WIP preview.
So, I should preface this by saying that this is NOT a continuation of any outstanding fics I've already written, like In Fantasy or Winter's End - this is a new shorter piece I'm working on, four (?) parts planned in total. Since I've been so inactive of late, I wanted to share a draft of the first part with y'all. It's going to be a dark, tragic, R-rated sorta story, A/U, and - of course - centered on Hans x Elsa. No title as of yet, but I'll think of something eventually.
Thanks especially to @nap-hime, whose recent fic it became a nemesis is stirring the old Helsa flames in me!
See more below the line.
»»————- ❈ ————-««
I. DAFFODILS
“I’ll have that princess bedded and wedded within a week!”
Hans recognizes Adrian by his boasting, not bothering to look up from the flower bed. Another voice guffaws - probably Lucas, he thinks, from the brassiness of the laughter - but he keeps his gaze fixed on his task as he listens, kneeling in the grass.
“You’re pretty, Adrian, but that’s a stretch—even for you. What makes you think she’d open her legs just like that?”
Lucas snaps his fingers for effect, making Adrian chuckle. “You know the girl’s been cooped up in that castle since her parents died. She’s probably starved for affection.”
“And what about the other one?”
“You mean the disinherited older sister?” Adrian asks, snorting. “What about her?”
“Well, aren’t you curious to know what she looks like?” replies Lucas. “No one’s seen her in years.”
“Yes, I suppose, but she’s merely a curiosity at this point,” dismisses Adrian. “The younger one is the heir apparent. And now that she’s finally started to accept suitors, everyone’s after her. But I intend to be the first one in Arendelle.”
Hans snips with the gardening shears loudly enough to catch their attention, looking nonchalant when they turn to stare at him.
“What are you doing here?” Lucas snaps, glaring.
Adrian spots the shears and chuckles. “Why, he’s picking flowers,” he sneers. “Hoping to curry the King's favor with a spring bouquet. Isn’t that right, Hans?”
Hans shrugs. “They’re for mother’s grave,” he replies simply, gathering them into a bunch as he stands. “Daffodils were her favorite.”
“Like I care what flowers your whore mother liked,” Lucas spits, scowling. “You can join her under the ground, as far as I’m concerned.”
Hans’s look darkens as Adrian steps between them, tutting. “Now, now, Lucas—that’s not very nice, is it? Even if he is a son of a whore,” he remarks, “he’s still our baby brother.”
His smile does not reach his eyes. “Now run along, Hans. You needn’t concern yourself with the affairs of your betters.”
Lucas grins. “I think the ladies-in-waiting are missing their favorite doll for tea.”
Hans grips the flowers a little harder, but only for a moment—and then he wears a small, polite smile that makes even Adrian frown as he bows.
“I’ll take my leave then. Be well, brothers.”
Adrian scoffs and Lucas mutters as Hans walks back towards the palace, never looking behind him.
His smile is frozen in place.
»» —— ««
He slips down into the kitchens with his usual ease, unnoticed by the guards, ignored by the cook and most of the servants.
They’re used to him, he supposes, or perhaps he just blends into the scenery: another piece of furniture to be occasionally dusted and polished.
He finds his target rummaging through the pantry, and makes his entrance.
“Freja, my dear,” he says from behind her, “you’re just the girl I was looking for.”
The servant turns around with red cheeks that make her pale skin seem to glow in the dim light of the space, her brown eyes wide and flustered as he takes her hand in his and plants a kiss upon it.
“Your Highness!” she exclaims in just above a whisper, glancing over and around him nervously. “It’s almost dinnertime. There’s too many people around—”
He squeezes her hand, making her squeak. “I promise I won’t be long,” he replies, smiling as she fidgets. He withdraws a small silk pouch from the inside of his suit jacket, and places it in her hand. “These are tea leaves from England—Prince Adrian’s favorite. Have Chef Jensen serve it to him at dinner.”
“From England?” she asks, interested. “How did you get it?”
“I have my ways.”
She opens the pouch, sniffing its contents, and frowns. “This doesn’t smell like any tea we’ve made before.”
“It’s a new blend,” he says, closing her fist around the packet. “Named after Charles Grey.”
She blinks, bemused. “Who’s that?”
“The Prime Minister, dear. But that’s beside the point. You can switch out the usual tea with this. Chef Jensen won’t notice.”
Freja bites her lip. “I don’t know about this, Hans—”
He draws the girl in that much closer, holding her hands warmly in his, and she trails off as she melts into the sensation.
It’s too easy, Hans thinks as he watches her face go flush, and her eyes darken with want—but one chuckle from him is enough to bring her back to the present.
“Now be my sweet girl,” he murmurs in a low voice, “and do as I ask. I promise you’ll be well-rewarded for it later.”
She pouts, but eventually manages a smile as she stuffs the pouch in her apron pocket.
“Fine. But no surprises next time, you hear?”
He nods. “Deal.”
She pauses to look over her shoulder one more time before tiptoeing her way back into the hall, and flashes him a hasty wink before making herself look busy with a pile of plates by the washbasin.
He watches for a while from the shadows, still smiling.
»» —— ««
Tea is served alongside Chef Jensen’s famous apple cake, greeted with applause by Hans’s brothers and their wives.
“It’s been too long since you’ve made this,” remarks the king as he takes the first bite. “You’ve outdone yourself, Jensen.”
The others at the long table follow his lead, and their chews and groans of pleasure resounding throughout the great hall remind Hans chiefly of a herd of masticating cattle.
