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Oh, how you entertain him–!
Don't think he doesn’t notice the way you long for him. He's seen the way you try to look away when he kisses your hand, the way you curse quietly under your breath at his surely effortless charm. When he sees you in the crowds – and he does see you, because your eyes bear down on him like twin arrows, even as just another face in said crowds – he makes sure to glance over you for just a little too long. You'll squirm and flush, he knows – and he chuckles a little at that, delighted by how stupendously simple it is to get a rise out of you.
Back when he was – ugh – the Ice King (what a plain and boorish title for a plain and boorish man!) – he'd been fixated on the idea of kidnapping himself a paramour, mindlessly roving the lands for any woman that fit the bill. That was thanks to Betty's lingering influence, God rest her soul. But Betty, the dear thing, is a remnant of the past – and the Winter King is beyond that now, beyond the things that shaped him into his former selves.
If he wants to take a lover, he needs not resort to such unkingly means to do so. No – he's offloaded those onto the Candy Queen. The Winter King is a man of carefully curated allure, of glances cast by lidded eyes and seemingly casual my-dears and my-darlings.
And those charms seem to work particular wonders on you.
To put his reasoning in short; life in solitude with only ice constructs as his company has gotten dull. Romance has been circling his mind once more, settling lightly on his cranium like the first snowflake of wintertime. And so he'd suavely asked you to meet him in his castle tonight – I may be a king, my dear, but I am not beyond hospitality – and has been swiftly preparing ever since.
The lights in his palace are dimmed, his room deceptively warm for what it is made of. He examines his face in his vanity mirror one last time as ice-construct birds flutter at his sides, having just helped him into his suit coat. His skin is an icy blue, as usual – not too frozen, but just frozen enough to cast stark shadows across his face, over his pointed nose and slightly soft cheeks. He still looks as young as the day he'd turned, but immortality is a funny thing, and he rather likes the air of agedness it gives him. There's a sophistication in his eyes, in the slight wrinkles that pair with them. In the manner in which he conducts himself, brushing a strand of soft white hair from his forehead.
Frankly, if he could, he'd kiss himself. Well – if he wouldn't assuredly fall in love, that is.
Humming a clear note, he beckons the ice-construct birds again, and they flutter down to his shoulders. “You’ll be good for our guest, won’t you?” he asks with a spritely air, brushing a finger underneath the chin of one of them. “By making me look good, of course.”
The bird trills and the Winter King laughs, the sound ringing like a bell. Its counterpart lands on his finger, as if affirming his question. He’s seen this sort of thing in movies – well, had, back in the day – and not only does it help his image, it’s quite delightful besides. He’s always been fond of whimsy, even at this age.
“Good. I can’t let this be anything less than perfect.”
With a wave of his hand, the Winter King stands, and the ice-construct birds flutter in a circle around his head. He can’t help a grin when one pecks his nose – just delightful! – before it joins its fellows and they disappear up into the high ceiling above. He looks himself over one last time, picking up a little bottle of throat spray from his vanity and giving himself a little spritz.
And then, an ice-construct guard appears at his door, and he knows exactly what he’s going to hear next.
You look a sight standing at the door to the castle – head tucked against your chest, a brilliant flush on your cheeks. You’re dressed stunningly – in clothes much nicer than he’d expected from common folk. The moonlight silhouettes you softly – as though you were a walking dream. The Winter King’s words are almost stolen from him then – almost.
“Aren’t you a vision?” he chirps when he greets you – “Oho, and as nervous as I was not minutes ago,” he adds when he takes your clammy hand. In reality, he wasn’t at all – but he likes the humanizing aspect of the small talk, the way you raise your head and ease a little at the remark. He kisses your hand then – the finishing touch – and reaps the delicious reward of your barely-concealed excitement, your coy remark that he’s quite a charmer.
“Me?” he asks, equally coy. Yes , you say, pushing him a bit with your other hand as you chide him for being a tease. He pushes you back – “Pushing a king? How bold, my dear! Ah, but can the fair one take what they deal out?” – and the two of you take a moment to laugh over the little exchange. Your nerves do not seem to be quelled in full – why would they be, so soon – but the tension in the air that’d been lingering all evening has begun to ease, and with any luck, it’ll be fully loosened within the hour.
“Ah, but it’d be awfully rude of me to leave you –” he winks, and your hand tightens on his as he does – “out in the cold! ”
Again he laughs, and you laugh too, though it comes far more bashful than the last. When the laughter dies, you pipe up again, still bashful – you still can’t believe he’s even half as taken with you as you are with him. “Believe it, my darling!” he trills, taking a bow. “There’s something bewitching about you, you know – and even a king gets lonely. Suppose I’d like to spend the evening with a kind and gentle admirer of mine. Suppose I’d been enraptured by those gorgeous –” he stops himself then, holding up a hand to his mouth. “– I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?”
