"Simon, please!"

These are the first words Simon hears through the wind. Promises of ice and cold and power crackling beneath his skin, clouding his judgment. The voice is one he recognizes-and one he doesn't. He thinks of a much younger voice begging him to promise-promise-snow and the strength to find her and keep her safe-

A sudden clear-headedness sends him inexplicably to his knees. His head feels light, so light, but the ground seems to be pulling him down, anchoring him. The crown-the crown!

Simon twists around, blinking in the stark light of the kitchen. Marceline's face swims above him, hastily scrubbing away tears. In her other hand is the crown-the crown-HIS CROWN-something within him roars, filling his head with sleet and crystal that splinters into the worst headache he's ever known. He kneads his knuckles against his temples, driving back the storm.

"Marcy, what's going on?" he manages. Memories swim, vague and distorted like images seen through fractured ice. "Did I-did I drive them back?"

Her breath catches, and he looks up to see her. He notices the grief in her expression before he recognizes her age. It takes him another moment to realize that she's floating somewhere near the ceiling. She withdraws the crown, hiding it from view, and the roaring eases a bit.

"How long was I out?" he asks. His ears and even eyes seem to ring. "Look at you!" He attempts a smile. "You're all grown up now."

"Too big to hold," she says, and her voice nearly breaks. "Simon, I'm sorry that I took the crown. I-I brought it back."

"Brought it back?" he repeats. He looks around the kitchen-untouched by war, by ruin. Clean and well-kept. "Marcy, just how long was I out for?"

"We were arguing." She gently touches down beside him. "You-you didn't remember anything. So I took the crown away." She hesitates, pressing a cold hand to his forehead. "Glob, Simon, you're burning up!"

"I'm sorry if I said or did anything to hurt you," he says, reaching up to ruffle her hair. Wrinkles line his shaking hands; he tries to ignore them. "Are you all right now? Are we safe?"

"It's-Simon, it's going to be okay. Have you eaten since I left?"

"I don't know," he answers. An aching void stretches out in his stomach, but he held his tongue. The proximity of the crown makes his vision waver.

"It's been nearly a week! Mother. Where's the chicken soup? Mother, mother, mother." She floats again, zipping around the kitchen and upending drawers. Cans of tomato soup soon litter the floor; the fridge only holds apples. "I'm going to have to take you to Finn and Jake," she says. "Glob, Simon. I thought you'd still-even without the crown-you can't just-argh!"

"Hey, look, I'm fine!" Simon staggers to his feet. He catches himself against a wall and pantomimes a dance to set her at ease. "Hotchacha!" His voice is too hoarse to sing; he ends his declaration with a cough. "Just need a bit of a breather, and I'll be right as rain."

"You can't walk to Finn's," she says. He notices fangs as she chews her lower lip. "I'll have to carry you."

"Oh, don't worry about an old man like me." He laughs and waves a hand. "I'm much too big to carry."

"Simon, please," she says, and the ground seems a little firmer beneath him-he looks up to see her empty-handed, the crown gone. "I'm carrying you there whether you like it or not."

"Well, all right." He holds out his arm and pretends it isn't shaking. "I'm a bit heavy, though."

"I'm a lot stronger than I was back then," she says. "This time I can look after you." Without warning, she grabs him and pulls him into a hug so fierce that his back cracks. "I missed you so much, Simon. I missed you more than anything."

Simon buries his face in her hair and rubs her back. As the crown's grip on him eases, he comes to realize that she's dodged his question of time-she can't have aged ten years in a week's time. How long had he left her alone? He closes his eyes and braces himself. "Marcy, you really have to tell me. How long was I out? I-I can't remember anything."

Marceline says nothing for a long moment, frozen in his arms, before she finally pulls back. She blinks rapidly as though to keep tears at bay. "Nine hundred ninety-six years," she tells him. When he starts to smile and tease her back, her face goes so serious that he stills. "And I'm getting you some chicken soup now."

His feet slip away from the linoleum, and giddy terror floods his stomach. "Marcy, we're flying!" he shouts, kicking his legs in the open air. "This is incredible!"

