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wintersovereign · 3 months ago

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Elsa regarded him with calm poise, the barest trace of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. For all the distance she had learned to place between herself and her emotions over the years, Elsa still found herself oddly softened by Cenred’s earnestness, the quiet hope behind his stoicism, the measured way he admitted to a part of himself that was uncertain, even unfamiliar.

“Yes,” she said, her voice low and even, but not cold. “A very good start.” Her gaze drifted to their joined hands. His were warm, calloused from training and rule; hers, cool as ever, but no longer rigid or withdrawn. They fit together in an unexpected sort of harmony, an echo, perhaps, of what their marriage might become. Not immediate passion, not some grand sweeping romance, but something steady. Trusting.

“We are both strong,” she said after a moment, lifting her eyes back to his. “But strength doesn’t mean we must remain unchanged. If anything, it means we can grow without fear.” There was something quietly resolute in her tone. Elsa had never imagined herself in a marriage like this —born more of an alliance than love— but she saw now that did not mean it had to be empty. They had a lifetime. And for someone like her, who had once believed herself destined to be alone… that was a rare gift.

“I will do my part,” she said softly. “And I believe we can make it happy.”

What we feel. So it was about feelings, after all - an area of relative weakness for Cenred. He had been trained to be a strong and stoic leader, a brave warrior, a thoughtful counselman. Roles which - he had been told - were best achieved when one carefully buried, concealed, and ignored their own emotions. Not so useful when women were involved, it would seem.

But Elsa's words were fair and logical: they would grow and change together in their marriage, and perhaps feelings could become involved. It was not unheard of, and he was certainly willing to consider that possibility. "Indeed," he agreed. "And we will have a lifetime to understand each other."

His smile grew as she spoke of being a good wife, and he squeezed their joint hands. "Well, that seems like a good start...don't you think? If we are both intent on making this marriage successful, and happy."

#kingcenred #let it queue

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wintersovereign · 3 months ago

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The moment the hatch closed behind them, Elsa felt the weight of the storm above soften, replaced by another kind of pressure. Stillness. For a long moment, none of them spoke. The air inside the hidden room was thick with the scent of pine, old stone, and something metallic, blood. Kristoff had tried to downplay the injury, but Elsa had seen the way he winced every time he shifted his weight. Even now, he was seated awkwardly on the cold stone, back against the wall, Anna kneeling beside him, her brow furrowed in worry.

Elsa stood a little apart, near the remains of a shattered barrel. Her hands were still trembling, not visibly, but she felt it in her bones, her blood, the coiled tension beneath her skin that refused to ebb. Her magic had been quiet since the ravine, but not calm. It was pacing behind her ribs like a caged animal, sniffing the air, restless.

She could hear it now, faintly, like a whisper. Let me help. Let me out.

Hans stood on the other side of the room, arms crossed, half-shrouded in the dim light. She could feel his eyes on her. Or maybe she was imagining it. When she glanced over, he didn’t look away. Neither did she. It wasn’t a challenge or an accusation. Just... recognition. A mirror held up to something they both wished they didn’t see. The look they shared wasn’t warm, but it was real. A fragile kind of understanding forged in ice and fire and cages neither of them had chosen.

Her breath came out slowly. Frost whispered across her fingertips, delicate and hesitant. She stepped toward Kristoff, her movements careful, deliberate, like approaching a wild animal. Or maybe she was the wild animal.

“Let me see,” she said softly. Anna hesitated, but only for a heartbeat, before nodding and pulling back. Kristoff blinked, pain making his features tighten, but he didn’t argue. The cut was deep, jagged. Torn muscle and dark bruising. A fall on the uneven terrain and his determination not to slow them down had worsened it. He was lucky it hadn’t shattered the bone.

Elsa lowered herself beside him, knees to the stone, and extended her hand, not quite touching, just hovering over the wound. The magic stirred immediately. It wasn’t like before, not a surge, not a scream, it was careful, controlled, and listening.

