Work Text:
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
- Stevie Smith
⸻❅❄❆⸻
“Tell me a story.”
It was the same request Simon made every night at bedtime, and just like every night, his father pretended to protest.
“You should be going to sleep, young man,” he said, planting his hands on his hips without any real sternness in his voice.
Simon grabbed his father's hand and tugged him towards the bed. “Please, please, please!”
As expected, his father easily conceded with a chuckle, sitting himself upon the edge of the mattress. “Alright, only because you asked nicely. What story shall I tell?”
His father didn’t need a book when it came to his stories; he kept them all in his head, for they were the tales he’d grown up on, tales of deathless men and chicken-legged houses and greedy tsars and girls made of snow. But tonight there was only one story Simon wanted to hear.
“Morozko!” he crowed.
His father brushed at Simon's hair, smiling in amusement. “You’re not bored of that one yet?”
Simon shook his head resolutely, which only made his father smile wider. “In that case...”
Eager, Simon snuggled in closer to his father, ready to listen.
"Once upon a time," his father began, "in the land of tall trees and long winters, there was a young girl, a girl who many knew to be kind and selfless. The only one who did not see this was her stepmother, whose own daughter she saw no fault, but for the young girl only ever saw a mistake, a burden.
"The stepmother treated the young girl cruelly, and wished to be rid of her. The young girl's father loved his daughter, but it meant little in the face of his fearful love of his wife, and so when the day came that the stepmother told him to send the young girl away to die in the frost, he did as he was told.
"He took her out in the wilderness, far away from any human dared to linger for fear of a slow death come nightfall. This was the domain of King Frost, and it was here that the girl was left by her father, who could not bear to witness her miserable death.
"The little girl, through no fault of her own, had been forsaken. It was no wonder that she began to weep, and even though there was no one around to hear, her tears were silent, for she did not want her sadness to be known. She'd learnt a long time ago that it was better to hide her weeping not only from her stepmother, who would punish her for every tear, but also from her father, who she knew could not bear to see her sad. She hoped, even now, that her silence would be enough to keep her death from causing any more trouble than she'd already caused.
"Suddenly, there was a crack of ice behind her, and she startled at the sound. Her shock only grew when she saw, springing amongst the trees and leaving a path of frost in his wake, King Frost."
"Ooh," Simon said excitedly, even though he'd been told this story many times before.
His father shot him an amused smile before he continued. He cleared his throat and then, in a coarse, throaty voice he spoke on behalf of King Frost.
"'Well maiden, do you know who I am?'"
"Papa," Simon chided, "he doesn't sound like that. Do the voice you normally use!"
"I know, I know, but I thought we'd change it up a bit," his father said. "Just let me use it this once, and next time I'll use the usual voice, okay?"
Simon considered the bargain for a moment before giving a single nod. "Okay."
With that same raspy voice from before, his father spoke once more as King Frost. "'I am he who brings the snow and cold. I am he who reddens noses and chills bones. I am King Frost.'
"The girl bowed her head. 'All hail, my King,' she said, in a trembling voice. 'Have you come to take me away?'
"King Frost came to a stop upon the fir tree beneath which the girl sat, and perched upon the lowest branch, a considering look on his voice as he watched the little girl hug her paltry clothing close.
"'Are you warm, maiden?' he asked.
"'Yes, quite warm!" she told him through a shiver.
"King Frost leaned in closer, and the air became ever sharper, the very touch of it like knives across the skin.
"'Maiden, are you warm,' he asked once more.
"The young girl trembled, her tears turning to frost on her eyelashes. "Very warm, my King."
"King Frost leapt from the branch, the ground cracking with ice under his feet. He kneeled down to the girl, and took her hands in his own.
"'Are you still warm, little girl?'
"And though she was stiff and frozen, and could not even feel the touch of his hands on hers through the numbness, she smiled weakly. 'Still warm, King Frost. As warm as I ever could want for.'
"So uncomplaining! And so gentle. King Frost was touched by her meek, considerate nature, and her kind words in the face of a cold so many would scorn. He took pity on her, and withdrew his frost and snow and ice so that she may truly be warm. He covered her in blankets, and then covered those blankets with beautiful jewels and silver and gold fineries. Lastly, he gifted her a crown, not unlike his own, made a gold and bright jewels, a promise that one day she would be—"
Simon yawned, and when he'd blinked his eyes back open, his father had stood up from the bed. “I think we should end there for the night.”
"Wait, no, keep going," Simon said. "The story isn't done yet!"
"No, but we wouldn't want you dozing off before the best bit, would we?"
"But I'm not"—Simon yawned again—"tired."
His father chuckled. “Well now I know you're lying.”
Simon pouted, but not for long, his father's words bringing a question to mind. "Papa..." he said, "why does the little girl lie to King Frost? Isn't that bad?"
"Yes, lying is very bad,” his father said, “but sometimes it is necessary. If she had complained about her discomfort, she would have offended him."
Simon frowned. "But he was hurting her. How could it be rude for her to tell him that?"
His father was silent for a moment, his eyes distant with thought. “Because she was being resilient.”
"So it's okay to lie about...being in pain?”
"Only if it keeps others from hurting, yes.”
“Oh...”
That still didn’t feel right. But if his father said it, it had to be true, didn't it? Simon snapped his eyes back up.
"You're not going to marry a mean lady, are you?" he said. "I don't want to be sent into the cold."
His father laughed, the sound soft and almost sad. "I would never do that to you, lyubimyy. And besides, I wouldn't dream of giving my heart away to anyone else. Your mom is it for me. She is—was...she was..."
His father went quiet, his gaze drifting to the window. He had that heavy look in his eyes that he got sometimes, on those days when he didn't get out of bed no matter how much Simon urged him to, or the days when he seemed to forget Simon was there at all.
His father always said he was fine, and most of the time, it was true. Most days, he would smile and laugh and be lively and talk about Mom without so much as a flinch. It was hard to tell sometimes, and Simon couldn't help but wonder if even the good days weren't as good as they seemed.
"Papa," he asked, "are you okay?"
His father blinked, and he was happy once more. "Of course. Of course I'm okay.”
Simon fidgeted with the covers. “Okay.”
His father stared at him, in that way adults so often did ever since mom had gone away, like there was something they didn't want to tell him.
"You're happy, right?" his father said.
Simon hugged the covers tighter to himself, the question making him feel as hollow as one of his father's matryoshka dolls. Yes, he was happy, but not like he'd been happy before, when mom was here to make him pancakes and write stories with him and hug him when it got too cold and tell him she loved him to the moon and back. He missed that happiness.
He felt his throat tighten, and his eyes began to sting. But then he looked up at his dad, and saw how he was smiling: weakly, and not quite right, but still smiling. Still okay. Simon didn't want to ruin that. He didn't want to make him hurt again.
"Yes, Papa," he lied, "I'm happy."
⸻❅❄❆⸻
The crown was... strange.
The Enchiridion had said it was ancient, but he'd assumed that to mean it came from the classical period, or at best the Iron Age. But, according to carbon dating, the crown supposedly originated from all the way back to the Cretaceous period, which was frankly impossible, considering humans had yet to exist at the point to even make such a piece, let alone invent the idea of royalty in the first place. Stranger still, the gems were not like any he knew on Earth, and every gemologist he'd met with had only shrugged hopelessly.
These peculiarities, however, weren't even the most unusual. There was the way it smelt like fresh grass and cold mornings, or the way it almost seemed to hum under his fingertips, as if there was some current running through it.
And there was, of course, the times he could swear it was talking to him. Well, no, not talking per se; that implied there were words being spoken aloud. It wasn't that at all. It was more like...his thoughts formed the words for it.
But of course, that was impossible too. He was just jumping to conclusions that weren't there, conclusions that could only be the product of a tired mind. He'd been studying the crown and the pages about it in the Enchiridion for days now, so it made sense that his thought would go to strange places, falling into loops that felt too dreamlike and hazy to be of his own making.
(“Simon?”)
He stroked his thumb along one of the crown's ridges. Part of him knew he shouldn't be touching an ancient relic like this, not without gloves on, and yet he found himself reaching for it anyway. The Enchiridion said the crown was powerful, and that the gem at its centre was a key component to many of the book's incantations and spells. It was why Simon had sought it out in the first place, and it'd only been through sheer stroke of luck that he'd found it in the possession of a dockworker in Scandinavia.