"And it's going to be a lot less incredible if I accidentally drop you," she groans. "Stay put!"

She carries him out of the house and cave and into the night air outside. He whoops with delight, but takes care not to give her too much trouble carrying him. Her laughter isn't as bubbly as it had been at age seven, but it's low and fond and familiar all the same.

"Ice King!" the bleary-eyed bear-boy shouts, scrambling towards a sword near his bedside. "Jake, he's creeping on us again!"

"Ugh, go away," the dog grunts-or seems to. When Simon gapes at him, he rolls over to turn his back on the scene. "It's the middle of the night. Come back in the morning, and we'll fight you then."

The bear-boy finally gets his hands on the sword, and Simon stumbled backwards, away from its point.

"Guys, I need help," Marceline says. This catches the bear-boy's attention, at least; he lowers his sword. "It's-" She gestures at Simon, her face pinching as she searches for the words. "He's himself again. But he's got a fever, and I don't know what to do with-with sick humans."

Humans? Simon opens his mouth to speak, but the bear-boy cuts him off.

"Simon?" he asks. "Simon Petrikov?"

"Why, yes," Simon says, stooping a little to offer the boy his hand despite the crick in his back. "Have we met?"

"Sort of," the bear-boy says, taking Simon's hand. "I'm Finn."

"Pleased to meet you, Finn." Simon grins and shakes the boy's. "Sorry to interrupt your sleep. Marcy insisted on bringing me immediately."

"Marcy?" Finn repeats. At a growl from behind Simon, he goes red and his voice squeaks. "Right! Soup! Jake, get up."

"Uh uh." The dog-Jake?-yawns loudly and pointedly tucks himself under his blanket. "Get B-MO to make it. He was recharging all day. I need my beauty sleep."

"B-MO?" Finn shouts.

"Yes, Finn?" a high, digital voice calls back. For a moment, Simon wonders whether the treehouse itself is electronic, but then he sees a handheld gaming device stumble of its own accord up the stairs. When it sees him, its screen flashes and a sharp, static-y intake of breath seems to be an impossible gasp. "The Ice King!"

"Does everyone know me already?" Simon mutters. Clearing his throat, he tries to crouch low enough to offer the little robot his hand. "Hello there."

"He's Simon, and he needs chicken soup, stat," Marceline cuts in. "That's what you give sick humans, right? Chicken soup?"

"Works for me," Finn says, shrugging. "B-MO, do you know where any soup is?"

"I think there is a can in the back of cupboard. Let me go check." It stumbles out of the room, and Marceline tugs Simon after it.

"You're not just playing at being a 'nice king' again, are you?" Finn asks, turning his sword over in his hand. "You were pretty convincing the last time. Without the beard and all."

Wooziness overtakes Simon as he clambers down the ladder. His grip feels watery and insecure, his stomach raw and empty. Thinking back to Finn's first instinct on seeing him-going for a weapon-his head and chest ache. Glancing over his shoulder at the hovering Marceline, he asks, "How many people have I hurt?"

"No one," she says-too quickly. "Look, this isn't the right time to-to talk about this." She ducks her head. "I'm gonna get you set up on the couch, and then I'm going to take care of you. The chicken soup will make you feel awesome again, okay?" Sliding her arms beneath his, she helps him off the ladder and drops him off on the couch, tucking him in with a nearby blanket and hauling over a coffee table. "It'll be better this time."

Simon wants to ask about the talking dog, the robot, Marceline's flying, the way that the world seems so distorted and yet whole, but the words clot in his throat. Something like whispering curls around his ears, promising him power and might and all the protection he could ever need-but then exhaustion grinds out the words, and darkness draws him under.

Morning wakes Simon with a start, light filling his eyes. He snorts and looks down at his hands. Gray had begun to usurp the blue-no healthy pink waits beneath. A shadow falls over his hands.

"Feeling awesome yet?" Marceline asks him, yawning. She has an enormous sunhat on that blocks all the sunlight streaming through the windows. Her eyes are heavy with exhaustion. "We must have force-fed you a gallon of soup last night."