She exhaled, and frost bloomed softly from her palm, spreading like lace across Kristoff’s leg. Not freezing, not damaging, but binding. Slowing the blood flow, numbing the pain, easing the inflammation without freezing the tissue itself. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment as she directed the flow, her hand shaking only once.

When she opened her eyes, Kristoff was watching her with something between awe and gratitude. Anna had a hand pressed over her mouth, her eyes shining. The wound hadn't healed fully, but it would hold.

Elsa let her hand fall. She felt the storm inside her... soften a little. Not gone. Not quiet. But obedient.

Hans could taste the air changing even before they burst through the emergency exit. Crisp mountain wind rushed in, carrying the promise of snow. His feet found purchase on frost-slicked stone as he led them onto the narrow path winding down the mountainside. The irony wasn't lost on him—another mountain, another escape. But this time, he wasn't chasing. He was leading.

Behind them, boots crunched on fresh powder as the others followed. The storm was picking up, which worked in their favor—it would cover their tracks, mask their scent from any pursuing hounds. But the cold that aided their escape brought other concerns. He glanced back at Kristoff, noting how the man favored his injured leg.

"We need to move faster," Hans muttered, more to himself than the others. The shouting from the fortress was growing more organized. Soon, they'd have mounted patrols combing these slopes. "There's an old hunting lodge three miles down. If we can reach it before they mobilize—"

A distant horn cut through the wind. Hans cursed under his breath. They were already organizing faster than he'd hoped. His hand instinctively moved to his throat, where the words of power burned beneath his skin, begging to be released. One Shout could clear their path, ensure their escape. But using it would announce his presence to every Thalmor mage within leagues. The last Dragonborn was too valuable a prize to let slip away again—and he couldn't risk revealing his secret to his current companions.

The path narrowed treacherously, ice glazing the worn stone steps. Hans's boots found secure footing through muscle memory—he'd escaped down enough mountains to know how to read the terrain. But the others weren't faring as well. Anna nearly slipped, catching herself against the rock face. Kristoff's breathing grew more labored with each step.

'This is familiar,' his inner voice carried a hint of grim humor despite their situation. He had chased Elsa up this mountain, then Anna, consumed by jealousy of the mountain man. He'd seen Anna as merely a meal ticket then. Now he was risking life and limb for all of them. 'Funny how things change,' his inner voice mused.

And everything that came after.

He remembered that day with painful clarity: chasing prophecy up the Throat of the World, desperate to prove himself worthy of his dragon soul. Unknown to him then, Elsa had been climbing her own mountain, fleeing from a destiny she never asked for. Their paths had seemed so different—the man racing toward his fate, the queen running from hers. Now here they were, years later, all running down the same mountain together.

A sharp crack echoed from above. Hans spun, bow already drawn, but it was just ice shifting in the storm. Still, the sound had made him flinch. He knew everyone was just as on edge; he wouldn't be surprised to see frost spiraling from Elsa's fingers. The queen's eyes were wide, alert—too alert. He recognized that look: the haunted gaze of someone expecting their captors around every corner. And the simmering rage beneath.

"Your Majesty." His voice was low, steady. "They're not going to take you again. Either of you." His eyes met Anna's briefly. He meant it, though he'd never admit why. The dragon souls within him stirred at the memory of their own captivity, their rage harmonizing with his own.

The path split ahead. The main trail wound down gradually—safer, but exposed. The other route dropped almost vertically through a narrow ravine. It was the kind of descent that would be suicide for mounted pursuit.

"This way," Hans gestured toward the ravine. "Single file. Kristoff first, Elsa second, Anna last." He took position at the rear. By making Kristoff lead, he ensured the party kept pace. Though he'd be happy to leave the man behind, an argument about it now would waste precious time, especially since their escape had already been discovered.

The wind howled through the ravine, whipping snow into their faces. Hans felt the cold trying to seep through his armor. He used to hate the cold, but now it was a constant and silent friend. Something else kept him warm: the power in his blood, the fire that had chosen him. He'd spent years resenting it, this destiny he'd once chased so eagerly. The price of power had proven steeper than he'd imagined.