(“Simon.")
He wasn't one to believe in fate or predestination, but he couldn't help but feel like everything had been leading him to this discovery. This crown would be his great achievement, he just knew it. All he had to do was figure out its secrets, its secrets of ice and snow and—
"Simon!"
Simon startled to attention, and in his haste almost dropped the crown. With a yelp, he fumbled it between his hands until he managed to get a steady and sure grip on it.
"Phew," he said, placing it gently back down into his desk. It took him a moment longer, however, to let go of it completely. It just felt so nice in his hands...
“I made you a banana sundae,” Betty said, and Simon turned to see her holding her creation aloft triumphantly.
“Oh!” he said, shaking himself out of his thoughts. He smiled and took the sundae from her hands. “Thank you. Though I probably shouldn't be having this for breakfast.”
“We had breakfast earlier, remember.”
He...couldn't actually. The whole morning felt like a blur. “Oh, that's right,” he said. Then, deciding it best to change the subject, he asked: “What time is it?”
“It's almost 4pm.”
“Oh,” Simon said, briefly disorientated. Last he'd known, it hadn't even been past 10 o'clock. “I guess...time got away from me.”
Betty smiled at him, but there was something... slightly off about it. Before he could think to ask, she spoke. “You forgot, didn't you?”
"Forgot what?" Did she mean breakfast? It wasn't really that much of an issue, was it? People forgot what they had for breakfast all the time!
"We were going to go to the Burke Museum today.”
Simon blinked, confused for a moment. Today? But hadn't they planned to go on Thursday...
Which, the calendar on his desk politely informed him, was today. He groaned.
"Oh god, Betty, I'm so sorry, It completely slipped my mind," he said, hiding his eyes behind his hands.
"Don't worry, it wasn't that big a deal anyway," she said, waving him off with a smile. "I'm happy not to go.”
“But the exhibition; wasn't it ending today?”
She shrugged. “I guess it wasn't meant to be.”
“There's still time to go, isn't there?” He looked at his mess of notes he had scattered around the crown. “I...I don't think I can be ready in time but you can still go by yourself.”
But Betty was already shaking her head. “It wouldn't be the same without you.”
And how could he argue that? He smiled up at her warmly, touched by her devotion.
He was so glad he had her.
He'd never really had any close friends before; it wasn't that he was antisocial or anything, or that he was too busy to maintain any friendships. He was, to be frank, just not any good at forming them in the first place.
When he was young, it'd been his not-quite-right accent and strange, formal way of speaking that had isolated him from the other kids. Then it'd been his bookishness, his awkwardness, and eventually his niche passions. There was always something that was too odd, too strange, for those to tolerate about him, and so he'd found comfort in that which was odd and strange. In doing so, however, he'd only made the isolation worse.
He thought it'd get easier when he became an adult, away from the silly teasing of children who didn't know any better, but if anything it'd only gotten harder. People, he'd found, didn't much tolerate oddness when it was clear it wasn't something that would be grown out of.
It was worse amongst his fellow academics. It was hardly a secret that his particular field of research was looked upon with disdain, even now after his discovery of the Enchiridion, and he never got far into conversations with other antiquarians before they began to ridicule his pursuits. He was used to it enough by now that it hardly stung, but he couldn't deny that he wished things were different. That people understood. That's all he'd ever wanted.
And then Betty had come along. Wonderful, brilliant Betty. She'd come out of the blue, unexpected and surprising in so many ways, and everything he'd never known he'd wanted. She was the first person who ever saw his work as something to be admired rather than critiqued, the first true friend he'd ever made, and his first true love as well.
These days, with the exception of colleagues and students, they spent almost every waking hour together, just the two of them. Betty's friends had drifted from her in recent years, and while that had worried him at first, she had assured him it was just a natural part of growing up, and that she was quite content to spend time with nobody but him. He'd smiled, and told her he felt the same.
"How is your research going?” Betty asked, leaning against the desk. “You looked pretty focused when I came in.”
Focused was certainly one way of putting it. More like frustrated.
"I just can't understand it," he said. "Everytime I think I've figured it out, some other anachronistic peculiarity crops up to throw all of my theories out the window. It's like it shouldn't exist.” He turned to face her completely. “Betty, what am I doing wrong?"
"Did you get much sleep last night?"
He blinked, thrown by the question. "Well, no, not really, but I don't see how—"
"Then that," Betty said, pressing the crown down so that he had no choice but to put it down on his desk, "might be the problem. You're tired."
Simon groaned. "I know. I know I am. But I can't stop thinking about this damned crown. I have to know where it came from, why it was made. The mystery of it won't leave me be. It's ridiculous."
Curiosity, that's all it was. Just curiosity. Nothing more.
Betty hummed, chewing her lip. "You know, I was planning on meeting one of my old professors tomorrow to talk about my thesis. She knows a thing or two about old crowns; maybe she could take it off your hands for a bit and study—"
He was quick to wave her off. "No, no, I can't do that, not when I'm so close. I started this, and I want to be the one to finish it. I can do it, Betty, I know I can."
She smiled. "Okay. If you say so." She sat herself on the edge of the desk and started to play her fingers through his hair. "But maybe I'll stay home with you tomorrow, just to make sure you're okay."
“But you just said—”
“I can reschedule it. Your health is more important.”
"You really don't have to do that," Simon said.
"I don't have to, I want to," she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
He smiled, warmed by the affection, and leaned forward to rest his forehead on her shoulder. "You're amazing, you know that."
"I sure do,” she said cheerfully. She kissed him on the forehead and then stepped back. “I'll let you get back to work. But make sure to have a break soon, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, turning back to the crown. It really was just so alluring, the red of jewels as vibrant as a flame and yet so wonderfully cool to the touch. He lifted the crown up, feeling its weight in his hand, feeling the power it radiated, calling out to him, begging him, telling him—
"I'm sorry.”
The voice was so close to Simon's ear that he couldn't help but flinch, startled. He looked to his side, expecting Betty to be right beside him, but found only empty air. When he turned the way around, he found Betty across the room, hand on the door handle as she went to leave.
How odd. The acoustics in this room must be better than he thought.
"For what?" he called to her.
“Huh?” Betty said, turning back to him.
“What are you saying sorry for?”
Betty frowned. “I...didn’t say that?”
“Oh." He frowned as well. "You didn’t?”
“No,” she said.
Simon hummed, confused. That confusion, however, quickly turned to discomfort when his eyes drifted over the crown. Had it—no, his mind was just playing tricks. That was all.
"Maybe it is time for me to have a break," he said with a forced laugh.
Betty came back over to him, frowning deeply. “Are you sure you're okay? You look really pale.”
He looked at her, then back to the crown, with his own frown. What could he even tell her? That he felt like he was being drawn in like a dragon to gold? That the crown felt like it was meant to be his? Did he really want her worrying over something so trivial? No, telling her about the strange thoughts he'd been having lately would do neither of them any good.
“I promise I'm fine,” he said, reaching up to trail his fingers through the ruby-tinged strands of her hair. “You don’t have to worry about me, princess.”
⸻❅❄❆⸻
There were ghosts on the street again.
They were clearer than they’d ever been before; Simon didn’t even have to squint to see them, or look at them from the periphery of his eye. They were simply there, so easy to mistake for other humans if not for their transparent bodies.
“Marcy, can you...” he said. She’d seen them the last time they’d shown up, but he couldn’t be sure anymore. Afterall, it wasn’t just ghosts he saw in his vision nowadays.
“Yeah, I can see them,” she confirmed. “What are they doing?”
Simon had been wondering the same thing. Even though the roads had broken apart and the buildings had been destroyed beyond use, the ghosts continued on in their daily routines as if the war had never occurred, driving cars that only they could see and tending shops left desolate by the desperate survivors who had raided them.
He wondered if they knew they were dead, or that the world around them had died along with them. Maybe they did. Maybe their somnambulant motions weren’t simply echoes played over and over on a loop, but rather a choice they’d all made on purpose, a great game of pretend they all decided to play together so they never would have to acknowledge reality.
He searched the ghosts' faces, afraid to find the one face he longed to see. He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or not when he couldn't find her.
“I think they’re grieving,” Simon said.
“Oh,” Marcy said.
“Don't worry, I don't think they're going to hurt us. We should be safe.”
