Once upon a time, there lived a lonely Snow King.

Living in an icy palace, appearing before those who ventured out into the snow, he questioned why he had to do the things that he did. One day he decided that, with his spectacular power, there was no reason that he should not make himself company so he would not feel so alone. He turned to the snow bees and twisted the snowflakes into human shapes.

He made villagers, servants, doctors and children. He made men and women, all of them similar but none quite the same.

And the Snow King observed, satisfied: "That's better, isn't it?"

The snow bees looked upon themselves and then at each other and replied: "Well, we suppose so. It's kind of done now. Guess we'll learn to live with it."

However, to the Snow King's misfortune, the snow bees made their own kind of culture and they were never the friends or family to him that he hoped they would be. With him as lonely as before, but not quite as on his own, the Snow King's attentions turned to the world outside of his kingdom, to the people who lived beyond the snow and the ice.

Perhaps he could take some of those people for his own. Better yet, he would take an orphan that wandered out into the snow or who hitched a ride on his sleigh and raise them for his own!

Be advised that emotional decisions without rational thought hardly turn out well. Be certain to consult with the nearest people possible before you consider kidnapping or actions that would be far more illegal in a modern world and not a fairytale one such as this.

In the end, the Snow King failed, alone once more, and that is where our story begins...

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"Your Majesty," Oskar called, knocking briskly on the door with his gloved hands. "Your Majesty, I am entering. I have your dinner."

How did he have this job foisted off on him? The last thing he wanted to do was serve the king his dinner. He was happy in his usual role: cleaning the kitchen, scrubbing the dishes, anything but dressing up for the additional cold that came when he had to go near the king's chambers.

He was quite satisfied (not necessarily happy, because what was happy really) with his usual menial tasks.

But no.

This servant asked him for this favour, that servant asked him for that favour and suddenly the head servant, the one usually in charge of this nonsense, was asking him to please take the king's dinner to him, won't you, Oskar? It seems as though I've come down with a head cold, I need but a night of rest.

Head cold my ass, Oskar thought spitefully. We're snow bees. We can't get sick.

He rapped again on the door since he had yet to receive an answer, and strolled with a bored expression into the king's chambers. Everything was, well, ice. If not ice, then done up in pale blues and white like it was ice: the draperies, the few accoutrements, everything in this whole room (and the palace in general). So unimpressed was he, seeing the king's chambers for the first time, that Oskar looked about with eyes like a dead fish. His lips clamped together, his nose scrunched in disapproval.

Would it kill their king to throw in a bit of vibrancy? Better colour? Honestly.

He sighed and looked around again. He hadn't seen the king on the first pass but, on the second, he spotted him. He blended in seamlessly with the blues and the whites and the off-whites of his bedsheets and... with the ice, of course. He was as pale as chalk, his eyelashes long and white, same as his long, white hair. His lips were faintly blue, like he was dead, as were the knuckles of the pale hands he had folded on his stomach.

Oskar didn't have much right to speak on colouring or appearance when he himself was the same snowy white, with only the faintest tinge of yellow to his white hair and to his much shorter and much less elegant eyelashes. The only thing dark on him were the dusty grey antenna that protruded from his forehead.

He tried to wear more colour, at least. More than that fur-lined pale blue cape or... everything else under that, which was just pale blue, pale blue, pale blue and white as far as the eye could see. (Oskar had no desire to see the king in his undergarments, but he would bet one of his antennae that they were blue or white or both.)

He lay like a corpse on his bed and Oskar tsked quietly.

He had never been privy to the king's theatrics in such close quarters before but oh, did he know of them.

Poor, poor King Malthe, disliked no matter where he traveled for the cold and wintry bluster he brought with him. Poor, poor King Malthe in his decadence and with his hundreds of servants, having to do no more than lay there. Like a board of bleached wood. While everything was done for him. Clipping his nails, fetching his meals, dressing, bathing... everything you could think of save breathing was done for him. Oskar was certain that the king had never had to lift a finger a day in his life.

