Author's Note:

Chapter 29 is live! I hope you all enjoy this read, as we start heading into the war and such. I'm excited- so I hope you all are excited too! If you like this chapter, please remember to leave a review at the end of the chapter! As always, read, enjoy, and review!

Heart you!

Elsa felt the day spin by her at neck-breaking speeds. For the entire day she stayed in the cabin reserved for the generals. Facts, figures, papers, and voices whirled by her. She found herself agreeing to proposals, strategies, and formations without really understanding what they meant or who they were meant for. Whatever the generals wanted, Elsa granted. Through it all, Ingvar stood next to her, shuffling papers, reading reports, translating jargon for her. He was a rock. She hoped she stood as tall.

Dusk drew the day to an end, the last cannons, the last shouts of battle died into the darkness. Soldiers came shuffling into the fort, faces and bodies streaked with mud and blood. Elsa watched them from the door, her eyes wide as they marched by. The professional soldiers gave her small smiles, nodded at her, whispering "long live my queen" as they marched by. The drafted men, the unexperienced, just stared in front of them, the ghosts of their day reflecting in their eyes. Elsa wanted to reach out, she wanted to take their burden away.

Ingvar saw the look too, and whispered to her, "We all get used to it."

"No one should have to," she replied fiercely.

The line of soldiers neared its end when a commotion grabbed Elsa's attention. From the end of the line, a young man leaped from the order, his eyes wild and trained on her.

"Do you know what you've done?" He yelled, "Have you seen the results of your selfishness?"

"Back off," Ingvar growled. He stepped in front of Elsa and pushed against the man. The soldier didn't relent.

"You killed them—all of them! My brother is dead. He died, and you ordered it. You executed him!"

Several of the professional soldiers broke ranks to contain the young man. Elsa stepped back, away from his flailing limbs and rancid breath.

"Take him away, to the blocks!" Ingvar ordered, keeping himself between Elsa and the insubordinate soldier.

As the professional soldiers tightened their grips on his forearms, Elsa stepped around Ingvar. "I'm sorry," she reached out helplessly for the man, "I am so sorry, what was his name? Your brother?"

The crazed expression died, grief taking its place.

"Egil, he was called Egil."

Elsa nodded, tears in her eyes, "I am sorry for Egil's death. I will always be sorry for his death. This is a burden… I do not take this burden lightly, soldier."

The man looked down but after a moment of respite, a manic laughter lifted from him.

"You still don't know. You haven't seen the blood, the field. They won't let you see your handiwork."

"Away," Ingvar growled.

As others tugged the shell-shocked man away from her, Elsa glanced towards the entrance of the fort, the last soldiers straggling in. She looked at Ingvar, his back to her as he spoke harshly with some of the soldiers who helped restrain the one who broke ranks. The moan of the doors got her attention, and they slowly shut. Elsa's curiosity got the better of her, and she stepped towards the gates, pushed through the throng of soldiers, reached for the space she could exit…

What had she ordered? What was the crazy man talking about?

"Your Majesty!" Ingvar called, his head whipping around as he looked for her. She was steps away from the thin gap between the shutting gates when he finally saw her, "Your Majesty, don't!"

Elsa ignored him and slipped through the closing doors, racing for the battlefield her soldiers just left. She heard fists slam on the wood behind her and Ingvar yell, "Open the doors!"

What were they hiding from her?

She ran towards where she could hear the moans of men, the smell of blood and excrement growing stronger, and grass growing slicker with blood…

When Elsa crested the hill in front of their front fort wall, she stopped, her eyes wide to the horror in front of her.

Hundreds of bodies laid mangled in the grass and over the rolling hills. Arrows, swords, spears, and shields crisscrossed around and through the bodies. The stench was overwhelming, the sight in the dusk horrific. Some still moaned, begging for help, or for death. In the distance, orderlies with cots went from body to body, deciding who was worth saving and who to leave for dead.

Her knees collapsed and she sunk into the dirt, blood seeping into her trousers, her eyes never leaving the carnage in front of her. The weight of everything the crazy soldier yelled hit her again.

Did she know what she ordered?

Elsa certainly didn't remember ordering this.

She stayed in the dirt, unmoving, letting the severity of what had taken place that day wash over her. The sound of boots thudding broke her from her trance. Suddenly, she remembered why she shouldn't be out here—the queen, alone in the dark, was the largest possible target. Elsa formed an icicle in her hand and turned to face her attacker, the other hand lit with power.

"Elsa, no."

Ingvar's deep grovel relaxed her and she pulled all the magic back into her hands.

She stared at him, "You scared me."

He crossed his arms and glowered, "You shouldn't be out here."

"Don't patronize me." She turned back to the massacre in front of her, "He was right."

Ingvar sighed and moved to Elsa's side, "This is war—this is what happens."

