The heart in the ice

THE HEART IN THE ICE

1) THE WORLD AND ITS MOOD (the opening minutes)
This northern kingdom lies far in the north, where winter lasts two-thirds of the year.
People here have always known how to live with cold. How to protect warmth. How to respect snow—much the way those who live by the sea respect the ocean.
Once, winter here was real: alive, beautiful, joyful.
Snow fell in large, sparkling flakes. Ice rang clear, like crystal. The sun appeared rarely, but every ray felt like a gift.
But for the past three years, everything has changed.
Now the snow is heavy, wet, gray. The sky hangs low, without sunlight. Winter has lost its joy and turned into endless fatigue.
And most importantly—something has disappeared. Something that holds people up in the hardest times.
A celebration.
Christmas.
Not because it was forbidden.
Not because people stopped believing.
But because the very feeling of Christmas seems to have left the world.
2) FIRST SCENE. THE BALCONY (the King from behind)
The King stands in the doorway leading to the balcony.
Below is the town square.
It isn’t ruined. The houses are solid. The kingdom functions normally: the King takes care of it, people are fed, order is maintained.
But the atmosphere is heavy.
There’s a weak Christmas market on the square: the stalls are there, but people approach them slowly, without smiles.
Children beside the adults don’t laugh. They hold hands as if they, too, can sense something in the world has gone wrong.
The King looks down—and there is no panic in his gaze.
There is adult tension.
And the weight of responsibility.
3) CHRISTMAS EVE IN THE PALACE (contrast)
Inside the palace—beauty.
The corridors are decorated. Servants carry trays. Somewhere candles are being set, somewhere garlands are being hung. Court ladies curtsy. Pages hurry out of the way.
The palace prepares for Christmas—like it always has.
But the King feels: it isn’t enough.
His sisters catch up with him—young, laughing, too alive for this gray winter.
“Brother! Brother! Will there be gifts? Will there be a celebration?”
They are gently stopped by the Queen Mother.
She sets boundaries without coldness—with love.
She kisses her son on the temple—briefly, truly.
And the King understands: he is not alone.
4) THE SMALL TREE ON THE SQUARE (why an evergreen)
The King steps out onto the balcony again.
And below, he notices something that breaks him completely.
On the square stands a small, pitiful Christmas tree.
Decorated carelessly—as if it was put there not for joy, but for appearances.
A few children shuffle around it.
They don’t play.
They don’t laugh.
They poke at the snow with little shovels.
And in the King’s chest, what rises is not despair.
It is a quiet, adult fury.
No. This will not be.
BLOCK 2 (5–9)
5) FLASHBACK (the royal hunt)
The King remembers something else.
Not childhood sleds.
A royal hunt.
Sunlight. Frost. Breath steaming in the air.
Horses neighing. Snow exploding into sparks beneath hooves.
Adrenaline. Loud voices. Flushed faces. Smiles.
And then—a short, terrifying moment:
the horse beneath his father rears up.
A fall.
And everything ends.
The memory comes suddenly—like a shadow on a sunny day.
The King closes his eyes for a second.
Then forces the thought away.
The kingdom is not in mourning.
The kingdom lives.
The problem isn’t politics.
The problem is that the world has turned gray.
6) THE DECISION (without grandeur)
The King turns and strides through the palace.
He doesn’t call the council.
He doesn’t gather discussions for the sake of discussion.
He enters the hall where a tall map of the kingdom stands.
He studies it for a long time—as if trying to see an answer between the roads and the white blanks of the forests.
And then he says it—not loudly, but in a way that even the walls hear:
“I will go into the forest myself.”
Servants gasp.
The nobles exchange looks.
Noise erupts at once.
“Your Majesty, you cannot go alone…”
“Your Majesty, the forest is dangerous…”
“Your Majesty, in this winter…”
The King stops them with his gaze.
Not with a gesture.
With his eyes.
“I’m not going far. Half a day there, half a day back.”
He says it with confidence—and he believes it.
He thinks he will simply find a beautiful tree, bring it back, set it on the square—and that will be enough.
7) WHO RIDES WITH THE KING (the choice)
The nobles argue: who should go.
A page? Guards? Soldiers?
But one thing is clear: the King will not ride alone.
And he will not ride with a boy.
In the end they choose a man who is mature, strong, worthy—an anchor of the kingdom.
