Through the gardens, they walk hand in hand.

About them are many flowers, luminous as a rainbow through the shimmer of a prism in the first twinkling of a morning.

Yet, in Elsa's hands shines something more luminous. The sparkles swirl upon her fingers until she holds a bloom as beautiful as any that surround them.

Its petals are textured, detailed – their craftsmanship sublime. Its silvery stem is finely-wrought. It is blue like the cornflower, purple like wine, golden like the sunbeams that strike the ice. Gems from the mountain-heart are not so dazzling.

Elsa gives the ice-flower to Anna, who takes it in her warm hand and draws it to her bosom.

It melts away. Elsa is great of power, but there is one greater than she – one whose love and warmth and tenderness and goodness makes the young queen melt, makes all her works seem pale.

She takes the hand of that one once more, heart smiling as Anna squeezes gently. In Anna's eyes, she sees that her sister seeks no greater gift than her companionship.

Elsa's hand in hers is a greater treasure than all the wonders above, upon, or within the earth.