"How can you be so calculated about it?" She twisted to face him, her eyes lit in rage, "These are people, Ingvar—and they're dead. All of them… I ordered the death of all of these men." She gestured behind them, where the darkness covered most of the destruction. "How can you just stand here, see them as some number? Are they really all just another figure and calculation to make about our chances, us versus them, how we can use humans as weapons…?"

"Don't get on your moral high ground just yet, your Majesty," Ingvar rumbled, "You're a general too. All day, these men were just numbers to you, and you kept throwing them into the thick of the battle, wave after wave of them…"

"I don't know what I'm doing!" She yelled at him, tears and fury in her eyes, "I have… no idea what is happening! You're supposed to help me, you should have told me no!"

"That is not exactly my job."

"Don't you dare," Elsa hissed. Ingvar stepped back, his own eyes hard.

Kjellsson's inferences about Ingvar weren't incorrect. He hadn't seen much battle—just a few skirmishes when he was a green recruit. His rise through the ranks had been exactly how Kjellsson accused—through merit alone. This day shook him to his core just as much as it shook Elsa. Elsa dealt with her feelings with compassion. Ingvar apparently dealt with the emotions of the day with anger. His heart clenched in wrath and fear when he looked past Elsa, into the battleground. He looked down instead and took a breath.

"You're right," he said, stepping away from Elsa, "I should have paid more attention, guided you better. This is… this is my first experience with war on this scale as well."

Elsa relaxed her jaw, nodding her acceptance of his apology before whispering, "We can't afford another day like this."

Ingvar shook his head, trying to remove the rest of the day's frustration before moving up next to Elsa.

"Neither can they."

"Oh come off of it," she shook his approaching hand off her shoulder, "They've got 13 more armies to throw at us." She looked into his eyes, her blue ones suddenly hard and calculating, "We cannot afford for this to happen again, Ingvar. We. Cannot."

He nodded in reluctant agreement.

"Next time it gets this bad, I'm going out."

"Elsa…"

She turned away from the bodies, away from the dead and the dying. She stopped next to him, her voice intense, "Prepare your special forces, General. I will fight."

The day whirled by for Anna as well, her first day in the fort hospital blurred by. Anna watched Elsa raise her ice giants from the doorway of the hospital, surrounded by other nurses, physicians, doctors, and surgeons. The first soldier came in a half hour later. She moved without thinking. Doing exactly what was asked of her, never second-guessing the orders passed along. At one point, she was running fresh towels to an operating cot when she slipped onto her knees in warm, fresh blood. She stayed on all fours, stunned, the red seeping into her skirt and between her fingers.

"Get up," an experienced nurse hoisted her up by the elbow, unfazed by the sight, "Get the towels to surgery." She handed Anna an unsoiled set, "And wash your hands for heaven's sake."

Anna numbed herself to the image, wiped her hands on the cleanest part of her skirt, and moved along.

Unconsciously, (or consciously, now that she was thinking about it), she kept an eye out for her fiancée and her sister, wanting to be the first medical staff to get to them if they ever walked through the door. Fortunately, they never did. At least on that day.

As the day progressed, Anna understood Elsa's warnings about what she would see, what horror she would witness and what the last moments of desperate men would look like.

One soldier in particular, came to the field hospital with one leg ripped completely off from an artillery shot, the other mangled beyond repair. She covered her mouth with her hand to hold back the bile rising from her stomach. Not one doctor, not one surgeon examined him. Anna understood—this man was not going to live.

After composing herself, she walked to his bedside where he withered in discomfort despite the herbs, teas, and finally, alcohol to try and relieve his pain. His tortured eyes locked onto her, and she did everything in her power not to flinch away from him. No one else would comfort him. She would.

"Princess," he rasped, "Princess. Help me."

Her chin quivered, "What can I do?"

He held out a clenched hand to her, and Anna reached towards him. With sudden strength, his bloodstained fingers wrapped around her wrist. Anna jerked back, but he held tight.

"Fiancée," he gasped, his eyes bulging in effort, "In the city. Tell her… love." He pressed something into her palm.

"What's her name?" Anna asked, shaking, "Where in the capitol?"

"Maja," he wheezed, his eyes glazing over, "is loved."

The fight left his being, and Anna retched back as the man died. Tears flowed down her stained cheeks. She opened her clamped hand. In her palm was a simple ring on a chain, made of silver and speckled with green gem chips. An engagement ring.

Anna stretched out her left hand and stared at the ring Kristoff offered to her when he proposed. They were strikingly similar—the only difference the color of the gem chips. And the one in her hand was stained in blood.

"Maja," she whispered to herself, pulling the necklace over her head and letting the ring thud against her chest. She tucked it into the collar of her dress, hidden. "Maja is loved."