There is a stillness to the air–a stillness not unlike the moment before lightning strikes.

“…Your Majesty–”



She remembers a saying an Italian diplomat had once shared with her; of love and thunderbolts and a powerful connection which cannot be denied.

“–Queen Elsa of Arendelle.”



Her gaze has yet to avert from the woman standing at the foot of the steps leading to her throne; all coppery hair, sun-kissed skin, and constellations’ worth of freckles. Her teal eyes are warm and clear like the bottom of a lake in spring, reflecting the beautiful blue sky.

“So,” Elsa says, drawing herself to her full height as her guest’s lips curl into a smile, “you have come to this land in the far north, seeking my hand. What makes you think you will succeed where others have failed?”



It is little more than a facade, for lightning has already struck and left its mark. But Elsa is a queen, a ruler, first and foremost. Her people look to her for strength and wisdom, and to behave in a contrary way–

“Oh, come on, Elsa! Is that really how you should treat an old friend?”



…Even after all these years, Anna hasn’t changed a bit, it seems.