This time, Marcy said nothing. Simon glanced at her, and his stomach sunk at the despondent expression on her face. It was one he was seeing far too much of lately, and he couldn’t help but blame himself for that. He was the adult, afterall; he was the one who should carry the burden of their situation, not her, not his little Marcy. He would not let the awfulness of the world steal away any more of her childhood.
“Come on,” he said as cheerfully as he could, “let’s get off the street.”
He took her hand into his, and led her along the road until he found an old bookstore, which to his delight hadn’t been completely ransacked. Of course, it didn’t exactly help them much in terms of food or supplies, but he hated to think of all the books being used for nothing more than kindling, rather than being preserved for the future.
He trailed his fingertips along the spines of the books, comforted by the familiar feeling; if he ignored the rubble and decay, or the weight of the crown at his side, he could almost pretend he was back at the library where he first met...
“Simon?”
“Hmm?” He blinked and looked down at Marcy, who was watching him warily. Right, he had to stay present, no need to make her worry over nothing. He smiled, and squeezed her hand. "Sorry, I just got a bit distracted there for a second."
Marcy glanced at the crown, but said nothing, even as she frowned in that way children did when they were annoyed by something. Hm. Maybe she needed her own distraction.
He crouched down and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Hey, why don’t we do another reading lesson?” he said.
Marcy made a face. “Do we have to? We just did one two days ago.”
“Which means it’s all still fresh in your mind!” he said cheerfully. He patted her head, and in a softer voice said, “The written word is a powerful thing, Marcy. You can craft stories with it, write letters to loved ones, or even create your own songs. I want you to have that one day. For now, though, you have to learn. It isn’t always fun, I know, but it’ll be a very good thing in the long run, trust me.”
“Okay,” Marcy said, with the tiniest of smiles.
"Okay!” Simon stood back up and clapped his hands together. “Let's see what we have here. Hm, some good choices. And—oh, would you look at that. War and Peace!" He tugged the tome of a book off the shelf. "What do you think? Could be good for a bit of light reading."
"Blergh," Marcy said, pouting.
Simon chuckled. "Your loss." He put the book back and, with more seriousness this time, scanned the book titles. "There must be something here that you'll like.”
It was a decent collection, surprisingly, made up of mostly classics which, while a great find, probably weren't the best material for a little girl who'd only just learnt how to spell her own name. There had to be something here suitable for her reading level.
Hm. Let's see. The Hobbit? That was a children's book, that could—on second thoughts, probably not the best option. What else? Flowers for Algernon. No, definitely not. The Strange Case of Dr. Jeky—nope, hard pass. Come on, there had to be something here.
He continued down the aisle, and spotted a few more familiar titles, but still none that would be good for Marcy. There were certainly many he knew he'd enjoy, and he lamented briefly the lack of room in his pack. Not that he'd take them even if there had been space; he had to focus on Marcy, on what would help her, on what would keep her spirits lifted, not on personal distractions.
"Ah, here we go!" he said triumphantly, picking a book off the shelf and holding it out to Marcy.
She squinted at the title, quietly sounding at the words under her breath. After a few seconds, she looked up at him. "Little Women?"
He beamed. She really was getting so much better at reading now; it wouldn't be long until she would be able to read and write all on her own. And if she could do it on her own...well. At least that’d be one less thing to worry about when the day came that he wasn’t around anymore.
"That's right," he said, brushing his hand through her hair. "And can you read the author's name?"
It only took a quick glance back at the cover for Marcy to say, "Loo-Isa May Alcott."
"Mm, close. It's Loo-wee-sa. Louisa." There was a flash of disappointment on her face but he was quick to reassure her. "Don't worry, even I had trouble with words like that when I first started learning English too. It'll get easier, I promise."
He found a relatively tidy and hidden corner of the bookshop, and set the sleeping bag down for her to lie on. As she got comfortable, he pulled out his notebook and pencils from the bag and set them down beside Little Women.
He opened the notebook to an empty page, far from the frantic and confused scrawlings on the preceding pages that he barely could remember writing.
"Alright, Marcy, the first part of the lesson is to read through the first page. There's probably going to be a lot of words in here you won't recognise, so let me know when you're having trouble and I'll explain the meaning as best I can." Hopefully one day he'd find her a dictionary, so she wouldn’t have to rely on his awful explanations. "Second part, after you're finished the page is to find every word that starts with... let's go with C this time, yeah. Once you've done, we'll see if we can take a crack at the next page. Okay?"
“Okay,” Marcy said, turning her attention down to the book.
Her nose scrunched up as she focused on the words, her mouth moving quietly as she read along. Simon would have been content to simply sit and watch, but it wasn't long before Marcy pouted at him.
“Don't watch me,” she said, with the soft embarrassment of someone who didn't want their work to be seen until it was done.
Simon pointedly turned his body away, but not too much that he wouldn't be able to look at her out of the corner of his eye and make sure she was safe.
“Is that better?” he asked.
Marcy hummed in agreement, and then fell silent once more. As the silence went on, Simon found his eyes drifting to the nearest window. Outside, the ghost of a mother and daughter strolled past, smiling like the world hadn't ended and their lives along with it.
Simon scooted forward, so he was in between Marcy and the window, if only to spare her a moment of sadness the sight outside might bring, and keep her wrapped up in this precious calm. With the state of the world as it was, it was a rare thing—and growing rarer by the day—for her to have anything like a normal childhood.
She'd been so young when the war had happened, barely old enough to remember there ever being a Before. This world, with all its destruction and silence, was likely far more familiar to her than the world that ghosts were trying to recreate.
Him on the other hand...Well, on a good day, the Before drove him forward. He could carry on because he could remember snowdrops blooming even after the harshest of winters, and scientific breakthroughs he'd made after years and years of toil. Those memories gave him a guidance that almost resembled hope.
Most days, though, the Before haunted him just as much as it did the ghosts. Every memory of lively streets and blue skies and picnics and people laughing and warm hands and warm smiles and warm kisses and...
Well, sometimes the weight of them was just simply too much.
Even those last few years leading up to the war, when he'd closed himself off from the world as his quietly degenerated and had barely gone outside of his study, had a tinge of longing to them; he'd been so scared and alone, living through what he thought at the time would be the worst years of his life, but at least he'd been secure in the knowledge that the world went on without him. Now he didn’t even have that.
The world had been beautiful, and terrible, and now it was gone, survived only by decayed infrastructure, a few books, and two not-quite-human people. Who was to say there weren't others out there, but he'd never run into anyone beside Marcy and that strange sentient gum—and of course the ooze creatures, but he didn't count them as people—and he wasn't optimistic enough anymore to assume there was anyone else. As far as he could tell, he and Marcy were it. The endlings of the human race.
He tried not to think about it too much. He didn't think about the empty streets, or the crumbling buildings, or the charred bodies he made sure to distract Marcy from before she had a chance to notice them at all. But he couldn't always stop the thoughts from happening. As he watched the ghosts wander their old, outdated routes, he could understand all too well their desperation to cling to what they once knew.
Soon, the world as it was would only exist in his memories. But even that wouldn’t last. He knew he was losing pieces. Only a few days ago, he'd forgotten what a car was for, and not in the sort of way that came from harmless, brief moments of absent-mindedness. No, it'd been deeper than that; it was like the knowledge had been taken away from and dangled above his head, close enough for him to know it was missing but too far from him to reach. And though it was certainly not the worst memory to lose, it had been frustrating and humiliating to not remember something so simple.
The knowledge had eventually returned, much to his relief. But he knew, in that hopeless way he knew many things now, it wouldn't be long before he started losing things for good. And god knows it wouldn't just be cars that he would forget.
There was one way to fix it. A very good way. He could just freeze it! Freeze it all. Then it wouldn't have to change. Everything would be the way it was supposed to be, better even! There would be no danger or distress; nothing would rot or decay, for the cold would be enough to preserve the world, even in its half-dead state. All would be still, and calm, and beautiful.
He trailed his fingers along his crown. In his kingdom of Ice, Gunter would be happy and safe and loved and want for nothing and his Princess would be there too, and he would shower them both with his love, and—
There was a shout, enough to make him jump. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts before he realised someone was tugging at his sleeves.
"Gunter," he growled. "You interrupted my brainstorming! I'm going to have to start all over!"
