Repeat Performance

Dragons, Elsa, she told herself; that's what they said used to live here—dragons. She tried not to dwell on that. It was hard enough seeing ahead of her in the storm without conjuring imaginary beasts out of thin air.

She turned, glancing over her shoulder, the snow swirling around her as she looked down on her beloved home, those grand spires of Arendelle buffeted by the northern winds, besieged with snow, and it was her fault, she thought, it was all her fault.

Her lips trembled, her body shook, not from the cold, but from sorrow, from the realisation of what she had done. Her cheeks flushed with shame, her eyes red with tears. It should have easy, it had been easy, if only, she hadn't—

Dragons, she thought again, this time as a distraction, turning away from the city in the valley below, turning to face the northern winds once more.

In the old kingdom, long ago, they had fashioned their longships in the likeness of dragons, fierce visages to gaze out with baleful intent over the oceans, to display their might before any who would stand against them.

She had grown up with dragons, or rather, with stories of them, Arendelle, was, after all, the land that existed in defiance of all that was known. Around her, the storm intensified, growing more furious as she stumbled along the path, subsiding when her mind turned away from thoughts of the city, away from what had passed, and, instead, looked blankly to the future.

Her chest heaved in a sudden sob, the pain of what she had done like a dagger of ice in her chest.

Conceal, don't feel, she told herself, stumbling further into the night. What was the point now though? What was the point when all she had known was lost, when Arendelle was lost—when even Anna was lost.

It would be fine once she away, she told herself, the snow would ease without her, the storm would follow her alone; Arendelle would recover, Anna would live, as long as she stayed away, Anna would live.

Her lips let out a low, moan of sadness, a shudder of sorrow, of terror—she had let them in, she had thrown the gates wide open, and, in return, the presence of others had torn down everything she had known, taken from her that last little thing she had tried to keep for herself.

Beneath her, her feet gave way, court shoes inadvisable for the storm she had summoned up around her, and her cry of mourning became one of surprise, and, then, before she knew it, she was tumbling down, falling into the dark, the ice and cold enveloping her.

Go limp, she told herself, don't react, she told herself, not for the first time, and she thought suddenly of her parents—was this the advice they too had offered each other at the last; when their ship was dashed against the rocks, when the ocean waves rolled in and swallowed them up, was this was how they too prepared for the end?

Father, she called softly, unable to shape the words properly as she tumbled downwards; Father, I failed you, I wasn't able to be the ruler you were.

Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end—and then abruptly, her descent slowed and she rolled to a stop, bruised and battered, her cloak of royal purple torn to shreds, her dress stained with dirt.

Trembling, she lifted her head, shivering once more, not from the cold but the pain, her eyes searching the darkness, and then, at last, falling upon the shape of something huge, out of the ice stood free to middle breast, and even had she been a giant it would have dwarfed her; something massive, horns rising from its bowed head, its lower body frozen in the ice.

She cried out again, crawling back from the sight of it, her eyes wide with fear, a monstrous shape unmoving before her.

Dragons, she told herself, that's what they said used to live here—dragons.

The giant in the ice did not move, its face yellow and vermilion which straight forward gazed, icicles running along its curving horns, a crest of reflective metal about its neck like the sails of sea-ships she had ne'er saw the size of.

For the longest time, she did not move, trembling before the sight of the giant creature, ancient and elderly, fashioned in a different time, its flesh like metal, its eyes unseeing.

Dragons…

No, she shook her head, not a dragon, but something else, something that was like a machine, like a reptile, something older than Arendelle, something as old as time.

The snow swirled around her as she lifted herself up, her legs protesting the movement, a thrill of fear running through her. Gingerly, she took a step forward, and then another, and another, and with her bare hands, she reached out, placing it against the flat of the old thing's face, closing her eyes, trying to sense what it had once been. In the dreaming they shared between them, she saw a story of another time, five of them, creatures that towered above the beasts of old like giants in a ship that been dashed against the mountains, their number haunted by another, a giant shaped like some old god, its frame only just suggesting the guise of a man.

She drew her breath sharply, watching the scene unfold in her mind's eye, the five of them transformed into the likeness of ancient monsters, their battle with the old god—and then the descent, their fall into the raging ocean, the water turning to ice around them.

At last, she felt, there was a place for her, at last there were others who were like her, monstrous and forgotten in the cold and the dark.

"Rise to thy feet," she whispered softly to the slumbering beast, "the way is long and rugged the ascent."

She felt a tremulous whisper in her breast, the first suggestion of comfort, and the storm about her grew silent.