the-wandering-quill:

jabs-wocks:

the-wandering-quill: jabs-wocks: so yesterday I have this urge to draw this Modern!Anna.. she get lost or something and maybe she encounters Arendelle castle ruins. Inside the ruin, she find this sleeping Elsa that being sealed by a magical sword (actually I used Witcher sword as reference heuheheuhue) Bonus points if in Anna’s previous life, she was the one to seal Elsa away lol LOL, yes!! 100 points for @the-wandering-quill​ .Actually that’s one of the scenario that was floating on my brain when I drew this. #damnit-jabs-there-are-words-in-my-head yesss quill, write that word, write it muhahahahha

There is a ringing in her head when Anna first lays eyes on the ethereal beauty slumped on her throne; blood-red sword jutting from her chest. Persistent and growing in sudden intensity, her hands reach up to clutch at her head as she staggers back a step. Or two. Or three.

The world spins beneath her feet, and she feels herself falling backwards when her knees give out.

“There really is no other way…is there?”



Or is it forward?



“I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry, Elsa…!”



The sword is heavy in her hand–the burden weighing down on her shoulders heavier still.

“You would still shed tears for me, after everything that has led us here?”



Cold. So very cold. As cold as the deadly ice curling around to protect its mistress.

“Elsa–”



A tired sigh; noble brow furrowing.

“…So be it.”



Anna gasps for breath, chest heaving as her mind breaks through and treads the water of these strange visions flashing before her eyes. A mouse-like squeak escapes from her lips when she looks down to see her hand wrapped tightly around the sword’s hilt.

Somehow, in her bout of dizziness, she has moved closer to the woman seated on the throne. Close enough to see the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose; the frost on her lashes; the faint crease on her brow.

The minute rise and fall of her chest.

She’s still alive?!

The thought sends Anna backpedaling in panic and fear, her hand releasing the sword as if burnt. She trips over her own feet in her momentum, and the ice is as hard as it looks when she lands soundly on her bum.