Author's Note: This story is the product of my fever dreams, my long-brewing desire to write a Hanna piece, and some half-baked discussions with friends, one of whom directly inspired this fic with a prompt she gave me (even if she now denies it). I consider it a companion piece to Cold Hearths, but it also has many parallels with Fractures. PM me with any questions you may have.

Can't say much else without giving it all away, but hope you enjoy as always.

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It's dark—too dark to see anything, at first.

Where am I?

Eventually, his eyes adjust to it; when they do, he can just make out the dim outline of his hand in front of him, and he's vaguely aware that it's gloved.

It's an oddly comforting feeling—it's been so long, after all, since he's last worn gloves, though he's never forgotten the sensation.

Nobility. Civilised society. Relevance.

A few more minutes pass, his pupils widen, and more objects begin to take form—chairs, side tables, a long carpet—and he realises he's standing in a hallway of some kind, and there are doors in front of him, tall and imposing with a bright façade.

White doors … white doors with brass handles.

He runs his hands over the handles hesitantly, and squints at the doors. There's something familiar about the patterns painted on the surface … and about the heat that's emanating through the slim opening between them.

The hallway is cold, chilling by comparison, and so he turns the handle and quickly closes the door behind him when he's inside, sighing in relief.

However, as he takes in his new surroundings, his breath catches in his throat, and he blinks in surprise.

I know this place.

There's an impossibly high ceiling, and large windows, and upon the walls are huge portraits of royals past—and under these are chairs, and sofas, and little tables—and there's a fire blazing in the wide, low hearth that's casting an unearthly glow on these pieces, but most of all on the large, square, red carpet in the centre of the room.

He still can't quite place how he knows it, but he feels compelled, somehow, to go to the window, far from the fire, thinking—no, knowing—that that's what he's supposed to do.

I knew I'd have to marry into the throne somewhere.

And then, when he's in front of it, looking through it, his eyes widen—because there, outside, is Arendelle, the very same kingdom that haunts his memories, and his every waking step—and it's covered in snow and frost and ice.

How is this—why am I …

Then, his gaze focuses on himself—his reflection, to be exact—since, he notices, that he's wearing his white suit with the embroidered patterns on the sides, and his light green cravat, and the red epaulettes on his shoulders and sash across his chest.

This is what I was wearing when—

"Hans?"

His heart slows until he swears it's not beating at all.

Is that … ?

He's almost afraid to turn around, then, and the suit suddenly feels tight, and restrictive, and hot in the already warm room.

"Hans … I'm so cold."

He swallows thickly at the sound of that voice—that small, piteous, pleading thing—and when he finally draws himself away from the window to face its owner, his neck burning beneath the silk tied around it, he nearly chokes on his next words.

"A—Anna?"

She's laying across the chaise near the fire, and he wonders how he could have overlooked her, so weak and helpless and pale; but he treads over to her nonetheless, his footsteps silent, and his face heats as he takes one of her frail, cold hands in his own, hardly believing that it's there at all.

"Hans, you have to kiss me."

He stares at her with furrowed brows.

We'll give you two some privacy.

"What?" He shakes his head, and looks from the sick girl back up to the window in confusion. "What happened out there?"

Her lip trembles at the question. "Elsa struck me with her powers."

He grips her hands more tightly in his own—almost automatically.

"You said she'd never hurt you," he says with concern.

Her eyes tighten in pain. "I was wrong."

She shudders, and another chunk of her formerly strawberry-blonde hair goes white.

His heart seizes at the change. "Anna!"

She grasps his shoulders tightly, desperately, and draws nearer to him.

"Only an act of true love can save me."

His brows rise, and his jaw twitches—a memory creeps across his mind, but he can't understand its meaning.

An act of true love.

In his silence, she continues plaintively, her blue eyes fading.

"A true love's kiss."

Oh—I see.

She's staring at him expectantly, and suddenly, he understands where he is, and what he is in that moment—and what he's supposed to do.

