I know in the early drafts of Frozen there was this prophecy about the great freeze, right? Its even mentioned in the outtake songs (Spring Pageant).

But there is one thing I couldn't help but think after having my own Frozen marathon . . did writers really get rid of the prophecy? Or is it happening under our noses? Like-- what if everything that ever happened was supposed to happen? Anna and Elsa already crossed paths with a younger Kristoff when they were children-- quite literally. What if every character, Elsa, Anna, Kristoff, Hans, were always supposed to meet? Like how Elsa was always going to be the fifth spirit. What if everything is just falling into place as we wait?

What if. . ?

1. Kristanna Wedding

2. Hans return

The authors of these arts are:

Frozen fever artwork by the legendary Haru/slayer on Twitter.

When he turned around, Andrew was there, leaning against the balcony doorframe as if he’d been watching him for a long time.

Hans looked at him with a mix of resignation and slight disbelief.

“Andrew. Wh-what are you doing here?”

“More like… what are you doing here?”

He let out a short, dry laugh.

“What am I doing in my own castle you say?” he replied with a hint of irony. “Enjoying my peace, until now I guess.”

Andrew didn’t answer. He approached slowly, observing Hans with a strange intensity, as if he were checking for something invisible.

Hans flickered a frown.

“Stop acting like a freak, would you?” he muttered. “Why are you here?”

Andrew took a few seconds to respond.

“I came to take you home.”

Hans sighed in annoyance and turned back toward the sea.

“Tell the King not to bother.” He leaned against the railing. “I’m perfectly fine here.”

Andrew watched him in silence.

“You can’t stay, Hans.”

His younger brother let out another laugh.

“I didn’t realize I needed your permission, brother.” He added with a nonchalant shrug, “But since you’ve traveled all this way, you can stay the night. Just... try not to disturb the staff, please.”

Andrew shook his head gently and took a step forward.

“Hans, you have to wake up.”

Hans turned his head slowly, looking at him with genuine confusion.

“Andrew…” he said patiently, “I am awake. Can you drop your stupid games for once?”

He didn’t answer. He simply stepped up to him and placed a hand over Hans’s chest.

The gesture was so unexpected that his brow furrowed. “What are you—?”

“Just hold on,” Andrew whispered. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Hans opened his mouth to retort… but a massive surge of pain cut him off mid-word. A burning sensation so brutal it tore through his chest and sucked the air right out of his lungs.

The sea before him shattered like a broken reflection, and the golden light of the sunset vanished in an instant.

However, a light at the end of the path didn’t disappear immediately. In fact, he heard a sound.

A distant, indistinct murmur like voices heard through water.

Then came a sharp scent of herbs, alcohol, and resin smoke.

Finally, he forced his eyes open. For a few seconds, he couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. The ornate wooden ceiling seemed to shift slightly above him, as if the entire world were swaying.

He blinked, and the voices persisted.

“The wound is deep…”

“Yes… it nearly punctured a lung. Thank the Gods it didn't.”

“Hemorrhage is contained.”

“Very well.”

Hans breathed with difficulty. He didn’t feel pain yet, only a strange heaviness, as if his body didn't entirely belong to him. He tilted his head ever so slightly.

Two figures were moving beside him. A nurse and a doctor spoke in low voices while working rapidly on something he couldn't quite see. The nurse held a tray of instruments. The doctor’s hands were stained with blood.

Hans frowned. He tried to remember how he had gotten there.

Just then, the nurse looked up.

For a moment, her eyes locked with Hans’s. The tray rattled in her hands.

“Doctor…” she whispered, terrified. “He’s awake.”

The doctor’s head snapped up immediately. “What?!”

That was when Hans inhaled sharply, and the wave of agony finally crashed over him.

“Ah—!”

He tried to bolt upright. The doctor reacted instantly, shoving him back against the mattress.

“No! Don't move!”

Hans was gasping, completely disoriented. His eyes darted around the room in desperation. He didn't understand where he was or what was happening, but across from him, he saw Henrik, unconscious, with another doctor. Hans’s blood boiled instantly, and he struggled to get to him.

“Hey!” he growled. “What are you doing?”

The doctor tried to hold him down. “Prince, you must stay calm.”

Hans shoved him away with a violent jerk, sending the man stumbling into his instruments. “Get away from him! Henrik!”

The nurses recoiled in alarm.

“Fetch the Midnight Essence!” the doctor barked. “Quickly!”

