Hans smiled, as he turned the dead, black, mangy rat over a small, feebly flickering flame. The revolting creature had scuttled into his barren cell an hour before, no doubt searching for food, and now, here it was, slowly cooking, its neck snapped clean in half, leaving the animal dead. It had been difficult to make a fire, but even if he was a prisoner, he was also still a prince, so he had managed to convince the guards to let him have a couple of small planks of wood, to "patch up his broken bed".
He laughed as he pulled the rat away from the fire, and ripped off a chunk of the succulent flesh. It had been so long, years, since he'd eaten meat, and it made his mouth water.
After finishing off his little meal, he licked the scraps of meat off of the bones, and stored them under his pathetic little pillow. Climbing up onto his bed, he rested against the wall and licked the grease from his fingers, savouring the flavour, as he scowled.
He was a Prince, a man of noble blood - how had he been reduced to this?
Elsa and Anna.
He growled in the back of his throat, as he clenched his fists angrily, and punched the wall, although this just resulted in pained knuckles. Groaning, he gently cradled the burning red skin, and the gears in his brain began to turn.
He'd been working on his master plan for a while, now - at least a month had passed since he had first thought of it, which was plenty of time to lay down the foundation for the scheme, so to speak.
He glanced up casually, as a guard came to his cell, a small painting clutched in his hand.
"Here," He said, dismissively, as he passed the book through the bars. "You have a minute, then it's time up."
Hans smiled charmingly. "Thank you, kind sir," He said, but the guard only huffed. Hans had to fight the urge to punch him for the rude dismissal of a Prince, but what was he now, but a worthless, lifeless body slowly wasting away in a dingy prison cell.
Well, not for long. He grinned as he studied the image of Odd, a portrait of him only made a month or so before. Even in prison, gossip travelled fast - he knew of the man's convection with Queen Elsa of Arendelle.
It couldn't be more perfect.
Handing the portrait back once he'd locked the picture in his mind, saved the face in his memories, he nodded briefly to the guard. After all, it was best to stay in their good books. At least for a while.
It was just too easy. He chuckled contentedly as he lay back down upon the wooden bed in his cell, and stared at the ceiling. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a knife - contraband, in the prison, but it made him feel powerful, even reduced to nothing as he was - and scratched off a mark for another day passed in his 'home'.
He smiled to himself as he crossed off the diagonal line of the tally. That made three hundred and twenty groups of five - three hundred and twenty families who he'd deal with as revenge.
A family a week. Plus a few stragglers here and there. Perhaps not quite perfect, but certainly nearly enough to make his time seem worthwhile. And yet, easily enough to land that final blow to Arendelle once and for all.
After all, you know what they always say: revenge is a dish best served cold.