There was a muffled sound of Gunter speaking, and when he tried to pull free of the little idiot's grip, it only tugged him back hard. With a huff, he batted the nuisance away.
"Argh! You really are getting on my nerves, Gunter. Go sit in the time-out corner before I get really mad."
He turned back his task at hand and thankfully met with no further interruptions as he reached for his crown and pulled it free from hip. With a content smile, he dusted it off, and admired the jewels for a moment before he lifted it up and—
Something hard thudded against the back of his head, and he staggered at that unexpected impact, dropping the crown in the process. There was a thump of something hitting the floor behind him, and he whirled around to find a sizable book lying on the ground. He scanned its title before shooting a glare at Gunter.
"Did you just throw War and Peace at me? That's not what books are for! They're for...they're for..." He blinked, suddenly woozy. "Reading. I'm... I'm..."
In a bookshop. The world had ended. He was losing his mind. He had to keep his little girl, his little Marcy, safe.
"I'm teaching you how to read," he said.
"Simon?"
He blinked again, and shook his head with a groan. He'd lost time again. He'd lost himself again.
"Urgh. I... did I do something?"
He looked down at himself. The first thing he realised was that he wasn't sitting anymore. And not only was he not sitting, he wasn't standing anywhere close to where he'd been. He was across the shop, standing by the window, close enough to see one of the ghosts outside reading a book that didn't exist anymore.
The next thing he noticed was that Marcy was shying away from him, her eyes wide.
Because she was scared. Because he’d scared her.
The realisation made him feel sick right to his stomach. He hadn't meant to scare her. That was exact opposite of what he wanted! He'd been possessed by whatever thing haunted the crown, drowned out until he wasn't himself anymore. Except...he hadn’t even put it on. He’d tried, yes, but it hadn’t so much as touched a hair on his head. Everything he’d done had been him and him alone.
“Oh Marcy,” he said.
He reached for her hand, desperate to comfort her. She flinched at first—and god, did that hurt more than any wound he'd ever been dealt, that one small motion almost enough to topple him—but she was quick to soften and take hold of his hand.
All he wanted to do was to fall to the ground and sob, and to scream and yell and to kick at a wall until his boots fell apart.
But he did none of those things. He couldn't. Not when Marcy was holding his hand like a lifeline and staring at him with those wide eyes, desperate for him to tell her there was no monster under the bed and that she was safe. That she wasn’t losing him like she so clearly was.
No, she already had to see him losing his mind. She couldn't see him scared. That would only break the illusion she had of him, of a capable adult simply dealing with a condition, and not a terrified man who wasn’t sure who he was anymore. She already worried about him enough; he had no right to add to that. She was a child. A child already going through so much more than any child should have to go through.
He had to stay strong for her. All of this, it was for her.
"Sorry about that, Marcy," he said with a weak smile. "I didn't mean to scare you. I...I didn't hurt you, did I?"
She looked away, hand coming up to cover her mouth. "No. You were just muttering," she said. "You called me Gunter again."
"Oh, I'm sorry, darling," he said. He pulled her into a hug, and stroked his hand through her hair. "I'm so sorry.”
He needed the hug as much as she did. He could have hugged her for hours, if she let him.
That was, until she started to shiver.
For a fleeting, hopeful moment, he almost let himself believe it was because the room was cold. But that hope vanished quickly, because what else could be it but him. He was making her cold. He was making her hurt.
Simon went to draw back in his horror, but she held on tight to the fabric of his shirt.
“Don't let go,” she said, even as her teeth chattered.
And oh, he wanted more than anything to do as she asked, her warmth a lifeline in this sea of ghosts and arctic storms. If not for her, there’s a good chance he would have been lost a very long time ago.
But he was losing himself all the same. She could not save him, and he could not keep her safe and warm. All he could do was keep her from being cold. If he had to fall into this abyss, he would not drag her down with him.
He pulled himself away, turning away from her as he did. “Why don’t you finish your page?”
“But—”
“Marcy,” he said quietly. “I’ll be okay. Go read, please.”
She lingered, as if expecting him to say something more, but he did not turn back around, his eyes fixed on the street outside. Eventually, she left him at the window, going back to her own corner of the room. Even then, he did not turn back. He didn’t want her to see the tears in his eyes. And more than that, he didn’t think he could bear to look her in the eye.
One day, he thought as he watched the ghosts wander outside, stuck in old motions they could not escape, she would know this was her own good. No child should carry this burden.
⸻❅❄❆⸻
He heard her voice long before he saw her. Even from a distance, there was no mistaking whose voice it was.
“Marceline,” he said, already turning to wander in her direction, drawn in like a fish on a hook.
It wasn’t just the music or the fact that it was Marceline, who he knew was very important. There was a question he wanted to ask her, one that he knew only she could answer.
As he drew closer, he saw the makings of a crowd beginning to form. Some instinct told him to avoid it, and so instead of wandering into it, he fluttered up into the branch of a nearby tree. From there, he listened to Marceline play.
He couldn't quite make out the lyrics from where he was sitting, but her songs sounded...angrier than he remembered her music being. It was like she was shouting at someone who wasn’t here, and he hummed, unsure how to feel about that. He’d always like her softer, sadder songs. Those felt more...familiar.
Deciding to throw his instincts out the window, he leapt from the branch he’d been perched on, and ventured towards the crowd of animals that were swaying with the music. A twig snapped under his foot, and with a squeak he hid himself behind a tree before anyone could notice him. After a moment, he poked his head out and glanced around in search of any security bards, but as far as he could tell, there were only concert-going animals in the crowd tonight. Which meant there was nothing stopping him from creeping in.
Marceline’s song came to a close, and she floated over to a bottle of red cordial she had lying in the corner of her mock-stage and sucked it dry of colour. She set the now-grey drink back down and turned her attention to a dial on her axe for a moment, fiddling with it as she strummed a few experimental chords.
"This next one is something new,” she said. “About someone who wasn’t as good as I thought she was. And that’s all I’m going to tell you.”
Marceline strummed her bass with one violent swipe, letting the tone linger before she started to play some chords, her fingers dancing up and down the strings as she yelled a guttural sound into the air. As she played, she leaned back until she was floating into the air.
With her attention elsewhere, he took that as the opportunity he needed to make his way into the crowd and get a better view. There were a few annoyed bleats and growls as he nudged animals out of his path. Eventually he reached a spot he was happy with and plonked himself on the ground, tapping his fingers on his knees as he swayed side to side along with the riff Marceline was playing.
Even though the song was angry, the simple act of watching her made something light and fluffy well up inside him. His tapping became giddy claps and, unable to hold the feeling inside of his body, he shook the duck that was sitting beside him and pointed gleefully up at Marceline.
“That’s my girl,” he said, unable to hold back his grin.
The duck batted him away. “Quack.”
“What?” He drew back, his excitement squashed. “No, man, I didn’t mean it like that, no need to be so rude.”
“Quack quack.”
“Hey, you take that back!”
“Quack.”
He scowled, but could see this was an argument that was going nowhere fast. So, in a flash of inspiration, he leapt to his feet and gasped dramatically as he pointed out into the forest. “Duck!”
The duck turned around, squinting out into the darkness. Focused as it was on searching the trees, it didn’t notice his foot swinging towards it before it was too late. It could do little more than quack out another insult as it was launched into the distance.
“I did say duck,” he said, giggling at his own joke. He quickly sobered and turned to glare at the other nearby animals. “Anyone else got any problems?”
The circle of available space around him got noticeably wider. He hummed satisfied, and turned his focus back onto Marceline’s song.
"Pop pop, that's it, we're done / I'll spit you out like bubblegum," she sung out, head banging along to the bass. "Gone bland, sucked out the fun / and left a sour taste on my tongue!"
It wasn’t just angry, he realised. Someone had broken her heart. Someone had hurt her.
Well, that wouldn’t do. No one hurt Marceline and got away with it.
“Sorry, excuse me, VIP coming through,” he murmured as he pushed through the animals. A fox shook its fist at him, muttering something about disrespect; a near-collision with an icicle was enough to shut that down, and he managed to get through the rest of the crowd with no trouble.
He’d just about reached the front of the crowd when Marceline floated back down to her rudimentary stage, and opened her eyes to focus on her bass as her fingers quickly travelled deftly up and down the strings.