These were very uncharitable thoughts, but Oskar had never been a particularly charitable snow bee. Nor was he polite enough for this task, since he just marched right over, dragging one of the king's tables over to the side of his bed with a horrible screech and planting the tray on it. He began to move the dishes from the tray to the table without saying a word, even though he knew the king's pale blue eyes had flickered open and he was watching Oskar with what was probably disapproval.

"Your Majesty," Oskar droned. "Your food. If you will."

"You aren't the usual bee," King Malthe replied skeptically.

Oh, how very perceptive of him!

"I'm afraid he's ill, Your Majesty," Oskar said. "I'm Oskar. I'm also afraid that all of the other suitable replacements for the Head Butler were also sick, by some happenstance. Therefore I am here."

King Malthe frowned some more and then plopped his head right back into one of his cold, plush pillows, staring up at the icy, vaulted ceiling of his chambers. Oskar waited, tucking the tray under one of his arms as he looked down at the food which was all, naturally, iced or cold to some degree. Gods forbid they have something warm in this damn ice palace. He would like to partake of a tea that wasn't slushy one day.

"Your Majesty," Oskar said after three minutes had elapsed, bowing as he (hopefully) began to take his leave.

"Oskar," King Malthe said, sighing and bringing his hand up to his forehead, thumb and index fingers pressed to it. Oskar's face went rigid, his business smile held there by sheer iron will. Don't tell him that... "Has the Head Butler spoken to you of me? I am afraid I am very miserable today. How I wish for but an ear to listen to my tale of woe."

He peeked hopefully at Oskar, whose business smile twitched, his antenna vibrating subtly. The king went right back to his theatric pose right afterward.

No choice. He was but a bee and Malthe their queen—king, as the case would have it.

"Yes, Your Majesty? A tale of woe?"

Frankly, Oskar wasn't interested.

"Yes," King Malthe sighed, sliding his fingers down his pale face. He shook his head from side to side, sending all of his white hair flying every which way. How it didn't come back and slap the king in the face, Oskar hadn't the slightest. "They have taken my son from me, Oskar. And they do not permit me to visit. What misery is this? To have your only family stolen from you?"

Son? Oskar drew a blank before he remembered something about a snotty little village boy. He had stayed in the palace for a very short time, terrorizing the servants, while Malthe aggressively attempted to adopt this child who was definitely not an orphan.

"Ah. I see. That is very sad, Your Majesty."

"Isn't it?!" the king shot upright in his bed, staring at Oskar with a frown on his lips. "I have half a mind to go fetch the child myself! Show them how it feels to have your son taken from you, so they can understand what they've done to me!"

You only had him about a week, though, and you erased his memories as well, Oskar thought but kept his mouth shut.

"I know where the village is. Where those dreadful people live," King Malthe muttered, sounding less and less rational by the moment (though his rationality was always in question, in Oskar's opinion), "It would take but a moment to travel there by sleigh."

"I'm afraid that's not an action we can encourage, Your Majesty," Oskar said. "The Royal Advisor has discouraged you from strenuous activity for the sake of your health." There was absolutely nothing wrong with him physically, Oskar knew, but the Royal Advisor had sighed again and again over the king's mental health and lack thereof, his obsession with finding some kind of heir. He should just find a nice person to marry and be done with it or maybe adopt an actual orphan.

"Bah. Strenuous activity," King Malthe huffed, flapping his slender hand. "It would hardly be strenuous to rescue my child. But that Advisor is troublesome and I suppose he has not been wrong yet."

He's giving up, Oskar thought, amazed someone could go from determined to despondent so quickly all the time. What must it be like to have to deal with moods that were just so... stormy? Oskar didn't know, he just felt negative all the time, like everything was a bore and nothing was worth doing. Apathy was his bread and butter.

The king could do with some apathy, he thought.

"Please eat your meal, Your Majesty," Oskar droned, taking a step back and bowing, prepared to leave now, hoping the king was through talking and ranting.

