266A/N: Written for Tumblr's Kristoff Week Day 2: "Ice is My Life".
[KristoffxAnna, Kristoff backstory, K, gen/romance]
"What Winter Brings"
Ice is his life.
It has been for as long as he can remember, since he was old enough to hoist gaff and tongs over one still-scrawny shoulder, Sven trotting happily at his heels, the crisp bite of cold mountain air sharp against his cheeks.
They'd mocked him for it at the orphanage, back before, before he'd climbed out the window and settled into the soft snow beneath, before he'd set his tiny feet to the path and run into the night, the wind in his hair and grey, drab brick disappearing behind him.
You're too small to be a harvester, the older boys would say, sneer, pulling sharp fistfuls of his hair, delivering closed-handed blows to his cheeks, his eyes, his back.
My papa was a harvester, he'd spit back, blood smeared along his lip, filling his mouth.
Your papa's dead.
He doesn't think back to then, to ever, much.
But he thinks of then, sometimes, just sometimes, as he watches the burly harvesters around him with an appraising eye, as he pushes the saw into the ice with every ounce of strength his little arms can bear, as Sven tugs at the back of his sash and together they retrieve a small but perfectly-cut block of lake ice between them.
He doesn't take it far, just to the nearest village, and the kind-faced maid at the castle pays far too much for the tiny ice block (she ruffles his hair affectionately, and he knows on some level that she's humoring him, but he's far too pleased with himself to care). The coin buys him a warm bed for the night and a bundle of carrots, and he curls up with Sven on the thick straw mattress and sighs contentedly, thinks back to the orphanage and smiles.
Ice, he thinks, is freedom.
It's ice again that leads him down a moonlit path, not long after, the sound of frantic hooves echoing through the forest, the underbrush glinting frosted-silver in the night, and, curious, he hoists himself up onto Sven's back and follows.
It's a quarry, he thinks, or something like it, an odd collection of moss-draped rocks strewn about, and he starts, gasps as they move.
It's the king, he hears, but he's too awestruck to move, leaning hard against the thick lichen of the rock before him.
Trolls, he knows, gasps, and the rock before him turns, pulls him close, and smiles.
He stays with it (her, he learns, when she's kissing his cheeks and tugging his hair and forcing him, despite his vehement protests, into a warm bath), stares at the scene unfolding before him.
Something tugs at him, gnaws, and he knows, somehow, that this night carries a grave importance.
But he's young, impatient, and he forgets easily enough, forgets the twisting lights to the north, forgets the old troll speaking in quiet, somber tones to the royal family, forgets the small girl held close in her mother's arms, features soft and pale in the moonlight.
He's never been much for company, but it's difficult not to smile when there are small rocks (trolls, he reminds himself, trolls) clambering over him, touching his hair, grinning, laughing, asking him to play, what games does he like, can they pet his reindeer?
They feed him, mend his clothes, brush down Sven, and curl him into a soft carpet of moss when his eyes grow heavy and he can no longer fight off his yawns.
Before sleep takes him, he looks to the forest, to the now-hidden path, and wonders if ice still clings to the trampled grass, a shining silver beacon into the darkness.
Ice, he thinks, has led him home.
It's years later when he thinks of that night again, when a bitter summer storm whips in from the North Mountain and he finds himself frozen from head to foot, eyes the perfectly-cut ice on his sled and sighs, briefly lamenting the sudden delay of the lucrative summer season.
Thinks of it as he lowers himself down from the sled, as he brushes himself off and enters the out-of-the-way trading post, as a young woman eyes him in confusion from the counter, and there's something familiar in the catch of her hair, the twine of white and red, but he dismisses it as easily as it comes, in a foul mood from the cold.
He wants her to move.
And she does.
At first.
It's not long before she's settled beside him in the sled, chattering aimlessly, a bright flame dancing in the darkness, small and warm against the winter cold.
Ice, he thinks, has brought him trouble.
But as they push up the mountain, step carefully beside sharp daggers of ice, trudge through thick blankets of knee-deep snow, he watches the flush of her rounded cheeks, the determined straightness of her shoulders, the pure, open guilelessness of her smile, and he wonders, distantly, if ice has brought him something else.
Wonders as he holds her protectively close to him and a towering creature lumbers to life above them.
Wonders as he tugs her firmly from the snow, lingers just a bit longer than necessary.
Wonders as a shock of white appears in her fire-red mane and something deep and frightened turns over in his chest, and he remembers a night long, long ago, guides her along, aches to hold her close, keep her warm.
Wonders as his family tumbles around them, boistrous and loud, pushing them together, and he gives her a shy, awkward smile, warmth shooting down to his toes and fingertips.
When she collapses into his arms, motionless, pained, when he holds her close as Grand Pabbie speaks in those same soft, somber tones from so long ago, when he hears the words true love, true love, true love over and over and remembers a name, distant and faint, realizes that it, she is not, can never be his…
He doesn't wonder.
He knows.
He holds her close as they ride, frantic, back to Arendelle, curls her close to his warmth and wishes, selfishly, that he could thaw her heart.
But ice had brought her to him.
And ice would not survive the return of summer.
He holds her closer, leans into Sven and spurs him on faster.
She'll be safe, he tells himself, if nothing else.
She'll be safe.
She's not.
Ice is beneath him, around him, his heart frozen deep and cold in his chest, her features shot through with blue-ice.
She's not moving.
She's not breathing.
He's not sure he is either.
But then she's there, alive and warm, held tight in her sister's arms, the fjord thawing around them, snowflakes glittering silver-white in the summer air.
She smiles at him, snowflakes catching in her hair, and he knows.
Oh, he knows.
Days later, when he twirls her around, when he cups one hand to her cheek, when he finally feels the warm, soft press of her lips against his, hears the soft, delighted gasp she makes as she twines her arms around his neck and pulls him close, he wonders that anyone could have thought the ice that brought him to her a curse.
Ice, he thinks, as he holds her close, as he skates awkwardly in the courtyard, as he catches her eye and grins, takes her hand, and helps her catch her balance.
Ice has brought him Anna.
Ice has brought him home.