Back when she'd been alive, Arthur's mother had been fond of saying that everything looked better after resting. Blinking awake blearily, Arthur decided she must have been mistaken.

He sat up and winced as it all came rushing back to him. He should have known, he thought dully. Eames wasn't of Winter; even his skin felt wrong under Arthur's. But despite that, he'd really believed that they weren't that different. The softness in his eyes, the gentleness of his touch… Arthur had felt like… he shook his head. It didn't matter anymore.

Winter winds, how had he messed everything up so badly? He'd managed to alienate his people, marry a manipulative killer, and finally drive away said killer, ruining any chance of peace in the process. Arthur glanced at the note, crumpled and grey in the predawn light. Eames had said he wasn't against peace, but Arthur knew better. With Eames gone, the nobles would start clamoring for war again. They'd increase the guards on their lands, perhaps send a few groups out for 'reconnaissance,' and then the fighting would start up again.

He glanced out at the predawn light, realizing dully that the night had passed. He was king. The realization was empty and cold. He could command the snows and ice storms now, without Cobb's help. And the armies.

He grimaced, picking up the note again. At least he could send out patrols without having to explain to Cobb what had happened. How he'd failed. He glanced down at the note, etching the words condemning him into his memory like a punishing brand.

"I don't know if this standard of behavior was your intention when you suggested this plan, but I can't do this anymore."

Arthur frowned suddenly.

"…your intention when you suggested this plan…"

"…when you suggested this plan…"

Arthur had suggested nothing. Everything, from the shadowed beginning in Arthur's quarters to the wedding and beyond, had been suggested by Eames.

With shaking fingers, he experimentally called for a snowflake to rest in his palm. It appeared in the blink of an eye, a testament to his new power. He barely noticed.

"King Eames," he whispered. "find him."

The snowflake spun unevenly for a moment, then fluttered, almost hesitantly, to the bedroom window. Beyond it, Arthur could make out the mountain range that formed the northernmost edge of his realm, standing silently in the predawn light. North. Away from the Summerlands, away from Tor Aestas.

Arthur swore and dashed from the room. Something was horribly wrong.

The reasonable thing to do would have been to gather a pack of trackers bonded to ice wolves and send them after Eames, with the enchanted snowflake as a guide.

Arthur was not feeling very reasonable.

Bounding through the forest's snowdrifts, he reflected briefly that bringing a cloak might have been a good idea. The wind howled through the trees like a mourner in the throes of loss, and the snow fell so thickly that the sky was almost solid with it. He batted the clumps of snow away from his face as he ran, narrowly avoiding tree branches.

It took him longer than it should have to remember that he was now the king of Winter.

"Ventus, subsisto!" he screamed into the gale. The wind stopped abruptly, leaving an eerie bubble of calm, punctuated by silently drifting clumps of snow. The outline of the Northern Glacier jutted up against a muted green sky in the distance. Closer, Arthur could make out candlelight flickering between the trees. Narrowing his eyes, he stalked towards it, motes of ice floating in his wake.

He heard the voices long before he could make out the speakers.

"…and it's hardly murder. It's not our fault he can't handle a bit of ice."

A few chuckles echoed off the branches, though the sound was curiously muffled by the blanket of snow.

"If I die, the war will never end." Arthur's heart clenched; it was Eames. The edges of his words alternated between slurred and jagged, as if Eames was fighting for lucidity one second at a time.

Someone scoffed. "You never wanted peace. You would've killed him on a whim."

Arthur stiffened. He knew that voice.

"I'd never hurt to him."

"Quiet, filth." A thump, a sharp intake of breath. And again, laughter.

"K-killing me. It won't change that I-"

Two thumps, an aborted whimper.

"M-my, my. Jealous?" Eames rasped.

A wet crack rang out and Eames didn't speak again.

Arthur had heard enough. He stepped into the clearing, taking in the tableau around him with a frozen calm.

Someone had forged mottled layers of frost over Eames's limbs, trapping him in a snow bank. His linen trousers were soaked through and he wore no shirt. Arthur noted faintly that he'd stopped shivering and lay quiescent, his head tilted forward and his eyes closed. Around him stood six men, laughing and joking with each other. Arthur narrowed his eyes. He knew them all. Three were barons; two were earls. And the last, his boot pressing Eames's prone back into the snow, was Nash.

"What is going on?" Arthur asked quietly.

The nobles blanched and Nash whipped around like a child caught misbehaving. "He was plotting to murder you, Highness."

"I see." Arthur glanced over at Eames's still body. His lips were beginning to turn blue.

Arthur felt like he was floating, separated from everything but Eames's slowly cooling body. This was wrong, all wrong. Eames couldn't die. If he died, the treaty would die with him, and the armies would regroup the next day. More people would die, more innocents, Winterlings and Summerlings alike.

But it all paled when Arthur realized that if Eames died, he would never be able to apologize. He would never be able to feel the softness of Eames's fingers on his cheeks.

That was completely unacceptable.

Taking a deep breath, he willed his face smooth. "So. Let us speak truthfully. This is a coup?" he asked evenly.

Nash blinked and shook his head. "Of course not. We only seek to protect you."

Arthur smiled. From the way Nash blanched, it was not a pleasant smile by any means. To protect him. He was sure the nobles would be pleased to see him confined to a tower like some fairytale princess, powerless. Dimly aware of his emotions draining away like blood from a dying man, he looked up and rested his eyes on each man in the clearing. If he stared at Eames for a half second longer than anyone else, no one noticed. "I see," he whispered. "You wish to protect me. But you have forgotten something."