But I don't want to do that. Not this time.

No, he thinks, he shouldn't—he can't repeat the same mistake, not for a second time, not when he has the chance to be better, to be someone else—and so he shoves down the words that are begging to be released from his lips, and he looks back at her with tight, sad eyes, and his grip is stronger than ever on her shaking hands.

I'll make this right, Anna.

He leans in closer, and her cheeks pink as he does—but then her eyes close, and she's waiting, her face soft and inviting, and whatever reluctance he felt is gone as soon as he presses his lips to hers.

I won't leave you.

There's a strange tingling between them at the contact, and he lingers there, intrigued by the feeling; then, it spreads, and her skin slowly returns to its normal colour, her cheeks full and rosy, her hair luminous like the flames in the hearth—and by the time he finally breaks their kiss, his jaw slackens in surprise at the transformation.

It … it worked.

At his stunned expression, she presses her hands to her cheeks, and then grabs one of her plaited pigtails and holds it up in front of her—and upon seeing the change for herself, she bites her lip, and her large, beautiful eyes water up.

"Oh, Hans!"

He nearly stumbles backwards when she throws her arms around him, and her tears are damp against his skin just above the collar of the jacket, but she muffles her crying by burying her head into his shoulder—and somehow, her reaction is so genuine, and so endearing in that moment, that he can't help but smile.

She lifts her head up after a while to meet his tender look, and though there's still a glossy sheen to her gaze, she smiles back at him, her hands still squeezing his shoulders.

"Hans, I … I don't know how to thank you—"

Oh, Anna. If only there was someone out there who loved you.

"Don't," he interrupts her, nearly wincing, and places his index finger over her pink lips; at her puzzled expression, he feels his cheeks heat at the contact, and he swallows nervously, withdrawing his hand again. "I meant, well, just that you don't have to thank me, or anything—actually, you shouldn't, because I—"

She kisses him then, and whatever apology he has been so inarticulately trying to deliver leaves his brain entirely as he's rendered, well, speechless.

Anna giggles against his lips as she breaks away from him again, though she leans her forehead against his, and their noses touch.

"What are you talking about? You saved me—of course I have to thank you."

I … saved her?

It's as incomprehensible to mull over in his mind as it is to hear her say it, and so he finds himself once more incapable of formulating a reply—and she invariably laughs again at his silence, pressing a gentle hand to his face as her eyes regard him with affection.

He doesn't deserve that look, he thinks, though he soaks it in, every inch of it, because he's wanted it for so long—and he grasps her hand suddenly, pressing a fluttering kiss into the centre of her palm.

Her skin burns under his lips, and he smirks a little, glancing back at her blushing face, her nose adorably scrunched up in embarrassment.

"Something wrong, Anna?" he asks teasingly, and though at first she pouts at his tone and his knowing look, her lips soon curl into a shy smile, and she folds her legs back under her.

"No, I just … I liked that, is all."

He leaves a small, slow trail of kisses from her palm to her wrist, wearing an easy grin throughout.

"You liked what, exactly?"

She swallows visibly, her arm trembling against his lips.

"That."

He chuckles at the reply—she's as honest as ever, and that only makes him want to tease her more—and so he continues his ministrations, sliding her sleeve up her forearm to give him access to the supple, smooth skin there.

Anna shudders, and suddenly snatches her arm away from him; he stares at her in confusion at the movement, but soon, she's removing her heavy cloak, and letting it fall back onto the ground, and pulling her towards him onto the chaise—and as they kiss for a third time, he's smiling against her lips.

It's not a moment later before she's roughly shoving his jacket off his shoulders, removing his sash from his chest, and unbuttoning his waistcoat, and he grins, thinking that he might have expected this from a girl who's as blunt as she is.

This is awkward. Not you're awkward, but just because we're—I'm awkward. You're gorgeous.