Hans was panting, ignoring the white-hot pain searing through his chest as he tried to get up again.

“Henrik!”

But his companion didn't react. Hans looked around the room, terrified and lost.

“Rosalinde!”

No one answered. The doctor tried to push him back onto the bed. Hans shoved him off again, with even more violence this time.

“Don't touch me, damn it!”

“Guards!”

The door burst open, and two guards rushed in. Hans barely saw them at first; everything was a blur of movement, voices, and hands trying to pin him down. The pain in his chest intensified until it was unbearable.

The guards managed to pin him to the mattress.

“Prince Hans!” one said firmly.

Hans struggled, panicked, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Let me go!”

The second guard leaned in closer. “Prince Hans… listen to me. It’s Gleb.”

Hans blinked, the voice seem vaguely familiar.

“Calm down” the man continued. “You’re in Arendelle. You’re safe.”

Hans tried to focus his gaze. The world was still spinning slowly. As he recognized the face, he trembled slightly, his breathing turning erratic.

“…Arendelle…?” he murmured.

The doctor seized the moment. The nurse returned with a small, dark bottle.

“Here.”

“Good” the doctor said. “Hold him steady.”

The guards held Hans immobile while the doctor poured a few drops between his lips. He tried to resist, but the exhaustion and the pain were already winning.

The voices began to drift away, and the room grew blurry.

“That’s it…” the doctor whispered. “There we go.”

Hans’s eyes drifted shut. The last thing he saw were the painted flowers on the room ceiling before everything went dark once more.

Elsa catching her breath, pressing a hand to her chest as if to steady her racing heart. Her fingers trembled—whether from exhaustion or exhilaration, she couldn’t tell. The enormous, moss-covered guardian of the glade had nearly crushed them both before vanishing into the earth as suddenly as it had appeared.

Hiccup braced his hands on his knees, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. "That was incredible."

Elsa’s laughter bubbled up again, bright and uncontained, and Hiccup joined her without hesitation. It was the kind of laughter that came after brushes with death—too loud, too sharp, edged with the giddy disbelief of having survived. She wiped at her eyes, still catching her breath, and when she looked up, Hiccup was watching her.

Something in his expression shifted. The laughter faded between them, leaving only the quiet of the forest and the unspoken weight of everything they hadn’t said. Elsa’s breath caught—not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from the sudden, undeniable pull between them.

Hiccup moved first—or maybe Elsa did. She couldn’t tell anymore, couldn’t parse where her own actions ended and his began. One moment, they were breathless and grinning, the next, his hands were cradling her face, her fingers tangling in the fabric of his armor as she pulled him closer. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was wildfire and relief, a collision of everything they’d held back for months. His lips were warm against hers, insistent, and Elsa kissed him back like she’d been starving for it.

The kiss lasted seconds—or maybe minutes—before Elsa suddenly stiffened, her fingers uncurling from his suit as if burned. She pulled back sharply, her breath ragged, eyes wide with something like panic. "I—" Her voice cracked. "I shouldn't have done that." She turned away before Hiccup could see the flush spreading across her cheeks, her hands rising to cover her mouth as if she could erase the touch of him. "I'm sorry."

Hiccup blinked, his own lips still tingling. "Oh—no, I'm sorry," he stammered, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Did I—was that bad?"

"It's not that," Elsa interrupted, her voice strained. She still wouldn't look at him, her arms wrapping tightly around herself like armor. "It's not... you." A brittle laugh escaped her. "It's me. Or—no, it's this." She finally turned, her gaze flickering to his before darting away again. "You’re human, Hiccup. And I’m—" She gestured helplessly at herself, at the shimmer of frost still clinging to her fingertips from the fight. "I’m not. Not anymore."

Hiccup’s brow furrowed, his hands clenching at his sides like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t dare. "So what? That’s never stopped us before. We’ve fought side by side for months—you’ve trusted me with everything. The forest, the spirits, your family—"

"And that’s exactly why this can’t happen!" Elsa’s voice cracked, sharp as winter wind. She took a step back, her boots crunching over frozen leaves. "The spirits barely tolerate that I work with a human. If they knew—" She shook her head, her silver-blonde hair catching the fading light. "You don't deserve that... You don't deserve..." Elsa paused for a moment as if she didn't want to accept reality "This..." She pointed at herself entirely with disappointment.