The chef bows, looking pleased, and the king’s steward gestures for the servants to begin pouring the tea.
Adrian is the first to sniff his cup with interest. “What is this, Jensen?” he asks between mouthfuls of cake. “It smells different.”
“Smells the same to me,” says Oskar, another of Hans’s brothers, from across the table. “Some kind of dark tea.”
“Ceylon, to be exact,” Adrian corrects him, sipping the brew and tucking his black hair behind his ears. “But I wouldn’t expect someone with your pedestrian tastes to know the difference.” He blinks as he sets the cup down, ignoring Oskar’s scowl. “This really is something else. Quite lovely, actually.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about,” grumbles Oskar. “It’s the same damn tea as always.”
“Enough, you two,” barks the king, silencing them. He dismisses the chef from the hall. “It’s unbearable to think we’re all related, sometimes.”
“Well, most of us, anyway,” says Lucas, smirking at Hans; the others chuckle at this, some coughing into the remainder of their wine to hide their amusement.
The king doesn’t spare a glance at his youngest brother, turning his attention instead to Adrian at his side. “Is everything ready for your trip tomorrow?”
The younger man nods, his bright blue eyes blazing with excitement. “Yes. We’re heading out at sunrise.”
“And not a moment too soon,” Harald mutters into his tea, making the brothers on either side of him, Erik and Frederick, chortle.
Adrian shoots them a frown. “Laugh all you want, but soon Arendelle will be swarming with princes from all over Europe. Getting there first is the best chance I—” he pauses, catching the king’s wary eyes on him, and swallows, “—we have to secure it as a permanent ally.”
“What can they even offer us?” scoffs Niels, the second oldest. He shrugs at the king’s dark look. “You know I’ve been against this from the beginning, Magnus. Arendelle is little more than a glorified fishing village with some nice scenery, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Then it’s a good thing this doesn’t concern you,” snaps the king. “What they have now may be of little value, but the potential is great.”
Adrian grins, and clinks his teaspoon against the cup. “Indeed, Your Majesty. Potential that must be tapped.”
The wives all titter with feigned amusement while half their husbands guffaw, and the other half roll their eyes and grumble.
Hans alone neither laughs nor mutters, and when the table grows quiet again, he takes the opportunity to stand and raise his glass to Adrian at the other end.
“To your safe journey,” he says, smiling. “May you sweep Princess Anna off her feet.”
His brothers and their wives look uneasy at his toast, glancing between themselves; but when the king stands, raising his glass, the others follow.
“To Adrian, and his success in Arendelle,” he says.
“To Adrian!” they shout, and finish off their wine.
When they sit down again, their tension is dispelled, and the conversation resumes. Only Adrian remains perturbed by the sudden tribute, eyeing Hans with a wrinkled, irritated brow, and he drinks the rest of his tea more quickly than usual.
The youngest prince pretends not to notice, picking at the rest of his apple cake with practiced calm.
»» —— ««
“I swear it was that blasted tea!”
Adrian moans in-between heaves, his body weak with nausea as he leans over a vessel hastily provided by a servant in the parlor. His other brothers watch the scene from a distance, murmuring amongst themselves, their expressions torn between pity, amusement, and disgust.
Hans slips in amongst them from the back, keeping his own face impassive.
The queen sighs, patting her brother-in-law gently. “We all had the same tea, and no one else got sick. Perhaps you just caught something—I hear a spring cold has been going around.”
“Nonsense—”
The prince’s protest is cut short by another bout of retching, and the queen backs away, holding her handkerchief to her nose. She looks at the king with concern.
“Dear, I don’t think he’ll be able to travel in this shape.”
He frowns down at Adrian, sighing. “No, I don’t think so either. The journey will have to be delayed until he recovers.”
“What!” Adrian cries out, his arms shaking as he grips the sides of the vessel. “You must be joking, Magnus. I must go at sunrise as planned!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the king snaps, watching as his brother writhes with the urge to vomit. “I won’t have you showing up at the princess’s doorstep looking half-dead.”
“Yes,” cracks Harald. “That would defeat the point of the whole enterprise, after all.”
“Quiet, you!” barks Magnus, frowning. He motions to his steward, who quickly jogs up to his side. “Bring Chef Jensen to my study. I want to know if there was something in the food that could’ve resulted in this.”
Adrian pants as the steward rushes out of the room, his gaze traveling up from the Persian rug beneath them until it finds Hans in the crowd of spectators.
“You!” he accuses, pointing a trembling finger at him. “You did something. I know it.”
The others all look between Adrian and Hans quizzically, while the latter demonstrates surprise at the allegation.
“I—”
“What utter nonsense,” Magnus interrupts, scowling. “Leave him out of this.”
“But he was listening to us in the garden earlier!” Adrian objects, looking to Lucas for support. “You remember, don’t you? He was spying on us.”
Lucas, on the receiving end of a glare from the king, swallows. “He was just picking flowers, Adrian. You said so yourself.”
“But he—he’s jealous!” Adrian balks, glowering even as he grows more wan. “He’s trying to take the princess for himself!”
“Don’t you hear yourself, man?” the king rebukes, sighing. “What would the princess want to do with him? He’s nothing.”
A grin twists and grows on Lucas’s lips. “He’s right, Adrian. She wouldn’t bother wasting time on the Unlucky Thirteenth.”
The room is filled with laughter at this pronouncement, but all is quiet in Hans’s mind save for the beating of his own heart, a steady thump in the night.
He smiles at the last, if only to himself.
Yes, he thinks, if only there was someone out there who could love me.
