The Frost Queen's Blade

What most historians routinely fail to understand or, for that matter, convey, is that Queen Elma I of Rothen was neither hero, nor traitor, nor figure of legend. She was simply a woman.

Home. Home was here, in Orchard House. But she was a princess. She was on her way to fulfill her role as the heir of a kingdom. She must compose herself.

“I thought I might perhaps offer you a gift on this most, ah, auspicious of birthdays.”

They wore flimsy gold cloths across their hips, and jewels adorned their fingers and hair. Heavy fur cloaks fell over their shoulders, shielding them from the worst of the weather. Their bare chests were utterly hairless. They were fair-skinned and lovely and close to Elma’s age. Her gaze alighted on the delicate bindings about their wrists and the chain. She didn’t look away. “They are bed slaves,”

“May the winter star guide you,” she whispered. “May the winter star guide him,”

In the face of death, alone and helpless, there were no kings or queens. Only people, fragile bones and pumping hearts, blood beneath paper-thin skin.

“He’s in the wagon,”; “Bleeding to death. Stop his bleeding at once. Then bind him. He must make it back to Frost alive.” “But the mission—”

“Not anymore. That assassin is the most important thing in the world to me. Keep him alive.”

Elma insisted on riding in the wagon with the assassin. She knew Luca and his men had him under control; there was no fear of his escape. The Slödavan was bound with chains, a blade at his throat at all times.

“Godwin,” Elma said, meeting his gaze with a ferocity she hadn’t known she possessed, “This isn’t a request. I will interrogate the prisoner now, alone.” - “As Her Majesty wills it,”

“Look at you,” he breathed. “It’s like you’re carved from ice, frigid and perfect. There are so many things I’d rather do to that body than carve it up, but… you being who you are…” a predatory gleam lit his eyes.

“I grew up in this filth. Where is the assassin?”

“What’s the proposition?” - “I need a bodyguard.” - “Congratulations.” He coughed, blood flecking his sleeve. “Where do I come in?” “You’re the bodyguard.”

“You’re kidding, right? This is your adorable way of playing with me like a cat with its mouse?”

“You can see very well that I am serious,” she said. “You read the document yourself. Signed and stamped it. What more do you need?”

He looks good in my colors.

“Why is he bound?”

“He’s an ass,” - “I’m aware of that. Unbind him.”

The moment Elma’s cousin reached out to touch her, Rune was there at her side. With the practiced grace of a dancer, he bowed, lifted Lady Devereaux’s hand from Elma’s arm, set it on the table, and said, “Don’t touch her.”

“A queen doesn’t suggest, she orders,”

“Thank you for your confidence in me. I will do my utmost to live up to it.”

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I am a shield, not your attack dog.” - “You are what I say you are. And right now, I need you to find the person who did this and bring me their head.”

“My lapdog is the one who divested the assassin of his head,”

Lapdog = Rune hahahahah

“Stop talking,” she said, “and do something useful with that tongue.” It was all the encouragement he needed. He seemed to collect himself, and a smile curled his eager lips. “Yes, Your Majesty.”- until he was practically groveling before her. Exactly where he belonged. - He moved slowly at first, a rhythmic press of lips and tongue, drawing pleasure from her like a ribbon from a spool.

Letting her assassin lick her senseless with a body only inches away? And the worst of it was, she had liked it. She wanted to do it again, as much as possible.

“But strangely, I don’t hate you. Isn’t that interesting?” “You…” Elma said, her mouth dry. “You don’t?” - “I wish I hated you,” he said softly. “It would be easier. But… you’re not like your father. You’ve made that painfully clear. And even if you were, I…”

He grinned, but something tugged on the corners of it, weighing it down. “If it makes you feel any better, Majesty, I am nothing if not yours.”

“I’ve known it for a long time. I will protect you, Queen Elma, with my life, if it means true peace between our kingdoms. You are not your father’s daughter.”

“Stop,” said Rune, when she tried to struggle free, to get up and help her men. “You can’t die. You, above all, cannot die.”

He looked like a prince. But it couldn’t be. There was only one Crown Prince of Slödava, and he… Rune could not be him.

She had trusted him. She had believed him to be a friend. She had thought foolishly that he might love her. That she might… But he was not her Rune, her assassin. He was Rune, the Crown Prince of Slödava. His mother was Queen Hildegard. And he had led Elma straight into a trap.

- don't you worry - he is a big big GREEN FLAG 😊 hahah

“What do you want?” - “You, obviously.”

“Tell me who it was, and if he’s not dead already, I’ll have him killed for you.”

Ohhhh Rune - so romantic

“A good queen always has at least one ace up her sleeve,” Hildegard said, thoughtful. “Let my son be yours and prove himself useful for once.”

“And I am honored to die as your weapon.”

😭😭😭

“I don’t hate you,” she managed. “I never did.” Rune huffed a sad little laugh. “You never fooled me for a second.”

“I’ll see you,” she said instead, drinking in that last sight of him, his wan smile, the curl of sweaty hair at his ears, the cocky tilt of his head, even now. “I’ll see you in the after.” He raised one hand in farewell. “In the after.”

An inexplicable sensation took hold of her, then. It began in her heart and spread outward, an icy chill. As if the mountains and the frozen rivers and the snow were all inside her, flowing through her veins, filling her up from head to foot. The sensation heightened, almost blinding her, vibrating through her skin. A prickling cold, coalescing at one single point—her hands.

She was its rightful ruler, and the man who stood before her was a usurper. Somehow, the land understood that. I am the Queen of Rothen.

“You’d better not die,” she said, hot tears streaming down her face, “or I’ll follow you into the after and drag you back here to me.” “I have no doubt,” Rune said, squinting up at her, still half smiling. “But how embarrassing for me, to need saving by a Volta.”

“I mean, you idiot, that I would like to marry you.” - “Oh,” said Rune, his eyes bright, as if not quite understanding. Then his gaze sharpened, and he grinned. “Oh.” - She was the Queen of Rothen, and she loved him.

“Home? What do I care about home? I could never see Slödava again and die happy, just for the chance to spend a week of nights in your bed. Even for one night, really. I mean, all you’d have to do was ask. Want me to declare war on my mother? I’ll do it.”

“Just marry me.” “Then I’m yours,” said Rune, meeting her gaze with his bright blue one. “I always have been.”