The memory strikes him in an odd way now, when she's running her hands along his bare back beneath his shirt—which she's only managed to pull up halfway from beneath the waistband of his trousers—but it also makes his blood run faster, and hotter, than it has in years, and his lips part from hers so that they can continue south, across her jawline, beneath her right ear, down her neck, pausing just above the collar of her winter dress.

He can feel the moan buzzing in her throat before it's fully vocalised, her hands gripping his sides, and he promptly undoes the buttons of her collar with one hand, the other unlacing her dress in the back—and he wonders, vaguely, if he's ever been this quick in undressing a woman before.

Not that I can remember the last time I did.

Once it's loosened enough, it slides down easily, revealing her pristinely white undergarments; and there's enough exposed now for him to continue where he left off, nipping at her skin, his tongue grazing the field of freckles along her shoulders and chest, and dipping softly at the gap between her breasts, making her softly gasp.

"Hans," she breathes out his name as his hand, still gloved, slips beneath the waistline of her drawers; and her thighs clamp back together around that hand as his fingers play just along the outside of her entrance, making her squirm beneath him.

Her reaction only encourages him to go further, and she's wet enough, by then, that his fingers practically glide right into her, and her back arches when they do, pressing her breasts even harder against his half-unbuttoned front.

She draws him back to her lips soon after, biting his lower one a little too roughly when his hand quickens its pace inside of her—but he likes the way his mouth is throbbing afterwards, and he grabs the back of her head, deepening their kiss, making her moan his name again and again.

But just as he can feel her heart racing against his, and her breaths becoming shallower, she stops his hand—and, to his surprise, bashfully draws it away from her, though her cheeks redden at the effort this takes.

His brow furrows. "Anna? Why did you—"

His blood boils when he feels her hand—her petite, delicate, warm hand—slide down his front until it comes to rest over the bulge in his pants, which pulses under her touch.

But, lucky you, it's—it's just me.

"I just wanted to … return the favour, if you don't mind," she says playfully, and gently pushes him to sit back against the chaise before she clambers down to the carpet, kneeling between his outspread knees, and her eyelashes are batting up at him, a sweet smirk on her pretty lips.

He wants to say well, I won't stop you, of course, or something equally clever, but before he can even manage a reply, she's pulled his trousers down around his legs and tossed them to the side, and she's freed his hard member from the constraints of the formal clothing that had encased it—and then, she's taking him into her mouth, the whole length of him—and he's forgotten how to speak.

"Anna," he groans, and with the way her tongue is curling around him, and how her one hand is cradling his base and the other is caressing the inside of his thigh, he's not sure he'll even be able to think before long.

Her giggle hums against him as her lips move up and down in a rhythmic, intoxicating motion, and he sucks in a sharp breath as she goes faster, and his blood is rushing down, down, down to greet those lips, to make them feel his heat, and he runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, his heart thumping madly in his chest.

Okay, can I just say something crazy?

And as he feels himself on the brink, the edge, of that feeling, her pace hastens, and he throbs in her throat, throwing his head back as his other hand instinctively buries itself in her strawberry hair, to push himself deeper into her—but there's something strange, he thinks, about the way her hair feels—the way it's arranged in a single, long braid down her back.

I love crazy.

A burst of cold runs through him, and he shivers uncontrollably at the sensation, his body freezing in shock.

"Hello, Hans."

His hand drops from her hair, but it's not her anymore—no, it's the cursed Snow Queen, the Witch of the North Mountain, the woman who condemned her kingdom to an eternal winter—and she's rising from the ground with impeccable grace in her dress of blue ice, a wide smirk plastered to her pale features as she smoothly wipes away whatever he's left at the edges of her lips, licking them once she's finished.

She said you froze her heart.

He can't even begin to process what's happening, or why she's there, or where Anna went—but the white-haired queen proceeds as if she didn't just materialise out of thin air, sidling up to him close enough so that her breasts are firm against his arm, and her lips by his ear, tickling it as she speaks.

"Well—I suppose you won't need these anymore," she says with a grin, her icy eyes glittering as she draws his hands to her mouth, and removes the gloves slowly, one after the other, with her teeth.

