She looked up at me, her eyes wide with disbelief.
"What year is it in your realm’s counting?"
"2026," I replied, wondering if I should mention that we had a pandemic a few years back, just to give her the full Earth experience.
Elsa’s eyes grew impossibly wide.
Her lower lip trembled.
Then, to my surprise, she dramatically clutched her heart, let out a small "Oh!" of despair, and plopped down right there in the dirt like a marionette with cut strings.
"Twenty years!" she wailed, flopping backward onto the ground with the theatrical grace of someone who expected to be caught by an invisible fainting couch.
"What am I supposed to do for twenty years?"
I watched, torn between amusement and concern, as the supposedly regal princess sprawled on her back, one arm flung across her forehead.
"Twenty years," she repeated, her voice rising and falling in a perfect princess pout that belonged in a Disney movie.
"Trapped on a primitive world with no proper bath houses—do you even have bath houses? No, don’t answer that, I can tell by your expression you don’t—no elven delicacies, no magical servants..."
She ticked off each missing luxury on her delicate fingers with increasing despair.
"No enchanted wardrobes that dress you automatically, no singing birds to help me with my hair, no magical pedicures, no moonlight massages, no starlight facials, no fairy dust bubble baths..."
She suddenly sat up straight, brushing dirt from her armor with little disgusted flicks, then fixed me with an imperious stare.
Her moment of despair seemed instantly forgotten, like it had never happened.
"You!" she declared, pointing a finger straight at my chest with the authority of someone who’d never been told ’no’ in her life.
"You shall provide me with shelter and sustenance until it is time for me to complete my mission. I hereby appoint you my royal... what’s the term? Ah yes, butler!"
I blinked, feeling like I’d just been hit with conversational whiplash.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Elsa said, rising to her feet and brushing dirt from her armor with delicate, impatient flicks of her wrists.
"I require lodging. You appear to have vanquished multiple creatures from the rifts, which means you have some modicum of skill and knowledge. Your dwelling is near the portal location so it will suffice, albeit barely. I assume you have multiple bedrooms? And servants, of course. I’ll need at least three."
"Hold on," I said, holding up a hand like a traffic cop.
"You can’t just show up and demand to stay at my house. That’s not how things work here."
Elsa tilted her head, looking like a monkey that’d been shown a card trick.
"Why ever not? I am a princess and the First Maiden of the Hero’s Party. It is an honor for you to host me. People in my kingdom would sacrifice livestock for such a privilege."
"That might work wherever you’re from, but this is Earth. Wisconsin, specifically. And on Earth, we don’t just take in random people who walk out of portals, princess or not."
"Oh?" Elsa crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently, the metal boot making a little clink against the hard ground.
"And what would you suggest I do instead? Sleep in this field? Among the troll remains? Perhaps fashion a little tent from leaves and sticks like some kind of forest goblin?"
She started pouting.
I ran a hand through my hair, exasperated.
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again.
What was I really going to do, leave her out here? Hand her over to Area 51?
Besides, it wasn’t like I didn’t have the space, the money, or the time to figure her situation out.
Plus, I was curious about these portals and what she might know.
Double-plus, saying no to those huge puppy-dog eyes felt like kicking a kitten.
"Fine," I sighed, already mentally rearranging my life to accommodate a spoiled interdimensional princess.
"You can stay tonight. We’ll figure out something more permanent tomorrow."
Elsa’s face lit up with a triumphant smile that outshone the moon.
"Excellent! I knew you’d see reason eventually. Most beings do, given enough time in my presence."
"But," I added firmly, holding up one finger, "my house, my rules. Got it?"
"We shall see," Elsa replied with a glint in her eye that didn’t exactly inspire confidence.
"By the way," I said, suddenly realizing something, "how are you speaking English? You’re from another dimension or whatever, right?"
Elsa’s expression brightened like I’d just asked the most interesting question in the world.
"Ah! A sensible question at last. I possess the Gift of the Golden Tongue, a blessing bestowed upon all members of the Hero’s Party."
"The Golden Tongue?" I repeated.
"It means my tongue is blessed," she said with a hint of pride.
"I can speak any language I encounter upon first hearing it. I can also do this—"
To my astonishment, Elsa pulled a small ribbon from her pouch, placed it in her mouth, and proceeded to twist, turn, and braid it using only her tongue.
After a few seconds, she pulled out a perfectly braided ribbon, holding it up like a trophy.
"Impressed?" she asked, looking rather smug.
I swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how attractive she was and trying not to imagine other applications for that particular talent.
"Do you just carry a ribbon around for that specific purpose?"
"Anyway," she replied, changing the subject, "now, shall we proceed to your dwelling? I’m positively famished after my inter-dimensional journey. I don’t suppose you have any moonberry tarts?"
"Uh. No."
As we walked back toward the farmhouse, I couldn’t help but notice how Elsa’s confident stride gradually gave way to a sluggish trudge the further we went.
"Is something wrong?" I asked after watching her drag her feet for several seconds.
Each step was becoming more laborious than the last.
"Walking is such a tedious activity," she complained with a performative sigh, her pace slowing to a near crawl.
"In Elfhaven, I would have a mount. Or a teleportation scroll. Or servants to carry me."
She cast a sidelong glance at me that was about as subtle as a sawed off shotgun.
"Sometimes three servants at once. One for each leg and one for my back. For particularly long journeys, we rotate them every hour so they don’t get tired."
She stopped walking entirely, lifting one foot and examining her boot with a mournful expression.
"I believe I’m developing a blister. Princesses don’t get blisters, Grey Coleman. It’s simply not done. It’s against the natural order of things, like cats and dogs living together."