No, you say, clearing your throat. How precious–! You tell him – a bit bluntly – that he can continue all he likes, and he laughs that bellchime laugh again.
“Oh, but I can’t get carried away, now,” he says, clapping his hands together as he lets go of yours. “I’ve so much planned for the evening – our evening.”
Our evening, you repeat, as if you can hardly believe it. Let’s get to it then, shall we?
“I would love nothing more,” the Winter King smiles. With a final clap, the ice-construct birds flutter down from the rafters, and you stare for a moment before he gestures for you to offer them your coat. When you do, they take it and fly away, one offering you a peck upon your cheek as you do so.
That seems to relax you – you turn to the King with an almost bemused look, remarking that I’ve only ever seen birds do that in the movies. You’re not a princess instead of a king, are you?
“Afraid not,” the Winter King laughs, though he supposes either title could suit him if he wore it well enough. Goodness, your humor endears him. He offers you his arm with reified romanticism; purring “Now, as you said – shall we?”
We shall , you agree, and the hesitance in the way you wrap your hands around his arm lets him know that he’s pressed the correct button. You linger a little as you walk – not quite pressed against his side yet – but you draw closer to him as you take in the spaciousness of your new surroundings, no doubt sticking to the only centrepoint you have.
He must admit he likes that – you clinging to him, a fearful little fawn – you needing him for assurance. Egotistical of him? Perhaps, but who can blame him? He pats your arm and hums soft comfort; “Don’t worry. My home is your home tonight.”
You look up at him, and he looks back, fixing you with his patented half-lidded look. Then – as though it had only been a matter of fleeting happenstance (he’ll leave it to linger in your mind, to really simmer) – he turns away and sticks a finger sharply in the air.
“Now!” he exclaims, and a bevy of his minions instantly rush in at his call. In a flurry they’ve set up a dinner table, complete with candlelight and flutes of champagne. This – now, this is the first part of his plan, the opening act. The tablecloth glistens like a sheet of pure white ice, the chairs elaborate and decorated in crystalline patterns – and sadly, no music, though that is only because he’s saving that for a little later in the evening. You’ve only just met, and moreover, you’re certainly not used to the royal treatment. He can’t possibly overwhelm you just yet. Wouldn’t want to frighten you off!
Ah, but you’re just the perfect amount of stunned – your eyes glisten just beautifully both with wonder and the stray magic in the air, and he wishes then that he could try and test for what else could make them sparkle so. A swell of pride takes him at the reminder that your wonder is his doing alone – not that anyone else could take the credit, of course! “Come, my dear! Sit!” he says, pulling out one of the chairs and beckoning for you to do as he’s asked.
You do just that, and spryly he leaps to take the seat opposite you. “Do you like champagne?” he asks, lifting his cup with the palm of his hand to swirl it idly.
You shake your head – I’ve never tried it before. Cautiously, you take a little sip. You mention it’s a bit too high-class for your usual palette – given – and he nods. “Of course, of course! But you’d best get used to it, my dear – tonight, I spoil you.”
You assert you’ll do your best, tucking your head against your chest as you take another delicate sip of champagne. He does the same – albeit bolder, with a flourish. “Waiter! Oh, waiter!” he calls after he drinks down near half the glass, crossing a leg and waving a hand. An ice-construct vaguely in the shape of one skates towards the table, looping it in elaborate arcs (and even doing a figure-eight, what a show!) before setting down a large tray covered in all manner of frozen desserts.
Sweets? You sound incredulous.
“But of course! A man of my status can afford to indulge. Besides, I have a particular visitor that leaves behind a number of stray ingredients.” He wrinkles his nose, the Candy Queen’s manic sugar panic still fresh in his mind. Ah, sacrifices. “Why not do something all my own with them, hm? Partake in a little wonder and whimsy.”
Wonder and whimsy indeed, you remark, your pretty eyes going wide as saucers. The waiter skates away again – but not before you thank them, how utterly quaint! – and the King waves a hand over the banquet before you, every bit the gentleman host. “Have whatever you’d like, my dear.”
He watches you keenly as you consider your choices. Now, he’d never lost sight of the joys of indulgence, mind, but he’d forgotten just how much of a rush it is to get someone like this! Everything is going just so, he considers to himself proudly as you begin to chow down on a bowl piled high with ice cream. Perfectly so – because even as you eat, the King still catches you glancing at him from over the bowl, that old starstruck look in your eyes.