"So long, get gone, bu-bu-bu-bubblegum / won't miss, your kiss, pu-pu-pu-pink princess / 'cause now we're through, la-la-long overdue / get hexed, you ex, so shit at—"
It was then that her eyes finally found him, and there was a screech of feedback as she messed up the chord, bringing the song to a discordant close. The sound was enough to make the forest animals cringe, and there was a few muttering of it getting late or how they forget to turn the stove off as they scurried away, leaving him and Marceline alone.
She stared at him, eyes wide and her body so still he wondered if he’d accidentally frozen her somehow. He waited for her to say something, or better yet, play another one of her cool songs, but she just did nothing but stare, and in a really weird way too. It wasn’t the usual kind of staring you did when you saw a cool bird living its best life, or when there was a pretty lady giving a lecture about petroglyphs, whatever that meant. This was...it was...
Awkward. That’s what it was. Just plain awkward. And way too quiet. It was very rude to have such an amazing song followed by silence, and so with a woop he began to clap.
“Woo, go Marceline,” he said. “You definitely broke some legs with that song!”
That was what people said, right? Or was that for something else? Eh, whatever, Marceline got what he meant. Or, she probably would if she was actually hearing what he was saying which, as far as he could tell, didn’t seem to be the case.
Marceline was still silent, but she’d finally broken out of her stillness, her hand falling limp at her side as her mouth shook. For a moment, it almost looked like she was about to burst into tears. And not the happy kind of tears, either. Definitely not the happy kind.
His clapping faded, and he grimaced, wondering if he could get away with using the ‘stove still turned on’ excuse just to avoid this awkward staring biz. Maybe he could come back later when Marceline was in a better mood. But then he’d have to go to the trouble of finding her again, and her tour took her all over the place. And she never seemed to be in a better mood.
“So, um,” he said, rubbing his hand down his arm. “Come here often?”
That finally broke her out of her funk, but not in the way he’d hoped. With a growl, she swung her bass to hang on her back and picked up her speaker.
“I can’t do this right now,” she said, and without giving him even a chance to speak, she flew up into the sky.
“Wait, wait,” he called. He scrambled to and fro for a moment before he remembered, oh yeah, he could fly too. With a flap, he shot up after her. In the clear night air, it didn’t take him long to spot her, and he quickly found her hightailing it towards a particularly dark patch of moonlit clouds.
"Hey! Wait up!" he said.
She did not, in fact, wait up. If anything, she only got faster, flitting to and fro amongst the clouds like a hawk dive bombing its prey. He flapped even harder in order to keep up, quietly envious of her easy-peasy no-exercise-needed floating as he started to pant and huff from the effort of maintaining the ridiculous pace. She, on the other hand, was barely breaking a sweat by the time he'd caught up to her.
"Argh—jeez," he wheezed, "could ya—slow down—for just one—second, oh Grod."
With a growl, she came to a sudden stop in the air and spun around to face him. “Stop following me!”
His stop was far less graceful, involving a few midair tumbles before he managed to stop completely. Once he had, he gasped a few more breaths. “Woah mama you fly fast. Could we call a time-out or something, I'm pooped."
"You wouldn't be if you listened to me. Didn't you hear me? Go away! I want to be alone!"
"Hold on, I just want to talk! That's all. I won’t be a bother, swearsies.”
She bared her teeth, and looked ready to yell at him again, but something shattered in her expression, and the anger all came tumbling down, leaving behind only tired eyes and a drawn out sigh.
“Fine. We can talk.” She floated down to a nearby cloud and slumped onto it, running a hand down her face.
"Oh! I didn’t expect that to work." He flew down to a patch of cloud not far from where she was sitting. “Hold on, let me just,”—he crossed his legs, and sat like that for a second before he huffed and decided it wasn’t good enough—”get comfortable here”—he tucked his legs to his side and leaned onto his hand and, nope, still not quite right— “just gotta get the right position,”—he hugged his knees to his chest, and no, that wasn’t comfortable either—”especially with these old bones of mine,"—he rolled into his stomach, but oh, he probably couldn’t sit like that for long, maybe he should—
“Stop moving!” Marceline snapped.
That was enough to startle him back to his feet. Under her glare, he frantically patted the cloud into the shape of a chair. “Right, right, sorry.” He sat down onto his creation, and nodded, content.
Huh. He wasn't sure what to do now that he'd gotten what he wanted. Should he ask the thing he wanted to ask? Or, no, no, he should work up to it. That's what you're supposed to do in conversations, right?
He kicked his legs and patted his lap. He glanced around for something to talk about, but only saw a few clouds shaped like penguins and snowflakes. He turned his attention downwards, to the blue hues of the forest below.
“It’s pretty up here, isn’t it,” he said.
“Yeah, sure,” Marceline said dismissively. She wounded her bass back around and began to strum absently at it.
"Funny how things look so different from a distance," he went on. "All small and unimportant. And yet not at the same time, y'know. When you see the world from here, with all its moving pieces laid out on a grand scale, it helps you realise we're part of something bigger than you or I could ever know." He shook himself, and chuckled. "Woo, sorry, high altitudes make my thoughts go all wizard-y. Does being in the sky ever make you—"
Marceline interrupted him with a loud strum of her bass. "I know this isn't what you came here to talk to me about. What do you want?"
“Oh, uh, right to the point. That’s cool. Super cool. I respect that. A lady who knows what she wants is a cool lady indeed. And you are perhaps the coolest lady—"
Marceline's eyes flashed red, and he stammered for a moment.
"Oh, right, what I want." He fiddled with his hands. "I, um. I want...I wanted to know if..."
Argh, no, nevermind, forget it! There was no way he could ask her that! She would think he was so lame and stupid, or worse, get sad about how lame and stupid he was. He didn’t want to make her cry. That was....that was...well, it wasn’t a good thing! That was definitely not something he wanted.
“I wanted to hear your songs,” he said instead. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was hardly a lie either. He loved her music, and if he could hear it all the time, that would be the bestest thing in the world.
Marceline wasn't impressed. “Why?”
“Why? Um.” He blinked, unsure how to answer. It’s not something he’d ever really thought about. As long as he could remember, he’d been a fan of Marceline’s music. There was something about it that drew him in, something more than just the resonant lyrics.
"I dunno," he said, shrugging. He picked up a bundle of clouds and began to fiddle with it, freezing sections of it here and there. "I like them. Isn't that enough?"
Marceline fell quiet, and for a while she did nothing more than watch him craft a small, frozen toy from the clouds. It was only as he began to carve the details that she spoke up again.
"You've stopped wearing glasses," she said.
"Huh?" He pressed his hand to his cheek. "Oh. I guess so."
Marceline’s face took on an expression far different from the angry glares and bared fangs; it became something more fragile, more open, but she turned away before he could figure out exactly what it was. Though she said nothing, the tune she was playing on her bass became slow and melancholic.
He cleared his throat. “So... that new song of yours, huh?" He nudged her shoulder. "Bad breakup?”
Marceline groaned, and fell back onto the cloud. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Hey, I get it,” he said. “Relationships are hard. My last one did not end well at all.”
Marceline shot him a flat look. “Your last relationship was with a vampire who brainwashed you into servitude. I had to stake her. This isn’t the same.”
He frowned, not quite sure what she was talking about, and quickly decided to ignore all that and focus on the actual important stuff.
"Hey, come on, I'm sure your relationship wasn't all bad. And yeah, maybe the breakup wasn't great, but even if something ends badly, that doesn't mean it wasn't worth it. I bet there were some really happy bits in there too, right?"
Marceline's mouth tightened. "I'd rather not think about it."
"Aww, come on, it could be good to talk about! Get it off your stomach or whatever."
"I don't want to think about how happy we were. I can't!" she shouted. Then her anger faded, and she slumped back down. "Because if I think about that then...then..."
"You'll feel sad that it's gone," he said quietly.
"Yeah," Marceline said. She looked out to the mountains in the distance. "I don't have any more room in me to miss people. It's easier to be angry."
She paused then, her mouth open like she wanted to say more, but she remained silent, her fingers plucking at the bass' strings like they were a lifeline.
"What?" he said, scooching closer to her.
She looked back at him, eyes watery. "I still miss them anyway."
"Well,” he said, unsure how to respond. “Nothing wrong with missing people, even the ones that hurt us in the end.”
