Iron and Ice

The front door was frozen shut. Arthur had to throw his shoulder against it three times before it cracked open.

The world was white. The wind was a physical force, trying to push him back.

Blackwood Lane was gone. In its place was a tundra. The streetlights were frozen pillars of ice.

And Number 44 was under attack.

Tall, gaunt figures made of blue ice and jagged bone surrounded the cottage. They carried spears of diamond.

In the center of the garden—now a graveyard of frozen flowers—Elara was on her knees.

She was blue. Her hair was frosted white. She was huddled against the iron fence—the fence Arthur had reinforced. She had tried to reach him, but the iron burned her Fae skin. She was trapped between the cold and the metal.

A figure loomed over her. The Winter King. He was ten feet tall, a void of absolute zero in a cloak of snow.

"Come home, little spark," the King’s voice boomed. It sounded like a glacier calving. "The cage is waiting."

Arthur ran.

He didn't run with grace. He slipped, scrambled, and clawed his way through the snowdrifts.

"Hey!" he screamed.

The Winter King turned. Faceless. Eyeless. Just a hunger for stillness.

"The Anchor," the King rumbled. "You rejected her. Go back to your dust, human. This does not concern you."

Arthur reached the fence. Elara looked up at him. Her eyes were dimming. She was dying. The cold was snuffing her out.

"Arthur," she whispered. Her lips were blue.

"I hate the cold," Arthur said.

He jammed the jaws of the bolt cutters onto the iron link of the fence.

* The iron shall weep.*

Arthur squeezed. He put all his frustration, all his years of silence, all his fear into his hands.

* SNAP.*

The iron gave way.

He cut another link. And another. He kicked the section of fence until it bent back, creating a gap.

He stepped through the threshold.

The Winter King raised a spear. "You cannot stop the season, mortal."

Arthur dropped the bolt cutters. He fell to his knees in the snow beside Elara. He pulled her into his arms. She was freezing, a block of ice in the shape of a woman.

"You're late," she chattered, a faint smile ghosting her lips.

"Traffic," Arthur said.

He looked at the Winter King. He looked at the spear descending.

"How do we do this?" Arthur asked.

"You have to want it," Elara whispered. "You have to want the mess. The chaos. The growth. You have to give up the safety."

Arthur looked at her. He thought about his quiet study. He thought about the silence.

Then he looked at the wild, terrifying life in her eyes.

"I want it," he said.

He leaned down.

The Winter King’s spear struck the ground, but it was too late.

Arthur kissed her.