"Much better," he lies, smiling as he hides his hands. "If I've missed as much as you say, then I have a lot of catching up to do! Have you been all right?"

"Well, it depends on what you mean by all right," she says, sadness touching her features before she shakes it away. "If you hadn't noticed, I'm kind of a vampire now."

"The most fearsome of them all, I'll bet!" Simon says, trying to take the news in stride. "Am I a vampire, as well, then?"

"No." Her smile fades. "Dad's the only one who can infect people. When I got sick-well. He always wanted a daughter."

"Dad?" Simon repeats, embarrassed by the jolt of pain that accompanies the word. "I'm glad that someone looked after you when I-when I didn't."

"That's one word for it," she mutters. She shakes her head. "You did what you had to, Simon. How much do you remember?"

He racks his brain, but the memories remains spotty and incomplete. "Bits and pieces," he admits. "It all gets fuzzy after the oozy people came after us."

"When your glasses broke," she says, brows furrowing. "You weren't the same after that. The crown changed you too much. Even when you weren't wearing it, your voice would just-change. And you'd be the Ice King instead of Simon."

He hesitates for just a moment before daring to ask, "The Ice King?" Finn and B-MO had called him the same thing-and it hadn't sounded friendly. When Marceline cringes, he finds himself suddenly afraid of the answer.

"You're Simon," she insists. "The crown is the Ice King."

"You said that I was under for nearly a thousand years, Marcy," he said. "That means I'm spent longer as this Ice King than I have as myself."

"Simon." Her voice is taut. "Are you feeling better? You look kinda pale."

"Just call me Snow White!" he chuckles, then tugs at his beard. "Perhaps Santa Claus would be a bit more appropriate."

"Goofball," she mutters, lightly punching his arm. "If you're Santa, where's my present?"

"How about a song?" Simon suggests. "Mi mi mi!" When his voice cracks, he clears his throat sheepishly. "Or a story might be a nice enough substitute."

"You always had the best stories," she says, her eyes looking through him to another time and place. Her features seem to soften. "Yeah. Tell me a story."

"Let's see, how did I always start these... Hmm. In a long away place and a far ago-no, no, that's not right." He smiles as Marceline's face lights up with laughter. "There once was a girl named Mmm-" he hesitates as she turns to look at him with her ridiculous sunhat. A thousand years old and still so young. "Mary," he decides. "Her monkey, uh, Porkchop, never left her side, no matter how dangerous their adventures got. And what adventures they had! Because Mary was quite a special girl..."

The rhythm of storytelling takes a while to come back to him. His voice is creakier than he remembers, his arms less willing to gesture wildly when the story demands it. But he had told Marceline a hundred or thousand stories with women at the helm of grand adventures, charging into battle alongside their friends. She'd been younger then-just seven and so small he could carry her in one arm. Without any friends her own age-without any girls to look up to-he'd had to invent her role models. Mischievous and crafty and fun, she'd loved the happily ever afters best of all.

As he drags the story out and glosses over plot holes and improbable twists, he feels his joints aching. A thousand years worn into his old bones and skin without the crown's magic to keep it at bay. Exhaustion falls over him like a wave-or perhaps a snowdrift-and leaves him jerking awake in the middle of fight scenes.

But Marceline's gaze never wavers, and he hides the tremors and aches to get to her happily ever after.

Jake is the only one willing to be honest with him about what he'd done as the Ice King. Not just one story-hundreds and hundreds of them. Guilt sinks like a stone in his stomach. Days full of stories about battles they'd had and crazy schemes he'd concocted pass as Marceline naps in the shade. After Finn and Jake go to bed for the night and she pulls up a chair beside his couch, he touches her hand.

"I need to apologize to the princesses," he insists. "After all the grief I put them through, it's the least I can do."

"You didn't do anything, Simon. You need to rest-you look even worse than you did this morning." Her brow furrows with concern, and he looks away from her face, not wanting to give away the truth. When she presses a hand to his forehead, a frown tugs at her lip. "Those boneheads don't know what they're doing. It's been days, and you're still sick."