She glanced back at him, tears now flecked on her lashes, a strange expression on her face that wasn't quite sadness. Still, he didn't want her to cry. She was supposed to be happy.
“So,” he said, “if you need help hooking up with someone else, I can totally be your wingman. I know a thing or two about the ladies.” He waggled his eyebrows for effect.
Whatever softness that had been in her eyes vanished in an instant, and she shoved him away with a groan of disgust.
He caught himself before he could topple over. "What? What did I say?"
Marceline pushed herself to her feet, and began to stomp back and forth along the edge of the cloud.
“I’m so stupid. So freaking stupid. Every time I think maybe—but no, no of course not.” She tugged her hand through her hair and laughed, the sound delirious and almost indistinguishable from a sob. “Why do I keep letting myself hope like this, when I know better? You’re gone. You’ve been gone since the day you left me.”
“But I’m not gone?” he said, confused. He patted his chest. “I’m right here.”
“Not in any way that matters.”
Oh. Ouch. That was... that was really mean! “That's a very rude thing to say, Marcy! You take that back.”
She flinched, a flash of something he couldn't identify crossing over her face before her shoulders hunched up. “I don’t want you coming around me anymore.”
He drew back, and chuckled nervously. “What?”
“You heard me,” Marceline hissed, and then, without another word, she began to fly away.
Fear shot through him, hot and intense. It wasn't because he was afraid of her. He didn't think it ever could be. It was the thought of never seeing her again that made him afraid.
Marceline was the only person he felt comfortable around. Even when she was angry at him—which was pretty much all the time nowadays—she never looked at him like he was just some nobody. He was someone to her, just like he knew she was someone to him. He didn’t have anyone else like that. Why...why didn't he have anyone else? Why was he so alone?
"I don't understand," he whined, pulling at his hair. "What am I doing wrong?”
Marceline stopped.
He took that as permission to keep talking. “Is it the way I look? I can go on a diet if you want! Or, is it the fact that I'm not good with faces and that I forget birthdays? Or, or that I write self-insert fanfiction sometimes about princesses? Or that I'm scared I'll...I'll..." His stomach rolled, and he dug his teeth into his cheek to cover up the discomfort with a far more understandable and simple kind of pain.
Marceline still said nothing, but she was watching him from over her shoulder now.
He flew closer to where she was floating in place. "Did I hurt you?" He didn't know why he said it, but once he had, he felt desperate to know the answer.
“The fact you don’t know is the problem," she muttered.
“Why do you have to be mysterious?” he huffed. “Why can't we just talk about it without you being mean?”
“Oh, now you want to ‘talk about it’? Now you want to actually be honest?”
He faltered, unsure. “I don't—”
“You didn't let me help you!” she yelled, and as she spun to face him, he realised there were tears streaming down her face. “You didn’t even let me try! You just threw me away! You left me all alone, because you were too much of a coward to stay with me, to deal with it together.”
Her words washed over him, strange and confusing, but while he couldn't quite understand what she was saying, he could understand that she was hurting, and that he really, really didn't like it. He reached out to her face, some strange urge to brush away her tears, but she was quick to bat the hand away with a growl.
"No, you don’t get to do that anymore.” She wiped away her own tears and sniffed. "Argh. I hate this. I hate this so much."
He could only stare at her, unsure of what to say.
"I hate being angry at you," Marceline went on. "And I hate that you can't remember why I'm angry at you. Yelling at you is like yelling at a stranger, and it's not fair. It's not fair! Why can't you just let me go? That's what you wanted, isn't it? To cut me out of your life so you wouldn't hurt me?" She pushed him back. "Well, guess what you jerk, this is hurting me! More than staying with me ever could. Why leave only to keep chasing me? What do you even want from me!”
He hesitated. What did he want? Why had he sought her out? Yes, she made him feel happy (—she had given him hope he'd never thought—), and yes her music was amazing (—writing, she was writing, he was so—), but there was something else. Something really, very, absolutely important.
Oh. That's right.
"I... don't remember....I don't remember my..."
He couldn't say it. No matter how much he wanted to, he just couldn't say it. She was already so angry, so hurt. Wouldn’t the question just hurt her more?
(He's already hurt her so much, this pain was not her burden to bear, she was his kid, he had to carry it alone, alone, alone, alone—)
“I...”
“What?” she asked, her voice unlike it had been before, soft and unsure, so much like that little girl he'd once known. That little girl...
(Are you warm?)
She was shivering. He reached out his hand to touch her, rime coating his fingers to the point they were almost white. Cold enough to burn.
(Are you still warm, my dear?)
The frost began to coat her arm, and grinned eagerly at the sight. If it was cold enough, then he could keep her here forever, safe and protected and lo—
Marceline's body shifted and distorted under his hand, and in place of his little girl, there was a monster, eyes gleaming red and rows and rows of teeth in her mouth. “Leave. Me. Alone!”
He drew back with a surprised yelp, and in his alarm, she flew away, faster than he could keep up. He stepped forward, ready to follow, but quickly hesitated, her last words ringing in his head. She wasn't supposed to go. She was supposed to stay. Why hadn't she stayed?
"Marcy," he whispered, but by then she was too far away to hear.
He sank down through the clouds and back to the earth. Snowflakes fell down with him, coating the treetops and covering the ground, and by the time he'd landed, there was a thick layer of white over everything.
“She's gone,” he murmured. “I made her go again.”
He pulled the little ice figurine he'd made from the clouds out of his pocket. It was in the shape of a man, with round glasses and sad eyes. He stroked his nail along its chest.
"I should have asked," he said.
The figurine did not answer.
"It wasn't even that bad of a question, really. People ask what their name is all the time!” He frowned. “Or... is it other people's names?”
The figurine, once again, said nothing. It's not like it could speak anyway; it was just a token, something to keep. The thing was, he didn't really want to keep it. The cold of its body stung at his skin, in a way he wasn't used to anymore. He didn't like how it hurt, or how heavy it felt in his hands. Carrying it around with him would do him no good.
With a growl, he crushed it between his hands, until all that was left was a lump of ice. He threw it to the ground, and stomped on it until it was indistinguishable from the white around it. He did not let himself cry at the sight. Crying wouldn't help. Crying only made everyone feel bad.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "I'll just make up a new one. A better one." He pressed his hands to the snow beneath him, and let his power seep out and spread across the forest, shaping it into something new and unrecognisable. "A name I won't ever forget."
(O’, very warm, Ice King! Very warm indeed!)
⸻❅❄❆⸻
It was halfway through the boat ride down to Ooo that Simon realised he just wanted to go back home and sleep. He half-turned to the gondolier, tempted for a moment to give in and ask them to take him back, but he stopped himself.
He'd made a promise, and it would be wrong not to keep it. Simon sighed, and let the boat sail on to its destination.
Finn was waiting for Simon at the dock, a big smile on his face.
“Hey man!” he called out as he ran over to greet him.
“Hey Finn,” Simon answered as he stepped off the boat, smiling in the hopes it would distract from the lack of enthusiasm in his tone.
Finn threw his arm over Simon's shoulders. “You excited for an adventure?”
“Of course,” Simon said, even as legs ached at the thought of all the walking they were about to do. “I couldn’t say no to helping you find some of Jake’s buried treasure. It’s a good way to honour him, especially today.”
Finn laughed, a bit too loudly. “Yep, uhuh!”
“Er, right,” Simon said awkwardly, realising he might have touched a sore point. No point in poking it further. “Why don’t we get going?”
“My thoughts exactly!”
They began to make their way across the Grass Lands, at first with nothing but Finn’s humming to fill the air, but eventually, they fell into conversation. Finn did most of the talking, rambling on about creatures he'd fought and princesses he'd helped. Simon chimed in occasionally, but avoided bringing up his own life; compared to Finn's adventures, his own life was so dull in comparison. But of course, he couldn't avoid the topic forever.
“So, how’s the city treating you?” Finn said. “It must be nice being around people like you.”
People like me, Simon thought with a scoff. Sure, he was as human as the rest of them up in the city, but that didn't mean he was like them. Here he was, in a place where things like accents and oddness weren’t even a consideration, and he still managed the odd one out.
But then, he supposed a thousand years would do that. This wasn’t his world anymore; it hadn’t been for a very, very long time.
