Apologies Sent and Unsent

She had hidden the letters away for a long time, both Anna's and her own written, undelivered ones. The letters of apology, explanation, how much she loved Anna, still all lay alongside the many slid under her door over the years. Every letter she had kept, even the ones that asked "why?" The painful ones beseeching Elsa's forgiveness, asking what had she done so wrong as to not deserve being forgiven. Every letter, the bad and the good, were folded into neat little rectangles or squares, each side lined up with meticulous care. Elsa had written so many letters for Anna, but had not sent a single one.

Tonight, Elsa sat on the edge of her bed, reading each letter, beginning with the earliest one, only days after that accident. Anna would have been just five years old then. Elsa studied the square of paper in her hand, reading over the scrawled words. Anna's writing titled and skewed over the snow white surface, the ink already beginning to fade.

I'm sorry, Elsa. Love, Anna.

Elsa bit her lip as she re-read the five words. She remembered the day that had been slid under her door very well. It had been a quiet morning, with Elsa leaning over her desk, her tongue protruding a little with her concentration, as she tried to sketch a drawing of a flower she had seen in one of her books. Deep in her drawing, the little girl had never noticed the letter until she laid down her pencil, massaging the cramp from her writing hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she had spotted the little square of paper by her door. Curious, little eight year old Elsa got up from her chair and scooted over to pick up what she had thought was a scrap bit of paper blown on to the floor by a wayward breeze. Black ink wandered across the page, clearly written by a child. Elsa remembered that she had hugged the letter to her heart with her hands, a thin veneer of ice coating the paper.

In the present, Elsa now sifted through more letters, frequent, many with the recognizable scrawl of a young child's hand. Deep creases and fine wrinkles of being oft handled told that these letters had been unfolded, read, and folded again. Many letters had the tell-tale signs of water damage—whether from the manifestation of her ice, tears, or both. The letters from Anna's first few years since their separation bore many little drawings, snippets of stories she had come up with herself, and many attempts to get an answer from Elsa about why she ignored her. But optimism, even Anna's, had a brother opposite: pessimism. Even Anna, bright and vibrant as she was even in childhood, found herself prone to being pessimistic.

I like writing my letters, a seven-year-old Anna wrote, but sometimes I think you don't read them.

Elsa had read every single one of Anna's letters at least once, even those written by a low-spirited Anna. It was when those low spirits struck her little sister, then Elsa had composed a letter for her. Apologies and explanations never sent, never opened by their recipient. Once finished, they never passed into Anna's hands, instead slipping into a hidden drawer in Elsa's room. Not even her parents knew where she kept these letters. It wouldn't be until many years later that Elsa would then place them in the same box as she kept Anna's letters and little drawings.

Anna's alphabet became tidier with less sprawling across the page. Her name became tidier, a little flourish developing on the tail of the little "a". Sentences grew in length, grammar and thoughts deepening in complexities and nuances. There were attempts at wordplay, silly puns, and unique metaphors. Her letters shrank in size, until Anna had settled on a small font size that left her happy.

I know it is important for princesses to sign well—of course not as important as it is for a future queen, ten-year-old Anna had scribed, but I will try anyway. Here's what I think mine should look like. It's not as neat as yours would be, I think.

Underneath danced at least five or six experiments with her signature. One danced right across the page's width, while another folded in on itself, trying to huddle into as little space as possible. Some had little flicks on key endings of the letters in her name, but all kept the little flourish on the second "a" of "Anna". A bold circle locked in Anna's favourite signature with a little note underneath: I think I'll use this one. It's the prettiest and the most appealing if I need to sign my name.

Elsa smiled at this letter with Anna's charming little attempts at inking in experiments with signing her name. No doubt, she had watched their own parents sign their names for various treaties, trade deals, overseas officials, and other appointments conducted behind closed doors and inside sealed envelopes. No doubt, Anna had desired to create her own, and this was how she did it. Practicing on letters written to Elsa. Even shut away from Elsa, Anna still wanted to share how her signature looked with her big sister.

As all people do, Anna grew older, her letters evolving with her age. While the letters of before had been generally brief with their longest length no longer than a couple pages, the writings of adolescent Anna occasionally went on for ages. A lot of rambling, Elsa recalled, but anything from her dear little sister was special. The first time Elsa realized her sister was no longer a child, but becoming a woman, was in a letter detailing all the fictional characters and real life people whom she'd developed little crushes on.

You probably don't want to hear about it though, fourteen-year-old Anna wrote, It's all nonsense anyway. I can't marry a fictional character, can I?

A sharp ache radiated from her heart, knowing she would never get to see Anna blossom from the tiny, adorable munchkin with her rosy cheeks, to a bubbly, bright young woman. Even if she could see Anna again, she would now be a teenager. Not a child anymore, but not quite a woman either. She should have been out there falling in love, seeing and experiencing the world outside the closed gates, and have a sister by her side.

