So, I watched Frozen twice now and I fell in love with this song. And it just resonated with my Eugene muse, and I think this is a possibility of why.

Disclaimer: If I owned them, there would have been blood on the dagger.


Let It Go

Eugene knew the Ten Commandments by rote. Growing up in a Christian run orphanage ensured that verses and fears were crammed well in the heads of the unwanted children. These were mostly the only thing he carried with him from the Old Testament. They more or less glossed over the new one. During his own reading of it, he figured it was propaganda to lessen hope. The Headmaster was a pious asshole, after all.

He never knew which belief to keep. Did he hold onto his mother's, or that of the institution that raised him? He struggled with this since he was old enough to think of meaning beyond that of words on a page. He embraced neither religion in its entirety, but bits of both.

It was the Commandments' fault he was here instead of at the job at the fish monger's the Headmaster had acquired for him. After all, he honored his mother with everything he had, but how could he honor a father he had never seen?

It took a few days of hitching rides on wagons and walking to reach the moderately sized estate. Eugene had relied on passerby's recognition of the small scrap of fabric with a family crest for general directions. Now that he was here, he had no idea what to do.

He had no over glorified imaginings for this. He knew that the man who fathered him would never accept him as his own. Eugene doubted that the duke would even acknowledged his existence. After all, there was nothing that said a person had to have family.

Eugene crept through shadow. He was tall, but had the thin that came from long winter months and too many mouths to feed. He was dressed as he was, a street urchin, and no one paid them any mind beyond tightening their grips on purse strings.

It was near noon on a Sunday. Perhaps the best place he could hope to catch a glimpse of the duke was near the church doors. He lined up with others, most of them beggars, hoping to catch sight of the man.

They waited fifteen minutes in the brisk winter air. His feet were cold despite the layers of worn socks he wore. His thin shift did nothing to keep back the bite. Still, he waited, away from the cover of walls, pressing close to those worse off than him for body heat.

The doors opened and coins were flung. A procession of upper class citizens and lower nobility filtered out like a glittering river coursing through a filthy bank. Soon they would enter the colorful forests of houses that rarely leaked and held heat.

The procession was ending and he wiggled through the crowd to get through. He didn't want to touch, he only wanted to see. The throng around him grew restless as those with more wealth streamed through and he was shoved from behind onto the path he had no business treading. Not in this life, anyway. He could have scrambled back had he not hit a solid wall of muscle. Looking up, he saw the furious expression of a man he had never been able to picture outside fractured images in a mirror until now.

He should have moved. Eugene opened his mouth to offer an apology. Nothing came.

"Get back in your place, boy." The words were snarled, too low for those not within a few feet to hear. And then he was thrown to the ground as the back of a meaty hand struck his face.

It was not the throng of beggars parting to let him fall that infuriated him as it was nature to allow one to fall. It wasn't the sting on his cheek as he was used to worse. It was the image he saw when he looked up.

"Herbert!" It wasn't the sight of the duke's wife glowering at her husband. "Garret, please help the young man up while I speak to your father."

He slapped the helping hand away as he stood on his own. He stared at the boy, not much younger than himself. He hated the blond hair, the blue eyes, the familiar curve of the jaw. He hated that this boy would never know what it was to watch his mother dying in winter. And he hated that he knew he would never have to know what it's like to be thrown out like garbage.

"Why you?" He looked behind Herbert's legitimate son. They were a family, from their stupid blond hair to their ridiculous blue eyes. He would never fit. And he hated them all.

He turned before Garret's puzzled eyes would turn to questioning. He ran before the sting in his eyes could become more.

Eugene ran until he reached the gate then stopped. He looked back at the large estate he knew that family stayed in. Why should he be the one to run? Why should he hide? He had his answers. It was time they knew his questions.

All his life he was taught his place. All his life, he learned to protect his mother's memory from the vile words slung about her her. He was told to accept his place. And all the while, Herbert was able to go on as though he had not violated an innocent maid and then had her exiled from his land.

It was too easy to scale the wall when one was used to cleaning chimneys for spare change. He was higher than he had ever been before, and it was only the lack of caring whether he fell or not that urged him on. He hoped luck was on his side, that the window he opened belonged to Herbert. After he crawled through and stared around he knew it could not be. It held the air of a teenage boy.

This would have to do.

Eugene stormed to the wardrobe and swung the doors open. He paused a moment. He expected nothing but finery, but there was a mix of clothes he expected more for merchant families. Well made still, but not having cost a poor family two months of food. His fingers were drawn to soft green suede. Pulling it out, he knew he wanted it. It would take him months to be able to afford something like this, and that was without eating. It would wear well for years to come.

He took it out and tossed it on the bed. While he was at it, he stole a shirt. And slacks. And boots he knew could be made to fit. Eugene knew that the longer he was here, the greater the risk he would be caught. As he looked for a washing basin, he realized he didn't care. He could happily be put to death with the knowledge that he had soiled their picturesque household with his presence.

He washed his hands first. Then the skin he could reach. Then he tore off his rags and scrubbed at every single square inch of skin he could find until it was red. When he was done he was shaking too hard to rub the sting from his eyes. The water in the basin was so dark he could no longer see past the surface but he still felt dirty. Why didn't he want me?

The cold slowly made itself known. The fireplace was dark. He threw his old rags in. Then he grabbed his sack and just threw things onto the pile. He stopped at a handkerchief wrapped around a ring. Honor thy mother. That he would do. He would keep those. And the book. But the sack went on the pile and he struck a long match he found and tossed it in the kindle. Soon his skin was warm but he still felt chilled.

Standing, he dressed in the clothes he had stolen from the boy who would never be his brother. He stuffed the handkerchief in his new pocket. He felt like an imposter.

Eugene felt an electricity in the air. He had over stayed his welcome. Book clutched to his chest, he headed for the window and stopped when he spotted the boy's desk. On it was a simple book with nothing to indicate what it was. Curious, he went over and opened it. Unfamiliar handwriting slanted to the left. He skimmed through it and knew one thing they had in common. Both hated their father and loved their mother.

That realization was the beginning of a weight lifting from his chest. He looked up at the shelf above the desk, filled with volume after volume of books, worn with multiple reads. He looked down at his own book, the only possession that was truly his. He traced his fingers over words that had once been imprinted in gold paint. Closing the journal, he set the book on top of it.

Eugene knew what he had to do now. He would honor his mother. He would honor the family of his father. But he would never honor his father.

The weight on his chest disappeared altogether. He would strip everything about him that belonged to Herbert. Everything that tied Eugene as his bastard offspring. He touched the cover of the book again and grinned so wide it hurt his cheeks.

Give him all the adventures you gave me, Flynnigan.

Eugene Fitzherbert had been the one to crawl through the window, but it was Flynn Rider who climbed out. It was Flynn who secreted into the stable and stole the only horse there that could belong to Herbert.

And it was Flynn who, horse racing and encumbered by nothing but simpler tack and a boy who could probably blow away in the wind, raised his arms and yelled into the sky as the guards fell far behind him and he just let it all go. He was free.