At least down in Ooo, he could pretend that he’d simply woken up in some fantastical future separate from his own. But amongst the humans, that disconnect was gone; even with all the advancements they’d made with their technology, there were some things that never changed. People still walked with their dogs, even if those dogs now talked. People still read books and played videogames. People still flew kites in parks and bought ice cream.
It was those similarities that made him miss his world all the more, back before it all began to fall apart. He’d been happy then, hadn’t he? He must have been. He’d had a life then, a purpose, and he’d had...her.
Now it was all gone, destroyed. A thousand years he’d been cursed to forget what once had been, and now here he was, cursed to always remember it. He was no different, really, from the ghosts that had once wandered the world, treading paths that no longer existed. Nowadays, even they were gone. He was all that was left.
Most days he just felt like a dusty relic with no purpose but to sit on a shelf and be stared at. Look here, the plaque would say beside his display, this man used to be a powerful wizard! He made himself an entire kingdom that he ruled for hundreds of years. Now he’s just some guy who remembers when the world was boring!
The antique antiquarian. Ha. Maybe he should do something with that. What harm could it do? The other humans already saw him as a novelty anyway.
Perhaps that was why he preferred Finn’s company to the rest of the humans. The two of them may not have come from the same time in history, but at least they shared some, even if most of that was during his time as Ice King. Finn just accepted his presence as normal, just two people spending time together. It was nice to feel that sometimes.
More than that, Finn needed a friend. The boy never said as much with words, but his actions of late made it very clear. Bubblegum had already had to replace his mechanical arm multiple times, and every time Simon saw him these days, there always seemed to be a new scar from some fight he’d fought with reckless abandon. Simon very much doubted Finn needed his help, but he certainly needed his caution.
And if Simon was being honest, he liked having something to do.
“Simon?” Finn prompted.
“Oh, uh, good,” he said, remembering Finn had asked him a question. “Yeah, it’s good. But it is nice to be on solid ground again.” He smiled, and looked around them. Here, amongst the fields, where the grass was green and the sky was blue, the world felt almost normal. “It's good to be surrounded by nature.”
But as they passed the tree that grew in the place of Finn's old house, and got closer and closer to the twisted icy mountains on the horizon, dread began to eat away at the linings of his stomach.
"Finn," he said, "we're not going to the Ice Kingdom, are we?”
“Sure we are,” Finn said all too happily.
Simon came to a stop, his fingers flying up into his hair without even meaning to. It took Finn a few more steps to notice his companion was no longer beside him, and he turned around with a frown.
“You good?”
There was no challenge to the words, or even any real worry; it was just a simple, straightforward question, like one would ask after someone was left panting after a long run. Being Finn, he probably thought that was exactly what had happened. Simon grit his teeth, and forced his hands back down his sides.
“Yes, fine,” he said, a bit more snappish than he intended. He took a breath, and tried for calm. “Why didn't you tell me that's where we were going?"
"Oh, I thought I did,” Finn said, before shrugging and laughing to himself. “Silly me! Well, anyway, we’re getting close! Onwards!”
“I don't...” Simon began to say, but Finn was already marching ahead, leaving him with no choice but to follow after. It took him a few false starts, but eventually he found the willpower to keep going.
But when they made it to the edge of the snow, however, he froze in place once again. Stupid body and its stupid reactions!
You’re here for Finn, he reprimanded himself as he stared down at his unmoving feet. You can’t let him down just because you’re being a baby! Finn needed someone with him right now. He could not be alone, not today. Who knew what dangerous things he'd do to distract himself from his sadness? He needed someone to make sure he was okay. Simon had to do that, even if it meant...going to the one place he didn’t want to go.
With gritted teeth, Simon stepped into the snow. He shuddered from head to foot, but did not retreat, forcing himself to take another step, and then another.
As he walked behind Finn, he took stock of his old kingdom. Even this place had changed, the peaks now twisted and mangled under Gunter’s influence, the very ice duller and more sombre. Simon would never call this place home again but even so, he couldn’t help but feel sorrow at seeing it so altered.
"I used to feel every footstep on the snow, you know,” he said aloud, if only to distract himself.
Finn glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Every footstep? So everytime I used to come here...”
Simon nodded. “Like little insects crawling on my skin.”
“That’s shronked up, dude,” Finn said. "Didn't that bother you?"
Simon shrugged. It would bother him now, yes, but back then... “Ice King didn't mind it, no. I guess it made him feel less lonely.”
“Yeah, he was pretty lonely, wasn’t he?” Finn frowned, scratching at his head. “Or...wasn’t you? I still have no idea how I should talk about him. I mean, Ice King was just you without all your memories and some ice magic, right?”
Simon grimaced. “Hardly. The crown influenced me, made me act in ways I never would have otherwise. Ice King was idiotic and selfish and sad and just...not me.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right; I saw Ice King cry all the time, but you’re way more put together than him!”
“Yes, exactly,” Simon said with a wincing smile. “We couldn’t be more different.”
“Can you feel anything now?” Finn said, in that earnest way of his.
Simon blinked, unsure what he meant. “...any sadness?”
“No, any footsteps.” He made a point of stomping. “Can you feel that?”
I feel cold, Simon thought, fighting back another shiver, just cold.
“I'm not magic anymore,” he said. “It's just snow and ice to me now, nothing more.”
God, he wished that were true. He wished the very touch of it didn't make him feel so small and faded. Hundreds and hundreds of years he'd spent here, stuck in that embarrassing state, needing to be looked after by Marceline and her friends so he didn’t hurt anyone or himself. In the scope of his own life, Simon was merely a drop in the ocean, and always would be. If he thought about that for too long, he felt like he could drown inside of all those years he'd been Ice King. And if he thought about that feeling too long, it almost started to sound appealing.
Simon grimaced, remembering then all the times he’d dressed up as Ice King, back in those first few years after he’d been freed. At the time, it had felt calming, but now, it only made shame shoot through him. Everyone had wanted him back the way he used to be, had spent years and years desperately striving to help him, and what had he’d done in return? Thrown it right back in their faces.
He hated who he’d been as Ice King, hated what it had done to his mind, but...things had been so simple. Idiotic, selfish, sad, but so, so simple. This grief, this heaviness, it would be nothing more than bubbles floating in the wind to Ice King, easily forgotten and dismissed. He’d been happy, in his own way, anchored as he was down at the bottom of his own river Lethe. Sure, maybe that happiness hadn’t been quite real, but it’d been close. The sweet, numb bliss of ignorance.
He was drawn from his thoughts when Finn nudged his shoulder. “Are you shivering?”
Simon huffed. “I didn't exactly dress for this weather, Finn,” he said, trying not to sound bitter.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you didn't get cold.”
Simon decided not to answer that. He gestured at Finn's mechanical arm. “What about you?” He perked up, realising something. “You could get frostbite! Oh dear, maybe we should go—”
Finn waved him off. “Nah, it’s fine. Peebs got a wizard to do some magic wimbo-jimbo spell on it. I think it was...‘Be it frosty ice or fiery flame, this metal will see it all the same, so go forth hero with ye arm, for the world will bring it no harm (terms and conditions apply, blah blah liability blah blah)’,” he recited dutifully before shrugging. “Something like that.”
“Of course it’s got a spell,” Simon muttered. This time, he couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone.
Finn frowned at him, but for the first time, there seemed to be genuine concern in his gaze. He rubbed his neck awkwardly, looking to and fro before he said, hesitantly. “Did...you want to go back?”
Simon hugged his arms to his chest, partially to help with the cold, partially to force the sick feeling in his stomach to go away. He didn’t want to be here. But then, he supposed, he didn’t want to be anywhere. The city, his house, the Candy Kingdom, all of it was the same. He was always out of place, out of time. So what good would going back really do?
“No,” he said, “I’m fine to keep going.”
“Cool cool cool,” Finn said, nodding. After a moment, he added, “But, you know, if you really wanted to, we could—”
“No,” Simon said, pointedly marching ahead. “We’re finding that treasure. It’s important to you, and I’m not going to leave you alone to find it. I promised I’d come along with you.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“I can handle a bit of shivering, Finn.” He forced a cheerful smile. “A bit of cold air might just be good for me!”
And in a way, there was truth in that. Afterall, if he got cold enough, he mused to himself as he treaded further and further into the open wound of his past, maybe then he would be lucky enough to finally get what he wanted: to be blissfully numb.