Sir John.
The second most important man after the King in matters of state.
The King addresses him with respect:
“Sir John.”
And Sir John answers only:
“Your Majesty.”
8) INTO THE FOREST
They ride out by day.
The forest greets them with silence.
At first everything seems calm.
The snow lies smooth.
Pine branches hold it like white pillows.
But the deeper they go, the stronger the feeling becomes:
there is something ÷óæîå in this winter. Something not of this world.
The sky hangs low.
There is no light.
The forest is alive—
but it feels muted, as if waiting for something.
9) THE BLIZZARD AND SIR JOHN’S DISAPPEARANCE (magic as snow)
At some point the sky darkens.
And a blizzard begins.
Not an ordinary one.
It comes as if someone has opened an enormous door.
Snow lashes at their faces.
Wind bends the trees.
The air turns thick.
The King stays close to Sir John.
They try not to lose each other.
And then, deep inside the blizzard, something strange happens:
as if the snow itself gathers into a denser mass.
Not a shadow.
Not a figure.
Snow—compressing like a wall.
For one second, this snow-wall cuts the King off from Sir John.
Then it breaks apart.
The blizzard continues.
And Sir John is gone.
The King shouts:
“Sir John!”
He rushes to where the man was only a moment ago.
Calls out.
Searches.
But the blizzard seems to swallow sound.
BLOCK 3 (10–14)
10) THE FIRST FREEZING (near death)
The King keeps walking.
He loses track of time.
Snow works its way under his clothes.
His fingers go numb.
And then he notices something:
crystals are forming on his hands.
Not simple frost.
Real ice—beautiful, delicate, as if he is beginning to turn into something else.
The King doesn’t understand what it means.
But the audience understands:
magic has already begun.
His breathing turns short.
Everything around him starts to lose focus.
He takes one more step—
and it feels as if the ground beneath him disappears.
The King drops to his knees.
And he realizes: one more minute—and it’s over.
And in that moment, a human figure appears out of the white haze.
11) ALDER
He doesn’t look like an old man, or a young one.
Just a man of the forest.
Tall.
Wearing a dark cloak, as if woven from bark and snow.
White flakes rest on his shoulders.
But they don’t melt.
They don’t turn into water.
They vanish—without a trace.
Alder steps closer and places a hand on the King’s shoulder.
And a wave moves through the King’s body.
Not heat.
No.
Just life.
The King inhales—
and for the first time in a long time, he feels air.
Alder speaks slowly. Briefly.
And every word sounds as if it doesn’t argue with the world—
it knows it.
“You don’t belong here.”
The King tries to answer:
“I… am the King…”
“I know,” Alder says calmly. “The forest knows too.”
The King tries to rise, but Alder holds him.
“Right now you don’t run. Right now you live.”
12) THE CABIN (warm, and strange)
Alder lifts the King—
not the way a servant lifts his lord,
but the way a brother lifts a brother.
And he leads him through the blizzard.
After some time—maybe minutes, maybe an hour; time loses meaning there—
they reach a small cabin.
Alder brings the King inside and closes the door at once—
not with a slam,
but calmly, like someone who can stop a blizzard with a single motion.
Inside, it’s warm.
Bundles of herbs hang on the walls.
The air smells dry, clean, wintery.
The King takes one step—and his legs give out.
Alder catches him and sits him down on a chair by the table.
The King barely has time to look around—
and in that moment, the fire in the hearth flares up.
On its own.
Alder doesn’t go to it.
Doesn’t add wood.
Doesn’t strike a spark.
The fire simply ignites.
First—a small tongue of flame, as if a single ember caught.
Then—steady and sure at once, as if the fire had always been there, simply waiting for the right moment.
And almost at the same time—another thing.
A kettle stands on a grate nearby.
It begins to tremble softly.
Then stronger.
And a second later, steam slips from the spout.
The kettle boils by itself.
The King doesn’t notice.
He’s too weak.
He tries to speak—about Sir John, about the forest, about searching…
but the words won’t form.
He sits there, breathing heavily, leaning on the table.
And in that moment, the audience sees what the King does not.
The snow on his cloak—white flakes that should melt in warmth—
doesn’t turn into water.
It doesn’t drip to the floor.
It simply disappears.
Without a trace.
As if it had never been there.
