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He names her Embla. Her eyes are the deep green of the queen of the South, and her hair the pale softness of his own Queen, cold and unforgiven. She grows merry, quick to laugh, slow to anger, and curious about the world outside their tiny, frozen hut.
“What does spring look like?”
“First there are crocuses. They’re the heralds of spring, bright and colourful and burstin’ of the snow. Then there’s daffodils, flowers that look like trumpets o’ sunshine, and with ‘em comes the birds back from the South. The snow melts, the grass awakes, and the sunlight reaches every part of Arendelle.”
“What does autumn look like?”
“Flowers turn to fruit and we harvest them. Trees dress themselves in fire-colours, then lose their leaves completely. Warmth turns to rain turns to ice. The birds flee the cold, the animals sleep the long sleep, and we build up our stores for the coming winter.”
“Tell me about flowers, please.”
She never asks of summer or winter. Perhaps the souls within her have seen enough. Kristoff does not know. He sticks to true things. His wife is dead. But for his reindeer, he has sought solitude for many years.
And on the wind, something smells of fire and change.
- - -
Embla is fourteen when she starts to smell it too.
“Father, what is that smell?”
Kristo does not freeze, does not have the energy to freeze, but he does pause.
“Well, little elm, what does it smell of?”
She frowns, and to Kristoff’s exasperation, she climbs a nearby tree, it’s trunk glistening with frost. Her hair will be dusted with frost, and the sight will make his heart twist in his chest, nevermind that she is seven years too young, and her hair is short like a boys.
At the top of the tree, she sniffs deeply. She smells ash, as if someone is burning wet wood: she sees no smoke; she smells steam, or possibly fog: the day is clear and crisp; she smells something that, after living in the mountains all her life, she cannot describe: dampness, the turning of earth, and rain. Embla thinks it is what spring should smell of; Kristoff is experienced enough to know otherwise.
“I smell spring!” she calls joyfully as she half-climbs, half-falls to the snowy ground.
“Ah, little elm,” her guardian sighs, “Change is comin’.”
“Change?” she sounds much younger than fourteen.
“Aye. I think it’ll consume us all, dear one.”
Kristoff says no more, simply trudges through the snow, while Embla walks behind him, some old, dark part of her thinking that being consumed doesn’t sound all that bad.
- - -
The next day, Kristoff offers - for the first time - to take her down to Arendelle proper with him when he sells his ice.
“You-you mean it?” her face is alight with joy, near-radiant with it, and for one moment, Kristoff thinks he may have gotten away with it, but then her face snaps out of the radiance. There was something of the Southern Queen in her joy, but the suspicion on her face is all the Unforgiven Queen, “Why?” the tone is familiar, and his heart aches to hear it.
“I told you, little elm, change is comin’. You got two choices with change: run from it, or go to meet it. I’m an old man, Embla,” he smiles at her. He is older than he should be, by any metric, and he suspects the souls within Embla of having something to do with it, “I am far too old to be runnin’ from change.”
The expression on her face changes. It is no longer either queen now: it is purely and simply Embla, and she is afraid.
“But...but you’re not that old, are you Papa? You...you’re...you’re not old-old?”
The question is all youth and fear and confirms his worst suspicions.
“No,” he sighs, and hugs the young girl tight. He can’t hate her, despite what he may know.
- - -
It had been a dark evening, when he brought her back as a babe to the trolls, who had pronounced her ‘healthy’ ‘cute’ and ‘just the sweetie-weetie widdlest fing!’.
But Grand Pabbie had taken one look at her, looked at Kristoff and sighed, deep in his chest.
“She has two souls, Kristoff,” he said, “This will not end well. And the two souls have great power within them. She will be tempted to use that power in bad ways - ways that may be beneficial to you, but you will regret.”
Kristoff knew Pabbie well enough to read between the lines.
“Thank you,” he said.
- - -
Kristoff turns 104 this year. Most people died at about 45 around here, and Kristoff doesn’t think it’s healthy living that keeps him alive.
“Well, girl,” he says with a smile like summer warmth, “You’d best be gettin’ ready for the morn. I’ll get the ice ready on the sled.”
At the reminder that they will be in the city, Embla’s smile returns, and it is bright and cheerful as embers in the fire.
- - -
The next day dawns, clear and crisp, and with change on the wind. Smoke rises from the valley in which Arendelle sits. Sven, with joints like oak and fur dappled with snow-white fur, carries a sled bearing blocks of ice on which Embla climbs like a monkey, checking the knots, fastening and re-fastening, before joining Kristoff back at the seats, then, anxious, dashing back to re-check the ice. Kristoff chuckles, deep in his throat, and shares a glance of amusement with his reindeer.
