Despite Arthur's fervent prayers, Eames remained respectfully cool to him in the weeks leading up to Arthur's coronation. Eames would open doors for him, talk politely at dinner, and laugh at his jokes. But there was always an unseen reserve that cloaked the air about him like river fog. He was careful not to touch Arthur, or look him in the eyes.

"Arthur, this isn't right," his uncle said finally, on the afternoon before his twentieth birthday. "You've been acting sullen for weeks. You barely talk to anyone. I don't know what the bastard's doing to you, but we can't sit back and watch this anymore."

Arthur glanced up from the papers sprawled in front of him and blinked. A throng of advisers and clerks looked back at him with worried expressions.

He sighed. How could he ever explain that the problem was how Eames wasn't doing anything? Yes, he'd been a model gentleman. But they still slept in the same bed, and it was driving Arthur to distraction. Eames was gorgeous. He was mind meltingly gorgeous, and he slept naked. Arthur was used to having what he wanted. Being confronted with Eames's smooth skin, feeling his feverish heat every night mere inches away, was maddening. He barely got any sleep any more.

But Arthur wasn't going to ruin the treaty by trying to make Eames do anything he obviously didn't want.

He managed a smile for his ministers. "Haven't been feeling too well lately. I apologize if it's causing any trouble." He gathered his papers and quickly left the room. Hoping that a walk would calm him down he headed off towards the gardens.

As Arthur paused on a balcony overlooking the grounds, he felt a hand rest gently on his shoulder. Of course Cobb wouldn't just let him run off. He turned around with a glib reassurance on the tip of his tongue, but stopped when he saw who the hand belonged to. Not Cobb. Worse.

Duke Nash stared back at him. "Arthur."

Arthur flinched. They'd been boys together during earlier, sweeter days, before the war had ruined everything. Nash had been his most persistent suitor ever since he'd told his father he'd prefer a male consort. But that was before. Before his father and mother died, before he'd had to put aside indulgences like romance and concentrate on running his country. Before Eames. Before his life had turned into the unpredictable maelstrom it was now.

He'd never told Nash about the Eames, he realized. Nash had been gone for months putting down a border insurrection in the western provinces. Judging from his face, it was possible Nash hadn't even known about the marriage until he'd seen the green and orange banner of the Summerlands waving above the castle's ramparts.

"You've just returned to the Tor today, then?" he asked, trying desperately to keep his voice stable.

Nash nodded. "For your coronation."

The silence stretched.

"I suppose… this can't have been easy."

He'd thought their courting had been purely political. Drinking in the pain scrawled across Nash's face, he conceded that he might have miscalculated a bit.

"Arthur," Nash bit out. "What the fuck were you thinking?"
Arthur leaned back against the balcony's railing, away from Nash. "I know it's a shock but-"

"That man killed your father," Nash hissed. "What would he say, if he knew you were letting his murderer fuck you?"

Arthur clamped down on the guilt writhing in his stomach. "There's peace-"

"Are you really that stupid? Whenever it's convenient he'll slip hemlock in your wine."

"Eames wouldn't do that." As soon as the words left his mouth, Arthur regretted them.

Nash's eyes widened. "He's ensnared you."

"No, I-"

"He must've. The Arthur I knew would never have done this."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Then you couldn't have known me very well. I'd do anything for peace. I'd die for it. I'd let Eames do whatever he wanted to me-"

Nash darted closer and embraced him fiercely, wrapping his arms around the back of Arthur's head. "Don't you worry, I'll fix this," he whispered. "I'll kill him."

And suddenly Nash's lips caught his own and they were kissing, hot and desperate like he'd been craving for weeks now. But at the same time, wrong. Nash's mouth wasn't a burning furnace; his embrace wasn't iron-steady and all consuming. Quite simply, Nash wasn't Eames. Out of weakness Arthur let the kiss go on a moment longer, but then wrenched his head back.

"Go," he said, shoving Nash off him.

Nash looked back with wide eyes. "Arthur-"

"You dare disobey your prince?" Arthur snarled. "Go."

Nash hesitated and then stumbled back into the castle, leaving Arthur mercifully alone on the wind swept balcony. He slid down onto the stone, his head in his hands. What in the name of Father Winter was he doing?

Arthur stayed on the balcony well past dark, despite the biting wind. He halfheartedly tried to stop the gusts, but he wasn't yet king and the effort was too great to bother with.

"Arthur? What's the matter?"

He looked up to see Lady Ariadne peering down at him. Sitting up straight, he managed a small smile. "I'm fine. Just felt like thinking for a bit."

She bit her lip. "Then I'd advise you to dismiss whoever handles your wardrobe because frankly, you look like shit."

Arthur winced. "Ladies shouldn't swear," he mumbled.

She rolled her eyes him. "This is about Eames, isn't it?"

"I can manage the intricacies of my own marriage without your help. Truly."

She scoffed and sat down next to him. "Except you really can't. Look, I don't know what's going on, or why you're both moping all the time."