King Malthe grunted, staring up at the ceiling and making no moves for the food.

...Well. That wasn't his problem. Oskar bowed one last time and made a hasty exit.

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Day two. Oskar was going to kill every other servant for foisting this duty off on him again.

I have the most dreadful headache. It must be a holdover from that head cold, the Head Butler had fretted. There's no-one I can leave this task to but you.

We don't get headaches, we're snow bees! Oskar seethed. Apathetically.

"Your Majesty. Your dinner."

"Is that Oskar? Enter."

Damn it all, he knows me by name and voice now, Oskar swore. Apathetically.

He opened up the door to the room reluctantly, tray balanced on his other hand, stepping into the room. To his great surprise, King Malthe was on his feet, pacing the polished, icy floors in his fur-lined boots. His cape swished very dramatically behind him, and he had one of his hands to his chin as he thought, though he had pulled up short to watch Oskar enter.

Oskar uncomfortably fetched the table from yesterday and began to lay out the food.

King Malthe watched him the whole time and he was sure he was going to start sweating soon, if it weren't so damnably cold. "I must thank you for listening to my troubles yesterday. Indeed, having a kind ear lent to me was like a balm on the wounds of my heart," he said solemnly, placing his hand against his chest.

Oskar wasn't sure he had a heart, maybe just a lump of ice rock in there somewhere. Then he was horrified that somehow his curt business courtesy had been taken as kindness. What did the Head Butler usually do when the king wanted to talk?! Should he have just said nothing?!

"I have realised I may have been mistaken in several matters," King Malthe continued in a tone of voice he must have thought very pensive or wise. "And perhaps I will leave my son as he is for the time being. At the very least, I need not worry about him being starved or mistreated."

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How did you get that from our conversation? What kind of conversation did you remember us having? Oskar thought, head spinning.

"I think that, instead, I should focus on my immediate kingdom. Increasing the number of loyal subjects I have," King Malthe talked, heedless of Oskar's mounting horror that the king had somehow come to see him as far more benevolent than he was. "As well, I grow weary of the food as of late. Perhaps I will see about securing trade from other countries."

"Trade," Oskar repeated hollowly. Everything that came in or out of their kingdom froze. How was His Majesty planning on dealing with that?

"Yes. Perhaps I shall see about fish or meat, we are woefully lacking in variety. As for what we could send out, hm— what do you think, Oskar? Have you any wisdom to offer me?"

King Malthe stared hopefully at him, just like yesterday.

Oskar's mouth was dry but he swallowed against it and made himself think. "There is always honey, Your Majesty," he said at last, against his better judgement.

King Malthe's stare went from hopeful to blank, uncomprehending.

Oskar wanted to hit his head against something; had King Malthe no idea of what the snow bees did when they weren't serving him? "The kind the small snow bees make?" he tried, hoping for comprehension. "Were you to export it frozen, you could suggest it be used to make cool desserts or dishes, or even melted in overtly warm dishes to chill them. Even in tea it would prove some use."

There wasn't much else. Everything they made in this kingdom was, well, frozen. It would thaw when it left the kingdom, but he didn't know how anything would taste once it had thawed. Most of their vegetables turned mushy, limiting them to stews or soups, and a mushy vegetable wasn't a marketable trade item.

"Oh. Ohhhhh," King Malthe said, clapping his bony hands together. "What a marvelous idea, Oskar. Yes, yes, I shall speak to the advisor right away about this! You've been much help to me this day!"

Oskar bowed stiffly and let himself out of the room.

What on earth am I doing? he groaned at himself as he headed down the hallway back where he came from, swinging the tray irritably in his hand.

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Day three, he was no longer told that he must bring the king his dinner. He was both relieved and weirdly, strangely disappointed. There was nothing he enjoyed about talking with that strange king! Well, so he wasn't as bad as Oskar thought he was, and maybe his eccentric and theatrical behaviour was kind of funny and the king didn't talk down to him either, but...