Nash smiled, still trying to come off as amicable. "What would that be, my Prince?"

"Today," he breathed, "is my birthday. I am not your prince. I am your King." And with that, Arthur raised his hands and let the full power of his birthright descend upon the clearing. The screams of the nobles were drowned out by the shrieks of a million razor-sharp slivers of ice.

Arthur woke to warmth, light, and Cobb's scowling face peering down at him. He was in his bed, he realized, covered with down comforters. He felt fine, save for a few lingering aches in his fingers and neck. But something was wrong; if this was his bed, where was-

"Eames," Arthur gasped, sitting up. "Is he-"

Cobb snorted. "Eames is fine. He woke up yesterday."

He'd thought the injuries would've been more serious than that. Arthur frowned and smoothed the blankets over his legs. "How long have I been out?"

"Three days." Cobb glared at him and shoved a crock of cinnamon porridge at Arthur as if it had personally offended him. "You can't just go gallivanting off in the middle of a blizzard and rip people to death with ice shards the second you inherit the winter mantle. Without telling anyone. In the middle of the night."

"Sorry about that," Arthur offered, hoping he sounded sincere.
"You're lucky Lady Ariadne saw you leave. Really, you couldn't have just stabbed them? One icicle each? Or better yet, asked some of your very competent guards to kill them for you?"

Arthur wisely said nothing and took a bite of porridge instead.
Cobb threw up his hands in despair. "In any case, you can go visit Eames once you've finished eating. And please hurry. He's a terrible patient."

Half an hour later, Arthur stood poised outside the royal suites, his forehead resting against the door in silent contemplation.

"I can help you open the it if you've forgotten how."

He jumped, smiling sheepishly when he saw it was only Ariadne. "I don't want to disturb him." He shivered at the memory of Eames's still body, blue lipped and pale in the snow. Eames seemed to be tighter, jerkier, in his presence. He didn't want to tax him while he was ill. That he was terrified of Eames's rejection had nothing to do with it, he told himself sternly.

Ariadne shrugged. "I suppose it's none of my business. He's been asking for you though. Won't sleep." She looked up at him innocently, her blue eyes wide and guileless. "I'd feel horrible if he got worse, wouldn't you?"

Arthur managed a smile. He didn't think he'd ever met someone quite so cheerfully manipulative. "I'll see him in a minute. If you think he wouldn't mind, of course."

Ariadne's smile somehow managed to widen. "I'm sure he wouldn't," she purred.

Hoping to change the subject, he turned to face her and fixed her with a steady gaze. "By the way. I have to wonder how you knew where Cobb sleeps. He told me you woke him when I was missing." He figured it was nothing and even if there was something going on, he doubted she would admit it. But one minute she spent making excuses was another minute away from Eames.

"Oh, that. We're getting married."

Arthur jerked away from the door. "You-what?" That was impossible. He mentally reviewed his talk with Cobb, trying to remember if he'd seemed different. Perhaps a bit happier, but that could just be in reaction to Arthur's not-death, he supposed. And Cobb couldn't keep secrets at all. "Does Cobb even know yet," he asked finally, trying not to smile.

She grinned back. "Not yet. I'm still working out the details. I want twelve ice swans carved- big ones, mind you, not pathetic goose-sized knock-offs. And we'll be importing nobles who actually know how to dance, none of this awkward swaying nonsense. I already talked with my handmaids about giving Cobb a few fire beetles, not that he'd know anything about the custom. But I thought it would be nice."

Arthur frowned. He thought to the jar in his room and bit his lip in concentration. "It's customary to give fire beetles to one's fiancé?" he asked, trying to remember if Eames had ever mentioned anything of the sort.

Ariadne gave him an odd look. "Not as such, no. It's from an old nursery rhyme. You give people different insects as gifts depending on how you feel about them." She screwed her eyes up and bit her lip in concentration. "I can't quite remember the beginning, but the last verse goes something like this."

"Three gleaming mantises for hatred to the end,
Five shining copper-snails for always-faithful friends,
Seven wings of dragon-glass for gratitude above,
And nine blazing firelings for everlasting love."

She nodded to herself in satisfaction. "That's the old name for the beetles, firelings. The name comes from an old myth that says the fire god made them for the wind goddess to decorate her hair with and that's why they can fly."

Arthur smiled, trying hard not to think about the lump in his throat. Everlasting love. That didn't quite sound right. Perhaps Eames had simply been following his people's customs. Arthur knew plenty of people who refused to swear in Father Frost's name even though they didn't explicitly believe in him. "Is it a common tradition then?"

Ariadne shrugged, oblivious to Arthur's disquiet. "Not at court. So many of the marriages are arranged, and it's considered to be very gauche, giving fire beetles to someone you aren't in love with."

"Oh," Arthur said. Perhaps Eames had meant it ironically?

"If you're interested in the rest, you should ask Eames." She frowned, eying him like he was a puzzle to be solved. "It was his favorite nursery rhyme when he was little."

Arthur tried to picture Eames as a child, bright eyed and innocent. "I doubt he wants to talk to me about it." Or about anything.

Ariadne stared at him for a minute, then sighed. "Honestly," she muttered. Before he could respond, she yanked the bedroom door open and pushed him through. He turned indignantly, but before he could say anything the door cracked shut.

Arthur cringed and prayed it hadn't woken Eames. He was probably still sleeping; there was no way he'd be lucid enough for a conversation. Why, Arthur could just twist the doorknob a half-turn and push the door open gently, Eames would never even need to know-

"Arthur?"