They’re a mile, maybe two away from Arendelle, when Kristoff notices the boats in the harbour. Not merchant ships - he spent many hours with the El - with the Queen - learning the different types of ships. These are not merchant ships. And even if they were, there are too many of them.
There is an armada in his port.
Fear clutches at his heart.
“Embla,” he says, and his voice comes out strangled and fearful, “Embla, get on Sven and leave. Now.”
“What?” she asks, standing up on the highest slab.
She looks towards the port, and a flash of emotions crosses her face.
Fear. Pride. Anger. Terrible, terrible anger crosses her face, and for a moment, a bright, flash of a moment, Kristoff is afraid of his daughter.
“What is happening?” she asks, and her tone is dreamy, though her eyes and face are furious, “Why are there ships here?”
(An odd question, Kristoff would later think, because, he mused, it wasn’t as if he had ever shown her a picture of a ship, or she had ever asked after one.)
“Little elm,” he says, desperate now, “I told you to leave.”
“We have to sell the ice!” she says.
It is a weak excuse, but his muscles move without him thinking, because the voice that came out was not the voice of a fourteen-year old girl.
It was the voice of a queen.
- - -
Arendelle is a city about to explode.
It is the first thought that springs into Kristoff’s mind as he, Sven and Embla hesitantly walk through the streets.
Some of the houses are already afire. Some of the citizens fight back, furious. Some lay in the street, dying. Some are already spoils of war (he covers Embla’s eyes, though she does not react, and he is unsurprised at her lack of emotions).
They come across a young boy with no legs and a Coronian uniform. He looks about sixteen, and is bleeding out from his wounds.
Kristoff shakes his head.
“He’ll die,” he sighs, “ye should have stayed home, young lad. It’s a shame, for one so young to die so far from...Embla?”
For Embla is moving forward, as if in a dream. She tears off shreds of the Coronian uniform, binds tourniquets, and stares into the Coronians eyes.
There is a movement of air, and it smells like autumn.
It is difficult to tell, but the bleeding stops, and the boy passes out.
Kristoff is at once suspicious, but says nothing. Simply makes a makeshift saddle on Sven for the boy, and allows him to ride, as they try to find a place for shelter and food.
- - -
Night has fallen, and the boy wakes up.
“Why are the Coronians attacking?” Kristoff asks, with no preamble. They are in a basement, and the only food they found were a few apples that were not touched by rot.
The boy eats his share gratefully, and Kristoff realizes that he barely fills out the uniform. It pains him to see one so young, and so thin, and so...young.
“Our king died recently. His heir is one of the Southern Isles. They decided to make Arendelle a vassal state, since our king had a broken-off engagement with the sister here.”
“You mean your king was - - !” Kristoff swallows his anger, the memories, the fury. They are all dead now. All of them. Gone up in flames, like leaves in the wind. Forever.
“Father?” asks Embla quietly.
“I...nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Legally, Arendelle comes under the rule of the Coronian royal house anyway if there is no member of the Arendellian royal house to rule, but when they heard that it was to be a member of the Southern Isles taking over and not the Coronians, they rebelled,” explained the young soldier through a mouthful of apple, “They did not want to be ruled by attempted kingslayers, they said.”
“And so the war began,” spat Kristoff, “We leave in the morning, Embla.”
“But what about him?” she asked, wide-eyed.
Kristoff snorted. He feels badly for the boy, but he has no time for war-makers.
“My men think I’m dead, most likely,” says the boy, “You can leave me here to wait out the conflict.”
Stupid boy, Kristoff thinks, not realizing that wars like this can take years.
Kristoff glares at Sven, because he knows he’s made a decision and he knows he’s going to regret it.
“He can come with us,” he grumbles, and Embla cheers.
“What’s your name?” she asks, happy and gleeful.
“Florian,” he says, “And yours?” spotting Kristoff’s glare he adds, “Uh, my lady?”
“I’m Embla.”
“Ember?”
“No, Embla.”
“Emma?”
“Emb-la.”
Kristoff rolls his eyes and tries to find a soft place to sleep.
- - -
The next day, Kristoff, Embla and Florian all sneak out of the basement. The first thing they decide to do is try to sneak some more food, but in daylight this is difficult - yesterday, they waited until twilight. Today, troops roam the city.
Florian finds more apples - only a fractions of them are rotten, and uses what is left of his cape to form a makeshift bag and carry them.
Sven sniffs out carrots, though Florian has to hold him back from eating most of them. He manages to steal three before they nick some more, before finding the bottom of the barrel is soaked in blood. The three humans lose their appetite, and Embla loses her breakfast.
Embla finds a cart of cherries, and, to her disgust, most of them are half-chewed cherry pips. Still, she fishes out the edible ones to the best of her ability, and washes them with ice.