⸻❅❄❆⸻
After Simon had said his goodbyes to Fionna and Cake—not final ones like he had with Betty, thankfully, just simply talk-to-you-laters—he didn't go back to his house, up in that city he didn't quite belong. Instead, he went home.
He'd only made it as far as the cave entrance before a body slammed into him, hands wrapping desperately around him.
"Simon!"
He teetered back for a second from the impact, but as soon as he found his footing, he softened into the embrace.
“Marcy,” he said with a weak smile.
"Oh my god, where have you been? I've been worried sick!"
“Uh...away. On a trip.”
"A trip?” Marceline echoed, as she pulled back from the hug. “Dude, I thought you got kidnapped! Your house was filled with water! And that's not even getting started on the creepy Golb shrine that was in your closet! You want to tell me what that's about?"
"Er...”
“But seriously, why didn't you call me? Or, or leave a message. Or anything to let me know you were alright? You can't just disappear like that, Simon!”
“I didn't think you'd notice,” he murmured quietly.
Marceline bared her teeth. “You asshole! Of course I would! Why wouldn't I notice?”
The question—so simple and genuine—cowed him instantly, and he lowered his head, ashamed he'd ever considered his absence so unimportant to her.
"I'm sorry, Marcy,” he said.
The apology didn't soothe her completely, but it at least made her take a breath and say, more calmly, “where were you?”
Simon winced. How was he supposed to explain getting spirited away into the multiverse with two people who used to be characters in the fanfiction he wrote when he was Ice King without coming across like he was making it up?
"That's a..." He rubbed the back of his head. "Well, that's quite a long story."
"Well, I've got ti—oh my god, is that blood?"
"Huh?' He glanced at his arm, and saw the faint stain along the fabric. Oh. He must've aggravated the cut; not surprising, really, given that he hadn't really done a great job bandaging it up, and all the running around he'd been doing in the last few days probably hadn't helped.
“Don't worry, it's fine.”
"Jeez, did you bandage it yourself? Why didn't you just get one of the Minerva's to do it?"
"It wasn't a medical emergency. Someone else probably needed her help more."
"Okay, one, there's like a bajillion of them up there, it's not like you're taking a limited resource, and two, are you freaking kidding me? Just because it isn't an emergency doesn't mean you shouldn't get help. Urgh, here, I'll do it.”
“Marcy,” he said weakly. “I'm fine, really, you don't—”
"No," she snapped. "I'm doing it, okay. Come on.”
She dragged him into the house, and pushed him down to sit on the couch as she floated off to find the first aid kit. It was probably buried quite deep; the only use it saw was when Simon got hurt, or, rather, when he got hurt enough that he couldn't make up excuses about why he didn't need help, which...wasn’t often.
Knowing he would have to anyway, Simon shrugged off his jacket, and pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. The bandage, as expected, had bled through, so he began the process of unwinding it. By the time he had taken it off, Marceline returned, box in hand.
“Bonnie’s better with this stuff than me,” she admitted as she opened it up. “She should be back soon if you want her to do it?”
Simon shook his head. “I trust your skills.”
Marceline shrugged. “Alright, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She pulled out an antibiotic wipe, enchanted never to dry out or expire, and began to wipe away the blood. "Is this hurting you at all?"
"No, not much," he lied through gritted teeth.
She dabbed the wipe onto a particularly sensitive part, the touch just hard enough to draw a pained wince out of him.
"Uh huh," she said, raising an eyebrow. "You wanna change your answer?"
"Okay, maybe it hurts a little bit."
"See. Was that so hard? And now," she said, softening her touch as she cleaned the wound, "I know how much pressure to apply. Because you told me,” she said pointedly. She shook her head and continued to treat the wound. “This could've gotten infected if you'd left it like this, you know. You’re real lucky it’s not.”
After she had finished cleaning the cut, she pulled out some clean bandages. Simon lifted his free hand to take them.
“It’s alright, I can do it myself, it's...”
He stopped, the familiar excuses fading away. He wasn't sure why; maybe it was the craziness of the last few days, or maybe he was simply too tired. He just couldn't be bothered to smile and force himself through the pain. He lowered his hand, and let her help him.
A part of him, a terribly familiar and ancient part, rankled at that, hissing that it wasn’t her responsibility, that he was supposed to look after himself, and despite himself and his exhaustion, he almost listened to it. But then he frowned, and shook his head. What good would that do? In fact, what good had it ever done him?
“Do you know Morozko?” he said, without any forethought.
Marceline blinked at him, the question as much a surprise to her as it was to him. "Ah. No? Is that your neighbour or something?”
“It's a story my father used to tell me. It was my favourite, in fact. I would have told it to you but...” He looked away. “Morozko means Father Frost, or King Frost.”
“Oh.” She frowned for a moment, before saying, “what happens in it?”
“Well, in the story,” Simon began, “a little girl is sent by her cruel stepmother out into the woods to die from the winter frost. But, when Morozko comes for her and asks her if she is cold, she smiles and lies, telling him she is warm, even when she is on the brink of freezing to death. He rewards her for her resilience.
“When the girl returns home with gold and jewels, the stepmother, greedy as she is, sends her own daughter out into the cold. But when this girl meets Morozko, and he asks her if she is cold, she doesn’t smile and lie. She tells him she is freezing, and gets angry with him. For this, he kills her. When her dead body is returned, the stepmother hugs her cold child and, in doing so, freezes to death too.”
“... and this was your favourite story?” Marceline said, bewildered.
“Believe it or not, that was one of the less morbid ones my father told me,” Simon said with a chuckle, before quickly sobering. “It was meant to teach children about kindness and being polite but...I don't think that's the lesson I learnt from it.”
Marceline stayed quiet, as if she feared he would stop talking if she interrupted. In a way, she wasn't entirely wrong; each word was a struggle—like turning on a rusted tap that hadn't seen any use for years upon years—and being able to pretend he was saying it to an empty room made it easier to keep going.
"My father wanted me to be happy, and so for him, I was,” he said. “I only let myself cry when I was alone, and back then I was alone a lot. I carried my pain inside because that was what I thought I was supposed to do. So when Betty came along, I...well, I don't think I understood how to help her, to be there for her, because I'd never really had anyone be there for me. I think that's why we never really talked about anything important. It was easier to pretend everything was fine, that we were really in love. I didn't want to hurt her, but in the end...“
Marceline looked up at him, her eyes wide with what seemed to be surprise. No wonder; in all the time he'd known her, all those years of shared hardship, he'd never quite opened up to get like this. Because he was supposed to keep her happy, keep her smiling, and so it had been his duty to smile and joke and never let things get too serious, never let his own pain be seen. That was what he thought he needed to do, for her, for everyone.
“In the end,” he said, just above a whisper, “I think not talking about it was what ruined us. Not just Betty and me, but...me and you too."
"Simon, that...” Marceline faltered. Why wouldn't she? He'd never shown her how to do this. Good thing then, that she'd had others to help her learn. “You didn't ruin anything. It was the crown. It screwed you over."
“I know,” he said quietly. “But I still made my choices. I still..." He sighed, the words not quite coming.
Marceline pursed her lips, and looked up at him. “Did something happen while you were away? Are you—”
“I went looking for the crown.”
Marceline went still. “What do you mean you went looking? It's gone.”
“Here, yes. But in other worlds...” He shrugged bitterly. “I found one, one that still worked. I almost put it on too. I was so tempted.”
Marceline stared at him. There was alarm in her eyes, and anger too, the kind she would use to burn away anyone who dared to hurt her friends. But she didn't yell at him, or push him away. She didn't smile and laugh it off, or tell him it wasn't important. Instead, she put her arm on his shoulder, and said one simple thing.
“Why?”
She said it so gently, with such genuine concern, that for a moment he could only stare at her, unable to fathom such kindness. It was when he tried to answer, however, that everything he'd been carrying, the weight of it all—all the lonely years, all the realisations, all the words unsaid and all the things he could never have back—finally seemed to collapse on him.
He pressed himself into her side and, for the first time in a long time, let himself cry.
(Are you warm, poor child?)
(No, please, I'm cold. I'm so cold it hurts it hurts it hurts!)
“Hey, hey, I'm here,” Marceline said, holding him tight, warm and comforting in a way he hadn't felt for a long time. “I'm here. You can talk to me.”
(Oh, Simon. You don't need to be cold anymore.)
“Tell me what's wrong.”