Elsa had written one of her longest letters of apology on Anna's thirteenth and fourteenth birthdays. It was Anna, not her, who deserved everything the world could have offered her—the potential of a swashbuckling, handsome prince, the limitless ring of four horizons leading off somewhere adventurous, and a castle whose doors let anyone in or out. If Elsa had to stay in the castle, forced to remain cloistered in her room while Anna enjoyed the world outside the gates, then she wouldn't have minded. Anna deserved everything the world could offer.

If there is anything you want to tell me, a still fourteen-year-old Anna wrote, especially of why you are always shut in your room, you can. I won't turn away from you, because you are my sister, and though I don't know why you shut me out, I still care. I'm no longer a little child anymore, so I like to think I'd understand whatever is making you stay away. I will be there for you. Really.

Then came the three years after their parents' demise, a trio of years that passed as an intermission between tragedy and coronation. Elsa had not looked forward to Coronation Day, but she knew Anna did. After all, it had been a chance for Anna to finally see the world outside the gates. Elsa had wanted to delay the gates' opening, allowing entrance of her guests from Arendelle and neighbouring nations. She had pondered that day on finally telling Anna why she had hid away all these years, unspeaking, unresponsive. She did—but not in the way she had expected or ever wished to.

I'm sorry, Anna.

These were the three words of eight-year-old Elsa's first apology to Anna. Just a trio of words carefully inked onto paper before being tucked away in a drawer. She hadn't been ready yet to tell Anna, telling herself that she would do it another day. Even at that age, a year seemed a very long time, and even more so when shut away in the isolation of her ice-encrusted room.

I wish I could tell you everything, Anna, I really do. If I could tell you what happened to shut myself away, I would. I want to know that you would understand, but I am scared. Scared that you will react badly, with fear rather than love.

Such were the fear-filled words of an Elsa who had just turned thirteen. Her magic had begun to spiral out of her control, radiating frost and ice around her room if her moods swung one way or another. As Elsa fought her way through the difficulties of adolescence, her ice powers strengthened with alarming rapidity.

I have ice powers, Anna, and I don't want you to be hurt, a fourteen-year-old Elsa explained in another unsent letter, I hurt you a long time ago, once. You wouldn't remember because the trolls took your memories. I am not sure if you would forgive me so easily if you knew what really happened.

The last letter of apology from Elsa to Anna, still unsent, still unread by its recipient, was right before Coronation Day. Elsa had wanted to tell Anna everything then, but still she had remained scared, and even more so on this day. She remembered almost falling asleep when penning this final apology, but had stayed up for hours, desperately eking words out of her languid, anxious thoughts.

"Elsa?"

Elsa started, her hands jerking at the page she held in her lap. A tiny rip appeared on the page, but not enough to tear it in two. A shadow fell over the floor, illuminated by the guttering light of a lantern running low. Looking up, Elsa saw Anna, for once with her hair out and not in two plaits, standing framed in the doorway.

"Oh sorry, did you knock?" Elsa asked.

"I just noticed that your door was open," Anna explained, "And saw you reading…are they letters?"

Elsa nodded mutely, faintly aware that ice had begun radiating from under her feet. Anna stepped one foot forward in a hesitant manner, still unsure if Elsa would let her in.

"Is it okay if I come in?"

Elsa put the letter down beside her, placing tense hands over one of her knees. She took a deep breath before gazing back up at Anna.

"Of course you can," Elsa said, "I was reading letters from…from you."

Anna stopped mid-step, staring at Elsa. "From me?"

"When I…you know."

"Shut me out."

Elsa winced at the bluntness of Anna's words, but there was no denying that she was right. Elsa had shut Anna out, and perhaps for too long. At eighteen, Anna was most certainly a young woman, and no longer a little child.

Sifting through the pile of letters again, Elsa found Anna's earliest letter, which was an apology. Anna had never deserved to be shut out, and especially so as a child who craved—and still did—company. Clearing out space for Anna, Elsa patted the seat next to her.

"Come sit down, Anna," Elsa invited, "I think a long apology is overdue."

Anna seated herself next to Elsa, her eyes fixated on the pile of apologies sent and unsent.

"You…you kept everything?" Anna asked, incredulous.

"Every one of them," Elsa confirmed, "Because I still thought about you every day, Anna, especially when you knocked on my door asking to build a snowman."

"That's right," Anna recalled, "And…you did? I mean you thought about me?"

Elsa allowed a small smile. "Of course I did. I still loved you Anna, even though I had to hide my powers from you. And here," she gestured to the pile of letters, "there will be apologies from the past. But if you're not ready to talk about it…"

"I am—I mean, I am ready to talk about it."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh definitely," Anna said, "But wouldn't it be too upsetting for you?"

Elsa breathed deep through her nose, wanting to say that it would not upset her at all. But it would and it did. It hurt for thirteen years, and even now there was still some hurt in both sisters' souls. Seeing Elsa's downcast eyes and her hunched shoulders, Anna put her own hand on her older sister's shoulder.

"It's okay, Elsa. You know why? Because I will be right here."

The muscles in Elsa's tense shoulders relaxed, her head lifting up to look at Anna. Reaching up one hand, she squeezed Anna's gently. Taking a deep breath, steeling her resolve, Elsa spoke two words with as much confidence as she could muster.

"Let's begin."