The sun is starting to drop and Kristoff thinks he spots a barrell of oranges. A memory of Anna starts up - eating oranges with Anna, and her orange scented hands, and he walks forward without paying attention to his surroundings.
Distantly, he hears Embla scream his name, Florion let out a warning shout, but he cannot hear them. Anna is kissing his lips. His world is filled with the scent of orange.
An arrow strikes him in the chest, and warm blood spills down his chest and soaks his shirt.
“Oh, Kristoff,” Anna whispers to him, as her tongue catches the drops of orange juice on his lips.
Another taste of orange, and he will be with her.
A second arrow catches him in the stomach, and he keeps walking, though his vision of the barrel gets blurry.
His vision of that summer day is just as clear and vibrant though.
“Never leave me,” he whispers to her without thinking, and she smiles, that bright smile he lives for, and he can feel her hands on his cheeks, and her hips on his hands, and his world is filled with the taste of orange and the emerald of her eyes.
And then nothing.
- - -
There are three tales of what happened afterwards.
- - -
The Coronites say that afterwards, the little girl Ember came forward, screaming for her father, who the Arendellians had struck down unfairly. Florian, the brave soldier, came with her, and managed to pull her back onto the reindeer, before they were both killed. Their hands were both vermillion with blood.
They rode through the town, weeping for the loss of the father, and Ember swearing revenge. Florian assured her she could have it, and they joined the Coronites, where an old woman took them in, and gave them uniforms, and training, and promised them vengeance.
The fight against the Arendellians was long and hard, and went for many years, but Ember led the troops to victory, and as a sign of respect, the Coronites changed their sigil from the ever-glowing sun to the ever-burning fire.
- - -
The Arendellians say that afterwards, the fierce leader Emma came forward, screaming for her father, who the Coronites had struck down in a display of cowardice. Felix, the untrustworthy soldier, came behind, and tried to lead her to safety, but she refused to leave her father’s side, and so they dragged the body to safety. Their hands were both vermillion with blood.
They were both weeping for the loss of the father, and Emma was swearing revenge, when an old woman appeared, and told Emma she could have her revenge. Emma joined the Arendellians, but Felix was not to be trusted, and he fled back to the Coronites.
The fight against the Coronites was long and hard, and went for many years, but Emma eventually gained a peaceful surrender, and managed to attain a situation where the Arendellians were a vassal state with enough independence that they did not have to bow to the Southern Isles. As a sign of respect, she planted a cherry tree where her father died, and the Arendellians changed their sigil from the the ever-frozen snowflake to the ever-blooming tree.
- - -
There is a third tale.
This is a tale the trolls will tell, if you have the patience to listen.
This is the tale the ice-carvers will tell, if you can get them to speak.
It is the tale whispered by the fire, whispered by the blossoms of the tree.
Is it the truth? Who knows?
Everything is the truth, and nothing is the truth.
- - -
Embla screamed for her father. Florian was struck dumb by his senseless death. The two froze for a moment as he fell, before rushing forward.
“No, papa...no! NO!” she called out, tears rushing down her face. Florian stared at the arrows in his body. One bore the golden fletching of the Coronians; the other, the red fletching of the Arendellians.
“I hate this war...I hate it!” he spat. “I don’t want to fight anymore, Embla!” he said, and he felt the sobs growing, “Both sides thinking they’re right...I don’t like this. I just wish I could turn time back!”
Embla stood at his words. Both of their hands were vermillion. She stood, and in her hand was a single cherry pip. She had been eating a cherry when her father died. It contained all her love, all her worry, all her anger.
“I’m going to turn this war into something beautiful,” she said.
She turned around and walked slowly to the town square.
And Florian watched.
Arrows flew at her, and as they approached her, they burned up, like branches in an autumn fire, and collapsed to ash.
In the cobblestones of the pavement she walked, grass sprouted, grew ice, turned to dew, died.
Until she reached the town square, where a giant snowlflake was made out in pavestones.
She sank her fingers into the ruined paving stones, into the earth, and planted the cherry pip, and whispered the first words that came to mind:
Two steps forward, one step back,
Spring forward, fall back,
Grow my little seed, grow, grow,
Show the world the beauty you know.
And it seems like time simultaneously slowed down and sped up.
The tree grew faster, and faster, and faster than it had any right to. It grew until it was full-grown tree, big enough that it’s branches could be seen even by those still on the warships in the armada.
And half of it’s branches were in spring bloom, and half were in fall colours.
When it was done growing, everybody stared in awe.
Embla collapsed.
And a reindeer, moving as if it were made of oak, speckled in frost colours, with a thin boy with no legs riding it, came towards her. The boy, holding onto the reindeer’s horns for balance, leaned down and scooped her up.
“All right, Sven,” Florian said, “Let’s go home.”
And the three were never seen again.