frozenfractals | the present

$frozenfractals: (negative) anxiety (the blood will dry underneath my nails)$

Elsa used to think it was part of the powers. It's not as if she hasn't worried since they arrived here or since the thaw; of course she has. But the worst has always been when she's thought she would lose control, when she couldn't keep her emotions in check. It was the ice that upset her. Without it, there was no cause for panic.

It's been nearly a week since she woke up without the powers. She doesn't know why she was born with them. She doesn't know why they left. She doesn't even know how to feel about it. It's been a part of her for as long as she can remember, and the bane of her existence for nearly as long. Even here in Darrow, there's very little it's given her that she couldn't live without. This week has made that clear. She doesn't need dresses made of ice, and while keeping the apartment cool without further use of electricity is nice, the extra cost won't exactly leave them on the street.

She should be relieved. She thinks she should, anyway, and for a little while, she was. But she can't quite shake an uneasiness, and worse. Catching a glimpse of herself in the glass of a refrigerator at the florist's, she stills. It isn't her. She knows it is, but it doesn't feel like it at all. Even the foggiest of reflections unsettles her now. It isn't even how much she reminds herself of Mama now; it's just that she doesn't look like that. The girl in the reflection is a stranger and it isn't right.

Grateful the shop is empty, she braces herself against the counter, closing her eyes. If she takes slow, deep breaths, she's found, that helps a little. In through the nose, and hold, and out again. She counts it out in her head, reminds herself to start over when she's done. Still she can't push the thoughts out of her head or stop the pounding in her head, the tension in her skin. That isn't her. That isn't her at all, and she doesn't know who it is. She looks at her hands and she isn't sure of them all over again, only now it's because she knows nothing will come from them. There's no chance she'll hurt anyone now. She's happy about that, of course she is. She's happy. This is a good thing. Maybe the powers weren't all bad — certainly they were beautiful — but the capacity for harm was so much greater. She'd have to be a monster to be upset about this, or jealous that now Anna has to struggle with something so dangerous and unwieldy. Only someone horrible would feel like that. Only someone as terrible and heartless as she is, her mind whispers back. Only a monster. A better person would accept this unquestioningly as the gift it is.

She shrinks back, wide-eyed, at the sound of footsteps falling, relieved to find it's Jessica entering the shop. At least she won't need to try so hard to pretend she's alright around her. "Good afternoon."

$frozenfractals: (negative) fear, anxiety (you are the space in my bed)$

Just as Elsa's never been particularly affected by cold temperatures, the heat has never bothered her much either. It's easy to keep a cool shield around herself, to the point that she often didn't realize she was doing it as a child. In the layers she wore, the long sleeves and high gloves, petticoats and drawers and skirts, it was the only defense she had against the heat, and she always regretted her choice to sweat it out instead. It hadn't stopped her from shutting it down, of course. Back then, that just seemed like the only choice, the safer one.

Darrow in June feels like Arendelle in August, in the midst of a particularly hot and humid year. This morning, Elsa notices.

It's too warm to stay in bed. She sits up in her nightgown, blinking blearily, and looks at her hands. Nothing seems different, but when she tries to create cold, nothing happens. She shakes her head a little, frowning, and then stills as her braid falls further over her shoulder.

She only realizes it's hers, though, because that's the only thing that makes sense. Though her hair is blonde, though, this is a deep, rich brown, unfamiliar to her.

At least, that's what she thinks until she stands and looks in her mirror. Her hands rise to touch her hair, slowly, gingerly, but it stays unchanging, a long, dark braid the same shade as her mother's hair. It's so strange to look at herself this way, as if the color of her hair alone is enough to change everything about her appearance. Her color is higher, pink in her cheeks and in her fingers as she unravels the plait, raking her fingers through it.

She doesn't look like herself anymore at all, and she can't begin to understand what's happened. Panic rising in her throat, she turns quickly, hands striking out, and she can see in her mind the long shards of ice that should go shooting from her palms. But they don't.

There's nothing but her, standing alone, chest heaving. Turning her hands over and back again, she stares, shaking her head. "H— but how?" She doesn't know what to make of it except to be confused and lost.

"Anna." It hits her suddenly and she takes off down the hall to her sister's room. If this has happened to her, she needs to be sure nothing has happened to Anna, too. "Anna!"

$frozenfractals: (positive) hope (it's been a long‚ cold‚ lonely winter)$

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$frozenfractals: (positive) calm, polite, content (who you are is not where you've been)$

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