"I'm fine," Simon lies. "I really would feel better if I apologized, though."

"Maybe I could take you to PB," she muses, wiping her hand off on her jeans. "She's not Doctor Princess, but she did manage to make you an artificial heart that one time."

"Artificial heart?" he repeats, tapping his chest. So many things feel different already that he hadn't noticed.

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I think PB can help. Or at least she can figure out who could actually help."

"Atta girl. Good idea!" He doesn't have to force a smile-Princess Bubblegum had apparently been the most frequent target of his kidnappings, and he badly wants to talk to her. Struggling to his feet, he sways, joints popping. "Let's head out right away."

"Oh, no, you don't," she says, catching him by the arm. "Time for another piggyback ride. C'mon."

"I remember when you were small enough that I could do the carrying." He lets her scoop him up, keeping in a sigh.

"And now it's your turn."

The flight is painless. She's careful with him-no bruises or bumps or even light-headedness from soaring too high. He smells the Candy Kingdom before he sees it-like the inside of a fudge shop or downwind of a cotton candy stand at a fair from his youth. When he finally does see it, it looks familiar in a most uncanny way. He sets the thought aside as Marceline swoops him down to land outside a castle at the heart of the city.

"I'm gonna go grab her," she says. "Sometimes she has...experiments around. I don't want her getting trigger happy on us. Can you wait here?"

Simon settles down on the steps outside the castle and smiles warmly up at her. "Certainly."

"Don't budge," she says, narrowing her eyes at him. "I'll be right back." When he nods, she takes off for one of the towers of the castle.

How many times had he made up stories about rescuing princes and princesses? Marcy had always loved those stories-stories with a little love. And he'd missed his own princess; it hadn't been hard to come up with stories about love. Maybe not the best role model for young Marcy, but he'd tried. He'd broken his promise and put on the crown despite everything she'd begged of him. Well, no more Ice King. Simon Petrikov, resident useless old man at your service!

"Simon."

He turns instinctively towards Marceline's voice, setting aside thoughts of the past. At her side stands a rather sleep-deprived mad scientist in a white lab coat and goggles. Her hair looks pink and, frankly, very little like hair.

"Hello," he says, preparing to introduce himself again, but the princess just yawns and waves him over.

"Marceline explained everything," she says, her voice groggy. "C'mon. Let's get you checked out."

He grimaces as he pushes himself to his feet, and Marceline immediately hoists him up again. As they go through the labyrinthine hallways of the castle, he's relieved that she's willing to carry him; she'd been right when she'd said he looked worse than before. He certainly felt worse than before. Only his head remained clear; everything else ached. After several long, silent minutes, he can't take the pressure any more.

"I'm sorry for any inconvenience I caused," he begins. "I-the crown impairs my judgment."

"Mm," the princess murmurs, nodding. "But you've been sick ever since you took it off?"

"Yes, that seems to be so."

"I wish I could examine the crown in detail, but," she breaks off and yawns, covering her mouth, "it seems to have been misplaced."

"I don't want anyone else touching that thing," Marcy cuts in. When the princess raises an eyebrow at her, Simon feels her tense above him. "I mean-it's a good thing I can't remember where I put it. That thing is bad news."

"Even so, it might give me some insight into Simon's condition. Ah, here we are." She pushes open a door and ushers them into a medical bay of sorts.

Simon peers around the room, but only the odd sense of familiarity without recognition persists. "What do you need me to do, Doc?"

"I'm hardly a doctor," she says, but he catches her smiling. "Just a physical exam should be fine."

Her idea of a typical physical exam seems quite different from the ones he'd had before the Mushroom War. High-tech scans and mysterious readings on screens and charts are all a bit beyond him. So he focuses instead on Marcy and the princess. He notices the familiarity between them, the friendly but hurt undertones to everything they say and do around one another. Marcy teases her, but she has no patience for it. Simon can't help but wonder if this is the princess he'd been writing into those stories for Marcy to save-a smart, capable princess who still needed someone who could work at her level. His head swims, and he loses the thought.