Your sister is dead because of you.

He stares at her, dumbfounded, all the while, feeling suddenly naked—but after she's discarded them, and her right hand has picked up where her sister's mouth left off, running up and down that sensitive skin with unbearable leisureliness—his jaw tenses in frustration, and he's irritated with himself for how strongly he's reacting to her cold, teasing touch.

"I'm so cold, Hans," she mocks Anna's words with a cruel giggle, nipping at his earlobe, and it's obvious, he thinks, that she's taking immense pleasure in the grunt this solicits from him. "You honestly fell for that?"

I thought you said you loved me, Hans.

Elsa sighs dramatically against his neck, licking the skin there briefly before continuing. "She's so precious, isn't she? Dear, sweet, innocent little Anna … you almost fooled me into thinking that you really did want to save her, this time."

He winces when her hand tightens around his shaft, and he hates himself, loathes himself, when he realises that he's only getting harder in her grasp, and his heart is beating so violently that he wonders if it won't simply stop altogether if she keeps this up.

"Let me guess: you wanted her to tell you that everything's fine, to accept your apologies—to love you?"

You're no match for Elsa.

She snorts at the idea, nibbling at his jawline, her hand pumping the length of him, and he can feel her smiling nastily against his skin.

"You just don't understand, do you—what you are, now?"

Monster … monster!

He scowls suddenly, grabbing her hand on him, a gale of rage coursing through him, through his very veins, because he's had enough—of her, her words, that room, its heat—and he's gripping her arm so hard that his skin turns white.

"You should have died, then," he spits at her, his eyes spiteful. "I shouldn't have hesitated, or felt sorry for you, for even the slightest second."

Her look grows frosty at this remark, and whatever hollow amusement that had been present in her features is now gone, replaced by a vicious wickedness that he keenly feels in the cooler air around them, in the snowflakes that start to gather overhead, in the darkness that engulfs them as she extinguishes the fire in the hearth.

"Yes, Hans—you should've killed me when you had the chance."

You won't get away with this.

She shoves him back on the chaise, and before he can twist himself out of her grasp, she pushes him inside of her as she straddles his hips, rocking against them as the storm around her grows in its fury—and somehow, inexplicably, he's moaning with pleasure through it all, even as she grins again, her nails running down his chest, digging icy trails into his skin, and the snow and wind is whipping and biting at every fibre of his being.

Oh—I already have.

He's close to the edge again, though the feeling is different than before—deeper, more intense, even brutal—and he wants to breathe out her name like he did Anna's, but he can't, and won't, because this is wrong, and undeniably perverse, and he feels ill and aroused and hateful all at once towards the woman whose body he fits into so well.

No, you're no match for Elsa. I, on the other hand, am the hero who is going to save Arendelle from destruction.

Her grin disappears, and his eyes widen, terrified, as her right hand comes to rest on his chest—rests there, and then turns it cold, colder than the room, her fingers, her blue eyes—and as the feeling spreads, he cries out in pain, because she's freezing him, and he's realised it too late.

"You can't run from this, Hans."

A burst of ice pierces through his skin, into his heart, and it splits into a thousand, tiny shards—

He screams, and then he's awake, sweating.

Elsa.

He's breathing, no, panting like a dog—and his eyes dart around in a panic, struggling to see, to focus.

Where am I?

It soon becomes apparent, however—sooner than it had before—because his vision clears quickly, and his brain stops pounding, and when he looks down, he can see the heavy shackles around his wrists, just the same as always.

I couldn't just let them kill you.

The feeling of his stone cot beneath him, and then the smell of the tattered clothes he's dressed in, hit him next—these followed by the itchiness of the ragged, poorly-grown beard on his face, and the dim outline of the bars on the other side of the cell—and he remembers, and understands, where he is … and what he is.

You can't run from this, Hans.

But when he gazes out of the small window of the cell, greeting the night sky, and exhales a shuddering breath—

The air mists up in front of him.

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