He frowned. Both?

"But Arthur, if there's a problem, you need to talk to him." She smiled. "Despite the stories, he really can't read your mind. In fact, he's rather stupid about this sort of thing." She stood briskly and offered her hand to him. "In any case, tonight's your birthday and you should be at your own party."

Arthur hesitated for a moment and then took her hand. "Thanks," he whispered as they entered the great hall together.

She nodded and drifted towards one of the lower tables, shooing Arthur in the direction of the high table, and Eames.

The festival celebrating Arthur's ascension to the throne had begun a week prior. It was the final night, and the feast was in full swing. The hall had filled with a hundred ladies and lords, hailing from all over the Winterlands. They sought to outdo each other in raiment and gems; the effect produced was a riotous patchwork of icy silk and dusky satin, scattered with winking jewels that glittered in the candlelight.

Arthur waved to a few of the nobles as he made his way to the high table. If anyone noticed Arthur's rumpled clothes no one mentioned it.

He'd been waiting for this moment his entire life. Yet even with the inheritance of the winter mantle a mere six hours away, he found he couldn't dredge up enough excitement to do anything more than pretend to look interested.

He nodded at Eames as he sat down, who stood out from the snow nymphs and their pale attire by virtue of a crimson waistcoat over gleaming leather leggings.

Eames ignored him. Arthur frowned; it was unlike him not to say hello.

"Are you feeling well?" he asked, resting his hand on Eames's arm.
Eames stiffened, then pushed Arthur's hand off his sleeve like an unwelcome bug. "Quite well. I'd ask you not to touch me in public. I wouldn't want to offend anyone's sensibilities."

Arthur jerked back, feeling as if he'd been stung by a wasp. Since when had Eames cared about propriety? "Are you absolutely sure you're feeling-"

"What I want to know," a belligerent voice cut in, "is why summer scum like you haven't been culled yet. We got your sister and your mother, but your people are like roaches. They just keep coming back."

Arthur looked at the noble sitting on the other side of Eames while viciously clamping down on a curse. He was going to disembowel whoever had put the seating chart together. He didn't care if it was meant to be a joke, willful malice, or simply ignorance. Who in their right mind had decided it would be a good idea to seat a very angry, very drunk Nash next to the King of Summer?

"You're Duke Nash of Connaught?" Eames's voice was mild, and for a moment Arthur dared to hope that things wouldn't escalate.

"Yes," Nash said, swigging his wine like a challenge as he did so.

"I see." Eames smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. "We've met once before, at the battle of Ceana's Crossing." He paused for emphasis and raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you remember? You lost a third of your land, and one of your brothers, I believe. Aorinn, was it?"

Any hope of civility flew out the window.

"I'll string your guts on a fiddle and make you dance as I play it," Nash shouted, pushing away from the table. He fumbled drunkenly for his sword.

"Oh no you will not," Arthur snarled.

Nash hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the sword hilt.

Still unnaturally calm, Eames shook his head. He drew a slim knife out of the folds of his waistcoat with fingers quick as lightning and flipped it from finger to finger.

Arthur felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and blanched as a thin scratching noise filled his ears. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nash freeze. "Eames."

Yet again, Eames ignored him. Of course.

"Eames," he persisted. "That's cold iron."

Arthur realized belatedly that the entire hall had fallen silent, save for the faint rasp of a banshee in the hall's shadowed recesses. A hundred pale faces were watching the scene at the high table unfold, flinty eyes fixated on the dagger in Eames's hand.

"Eames," he hissed. "Put the knife down."

Eames seemed to suddenly notice the hall's deathly silence. He glanced at Arthur for a half second, then let the knife clatter onto the table. The sound echoed through the hall until Cobb, who had been observing the debacle silently at Arthur's left, threw a napkin over it. The buzzing in Arthur's ears suddenly stopped, and he felt, rather than heard, the sigh of the Winter sidhe relaxing.

Eames stood abruptly. "I find I'm no longer hungry. Something about the company, perhaps." He strode out of the hall, without so much as a backwards glance at Arthur.

As he stalked into their bedroom that night, Arthur decided he couldn't take it any longer. Eames was already in bed, pretending to sleep. Typical, Arthur thought with a curl of his lip. This had gone on long enough. "By Finvarra's cross, what madness possessed you?"

Eames flicked an eye open but didn't sit up. "My sister was killed with a baby yet in her. My mother was impaled on an icicle while she begged for her life."

"But Duke Nash didn't-"

"I don't give a flying fuck who he is or what he did or didn't do. I will never stand idly by and listen to the deaths of my family be made light of. And before you mention it, your father's death was provoked."

Arthur gritted his teeth and narrowly managed to restrain himself from slapping Eames in the face. "So you threatened one of my highest ranking nobles with cold iron during a festival filled with civilians?"

Eames closed his eyes again. "Essentially."

