QUICK NOTES:

Hi. This is my second bit of multi-chapter fiction.

As I've mentioned elsewhere, everything I've written since my first story ("A Summer's Tale") pretty much follows in the same universe. This piece should make decent sense without having to read that one, though I may reference some non-canon events every now and then. No problem. You'll be able to orient yourself just fine.

Nothing about Arendelle, or its peeps, is mine.

Chapter 1

It started in the village—or, perhaps more accurately, in the port district of Arendelle. There was no way of knowing precisely which vessel had been the carrier, of course. In later years, learned men and women would be able to both trace the route of the pathogen and uncover the means by which it was able to infect so many, so quickly. But at this time, during the early reign of Her Majesty Queen Elsa, it was still very much a mystery.

Part of the problem had to do with the actual streets of Arendelle because, though they were tidy and picturesque, they were also situated quite narrowly. The people did not mind; they were a frank and familiar sort. Nevertheless, their homes—with their freshly painted doors and their bright window boxes—crowded up against each other in a way that was cozy but that would also prove to exacerbate the problem when it arrived. And arrive it did, in the tail end of autumn, when the last of the leaves released their tenuous hold and fluttered lightly to the ground.

On such a day as this, the princess of Arendelle liked to walk along the margins of her city and gaze up into the wilderness beyond its borders. Though the castle gates had been opened to the world, at last—and though she was surrounded by the love of her sister and of the many people she had met in the months following the incident with Hans—she felt the absence of her first and dearest friend like an aching tenderness in her heart. For this reason, she had fallen into the habit of watching every day for his return along the forest road.

"Do you have to go?" she'd complained to him. This had been back on that first midsummer—just after the thaw—when he'd been eager to ride up the mountain pass to salvage what was left of the harvest.

"Yes, Anna," he'd said for the umpteenth time. "I've already lost half the season."

The princess had watched him sullenly, then, and considered sabotaging his efforts by stealing his reindeer in the night. She'd been fairly certain the animal would play along.

"Never mind that," she'd insisted. "Better luck next year, right?" She'd shrugged and smiled and given him a teasing little shove on the shoulder, but he'd simply looked at her with his usual expression of fond annoyance.

"I have to make a living," he'd said.

Not anymore, she'd thought to herself—and then immediately flushed crimson at the idea. What?

Outside the ice trade, though, the kingdom was thriving. Its isolation had ended with that of the royal family, and newly formed alliances with its more southerly and easterly neighbors made for a great deal more bustle and excitement along the city streets. This excitement, in turn, led to change—and Anna, of all people, was ready for change.

To a certain degree, the queen's council had foreseen that an increased volume of people would lead to an increase in conflict within the walls of the city. To that end, the council had added to the constabulary and found, to their delight, that peace was relatively well maintained.

No one had anticipated, however, that this new policy of openness would leave Arendelle vulnerable to dangers of an entirely different sort.

The princess first became aware of such dangers on one of her late evening walks along the wildwood fringe. As usual, she was accompanied by a walking, talking snowman with a penchant for hugs.

"It won't be long now," he observed eagerly, sniffing the air with his bright carrot nose.

Anna nudged her toe under a loose pile of foliage. The trees themselves were gilded beautifully in the waning light of day, and their fallen leaves made a pleasant rustling sound as she brushed them with her feet. In the last week, she'd been able to feel the air changing around her. The first chill of fall had already blown down from the mountains; it was only a matter of time. The villagers lamented this, as well as the shorter days and the encroaching darkness of winter, but Anna felt a thrill with the arrival of the cold—because the cold meant the turning of the season, and the turning of the season meant Kristoff.

"All this time, I was dreaming of summer," mused the creature at her side. "And I had no idea how beautiful fall could be." He looked up at her rapturously.

"It is, isn't it?" sighed Anna, but she was only half listening. Ahead of them, lights began to twinkle in the village. "Come on, Olaf."

It was getting late, and Kai didn't like the princess wandering alone at this hour. Not that she was alone—she had Olaf with her, after all. And not that she was wandering, either. She knew exactly where she was, where she had been, and where she was going. Hers was a deliberate stroll, one that she tended to do every evening before dusk, when the light was low and full of depth and the trees cast long shadows and the water lay flat in the harbor and the air was soft ...

Well, until today. Today, the air held its first bite of winter.

The villagers were readying themselves for the season. She saw men stacking firewood and women airing out those heavier woolens that had been stored away for the summer. They were busily repairing any weaknesses in the infrastructure of the city, weatherproofing their homes and stalls in the best way they knew how—which was right and familiar, and they went about it with practical good cheer, as they had done for generations.

Anna greeted them as she passed, stopping now and then to converse with one of the many villagers she'd come to know well.

"We're prepared, Your Highness," remarked one such villager, a seamstress whose small house contained seven children, a dog, and a husband. "And at the very least, we have each other to keep warm."

She laughed heartily at that. Anna smiled.

"I'm glad to hear it," she replied. "Is there anything you need, Freya? Anything for the children?"

The woman shook her head and suddenly grew sober.

"No, ma'am. Not I." She hesitated. "But perhaps you might see to poor Mister Hjorth along the way, there." Freya nodded down the street.

"What is it?"

"Aches in the joints, Your Highness. Fatigue ..." The woman's eyes were sad. "He's got the fever, Princess, and I suppose there's naught to do but make him comfortable and see to the needs of his family."

Anna followed her gaze. "How many?" she asked quietly.

"Three bairns, ma'am."

They fell silent. Anna closed her eyes to the wretchedness of these tidings. Those poor children. That poor man …

"Thank you, Freya," she said at last. She smoothed her skirts and bade the seamstress good night. "I'll call on the family now, before I head back to the castle—"

"Oh, no Princess!" cried the other. "You mustn't!"

"But—"

"Send the queen's creature," Freya interrupted, gesturing urgently toward Olaf. The snowman tilted his head and regarded her quizzically. "I beg your pardon, sir," she continued. "But we can't let Princess Anna endanger herself, however well she means."

Olaf nodded. This made sense—it's not like he was capable of contracting the ailment, himself. His body was made of packed snow.

Anna reluctantly agreed. "Please, Olaf," she said, kneeling before him to emphasize the seriousness of the Hjorth family's plight. "We need to help them …"

The snowman smiled.

"We will," he said kindly, grasping her hand with his own, crude fingers. Then he dropped down from the stoop and toddled off into the gloom.

I will spell correctly for you. And I will punctuate plurals and possessives properly, too. As for the rest, what can I say? I have a weakness for fragments and conjunctions. And contemplative run-ons. And ellipses. I really like ellipses.

…