He shook his head and carried on, his feet leading him to the kitchen where stacks of dishes awaited him.

Or—that had been his intention.

To his great surprise, King Malthe was out of his bedroom, sweeping down the hall with a purpose. His long white hair had been pulled back from his chalky-white face and he, surprisingly, lit up as he saw something. Then Oskar put together that the king was looking at him. Oh, no. He glanced quickly behind him and saw his fellow servants disappearing into side-rooms, not a one of them lingering even to be his backup.

Traitors, he thought spitefully, his antennae twitching angrily.

"There you are, good Oskar," King Malthe exclaimed, stopping in front of him. He seized both of Oskar's hands in a cold grip that seeped through Oskar's black gloves. His fingers tingled with numbness and he tried not to yank back. "I thought I would share with you the results of my work! Would you come and walk with me a while?"

Oskar looked desperately over one shoulder down the beautiful and ornate palace hallway again.

Fellow snow bees peeked out of side-doors or around corners, grinned, and then pulled themselves out of sight.

Oskar vowed to cook all of them into a snow bee stew.

"As Your Majesty wishes," he said stiffly and followed the king down the hallway as the king prattled on. King Malthe told him about trade and that, as of yet, no bordering country was interested in trading with them, but some of them were admittedly curious about the honey that they made in their kingdom and how it could be used in their own. Sugar was a difficult thing to come by, especially in this region where no sugar cane grew due to the cooler climate. Honey was a very alluring substitute, and not that many beekeepers worked or lived in the bordering countries. Not nearly enough to provide honey to the entire populace.

Oskar listened with his face back in what fellow servants had gotten to calling his dead fish face, eyes seeing nothing and body moving robotically alongside the king. Except, different from his usual dead fish face, occasionally his eyes would light and he'd peer cautiously sideways at King Malthe, watching his gesticulations and the enthusiasm with which he spoke about what he was doing and planning.

It was funny to watch his dramatic way of speaking.

"—kar? Oskar, are you listening to me?" King Malthe frowned.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. I'm listening."

King Malthe stared.

Whoops. Forgot to speak politely. Oskar cleared his throat and added awkwardly, "Your Majesty."

"I must say," King Malthe began after a pregnant pause, "you don't treat me very much like the other servants. They all tend to skitter away as soon as they see me. Much less speak or listen to me." He sighed and twirled a long piece of his bang around his index finger. "You must have a large heart indeed, Oskar."

There was a stifled snicker from one of the doors they passed and Oskar glared at it until the door shut.

"I wouldn't say, Your Majesty," Oskar said stiffly. "Rather than a large heart, I would say I had a very small one."

"Oskar," King Malthe gasped, placing his hand to his chest. "You mustn't speak of yourself that way. Oh—you will make me weep for you. Do not doubt your own kindness!"

If this is what you think of as kindness, what have we been doing all of this time? Oskar thought. But, that was the way of things. He and his fellow snow bees were as remote as snowfall. When they touched they only chilled, if they sought intimacy it was only with their fellows whom they didn't have to worry about harming. The king was cold himself, but he wasn't a bee like them, so they all kept him at a respectable distance.

Oskar had never been close with either his fellow bees or with any other being, so maybe he didn't understand the way of things. He tried to keep the king at a distance, but he ended up carelessly speaking his mind or offering his opinion anyway.

He must be ill, he decided.

"It's not kindness," Oskar told the king after several moments. "I really do not care about very much, Your Majesty. I honestly don't understand the point of caring when it is so much easier to live without doing so. Do you understand where I am coming from?"

King Malthe's expression had clouded and he chewed at his blue lower lip before he shook his head from side to side. "I am afraid not. I care very much for this kingdom, for you bees, and of course to all those who make their home here. And my son, though we may never meet again."

Perhaps I am better suited for ice than I thought, Oskar thought, tearing his gaze away from the king. The king had a cold exterior, but he was all warmth and fire inside, flickering and lashing dramatically, catching at things he shouldn't catch at. Oskar, on the other hand...

