faltered, never dimmed. elsa, always elsa. and yet -----------------
this light extinguishes, and grief has lain waste.
it has cleaved a hole in her chest, 𝐲𝐚𝐰𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐬, and there has never been a time she has experienced such darkness. she feels it in her lungs, when each drawn breath carries a POIGNANT STING. she hears it in the quiet, as every second carries a booming cacophony of silence that deafens. she sees it in the spaces between her fingers, that will NEVER AGAIN KNOW THE FAMILIAR TOUCH OF A SISTER’S EMBRACE.
does it ? every moment, every hour ------------------ an eternity. perhaps her court ignores her misery well, though anna never ceases to feel it. the way it rattles the cavity of her chest, far within depths she cannot begin to fathom. THE WAY IT WOBBLES HER STEP, even as she endeavours to bear with purpose. the way her tumultuous silence is interrupted, even now (four hundred and thirty seven days later), by the sound of her sister’s voice. gentle, terrified, desolate.
don’t hear it. don’t hear it. don’t hear it. 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐌𝐁 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 𝐍𝐎𝐖.
yet agony refuses to be ignored, and anna clenches her fists against the desire to shield her eyes. pressure bites against her palm, a stinging pinch that does little to keep her grounded within reality. in every wish, in every dream, anna begs for this. elsa, always elsa.
even in the conjures of anna’s despair, her sister looks beautiful. the petrified TREMBLE OF HER SHOULDERS, the crystal beads of saltwater that cling to the roundness of her cheek. the slender of her fingers, as she wisps into existence a fledgling of ice. if she concentrates hard enough, anna can almost imagine the cool of its talon pressed so daintily upon her shoulder. almost, almost -------------
and her silence is broken.
stricken gasps and staggered wails create a dissonance that make her ears ring. her majesty ! is it her, truly ? but after all this time ? there must be some mistake. SHE’S HERE. the queen. elsa !
disbelief roots her to the cobblestone. was there a time when anna knew how to walk, speak ? BREATHE ? a tremor tears through her body with a force that imperils, and the ground beneath her sways with a respiration that mother nature has held for far too long. she staggers, and the bones that support her feel spongey. unable, for a second time, to hold the weight of the agony that bedevils her.
“ e-el------- ” the voice that speaks is unfamiliar, warbled beneath the lump that sears a hole in her throat. the word itself, her name, feels unfamiliar upon her tongue. foreign, unused. “ elsa ! ”
at last the weight is too much to bear, and wobbly knees conclude their floundering tour. her hands scramble for purchase, both desperate for balance and the remembrance of snow white skin, cool to her touch. solid beneath her fingers, 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥. her fingers cup, frantic, against the curve of elsa’s jaw. HER GAZE IS FREEZING, ice blue and as haunting as she remembers. alight.
“ you’re--- you’re---- ! ” alive.