Sun begins to peek into the room, and Marceline shrinks away.

"Marcy, when was the last time you slept?" Simon asks. Her eyes flash, and he raises his hands to appease her. "I seem to be in capable hands. Why don't you go rest? We might even have results ready by the time you wake up."

"I'm fine, Simon," she mutters, but she rubs her eyes, and exhaustion tinges her voice. "Peebs is the one who needs some shut-eye. Think she's been up for forty hours straight."

"Should I put on a TV show again?" he suggests, grinning. "Keep you both up?"

"A what?" the princess asks, but Marceline is already cracking up.

"How about I put on a TV show for you instead?" She hovers near the ceiling in a dark corner, and he thinks of hospitals and television sets long destroyed by wars. "Hmm, let's see... I think you might know this one." She clears her throat and starts to sing. "Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name!"

"And they're always glad you came!" he joins in. Before he can sing the next line, the princess grabs his tongue and examines it, and he and Marceline only have to look at one another before they both burst into laughter-regrettably splattering the princess with a bit of spittle.

"You're gross," Marceline says, and the fondness and nostalgia in her voice make his heart ache. A thousand years watching him go crazy-no little girl deserved to be left alone like that. No-he wouldn't leave her. Not this time.

"We're both gross, darling," Simon replies when the princess relinquishes his tongue. "And I think it's time you take a nap."

"I'm not a little kid any more, Simon." She rolls her eyes and turns to float on her back. "I don't need to take naps."

"I take naps every chance I get." He shrugs. "I'm going to take one as soon as the good doctor releases me."

"Not a doctor," the princess mumbles, but her voice is sleepy and absent-minded. "It'll be a while."

The beam of sunlight brushes against the very bottom of the door, and Marceline's expression wavers. "You'd better wake me up when you know what's the matter," she mutters, slinking toward the door. "Okay?"

"Pinky promise," he says, holding up his finger. "Sleep well, sweetie."

The moment the door shuts behind her, the princess lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. "The Ice Kingdom is melting," she says. "The whole climate is changing around here. And your penguins-the Ice King's penguins, pardon-seem to be developing a sweet tooth."

"I'm so sorry." He hesitates. "Perhaps if I talk to them...?"

"The frost giants are having trouble, too. I don't mean to concern you, Simon, but... Why is the Ice Kingdom melting?" She pulls up a chair across from him and steeples her fingers beneath her chin. "Even without the precipitation incurred by the crown, I would imagine that the temperature would remain stable. The magic has always been resilient before-it didn't even begin to melt when Ricardio left you incapacitated for a few weeks."

He'd heard that story from Jake; he winces. "I really don't know, Princess."

"I have a theory," she says carefully, looking out at the sun. "Not one I wanted to share with Marceline just yet. It's not exactly the answer she's hoping for-I'm going to have to run more tests to be certain."

Simon looks down at his graying skin, his increasingly patchy beard, and he finds that he already knows what she's getting at. "I know I don't have long without the crown. But I'd rather live just one more day as myself than a thousand more years as the Ice King." He clenches his hand into a fist. "Marceline-she really needs me. I've left her alone for so long, and I've broken enough promises as it is." When he looks up at the princess again, her eyes have gone soft and sad. "I do have one concern, though."

"Oh?"

"She needs a friend. Someone who can stick with her after I'm gone. Immortality is a lonely punishment; I don't envy her." He looks pointedly at the princess, whose eyes narrow.

"Sugar doesn't last forever," she says, her voice surprisingly gentle. "We may be well-preserved, and I can resuscitate my subjects, but I can't rule forever."

"You know, I'd heard that honey could last for nearly forever." He watches as her eyes light up with intense thought and possibility.

"Of course," she says, striking her fist against her opened palm. The next bit of technobabble completely escapes him; in a moment, she's on her feet, hurriedly sketching mathematical symbols on a nearby scrap of paper. "Yes, it may well be possible to extend lifespans by... Yes, of course. I'll need to limit the population to avoid straining our resources, but that shouldn't be a problem..." After a few more minutes of frenzied notation, she glances around the room, looking mildly surprised to see him still there. "Forgive me," she says, straightening. "This really isn't the time, is it?"

