Her first gloves were made from cotton. They were simple, dainty things, designed to be worn long and often. The only problem was the gloves constantly made her hands sweaty, and in the middle of the night she would tear them off in her sleep.
Her next set of gloves were made out of the finest silk, imported from China. They were so soft, so smooth, Elsa often ran her hands over her face, enjoying the sensation against her skin. Anna had been given a pair of her own too, and ended up destroying them when she tried to climb a tree with them on and tore them to shreds.
By the time Elsa turned fifteen, she owned fifty-three different pairs of gloves. Gloves that were a solid color. Gloves that reached up to her elbow. Gloves encrusted with jewels. Riding gloves. Working gloves. Fencing gloves. Gloves with small patches of leather on the fingertips to allow her to read easily. Gloves that reduced static electricity during the summer days.
She also owned a pair of gloves Anna had knitted for her. They didn't fit, one of them had six fingers, and a portion of it had begun to unravel. Elsa never threw them out, keeping them inside a locked music box.
Now Elsa was twenty-three and she owned seventy-six pairs of gloves. Some of them were of practical use, some of them were gifts.
Elsa stared at them. A whole drawer dedicated to gloves. Gloves she didn't need anymore. She should throw them out. She should donate them.
She picked up a random pair from the pile. They were one of her Spring gloves, designed to be light and thin and breathable. She had worn these earlier this year when she visited her parents' graves, on the anniversary of their marriage.
The urge to slip them on was suddenly so strong, Elsa dropped them in surprise and backed away from the drawer.
She rubbed a hand over her eyes. The lack of silk against her face made her frown, and as she pulled her hands away, she realized how naked she felt. How do you break out of a fifteen year habit?
She never wore rings. She never wore bracelets. She could now, of course, but the mere thought of it had her cringing. What was she going to do when she took a husband? He was not going to be happy if she refused to wear her wedding ring.
Her hands ached for her gloves.
She understood the symbolism behind her gloves. She knew what they represented to her, to her parents, to Anna. This was going to take time. She didn't need to change everything about herself overnight.
Elsa quietly slipped on her favorite silk gloves, reveling in the feel against her skin. She sighed contently.