The snow on Alder’s shoulders is the same.
It doesn’t melt.
It vanishes just as soundlessly, just as strangely.
Alder takes a mug from the shelf by the hearth and, as if this is how things work, pours tea into it from the already boiling kettle.
Not water.
Tea.
Dark, fragrant with herbs.
Alder sets the mug on the table in front of the King.
The King takes it automatically, wrapping both hands around it as if holding on to warmth itself.
He takes a sip—
and only then does life return to his face.
Alder says:
“My name is Alder.”
The King repeats:
“Alder…”
And for some reason, the name sits easily on his tongue.
Alder looks at him calmly.
“You came for a Christmas tree.”
The King flinches.
“How do you know?”
Alder answers:
“When people stop waiting for Christmas, the forest feels it.”
The King lowers his head.
And he finally says out loud what he has been holding inside:
“I have to bring joy back to my kingdom.
I have to give people the feeling of a full life.
I have to bring Christmas back.
The feeling of Christmas.”
Alder is silent.
Then he says:
“Then you came to the right place.”
And after a pause, he adds:
“I know where it is.”
13) NIGHT
The King falls asleep in the cabin.
For the first time in a long while—not from exhaustion, but from warmth.
The night passes.
MORNING. THE JOURNEY (the forest begins to awaken)
At dawn they travel deeper into the forest. The King squints, confused, then realizes something he hasn’t seen in years: sunlight. The forest begins to reveal strange, gentle wonders. Suddenly a tree shakes off its snow. No wind. No reason. The snow falls beautifully—and for a moment forms a shining pattern on the ground.
They pass a small frozen pond. A thin crack runs through the ice. The King walks on. Alder lingers for a second, touches the crack with his staff, and the crack flares with silver light—fine, icy, diamond-bright. Alder watches it for a brief moment, almost as if for his own quiet pleasure, then calmly catches up to the King. The King says nothing, but something tightens in his chest: he is walking beside someone who is not an ordinary man.
THE RABBIT (small magic)
Under the roots of a tree sits a rabbit—white as snow. It doesn’t hide. It doesn’t run. It watches them closely, almost human. In its paws is a small carrot, softly glowing with a warm light that should not exist in winter. The King stops. Blinks. The rabbit doesn’t run. Alder walks past as if this is normal. The King follows.
FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW (as if the world is nearby)
Later, the King hears a faint crunch, as if someone has stepped nearby in the snow. He turns—and sees a short trail of footprints. Not human. Harmless. Bird tracks. They appear as if from nowhere for only a few feet, then vanish. The King is about to stop. But Alder says calmly, as if placing a period at the end of the moment: “We’re almost there, Your Majesty.”
THE DOE
Then they see a doe. It steps onto the path so quietly it’s as if the snow itself parts for it. Its coat is pale, almost silver. Its eyes are dark and calm. It looks at the King as if it recognizes him. It takes one step—and the King sees its hooves: warm gold. Not bright. Not metallic. Fairytale-gold. The doe disappears. Alder only says, “We’re close.”
THE LAKE AND THE TREE
By evening, the forest opens. Ahead of them lies a great lake. It looks real, not enchanted—flat, pale, and silent like an extension of the snow. In the center is an island large enough to feel natural. And on that island stands an enormous Christmas tree—so magnificent it seems to hold the meaning of winter itself.
The King stares and whispers, “How am I supposed to bring it home…?” Alder smiles—not mockingly, but like someone who knows more. “We’ll figure it out there.” He places a hand on the King’s shoulder, and the King feels something pour into him: calm.
“From here,” Alder says, “you go alone.” “The ice will only hold one person.” The King wants to argue. But Alder looks at him in a way that makes arguing impossible. And the King steps onto the ice.


BLOCK 5 (19–23)
19) DANGER ON THE ICE
He walks.
The ice beneath his boots creaks.
Sometimes it gives a barely visible ripple—just for a second, almost imperceptible.
The King feels it:
he cannot run here.
He cannot rush.
The tree looks closer than it really is.
He crosses half the distance.
Just a little more.
And suddenly the world tightens.
20) THE SECOND DEATH (falling through the ice)
A crack.
Then another.
And the ice splits open.
The King doesn’t simply “fall.”
It’s as if something pulls him down.
The water doesn’t hit him like a stone.
It takes him.