Arthur was sick of this. He was sick of Eames glaring at him when he wasn't looking, and equally tired of Eames sneering at him whenever he tried to talk. It didn't help that he still had to watch Eames slide into bed next to him every night, muscles smooth like silk. "I don't know what your problem is," he said, "but I'm tired of it."

Eames rolled over to face him. "My problem," he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. He sat up in bed and narrowed his eyes. "I'd say if anyone has a problem, it would be you."

Arthur glared back at him. So Eames was going to try to make this his fault. Best of luck to him, Arthur thought savagely. Arthur hadn't been the one that had almost started a bloodbath over dinner. Arthur hadn't been ignoring Eames for the past month, and treating him like a distasteful bug when he did acknowledge his presence.

Even though he dimly knew he should've expected this from the start, he couldn't live with it any longer. "You're endangering the treaty," he bit out. "Half of Winter thinks you're manipulating me; the other half thinks you're insane."

Eames exploded. "I'm endangering the treaty? I've at least refrained from ravaging my nobles like a common whore!"

Arthur flinched, guilt clawing at his stomach. "I didn't…"

"Mean for me to see that, I'm sure." Eames narrowed his eyes. "I'm not a fool, Arthur."

Of all the times for Eames to pay attention to him, it had to be that one compromising moment on the balcony. It was stupid, it was unintentional, and it was entirely his fault. He should have known better. The kiss had been his mistake. Eames couldn't have realized that Arthur hadn't wanted it, couldn't be held responsible for making the wrong assumptions. He opened his mouth to explain himself, but Eames spoke first.

"So you're unable to go for a few weeks without finding a noble you can order to bed you. I knew you were a stone cold bastard when I agreed to this, but I never would've pegged you for a slut."

Arthur felt like he'd been stabbed in the gut. That was all he could take. Never mind what he'd done, he couldn't live with contempt and hatred raining down on him day in and day out. It was too much. "Do you think I wanted this?" he bit out. "Am I supposed to live like a celibate monk for the rest of my life, married to someone who killed my father, someone who's so disgusted by me he can't even look me in the fucking face?"

Eames suddenly seemed to realize he'd gone too far; that he'd pushed Arthur to a snapping point. His eyes widened and he moved to get out of the bed, but Arthur turned around and strode out of the room before he could say anything. He'd already been humiliated enough. He wasn't going to wait for Eames to laugh at him.

Arthur had an icy temper, but it steadied quickly, leaving him feeling foolish and ashamed. He paced through the ice gardens, sticking to the back trails where he was less likely to bother trysting courtiers.

Eames had called him a slut. Laughing softly, he smashed a carving of a swan and watching the ice shards fall into the snow. They twinkled back at him in the dark like black diamonds. Eames had called him a slut and quite frankly, he was right. Despite the hot summer blood in his veins, Eames hadn't been the one to kiss his noblemen at the first possible opportunity. Of course Eames was angry. He'd been defying his own nature for peace and Arthur had acted like none of it mattered.

But it did matter. Arthur would be king at the stroke of midnight, and he owed it to his people to keep the treaty in place. That meant disregarding a few words spoken in anger. In fact, he'd do better. Swallowing his pride, he walked purposefully out of the gardens while composing an apology in his head.

He hadn't gotten any further than Eames, I'm sorry, can we talk about this? when he found himself standing outside the double doors of the royal suite. He swallowed. Perhaps he should wait longer, spend more time thinking about what he truly needed to say- but no. Ice wouldn't melt if it hid from the sun, and his argument with Eames wasn't going to resolve itself unless he actually talked to him. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door with a forceful push.

"Eames, I-"

The room was empty and the candles were cold. As he peered about in the darkness, a paper propped up on Eames's pillow caught his eye. He smiled; it was easy to recognize the looping scrawl of Eames's handwriting, even from across the room. Perhaps it was an apology. Heart in his throat, he gingerly picked it up and began to read.

Arthur,
This isn't working. I don't know if this standard of behavior was your intention when you suggested this plan, but I can't do this anymore. Our people are too different; it was foolish to ever think we could bridge that gap. I am not against peace, but separation now seems more effective.
By the time you read this, I will already be in the Summerlands. Any pursuit past your own borders will be regarded by my men as an act of war, and dealt with accordingly.
King Eames d'Aestas IV

Something crumpled in Arthur's chest. Shock buzzed over his nerves, leaving in its wake churning horror that finally faded into a blank numbness. Everything, ruined. People were going to die, his people, Eames's people, all because of him. Distantly, he realized he should alert Cobb and the other ministers. Instead, he curled about the paper like a wounded animal and stared down at the floor. He'd failed. The war would continue. And he was never going to see Eames again.

AN: Thank you all so much for your reviews; I really can't express how much they mean to me, haha. A lot of my fics are posted on anonymous memes before I clean them up here and people can be pretty mean in with the anon commenting. It's very encouraging when people tell me they do in fact like what I'm writing :D