"Where you come from, they would see me as a witch," Elsa whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of centuries-old fears. But Hiccup didn’t flinch—he stepped closer, his hands finding her waist before she could retreat. His touch burned through the thin fabric of her dress, a searing contrast to the chill of her skin. "I prefer to see you as a goddess," he murmured, and then he was pulling her in, his mouth crashing against hers before she could protest.

Elsa gasped against his lips, her hands flying up to push against his chest—but the moment Hiccup’s tongue slid against the seam of her mouth, hot and insistent, her resolve shattered. The contrast was intoxicating—his warmth flooding her icy breath, his tongue tracing the cool contours of her own as if mapping the taste of winter itself. A shudder ran through her, her fingers curling into his tunic instead of shoving him away. She melted into him, her body arching instinctively closer, her arms winding around his neck to deepen the kiss. Hiccup groaned low in his throat, one hand tangling in her hair, the other pressing firmly against the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. The heat of his body seeped into hers, thawing something she hadn’t realized was frozen solid.

The kiss was feverish, desperate—a collision of hunger and longing that neither of them had dared name. Elsa’s nails scraped lightly against the nape of his neck, eliciting a sharp inhale from Hiccup before he angled her head back further, his lips slanting over hers with possessive intensity. She could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath her fingertips, the way his breath hitched when she nipped lightly at his lower lip. It was madness. It was bliss. And for the first time in years, Elsa let herself forget duty, forget consequence—there was only this, only him, only the wildfire sparking between their tangled breaths.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, both of them were breathing raggedly. Elsa’s lips tingled, still warm from his touch, and Hiccup’s gaze was dark with something unspoken. She opened her mouth—to protest, to apologize, to something—but no words came.

The firelight flickered against the gathered circle of Northuldra elders, casting long shadows as they wove tales of ancient spirits and forgotten winters. Hiccup sat apart—just enough to be polite, just enough to feel the distance. He wasn’t part of this world, not really, and the weight of that knowledge settled heavily between his ribs. The laughter of the tribe washed over him, warm and bright, but it was a sound he observed, not shared. His fingers absently traced the edge of his prosthetic, the cool metal grounding him.

Then—soft footsteps in the snow. A familiar chill, subtle but undeniable, prickled the back of his neck. He didn’t need to turn to know it was her.

“May I sit with you?” Elsa’s voice was quieter than he’d ever heard it, barely above the crackle of the fire.

Hiccup’s breath hitched. He nodded, scooting over on the log without trusting himself to speak. She settled beside him, the space between them painfully deliberate. Outwardly, she was the picture of composure—her spine straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed ahead as if enraptured by the storyteller’s words. But Hiccup knew her. Knew the way her fingers trembled just slightly against her knee. Knew the tension in her jaw, the too-careful way she exhaled.

The silence between them stretched like the frozen tundra—vast and unyielding. Elsa kept her eyes fixed on the storyteller, her posture flawless, her expression serene. Only the slight tightening of her fingers in her lap betrayed her. Hiccup pretended to listen too, but his thoughts were a whirlwind, every nerve in his body hyper-aware of her proximity. The space between their thighs on the log might as well have been an ocean.

A gust of wind sent sparks spiraling from the fire, and Elsa flinched—just barely, but Hiccup noticed. He turned his head slightly, catching the way the firelight danced across her profile, gilding her eyelashes and the curve of her lips. She was so close he could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat. His own heartbeat echoed it, a frantic rhythm he was certain the entire tribe could hear.

Elsa shifted, her boot brushing against his prosthetic. She jerked her foot back as if burned, but not before Hiccup felt it—the briefest touch, electric and deliberate. His breath caught. He dared a glance sideways and found her staring resolutely ahead, her cheeks tinged pink. Slowly, so slowly it might have been an accident, he let his hand drift closer to hers where it rested on the log between them.

Elsa’s breath hitched. She didn’t pull away.

The firelight cast long shadows between them, the storyteller’s voice fading into the background like distant snowfall. Hiccup’s fingers twitched where they rested near hers, the space between them charged with everything unspoken. He could feel the cold radiating from Elsa’s skin, a contrast to the warmth of the flames, and it took every ounce of his restraint not to close the distance.

Elsa exhaled softly, her breath misting in the crisp air. Her pinky finger shifted imperceptibly, brushing against the rough grain of the log—closer to him. Hiccup held his breath. Was it deliberate? A mistake? He glanced sideways, but her face gave nothing away, her gaze still fixed ahead, lips slightly parted as if lost in thought.

Then—her finger moved again. Just a fraction. The barest graze against the side of his hand.