bornoficeandsnow:

               Marshmallow guarded the doors, and it seemed to be solely intent in its current purpose to its queen. When it realised the damage its hands have wrought, its features contorted to what may have been a painful expression. It makes new crystals from its body, sets to work on the broken bridge, if such a thing was even possible without the Snow Queen’s magic. It moved about like a small child who had broken a vase and is trying to cover up the act.

               It wasn’t succeeding.

               Inside the library, Elsa has mustered enough courage to at least move from her spot when the sounds of shattering crystals came to a stop. She stumbled once, twice, and at this behaviour she chided herself: “You are a Queen, Elsa. Queens do not cower.” Elsa steeled her bones by erecting to her usual posture, and folded her hands in front of her. Her elbows bend, refusing this new position, but Elsa held the impulse down. She clasped her hands together in a grip that rivals the strength of iron. Reluctantly, she inched forward to the only exit of the room. And as she walked, she felt the blood on her cheek turn cold. A hand made up to wipe it away, but only went so far as smearing it across the pallor of her skin.

               She brought her hand down and saw blood – her blood – taint it, and at some sort of desperation, tries to wipe it away with the clean one. It only spread, but Elsa kept at it; rubbing her palms together, creating friction. Eventually the red faded into the print of her palm, and it left both of her hands in a crimson hue. Her meticulousness over the mess had served rather a good distraction, and she looked up and felt her stomach churn bile no longer. Whoever he was, he was gone now. It was safe again. The thought picked at the corners of her mouth into an almost-smile.

“That thingdidn’t create this, did it?”

               Just like that, fear returned like an itch at won’t go away, and her arms flew to her stomach, almost mechanically. Elsa chewed the inside of her cheek. Her arms wrapped themselves tighter around her torso, and with a heavy sigh, Elsa pushed herself forward on her feet. He had passed the defences, so Elsa knew it was foolish to drop her guard. Hands clenched into fists at the crook of her elbows. Determination to stand her ground, to rebel at being taken, to fight for her freedom chased the fear away as would a rabid dog run after its prey.

               She will meet him, and she will not be taken.

               He will know her fury.

               He will know why storms are named after women.

               The Snow Queen let her arms fall to her side – fists clenched – and before a step was set in the Great Hall, which had lost its splendour on account of the broken shards that lay within, she spoke out, and let the walls carry her voice. “No, that thing did not.” The tone carried a graceful nonchalance, but to those better than fools knew it was a warning, for whosoever owned this voice was capable of great powers both good and bad.

               Elsa stepped out with her chin jutted high. If it not for the red on her cheek, which has clotted and dried, her presence alone was already something to deal with. “I did.” It rang in the air, and echoed in the ruins of her palace. It hung in the silence after it had long faded in the air.

As soon as Jack heard the voice answer his calling, a slight shiver went up the winter spirit’s spine. Despite it not coming from a monster or a giant like the one that had guarded the entrance, it sounded authoritative and intimidating nonetheless.

He turned to see a woman in a regal-looking gown, with hair almost as white as his’, only that hers seemed browner and darker. If she had been wearing a crown or tiara, Jack would have assumed that she was a queen, judging from the way she stood and carried herself, to how she had responded to the winter spirit’s remarks.

But now that Jack thought about her answer, how was she able to create something so big, so monstrous? Did she have powers like him? Was she a spirit (or maybe even a Guardian) too? So many questions flooded his mind, he didn’t know how or where to start.

That was when the stammering began.

"I…” he began, still confused. “You what?”

A frown grew imminent on his face, but this time, it was not because he was still confused or bewildered as to how she was capable of such creation. He was upset because she had been there all along, ignoring his cries for help.

“You mean to say you let that monster take me and almost crush me to death?” He wanted to sound as accusatory as he could. The destroyed bridged was his fault, of course, and he needed to pay back somehow, but he didn’t think it was that big a fault for him to almost pay with his life.

“Look, it’s not like I wanted to destroy your bridge,” he explained, the accusatory tone in his voice gone; it was now more inclined to irritability.   "But hey, thanks for almost killing me.“ His voice grew firmer as frost began to form, meshing with the bits of ice on his feet. Unknown to him, his emotions were directly related to his winter abilities; the more he lost control of the former, the more he lost control of the latter.

He stepped to one side, avoiding the ice on the floor so as not to injure himself. He was barefoot, after all.