It spurs him on – prompts him to make a show of glancing back just as he’s always done, too. He lowers his champagne glass from his lips and locks eyes, studying the way the soft light silhouettes your face, the slight curl of your lashes, the cut of your clothes. You’d make a stunning picture beside him, he notes idly, should he take you as his lover in earnest.
After a good moment of silence and a thorough lack of snacking, you clutch your spoon in your hand as you gesture a little in his direction. “Oho,” the King laughs, as though you’d caught him stealing the cherry from your sundae dinner, “don’t mind me, my dear.” Effortlessly feigning innocence, he asks; “I do hope I wasn’t staring. Was I?”
And he’s hit another square on his bingo card – the performance of prim politeness on his part draws the sweetest coo out of you, a little breath of no, not at all.
“Come now,” the Winter King says, playing at a little of his own shyness. “Don’t hold back – I won’t have you frozen dead over good old-fashioned honesty.”
You insist that if anyone was staring, it must’ve been you. It’s just – seeing you up close –
“Different than looking at me from a distance, hm?” The Winter King leans forward then, resting his head atop a fist as he sets an elbow on the table. (A bit of bad manners never hurt anyone.)
Mhm, you nod. Goodness, you’re just precious–!
“How so?”
Putting me on the spot? you tease, though your bated breath betrays you. And here I thought you were a gentleman.
“I’m only curious.”
Well, you say , the words a little huff. Oh – this is going to sound so cliche, but – it just makes you seem so much more real.
“It does, doesn’t it?” He leans forward, smile curling like a cat’s.
You tell him it does – it’s easy to forget he’s just a person too, you tell him.
“I’m glad to hear it! It does get so lonely being King,” he nods, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead as his champagne glass still hangs from it. “So isolating, you know? But I was once just as ordinary as any of you.”
You affirm that you remember – everyone knows, of course, the Winter King’s noble tale, of overcoming the curse of his magic crown and modestly deciding to use the throne said curse had granted him for well instead of ill. You can see it in his features, even beneath the pale blue chill. He’s made sure of that.
You’re thankful you can keep him company tonight. You let him know as much.
“And I am thankful I can keep yours, my dear,” he purrs. When you shiver, he tosses you a wink – just because the second shiver that results from it makes him feel every bit the cat that’d caught the canary.
You chat over the rest of dinner – falling into a rhythm of sorts. The Winter King, of course, aides in that. A king must have full marks in the art of conversation; and he does, spinning stories of his heroic exploits and fondness for spoiling his adoring public. “You’ve got the golden ticket there,” he teases, laughing at the perplexed expression plastered upon your face at his dated idiom. “Now,” he says as you finish your fill, looking up at him with the sweetest of expectant eyes, “on the subject of spoiling – you can’t have dinner without a show, can you?”
Oh, the way you cock your head to the side in response could send a man reeling–! Darling little thing – when you answer yes he nearly scoops you up from your chair and twirls you away to his piano room in a flurry. You don’t seem to mind, though, bracing your hands on his shoulders. It’s every bit the fairytale you were promised, a magical fantasy of snow and ice.
You’d forgotten he can fly, apparently – “I can fly!” he echoes, giving you an extra little spin in the air. “Isn’t it grand?”
You agree with a laugh, though you cling to him just a little tighter, hands clasping his lapels for dear life. A third time he twirls you just to draw you closer, letting a hand rest on the back of your head. Magic shimmers in the air and freezes in little crystals of ice as he takes the long way around to the room du jour, letting you really marvel at the sheer decadence of it all.
And marvel you do. You can’t help but rest your head in the crook of his neck as you look around – “Enjoying the view?” he asks, drawing you nearer still.
You are.
“What a coincidence,” he says, floating still as he brushes a strand of hair from your pretty face and lets his hand linger at your cheek. His birds flutter by again, dancing around the two of you as you meet his fond eyes. Even the magic in the air grows heavy at his cue, like the fog of a dream. “I am too.”
You startle – oh, that is good – and stammer out your next words. Of course you’d enjoy it – you live here! Imagine living somewhere and not enjoying it. That’d – it wouldn’t be good, is what I mean –
“Aren’t you a card?” The Winter King tosses back his head, bemused, before carrying on the rest of the way. He’ll let you mull over that fleeting little moment – after all, he can tell that you already are. Who wouldn't?
He sets you down atop the piano when you reach it. Now this is the icing on the cake – act the second of tonight’s spectacular.
