Frozen

A Melody from the Past

Chapter 3: Deadly Horizons

The courtyard of the Salt King was alive with activity and hushed whispers as the young prince forced his way through the crowd. He paused as a handmaiden bumped into him, steadying her and the basket she'd been carrying.

"M-my apologies, Prince Hans! I-it won't happen again, Your Highness," she stammered out, turning a bashful gaze away from the prince.

Hans offered her a smile and gave her shoulder a gentle pat.

"It's alright, Yilda, please, don't let me keep you from your duties," he assured her, moving aside to give her room to pass. He nodded, still smiling as she thanked him and hurried on her way. No sooner had she faded from view, the smile vanished from Hans' face, his gentle gaze hardening into a glare as he approached the doors to the throne room.

Word had traveled fast about the ship that had been attacked off the coast of their colony in Arway. The Southern Isles were a small kingdom, but their navy's reputation far exceeded their nation's size. Pirates and raiders were a daily inconvenience for the people of the Southern Isles, but they slept easy knowing that vengeance would be swift and inevitable. This time, though, was different from before. The retaliatory force that had been sent to deal with the attackers had vanished as quickly as the first. Just one of the sailors survived, only having just made his way back to the kingdom as day broke that morning.

"Please, excuse me, His Majesty is awaiting my arrival," Hans spoke up, a hush falling over the gathered crowd. Merchants, soldiers, nobles alike had swarmed the courtyard, hoping to be the first to hear the survivor's tale. Upon catching sight of the prince, they moved aside to allow him to approach the gates. Hans glanced at the guards stationed at the entryway, nodding as one moved to open the gate.

"Has it really been like this all morning?" Hans asked as he tightened his gloves and straightened his jacket. It wasn't often the Salt King called on him, he hadn't quite been sure of what to wear and had chosen formality over practicality.

The guard grunted and rolled his eyes, "The scavengers couldn't wait to get a bit of gossip. Would you like us to clear them out, Your Highness?" There was a hopeful, menacing glint in the guard's eyes, his hand moving to the sword hanging from his hip.

The corner of Hans' mouth twitched. Shaking his head, he sighed, "Let them have their gossip. If the Salt King wants them cleared out, he'll give the command." From the corner of his eye, Hans caught sight of the guard muttering a curse under his breath as he nodded and released his weapon.

"As you wish, Your Highness."

Hans wasn't the least surprised by the disdain with which the guard spat his title. Without any further pleasantries, the prince stepped into the castle, his gaze unwavering as the doors were slammed shut behind him. Though it was muffled by the heavy wooden doors, he heard the distinctive sound of a scream as the guard turned his frustrations on the crowd, to spite the prince, no doubt.

Hans paused for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching again as his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his own sword. The crowd would surely enjoy the bloodbath, should he return to "scold" the guard who had disobeyed his direct order, but, he doubted the Salt King would take kindly to the "Wastral Prince" dishing out justice to His men.

Quite unlike the hustle and bustle outside its mighty walls, the castle itself was eerily quiet. Servants came and went, their heads low, their lips shut tight. Whatever news the sailor had brought, it had surely soured the King's good mood. Hans allowed himself the briefest of smiles. The Salt King's good mood? There was no better joke in all the Southern Isles.

Marching through the halls, the click of his boots the only sound that dared disturb the castle's silence, Hans considered the hushed whispers and rumors he'd heard as he made his way through the crowd. The sailor had apparently returned a raving lunatic, both legs broken and half his face charred black, revealing the bone beneath. Of course, the superstitious townsfolk had come up with a number of reasons.

Perhaps sirens had led the ships to their doom? Or, maybe it was a great storm sent from the gods? Or, perhaps, some bloodthirsty warlord, one who had been thwarted one too many times by their navy, had returned to enact his swift and terrible vengeance?

There was no limit to the imaginations of peasants, Hans considered as he looked up at the doors to the Salt Throne. And, yet...as he entered the room, his eyes fell upon the very man in question. One eyebrow raised as he reconsidered his disbelief.

The man was a ghost of what he used to be. Oh, it was easy to see that he had been strong before, he was still broad and decked with muscles, but his face, what remained of it, was pale, his one working eye wide and fearful, his lips trembling as he sputtered the last of his story to the Salt King. The rumors, as it were, had been true. Half of the man's face was little more than charred skin and bone.