Locks around him.
Drags him under.
He tries to inhale—
and realizes the air is gone.
Above him he sees the opening in the ice.
Light.
White.
Bubbles rise upward.
And the King understands:
this is the end.
He stops fighting.
And in that darkness, suddenly, there is a pause.
Silence.
As if the world has stopped.
21) THE EMERALD MIST AND THE GOLDEN THREAD
And then, through the darkness, light begins to seep in.
Emerald.
Alive.
The King comes to—not in water.
Around him, mist.
He is standing.
He is breathing.
The mist is not a solid wall.
It curls.
It drifts.
It moves like breath.
It shimmers, and inside it, rare golden sparks flash—
tiny, as if someone scattered gold dust through the air.
Ahead of him stretches a golden thread.
It doesn’t lie on the ground.
It floats in the air, twisting like a guiding sign.
It leads.
The King follows.
And the mist begins to change shape around him.
Slowly.
As if space itself is being assembled from it.
22) THE CRYSTAL PALACE (a metamorphosis in the background)
A palace rises before him.
Not suddenly—
but as if it is forming out of the emerald mist itself.
At first, the walls and arches are still tinted green,
as if the palace has been born from frozen northern lights.
Within the ice, faint golden sparks flicker—
echoing the same gold that glimmers in the mist.
And as the King moves deeper inside, the palace changes.
Quietly, in the background.
The emerald fades.
The green becomes pale.
The structure turns clearer and clearer—
until the entire place becomes crystalline:
white, transparent, and ringing with cold light.
It still sparkles.
But now it is crystal, not emerald.
23) VERBA
Inside stand two thrones.
On one—emptiness.
On the other—a sleeping ruler of winter.
The Frost King.
Majestic even in sleep.
Not Santa.
Not a “grandfather.”
Not a cheerful old man.
A King.
Beside him stands a young woman.
Beautiful.
Not doll-like.
Not a pink princess.
She is like winter itself:
strong, clean, dangerously beautiful.
And in her—there is youth.
She looks at the King.
And says:
“Hello, I’m Princess Verba.”
BLOCK 6 (24–29)
24) THE CURSE (clear and logical)
Verba tells him everything.
In this world, winter is held by two forces:
the Frost King and the Winter Queen.
He is the one people once felt as wonder—
the crisp air, the sparkle, the light snow.
She is the one who holds winter’s depth:
its power, its strictness, the authority of the element.
But one day the balance broke.
The Frost King grew too close to humans.
People began to love winter only through him.
And the Winter Queen felt herself pushed aside.
Not by people—they didn’t know.
By him.
By her husband.
In rage and pain, she cast sleep upon him.
And the moment he fell asleep, winter lost its harmony.
It became heavy.
Gloomy.
Exhausted.
To keep him from waking, the Winter Queen bound their daughter—
Verba.
She froze Verba’s braid to the throne.
Because only through their daughter could she hold her father.
And the Winter Queen declared:
the curse would break only when a human entered their world—
and, to free Verba and wake the Frost King,
would have to give his life
and become ice.
25) THE BRAID (a heroic moment)
The King looks at Verba’s braid.
It is pinned under the throne.
And the King gives a short smile—almost boyish.
“I can do that without magic.”
He takes off his cloak.
Not as seduction.
As a symbol:
here he is—a King, a man of action.
He steps to the throne.
Braces his hands.
Strength.
Calm.
Will.
The throne shifts.
Verba’s braid is freed.
For the first time, she can step farther than she ever could before.
And something in her seems to awaken.
26) THE CHOICE
Verba says, “You can leave.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
The King looks at her—
and understands he cannot leave.
Not because she is beautiful.
But because she is alone.
Trapped.
And everything happening above is tied to this place.
The King says, “I didn’t come here only for myself.”
“I came for them.”
27) THE KISS — AND ICE (instant)
The King steps toward Verba.
And kisses her.
Not passionately.
Quietly.
Like a vow.
And in that same moment, he becomes ice.
Instantly.
No pain.
No suffering.
He vanishes as a living man—
and remains as an ice figure.
Not a lump.
A person.
As if carved from pure, transparent ice.
28) THE HEART IN THE ICE
Beneath the clear ice, in his chest, a heart remains.
Not anatomical.
Not fire.
A heart shape.
Rose-gold.