You play the piano? you ask as he floats down to the bench, flexing his hands over the keys. Your hand is pressed over your heart, legs crossed demurely.
“A little hobby of mine from the old days,” he shrugs, playing it off. “I do hope you’ll forgive me – I’m a little rusty, but I wanted to make tonight extra special.”
In reality, he isn’t rusty at all – but he knows exactly what he little show of modesty will do to you, hasn’t forgotten the humanizing aspect effect. And do things to you it does – you laugh and say you think he’ll do just fine, with hardly concealed excitement.
“Well, if you insist,” he winks. “Lights!”
In a sharp and reverberating sound the lights shut out – snap down to a spotlight focused solely on the two of you. The King lifts his hands and holds them there for a moment – let it linger now, Winter, savor it – before his fingers touch down upon the keys. He draws out the first few notes with expert grace and they reverberate just as the sound of the lights had, as sharp and clear as the ice of the instrument they come from. And he plays for you alone, letting passion fill each fingerfall.
He closes his eyes and feels your own watching him – studying him, no doubt. What you see speaks for itself. A pianist lost in his music is an entrancing thing, even when said pianist isn’t the most wonderous ruler in all the land. Even he finds himself getting a little carried away – he can hardly help himself as he adds little flourishes to the movements of his hands, can hardly resist humming along as he pushes the pedal with his boot, enjoys the way the music fills him from tip to toe.
Winter King , he hears you mutter to yourself between the notes. He pretends he doesn’t hear – though goodness is it hard for him to suppress a satisfied smile about it. Instead, he simply carries on, opening his eyes just enough to steal a glance at you in the stark spotlight.
“Have you ever heard this song?” he mutters, still half-lost in it. You shake your head. “I didn’t imagine so,” he smiles, puckish. “It’s from my time, after all.”
Your time. You sound thrilled at the prospect – he is a man of another world, and a man of experience besides–!
“Now, now, why’re you saying it like that?” he teases, lowering his voice just a fraction and cocking a carefully manicured brow. “Does my immortal transience tickle you, my dear?”
Not everyone can say they’ve had their king woo them with a song from another time, you manage back – he’s stolen your breath away now, he can tell. Each word comes out a whisper, like little wisps of winter wind.
“And yet here you are!” The Winter King declares, flipping back as his song crescendos to stick a leg in the air and point it right at you. “The sole audience of my sweet serenade!”
You bow your head and bat your eyes, as flattered as all get-out. There we are , the Winter King thinks to himself in glee . Act deux has gone off without so much as a hitch – you’re putty in his hands now, no doubt about it! Just perfect – now the fun can really begin–!
He rises from his flip into a full stand, raising a hand to momentarily interrupt his ditty and summon an ice-construct pianist to carry on in his place. Then, he snaps – and in a flash, the two of you’s shoes have turned into magical ice skates.
The Winter King sets a hand on your cheek – turning those beautiful eyes to look right at his. He glances at you over the rims of his glasses, letting a thumb trace the side of your face, down to grace over your positively tempting lips. For a moment, he considers kissing you then and there – no, no, Winter King. Can’t get too eager–!
“Shall we dance?” he asks with a wink.
Your answer hardly takes a second to follow.
You’re lifted from the piano and swept across the floor, the spotlight following you and the king as you glide in perfect and utterly graceful arcs. His hand rests at the small of your back, the other lacing your fingers with his. His face is close – so close you can feel his cool breath on your skin, so close that his nose nearly touches your own. The music picks up with the two of you, two – sweeping and grand, now, rather than the simple intimacy of the king’s performance. It makes your heart race – the Winter King can feel it, beating nearly against his own.
He’d forgotten just how much fun dancing was until now – perhaps he’ll host a ball in the coming days? You could even be his guest of honor – now there’s a thought! But he mustn’t lose sight of what’s right in front of him – of your fervently beating heart, of the sweat upon your palm as he clutches it tighter still.
Act three now. The final number. The romantical pièce de résistance.
“My dear,” he hums as he dips you, pulling you close enough to whisper in your ear, to bury his face against the small of your neck. “You’re shivering. Are you, perhaps – cold?”
You shake your head.
He slows you to a stop then. His hand moves from yours to brush through your hair, letting the strands fall over his palm as it falls back to caress your cheek. You sink instinctively into the touch, your now-free hand pressing against his chest. You’re drawn to him like a moth to a flame – just as you’d been the first day he’d noticed you. Perfectly enamored. Perfectly adoring.
Perfect. Just like him.
“I’d like very much to kiss you,” he says. “Have been liking to. May I?”
You nod. It’s all the affirmation he needs.