"What are you doing here, boy? I see no shit in need of shoveling in here," the King growled as Hans approached the throne. His lips curled into a sneer as the prince bowed without so much of as a hint of reaction to his words.

"You summoned your sons to the throne," Hans explained, his voice carefully devoid of anything resembling emotion. As he rose up, he once again tightened his gloves as the King scoffed.

"I did, and they arrived long ago, when they were summoned." The King rumbled, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the arms of his throne, his temper flaring when Hans continued to ignore him and took his spot beside his twelfth brother. With a snort, the King turned back to the sailor.

"Well, then, since the Wastral Prince has deigned to grace us with his presence," The King paused to chuckle at his own joke - several of his sons joining him in laughing out loud - before he leaned forward, arm resting on his knee, and continued, "Tell us again what happened, and make it quick, I don't have all day."

The sailor nodded, a guttural groan escaping his lipless mouth. Taking a shallow rasping breath, he shuddered as he recalled the events.

"We were hunting the raiders...just before dawn, but hadn't found anything. The Captain was tired and ready to call us back, when we saw this...incredible light, coming from just over the horizon," His words were slurred and hard to understand, but Hans couldn't help but pick up the awe in his voice as he described the sight, "At first we thought it was the sun rising, but...but, even the sun didn't shine this bright. This immense, golden light pouring out across the sea. I-I…" the sailor paused to draw in another pained breath, "I saw the sea begin to boil and steam as the light approached our ships. And...and then…" the sailor trailed off, burying the still functioning half of his face in his hand, gripping his knee so tightly that Hans could see his fingernails piercing his skin.

As the sailor began to sob, the King rolled his eyes and sat back in his throne.

"Aegir's ass! Weeping like a woman, again!" He scowled. When the sailor continued to shake and sob, the King sat up straight, "Get on with it, already!"

Hans frowned, folding his hands behind his back and paying close attention to what little facial expression the sailor had left. The Salt King seemed unimpressed by his tale, but there was no denying that the man was truly horrified by whatever had transpired. The prince narrowed his eyes, his lips twitching as he fought to keep his expression neutral when the sailor continued.

"The sky...the clouds parted and fi-fire...I saw fire...I-I s-saw...I saw fire pouring down like rain," He shuddered, a trickle of saliva dripping from a hole in the side of his mouth. "We couldn't fight back...th-there was no winning. Our ships were torn apart, I...I can still see my crew mates...b-burning alive, the fire was so hot the sea couldn't put it out!"

"And how, pray tell, did you survive this, ahem, miraculous encounter," Han's eldest brother, Caim, asked, his voice thick with sarcastic venom. A few of his brothers chuckled as the sailor shook his head, face still buried in his hands.

"I saw him...I...I saw the...he let me live. He...his crew dragged me out of the wreckage and...and I saw him."

Hans frowned when his brother, Hendrick, elbowed him in the side, a grin on his face.

"This is the best part," He pointed out, childlike glee behind his sneer.

"He was...he was big, so big...s-so impossibly tall. In g-golden armor, fire pouring from his helmet's eyes. Th-the...the...he gr-grabbed me," The sailor jerked, pointing to the destroyed half of his face, "He grabbed my face and t-told...he told me...he said...to warn you th-that...that he was coming."

"And, then he burnt your face with his hand, didn't he?" Caim jeered once again. Several of the brothers laughed again when the sailor nodded.

Hans glanced toward his father, seeing a dismissive sneer on his face as well.

"It was like...it...his hand suddenly...my face...flames everywhere. I...I can still feel it, I can still…" the sailor trailed off again, his words lost in another gurgled sob.

"What did you call him?" Stein, another of his brothers, asked.

"Th-they...they called him...they…" the sailor shook his head.

Hans tightened his grip on his wrist behind his back, grinding his teeth to keep his expression neutral. Even his best efforts couldn't suppress the shudder he felt in his chest when the sailor finally answered.

"Th-the S-Sun King."

XXXX

"You left rather quickly, little brother," A voice called, bringing Hans' rapid retreat to a halt.

The prince closed his eyes and released the breath he'd been holding. His hand slid to his side, resting on his sword as he turned to face his brother. While he truly, deeply hated all his brothers, his animosity was far more restrained toward his seventh brother, Mathias.