But now, guiding these people down this treacherous path, he felt an odd peace with his role. The Dragonborn was meant to be a protector of mankind—even if that protection sometimes meant leading queens and princesses through frozen ravines while fleeing elven supremacists.

They were halfway down when the horns sounded again, closer now. Hans picked up the pace, though his muscles screamed in protest. The lodge was just ahead, hidden in a thick grove of pines.

They emerged from the ravine into a small clearing.

The lodge was exactly as Hans remembered it—weather-beaten, half-swallowed by snowdrifts, and nestled in a bend of the mountain like it had grown out of the rock itself. Crude wooden planks formed its walls, patched with mismatched boards and scavenged stone. A heavy roof sagged under the weight of snow, its eaves caked with frost, while smoke no longer rose from the battered chimney. The windows, dark and unwelcoming, were covered in grime and frost, like dead eyes watching their approach. Rusted iron cages and broken crates lay scattered near the entrance, half-buried beneath old snow—evidence of what the place had once been: a hunting camp, or a bandit outpost, depending on who you asked.

But Hans remembered more than just the exterior.

Beneath the warped floorboards, beneath the rot and dust, lay a hidden hatch—one even the Thalmor hadn't found. A passage into the mountain itself, carved long ago by smugglers or rebels, he wasn't sure. What mattered was that it still existed.

It wasn't warm. It wasn't safe.

But it was shelter—and more importantly, it was a way out.

He ushered them inside quickly. In what remained of the shelter, he looked left and right before moving one of the beds aside, revealing a secret hatch hidden beneath thick furs. "Go inside. I'll watch and follow last." Only after the last of them had descended did he follow, using the bandits' old ropes to conceal the hatch. He barred the door from inside, finally allowing himself to breathe properly.

"Rest," he ordered, already moving to check the windows. "But be ready to move again soon. They won't give up easily, and we're still too close." His hand touched his throat again, feeling the words of power burning beneath his skin. He couldn't use them, not yet. But knowing they were there, knowing he could protect these people and himself if things got truly desperate—it helped.

The irony chilled his bones more than the crude Skyrim winter ever could. He'd spent years trying to escape what he was, while Elsa had spent years trying to accept what she was. Now here they were, both hiding their true nature for different reasons.

He caught the way Anna fussed over Kristoff—gentle, focused, worried.

His eyes darkened. There was too much there: regret, resentment, a faint flicker of something cruel, long buried but never gone.

It could’ve been him.

It didn’t elude him—but he chose to push it down, to let the maws of a thousand dragons have at it. He couldn’t afford to dwell on it, he told himself as he averted his gaze, though his lip still curled into a snarl—one he kept hidden from view.

He didn’t say much. Just posted himself by the hatch, arms crossed.If someone was coming for them—well, a hurt Dragonborn was more dangerous than an angry one. To hell with them knowing who he was.

They were trapped if the Thalmor barged in, and if his back was against the wall, he’d shout his way out with flair. He took a slow breath in, slow breath out. No. He was losing control.

Get it together, Hans.

He didn’t have the clarity to sort through it now—not when they were still on the run. But perhaps that was what fate intended all along. For him to see the parallels, to watch his own tragedy play out from a distance. Some kind of shitty redemption arc. Or maybe just a final reckoning. Once they were mobile again, he’d already decided—he didn’t want to see them after this. Not again.

Yes. That was a good plan.

And yet—

That soft spot in him, that lonely boy who once just wanted company, who grew into an even lonelier man in the wilds of Skyrim by virtue of his uniqueness—still yearned for comprehension.

For connection.

He threw another glance at the pair, then at Elsa.

And he supposed that sometimes, the best way to understand yourself… was to help someone else find their way down the mountain.

#umbravirtus #umbravirtus: dragonborn hans #(skyrim verse)#let it queue

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