He held their daughter close to his chest. Anna was in bed, sound asleep and blissfully unaware of their child’s fussiness. He was grateful that he was the one to wake up first to the sounds of her cries, his wife had already done too much. Anna had refused a nurse, and Kristoff who had never had one himself, wasn’t going to disagree with her. He wouldn’t complain about the hours spent caring for his baby girl, he was only troubled by how little Anna had let him help.
Since Camilla had been born she had been taking care of her day and night. He watched her get exhausted day after day, the sleep creeping into her bones as she fed, soothed, and fussed over their newborn. Even when she was falling asleep standing up, she wouldn’t let anyone else take her from her arms.
He hummed to the little bundle in his arms, keeping her swaddled against the cool air of the room, hushing her gently when she fussed, and bouncing and rocking her back into a placated state. She fell asleep, her little blue eyes covered by begrudgingly heavy lids, and her mouth open, little bubbles of drool escaping from her lips as she drifted off.
When she seemed to be entirely out, he carried her back to her crib and nestled her inside, careful to keep her warm while also ensuring that she wouldn’t get hurt by any of the material that surrounded her. When he was satisfied by her placement in the wooden cradle and by the depth of her sleep, he pressed a kiss to her little forehead and returned to the bed he shared with his wife.
“I coulda got her,” Anna mumbled, Kristoff feeling immediately guilty for waking her.
He hushed her, and pulled her into his arms, wondering if it was the way to lull both of his girls to sleep. “You don’t have to do it all you know.”
She shook her head, but shifted until it lay comfortably on his chest, “It’s my job.”
“It’s my job to take care of you both.”
She yawned, “You know my parents never took care of me themselves really. It was all nursemaids and teachers until I was eight. Just want to give her what I never had.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, “And I want to do the same. You know I don’t remember my parents. I want her to have her Mama and Papa there for her every day. We can’t do that if you work yourself to death.”
She made a sound of protest, but no words came. She was snuggling into his arms, breathing him in, and curling her cold toes into the warmth of his legs.
When they awoke again, this time to crying at three am, she didn’t complain when he was the first one out of bed and he appreciated it. Baby steps.
I’m behind on everything. But here is one of two belated Kristoff Weekend Fics. It’s a little bit experimental stylistically but otherwise very hurt/comfort-y.
Kristanna
Universe: Canon
Length:1049
Rating: G (General Audiences) -Note: Includes mentions of death and loss.
Sequel(ish) Here: Warmth
Ice was his life.
That’s what he would say when people asked him what he did, who he was, or where he was from.
Ice was his life.
It took his parents away when he was too young to know them. They had been crossing a frozen lake together when the ice took them and their sleigh down into the depths. Their bodies had never been recovered. He had only survived by a miracle when his little wooden cradle had been found by a woodsman, teetering on the edge of life and death, solid ice and the cold suffocating embrace of the lake.
Ice was his life.
He couldn’t remember his parents faces, or even their names when he ran away from the orphanage, but he could remember the lake where he had been found. He went there, not knowing why, and rescued a small reindeer from its center where it had been slipping and sliding across the ice, his parents too swallowed up by it, taken by the will of the lake. He named him Sven and they curled up together on the bank beneath an evergreen tree, adopting each other.
Ice was his life.
It didn’t scare him when they went out onto the lake together. The ice had spared them both. He was only eight years old, but the harvesters let him work, let him tug blocks of ice into town on a small sled with Sven pulling his hardest. They shared with him their knowledge, profits of their labor, bits of food, and equipment. They all cared for him, but not enough to take him in, and when the trolls did no one understood or discussed it. They thought he was wrong in the head, or perhaps a changeling. He didn’t speak of trolls to anyone after that. He only talked about the harvest. And after years of hard labor, he became a man.
Ice was his life.
He swung his axe into it, ran his saw through it, lifted it with tongs, pulled it on his sled, and sold it in the markets. Sometimes he was almost able to forget all it had taken from him because it gave him so much. The money he earned from the sale of the ice had brought him a home, clothes, food, and a small savings that he used to buy a sled of his own, big enough to bring in more ice and to bring his supplies with him wherever he went. He had just paid off his debt.
Ice was his life.
He wasn’t expecting it in the middle of summer. He was angry that it had come sooner than expected, but he knew that it would always come for him. When a girl told him that she knew why the ice had returned he took her word for it and led her up the mountain trails to find her sister. He found a nearly glass-like ice palace there and he told her what he told everyone else.
Ice was his life.
He saw her freezing slowly, and he hoped that his family could help. Her skin grew cold, her lips went blue, and her hair slowly turned more and more white. He wanted to wrap her into his jacket, he wanted to kiss her lips and pray that the affection he was beginning to feel for her would be enough like true love to shake the ice from her bones and make her warm. He knew better. Ice would never give him quite so much without taking something away in return. He brought her to the castle, delivered her to the staff so that she could be away from him, in another’s arms and out of the cold.
Ice was his life.
He could only make it halfway home before he turned back for her. The ache in his heart drove him through the blizzard to find her. He shouted her name and the ice cracked around him. He and Sven would go the way of their parents, of that much he was sure. But he landed on something solid and he watched Sven swim. He didn’t have time to thank whatever God was protecting them as he ran towards her, finally seeing her, and knowing that if he could only make it to her, he could keep her safe.
Ice was his life.
He didn’t make it. He watched her sacrifice herself for her sister. He watched her freeze. He watched the ice cover her features, he saw it choke the life from her, just as it did with his mother and father. This time he knew he would never forget what it did. He knew he would never be able to stop the pain, the ache in his heart. He knew that the ice growing inside of him wouldn’t kill him, but it would stab him for as long as he lived.
Ice was his life.
The pain melted away as she did. The storm passed, and he found himself watching her return to flesh and blood. He watched her come alive, he watched her punch out her abuser, he watched her start to repair a long-thinned bond, and he felt her lips on his along with the fabric of her gown under his hands. They named him Ice Master of Arendelle and while he knew it was merely a useless title, he wore it with pride. Finally, he had been given some power, no matter how small, over that which had controlled his whole life.
Ice was his life.
Anna had nightmares of freezing and he would hold her through them, keeping her body warm, stroking her hair and pressing his lips to her skin to remind her she was flesh. He never complained, happy to keep her safe and slow the beating of her heart until she could sleep again. He held her through the nights and became more and more comfortable with the idea that the cold didn’t rule his life anymore. Now, instead he lived a life of warmth, protection from the cold, second chances, and family.
“Ice was my life,” he whispered into Anna’s ear, placing his weathered and rough hands on the fabric covered mound of her swollen stomach, “Now it’s nothing compared to my girls.”
Here’s my late contribution for Kristoff weekend which is not in the subject (unless you count that modern!Anna thinks that every photo Kristoff posts is hot) Although I didn’t finish it on time it took less to be drawn than my previous one.