The Seventh Prince wasn't the most impressive to look at, only standing a few inches taller than Hans himself, with unkempt dark hair, his lanky frame always wrapped in a great fur cloak, regardless of the season. The most striking thing about him, beyond his choice in wardrobe, was a scar that ran from his right ear, down to the corner of his mouth: a "training accident", as the story went. The scar made it always seem as though he were smirking, though Hans was certain his brother had never once smiled.

"I wasn't wanted there to begin with, I didn't see a reason to stay and ridicule that man any further," Hans explained, keeping a watchful eye on Mathias as his brother stalked toward him, each step slow and calculated, even in what should have been a simple conversation between siblings.

Mathias paused beside Hans, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, "You believe him then? His story about this Sun King?"

Mathias had not been one of the brothers laughing at the sailor's expense. In fact, throughout the entire meeting, his expression hadn't changed once. He'd been the picture of stillness, save for his eyes drifting from the man telling the story to where his youngest brother stood, hanging on every word that was said.

"I see no reason to doubt him," Hans began, keeping his voice low and keeping Mathias in sight as the pair resumed their trek through the castle halls, "One look at him would convince anyone that he encountered something unnatural."

"Unnatural, indeed...what's to say, though, that he didn't manufacture his story to rid himself of the failure of defeat?" Mathias inquired, stroking his chin with one gloved hand, "Weakness is not tolerated by the Salt King. Perhaps, he believed it better to maim himself and conjure a tale about something supernatural than to admit his strength lacking?"

Hans scoffed, a mirthless smile spreading across his lips, "How can you say any man who did that to himself was weak? I doubt the Pride of the Isles could have stomached that pain, regardless of how drunk he was," Hans pointed out. His smile vanished as the pair came to a halt, his brother glancing over his shoulder.

"A fair point...and one that aligns with the research I've done into Sir Merik. He was, himself, a proud Islander. Given the chance, I'm sure he'd have rather died with his crew then be forced to return in such a ghoulish state," Mathias finally turned to face Hans completely, gesturing toward the door the pair had stopped beside. Though his expression remained impassive as ever, there was an almost playful gleam in his eyes as he addressed the youngest prince.

"Ah, but, that's enough speculation for today. Don't let me keep you from penning yet another letter that will go unread by the Queen of Arendelle."

Hans narrowed his eyes, grinding his teeth to keep the scowl from his face as he approached the door to his new room. It was only slightly larger than a closet, kept far away from the rest of the royal quarters. It had become his sole refuge, and his prison, after returning to the Isles from his failed coup.

He paused, hand tightly gripping the doorknob.

"How did you know?" He asked, cursing himself for playing into Mathias' game.

"Do you truly believe that either of them will ever forgive you?" His brother asked, ignoring his question entirely.

Hans' hand slid to his sword, his scowl finally appearing when he felt his brother draw closer. His eyes fell on the Seventh Prince's hand, resting against his door as he leaned in close to the Wastral Prince's ear.

"Actually…" Mathias hissed, "We both know the answer to that question, don't we, little brother? They will never," the prince emphasized the word "never", practically growling it, "forgive what you've done. A better question is…" The harshness left his voice, replaced by something that could have almost passed as concern, "Why do you pretend to care?"

The corner of Han's mouth twitched as his grip on the door became painful.

"Why do you insist on sulking these halls, staying up late into the night, penning the most perfect, most beautiful admission of guilt and remorse...seeking forgiveness that you will never receive to relieve the guilt that you do not feel?"

He had asked himself that same question countless times. With every letter he finished, with every courier he sent, he asked himself again. And, no sooner had he asked the question, he would find himself back on that frozen fjord, watching as the princess turned to ice, repelling the blow that would have felled her sister. And then, he saw Arendelle restored to its former beauty, that same princess now flesh and blood, in the embrace of the sister whose love had saved her.

If their love could thaw a frozen heart, if it could bring back the dead...then surely, it must be real.

"I don't know," Hans replied, his honest answer little more than a breath. He paused when he felt Mathias' hand on his shoulder. He turned and Mathias stepped back, withdrawing a rolled parchment from his cloak and holding it out to him. It was sealed with the symbol of Huginn and Muninn, Odin's ravens and Mathias' personal seal.

"Give this to Jormund when you go to send your next letter. My courier will get it to Arendelle quicker and safer...if this Sun King is real, then the Snow Queen may be our only salvation." As soon as Hans took the parchment, Mathias spun on his heel and marched off into the darkness without another word.

Hans considered the parchment in his hand, his mouth twitching again. Clutching it tight, he opened his door and disappeared into the dark.