On a warm summer day, Elsa wandered alone through the dense forest beyond Arendelle, far from any path or village. She’d come seeking solitude—an escape from royal duties and the constant hum of others’ expectations. She wore something unusual for her: a full-body catsuit made of smooth, reflective latex. It clung tightly to her figure, a curious and private indulgence she’d never dared to wear anywhere but here, in the secrecy of the wild. There was nobody around to see her, and she liked it that way.
The hike was peaceful, birds chirping overhead and the leafy canopy above dappling the forest floor in shifting patterns of light. Elsa walked for what felt like hours, the soft squish of moss and earth beneath her boots grounding her in a way she hadn’t felt in months. That’s when she spotted it—something distinctly out of place in the natural world. In a clearing, framed by twisted tree roots and wildflowers, stood an ornate chair carved from pale wood, worn by time but gleaming faintly with enchantment. It was shaped like a throne but somehow inviting, even comforting. Without much thought, Elsa stepped forward, sat, and immediately felt a calmness settle over her. Before she realized it, her eyes fluttered shut and she drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When she awoke, something was wrong. Her arms and legs were bound gently but firmly to the chair by silvery cords that hadn’t been there before. They didn’t hurt, but they wouldn’t budge. She blinked, confused, looking around for someone—anyone—but the forest was still and silent. She called out once, twice. Nothing. The bindings didn’t feel malicious, just… insistent. Elsa’s heart pounded with uncertainty, not fear. Had she been dreaming? Had something in the magic of the chair responded to her presence, or perhaps to her unspoken desire for stillness and surrender?
She sat there for a long time, thinking, testing the limits of her new prison. There was no discomfort, no danger—just an odd feeling of being held in place by something that didn’t want her to leave just yet. She didn’t know it, but the chair’s enchantment wasn’t a punishment. It was a reflection. Why? Because, deep down, Elsa had come here not to be free—but to be still. To rest, truly rest, in a way she never could in Arendelle. The forest, ancient and knowing, had simply listened.
And she would remain there—quiet, unmoving, safe—until sleep claimed her again.