Shimmering.
It doesn’t beat.
But it is still alive.
29) THE FROST KING AWAKES
The palace trembles.
Snow sifts down from the ceiling.
The Frost King opens his eyes.
He sees his daughter.
And he sees the King.
And he understands everything.
He walks to the ice figure.
Touches it.
The ice softens.
The Frost King supports the body—carefully, with respect.
He can restore the body.
But he cannot restore life completely.
The Frost King looks at Verba and says quietly:
“I can hold him while his heart is still alive.”
“But if you want to bring him back to life…
you must decide now.”
A pause.
“Before the heart goes out.”
BLOCK 7 (30–34)
30) VERBA’S SACRIFICE
Verba goes pale.
She understands the cost.
If she gives up her magic, she becomes a mortal girl.
Weak.
Human.
Alive.
Without her eternal power.
The Frost King steps closer.
He holds her—carefully, firmly.
And whispers into her hair:
“My daughter… I admire you.”
“And know this: you will not be alone.”
“My power will always be with you.”
Verba draws a breath.
Straightens.
Steps toward the King.
And kisses him—barely.
The lightest touch of lips.
Like a girl who has never kissed before.
And her power enters him not as magic—
but as life.
The King does not become a sorcerer.
He returns to the world.
31) HE BREATHES
Verba pulls back.
There are no tears in her eyes.
Only trembling hope.
And then the King inhales.
Opens his eyes.
And looks at her.
32) THE BLESSING
The Frost King looks at them.
He already knows what comes next.
He raises his hand.
And speaks not a command—
not “go.”
A blessing.
Quiet.
Strong.
And the world around them shivers—
not like an earthquake,
but like fabric being gently unfolded.
33) RETURN (the finale in daylight)
In the next second, the King and Verba are standing on the palace balcony.
Daylight.
Bright.
And below, in the square, a celebration is already underway.
A great Christmas tree stands there—
decorated,
but still ordinary.
People are laughing.
Children are running.
Snow is falling light, sparkling.
This is Christmas again.
34) ALDER AND SIR JOHN
The King and Verba go down to the people.
And there the King sees Alder.
And beside him—Sir John.
Alive.
Frozen through.
Confused.
But alive.
The King rushes to him.
Embraces him.
Sir John doesn’t understand how he survived.
Alder only smiles.
BLOCK 8 (35–38)
35) THE KING NAMES ALDER
The King turns to Alder.
And speaks loudly enough for everyone to hear:
“Alder.”
“From this day on, you are the High Mage of the Kingdom.”
“And my friend.”
Alder inclines his head slightly—
like a man accepting a title,
and at the same time like someone who knows that in this forest, titles matter less than the heart.
36) ALDER’S FINAL MAGIC (tree ; square ; castle)
The celebration is already beautiful.
But Alder does what turns it into legend.
He walks up to the Christmas tree.
Touches the lower branch with his staff.
And a shimmering thread runs up the tree from bottom to top—
like the crack in the ice from earlier.
Silver.
Diamond-bright.
Alive.
The tree begins to change before their eyes.
It grows taller.
Wider.
More majestic.
Its branches spread as if the tree has lifted its shoulders.
The ornaments flare with new light.
Garlands appear that no one hung.
Toys appear that no one brought.
Children cry out and stumble back as the tree begins to grow.
Silence.
And then the magic spreads further.
Lights ignite in the windows of the surrounding houses.
The town glows.
And the palace itself becomes radiant—
truly royal, truly fairy-tale.
And above the castle, in the bright sky, a daytime firework blooms.
Soft colors:
silver,
rose,
lilac,
gold,
pale violet,
and a light green.
Not rainbow.
Not loud.
But breathtakingly beautiful.
37) NATURE AND PEOPLE — TOGETHER
Animals appear among the crowd.
That same rabbit.
It sits near the children—
and the children laugh.
Birds circle above the square.
And for a moment, the doe with golden hooves flashes by.
Nature and people—together.
38) THE WINTER QUEEN (final image)
At the very end—
in the shining light above the castle—
the outline of a woman appears for a single moment.
The Winter Queen.
Not rage.
Not cold.
A force of nature.
But her face is different now.
Understanding.
And gratitude.
She looks down—
at the people,
at the King,
at Verba.
And then she disappears.
And the celebration continues.

THE END.