"But," King Malthe continued, his expression brightening, "there are those who say life is enriched by meeting those who think an opposing way to your own way of thought. You must tell me more about why you do not care so much. I wish to learn why you think this way, and of course you may ask me anything you wish. I would very much like to see you come to realise I really think you are very kind, but I will not force it."

Oskar nearly tripped over his own feet in shock.

"Goodness! Are you all right, Oskar?"

"Fine," Oskar muttered, gripping at the nearby wall for balance as he stared down at his feet. His cheeks felt strangely, oddly hot and his antennae bowed down as though they could hide his eyes away.

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Oskar was tired of being whispered about, about being talked about. He couldn't even scrub his dishes in peace without one of the other snow bees peeking his way and whispering something to their neighbour.

Stew, all of you, he swore fiercely.

Besides that, he was becoming quite strange. His chest felt oddly warm and perhaps he was wrong and snow bees could become sick after all? He consulted the Court Physician about the matter, but the elderly snow bee merely gave him a knowing glance and replied it was a mere affliction that came with growth and growing up.

Growing up. Pah. Oskar was well into adulthood.

He didn't appreciate vague answers, either, much less an obvious dodge of the subject.

Clever bee that he was, Oskar also refused to consider the one thing that might be causing his ailment. Perhaps he ought to leave the palace altogether. He might die in the country outside of this one (who knew if snow bees could thrive in warmth?) but he was certain there was some snowy mountain or cave or something of the like he could go and live in for the rest of his days. A nice dark, chilly cave where no-one would find him, much less the king who was all smiles as of late and invited him eagerly on walks or to sit with him and talk in his garden full of frozen, glittering flowers.

Oskar moaned in despair, slumped on a bench in that very garden, his face in his hands. He gripped at his short, fluffy hair with gloved fingers and sorely wished for apathy, for things to make sense, for solitude and silence and the comfort that came with being ignored.

"Oskar? Oskar, are you well?"

He groaned again, louder this time, as the voice fell down on him from above.

He looked up and there was King Malthe, his thin white eyebrows raised in surprise. He looked very healthy lately, there was even a lively blue tinge to his chalky cheeks, and his eyes would often glitter as he looked about even though now they were shadowed with concern. He reminded Oskar of a child at times, though he knew King Malthe had lived long past the age where he should be considered a child.

"I'm ill. I am considering moving to a far-off land and recuperating from this illness," Oskar muttered as he pressed his face back into his hands.

"Gods! I shall have the best doctors called—"

"It's hopeless. The only cure is solitude. To become a hermit."

Silence. Then, after two very long minutes, King Malthe said, "Well, that sounds rather lonely. I would rather call many doctors to cure you of what ails you."

"It's a growing sickness. There's nothing to be done."

"Ah." King Malthe paused. "... It is not, well—"

Oskar frowned into his hands and looked up between his fingers. King Malthe was fidgeting, playing with a piece of his hair. "What?" He remembered himself and added, "Your Majesty?"

"It is not, erm." King Malthe fidgeted, unusually ineloquent. He pitched his voice down into a whisper, "It is not... you know... is it?"

Oskar had no idea what you know was supposed to be or how it was supposed to relate to him. King Malthe fidgeted more before he added, even more hushed than the first time, barely audible even to Oskar's sharp ears, "Estrus or whatever they call it?"

Oskar reeled back and spluttered at him, "I am not a female!"

"W— Well, I don't know!" King Malthe stammered back at him. "What on earth is a growing sickness supposed to be, then?"

"I don't know!" Oskar squawked.

"What do you mean, you don't know?!"

"I don't know is 'I don't know'," Oskar repeated himself vehemently, assured of his point—whatever that might be. "I simply know that I am not as I was! I feel warm, strange and it's not at all enjoyable, and before I know it I have shortness of breath and the physician was of no help at all to me! He said this was a part of growing up so what else am I to call this but a growing sickness?"