"Do you think you'll be able to stand by her?" he asks.

She glances down at the papers, back at him, then nods once-firmly and decisively. He sees the leadership in her, and it warms him.

"Then there's really nothing for me to worry about."

After the examination, Marceline flies him home in silence. After carefully setting him up on her couch, she takes a cushion and hovers over him, pressing her face into it. "Peebs wouldn't tell me anything," she says, voice muffled by the pillow. "What's going on, Simon? She said you have to tell me."

"Thanks a lot, Princess." Simon groans, suspecting a touch of vengeance under the order. Not that he could blame her; the Ice King had put her through rather a lot of grief. "Well, it's complicated."

"Do I need to take you to Doctor Princess?" she asks, pulling the pillow down just enough to peek at him over the edge.

"No," he says, feeling as though he's walking on eggshells. "No, that probably wouldn't help. You see, the crown-the crown is what kept me alive all this time." As she throws the pillow aside, mouth open and ready to argue, he hurries to add, "But I've lived a long, full life, Marcy. I'm going to stay with you and keep my promise this time."

"What are you talking about?" she demands. "If it's magic-there's all kinds of magic in Ooo. We can find better magic!" She swoops down beside him, taking his hand. "Tell me you're gonna stick around. You can't leave me. Not after all this time."

"Princess Bubblegum has devised a way for her and her subjects to live indefinitely," he says gently. "You won't be alone."

"With that-that stuck-up snob?" Marceline demands, eyes filling with tears. "She thinks she's so much better than me. She's not you. I need you, Simon. I love you."

"I love you, too, Marcy," he says, pulling her into a hug. She seems very much like the seven-year-old Marcy he'd known so many years before; a thousand years old, and still so young. "I'm going to keep my promise this time. No crown."

She shakes her head, pulling back from him. "No. That's not-that's not what I wanted!"

"You're safe and sound," he says. "Look at you! All grown up, with a stunning voice and killer dance moves and everything. You're even better than the heroes I told you about."

"I'm not a hero," she snaps.

She twists away from him, but he reaches out to take her hand. "You're more than a hero," he says. "You're my Marcy. I'd take you over a thousand Finns on any adventure." She looks at him, and he offers her a smile. "I don't need to break my promise this time. I don't need to protect you."

"I never wanted you to protect me!" Her voice breaks, and this time she cries. "Tell me that we'll find better magic, Simon. We'll find a way to make this better."

"You can have a happily ever after."

"Not without you," she insists. "You're-you're my real dad. The one who took care of me. I don't want to lose you. I've been a teenager for nearly a thousand years. Do you know how many friends have grown old and-and I can't lose you, too!"

When he opens his mouth to object, she soars into the rafters. Snow like a television on the fritz floods his vision, a quiet humming prickling against his skin-his skin, which turns blue at her approach, the wrinkles smoothing.

"I won't be Simon any more," he says, but ice fills his mouth. The sound of slowly mounting snow blots out the words rising in his chest. "All I do is hurt people, Marcy. When I'm the Ice King, I'm-I'm not myself."

"He's just a harmless old man," she insists, brandishing the crown at him. "A pain in the butt, sure. But-but not dangerous. And I need more time, Simon. I see you in him even when he doesn't recognize your name. You've never hurt me. You've never tried to kidnap me. Glob, Simon, the worst you've ever done is ask to start a band with me. You're in there, and I can't just let you die!"

He throws up his hands, but the cold metal burns against his palms, crackling with ENERGY and POWER and LIFE-whispers of ice and snow and a ceaseless, howling wind curl inside his ears, as comfortable and familiar as a worn snow jacket. It knows him, this winter-it knows him and knows where to pull, where to freeze, to seal him away.

"I'll figure out a way to fix this if it takes another thousand years," she says, and then the roaring wind builds, obscuring his vision and making her vague and indistinct against the snow. He pushes once more against the crown, feebly, as though against a gale. "Simon, please!"

And then the wind whistles everything else away.