Note: Another short piece I originally posted on Tumblr.

Their secret did not die with the two of them.

When Elsa died, her body was borne upon a bier through the town square, her frail arms folded with dignity, her silver hair neatly combed in a fashion that befit a queen. Countless citizens of Arendelle were there to mourn, ancient ones who well-remembered the majesty of her magic and young folk who looked on in reverence, inspired by their elders' awe.

It was the same when Anna passed away. Indeed, the commotion may have been greater. For the princess was a simple soul with a simple and honest heart – and many in Arendelle liked to liken themselves to her. She was artless in magic also, which made her more fathomable somehow.

Many openly wept.

But with their deaths, tongues began to loosen – the tongues of all the maids and serving-men discharged, paid off for their silence. Whispers started rippling through the streets of fearful things, unspeakable things, unclean things, that had passed between the queen and princess.

Many did not wish to believe at first, but bit by bit, the stronghold the sisters had built around themselves since their youth cracked and fell away.

And now, when people spoke of the witch (they could not call her queen now, they could not bear to), they spoke of her perverse desire for her sister, who she had, with subtle sorceries, bent to her will. No one dared believe the beloved princess, so sweet-tempered and pure in the public eye, could have committed such obscenities willfully.

Yet, the princess had sobbed true tears at her sister's passing. What could be said to that?

Nothing. Nothing could be said, so nothing was said. This fact was eventually lost to time, melting from memory as the walls of the witch's ice palace had melted in the sun…