"My," King Malthe murmured, his eyes wide in surprise.

Oskar didn't even hear the word, caught up in his rant, worries, "And, blast it all, it only gets worse by the day! This is why solitude and silence is best for me, I am not equipped for these—this—nonsense. No offense to Your Majesty, but your presence seems only to make it worse, and I will soon not be able to bear it at all before I do—something. I do not know what, but I am sure it will be terrible."

King Malthe blinked several times in silence... and then he sat himself down right next to Oskar on the bench. He folded his slender hands in his lap and stared, fidgeting, at some of the nearby frozen flowers. "I do not think it will be so terrible," he said, mumbling as he said it.

Oskar scowled at him. "You can only say such things because you do not know."

"I mean, well—I am suffering from the same sickness," King Malthe continued in an even lower mumble and he lowered his head, tugging at his long bangs with his fingers. The movement was absolutely infuriatingly adorable, as it always was.

Oskar crossed his arms over his chest, defying their want to reach out for the king.

"It's only grown worse as of late, but I rather like to embrace it," King Malthe said, his tone lifting up with cheer. "So, I believe you should do the same. Don't you, Oskar?"

"Not really," Oskar said sulkily. "What was it you said about people with differing opinions?"

"Life is enriched by them," Malthe said knowledgeably. "But, in this matter, I am rather desperate for your agreement." He turned so that he was mostly facing Oskar and moved to take both of Oskar's hands between his own. There, oddly enough, was no chill this time that bit through his gloves.

... Instead, it was oddly warm.

Without Oskar realising, his pale, pale hair began to brighten, the tinges of yellow in it spreading as though part of him was defrosting from a long winter. King Malthe glanced up at his hair, then to his face and his eyelashes that were turning from white to a light yellow, and he smiled brightly, gently shaking Oskar's hands up and down.

"Desperate for your agreement," King Malthe repeated, tone determined. "Will you suffer the same sickness with me, for our whole lives from this point onward?"

"That sounds awful." Oskar scowled, unaware of the faint golden hue that rose in his cheeks, lining pale skin. His dusty grey antennae darkened, the fur on them changing, striped now with thin bands of sunny colour. "I would suggest you seek out one of the other servants, but I doubt any of them would stick around. I truly do hate having duties foisted off on me, Your Majesty."

"I know, I know," King Malthe replied reassuringly, picking off Oskar's gloves finger by finger.

When their hands touched, skin to skin, Oskar's whole body went up in flames.

Metaphorically.

That being said, a large cloud of steam puffed straight out of him, thawing the bench they sat on as well as the nearest flowers to them, and Oskar shuddered as he realised he felt so very warm, sweltering really, not in the least bit cold. King Malthe's eyes narrowed with pleasure and he still looked as cold and pale blue and white as always, but his hands seared Oskar's. The king's palm felt clammy, a little unpleasant but not so much to make him want to extract himself.

"This is troublesome," Oskar said. "I would rather be a hermit. But, I suppose— None of the other bees are half as useful as I am."

King Malthe beamed.

Oskar glanced away, back, away, and cautiously leaned in. To the king's surprise and bemusement, he nuzzled their faces together. He rubbed first his left cheek and then his right cheek against Malthe's corresponding ones, and then brushed their foreheads together while the king snorted, giggling when fuzzy antennae rubbed his skin.

"There." Oskar pulled back just a little, flushed gold but looking pleased, his lips curled into a smug smile. "Now you'll be sick forever with me. You ought to despair a little, Your Majesty."

"Just Malthe's okay," the king replied, thrilled, and threw both of his arms right around Oskar's neck. Planting a kiss on his mouth, he told him proudly, "I've just made you even sicker, so you need to despair first."

Oskar play-growled at him, leaning in close again.

Outside of the garden, the other snow bees (who had been spying all along, naturally) shook their heads at their flirting and wondered what would happen to their kingdom.

It looked as though spring was finally coming.

THE END