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Deep winter had come to the land, and in the neighbouring mountain kingdom where King Samael had chosen to spend the midwinter holiday, the snow stood thick and fast upon the ground. It rose in towering piles beside the road that led to the Winter-Queen’s palace, carved through by sharps spades to open the way for carriages between storms. Nestled in a valley like some giant’s dropped jewel, her palace glittered with warmth and light and ice alike, and Aziraphale could see why the people of this place were so fiercely devoted to it, even if he didn’t appreciate their weather.
Along with some of the other more promising squires, he’d been chosen to accompany the king’s retinue, to serve both their knights and within the palace guard, learning from the men who warded this defiant place. It had been very educational, and there had truly been plenty of time to enjoy himself, but on a day like today, Aziraphale found himself wallowing.
He stood on the castle wall, looking out over the ramparts at the valley beyond, where upon a deep, black, frozen lake people cavorted, sliding and skating and frolicking. His eyes tracked their movements dully, until a silver jingle caught his ears, and they flicked to its source. A sleigh had just burst from the treeline, throwing up flashes of snow on either side, heading straight for the lake. The people there had heard the bells as well and scattered to get out of the way. The sleigh hit the ice with barely a skid, the studded shoes of the horses finding purchase on the surface as they dug in with a will. Through the chill air, Aziraphale could hear both the scream of the princess, and the unmistakable laugh of the prince beside her as he egged the horses on, a smudge of copper above the blankets and heavy wraps.
“Bit reckless.”
Aziraphale started, looking sharply around at the guardsman who had come up beside him, shaking his head.
“Prince Crowley ought to take more care, he’s not used to these conditions.”
Aziraphale only nodded, handing over the spear to his replacement.
That night, Aziraphale lingered near the wall of the ballroom. Ostensibly he was a guest like any other, but everyone knew the squires were only allowed to attend in service of their knights— and it wasn’t like they knew any of the dances anyway. He clutched a goblet full of rich red wine, but only sipped in sparingly, torn between his duty of staying alert, and the appeal of getting blindingly drunk. But he couldn’t take his eyes off Crowley, dancing there with the princess, with her laughing, ice-blue eyes and perfect smile and hair so blonde it was almost white, her dress a swirling glacial confection of gauzy pleats.
The song ended, and Crowley bowed over the princess’s hand, his lips clearly brushing against her knuckles. Aziraphale felt vaguely sick. Then suddenly Crowley was walking towards him, and Aziraphale’s feet were rooted to the elegant marble floor, his fingers clutching the goblet.
“How can it be so hot in here when it’s so bloody cold outside?” Crowley complained, stepping up to the refreshment table, “If it wouldn’t mortify my mother, I’d strip to the waist right here.”
“You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Could be worse,” Crowley took a deep drink of wine, having found the one he was looking for, “She’s a good dancer at least.”
“That’s good.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Aziraphale blinked, looked around at Crowley; looking at him properly for the first time since he’d come over. The prince’s eyes were narrowed, brow quirked. “You look like someone swapped your wine for vinegar.”
“Nothing, Prince Crowley.”
“Crowley.”
“You know I’m not allowed.”
“Who’s going to hear? Him?” Crowley gestured with his goblet to Sir Gabriel, who was bellowing with laughter at something some woman (who looked to be regretting her choices) had just said, a full carafe of wine in his hand, “He’s not going to remember anything from tonight anyway. Why don’t you come dance?”
Aziraphale’s mouth opened. Surely Crowley couldn’t be inviting him to come dance with him? In front of all these people? The same calculation seemed to be taking place behind Crowley’s eyes as he realised how what he’d just said had come out.
“I don’t know any of these dances.”
“Oh. Well—”
“Crowley!” The princess swept up to them with a jingle of the tiny silver bells braided into her hair, and she dispensed a glittering smile upon them both. “Come, the next dance is about to start! Oh, who’s your friend?”
“Squire Aziraphale, your Highness,” Aziraphale replied, bowing deeply, before Crowley could speak, “It’s my honour to make your acquaintance.”
“Oh, you’re Sir Gabriel’s boy, aren’t you? He speaks highly of you.”
“That’s very gratifying to hear.”
“Come along, Crowley!” The princess tugged at his arm as the first strains of music began. Crowley made to follow, depositing his goblet back on the table, but not without turning his face back to Aziraphale, holding his gaze with a look that seemed to reflect the longing in Aziraphale’s own heart, before he was pulled into line.
Aziraphale poured the rest of the wine down his throat.