Icthlarin woke early, blinking at the morning sun falling in through a small window, and wondered where he was. Then he remembered. The curse, his siblings, the quest, the woods, the old woman… Flemeth, was that her name? He sat up slowly, wincing at stiff muscles and his aching back, and looked around. The small cottage was crammed with items clearly of a witch's trade; potion bottles, herbs, books. Icthlarin felt a small tendril of hope since that horrible moment in the Great Hall. If the woman who had showed him such kindness was a witch, maybe she knew how to help him save his siblings. He folded the blankets neatly, then left the little cottage looking for his hostess.
He found the old woman making breakfast by a small cooking fire, and she nodded in greeting as he ventured closer.
"Good morning, prince. I trust you slept?"
"Yes" Icthlarin answered truthfully, grateful she had not asked how he'd slept.
"Now, are you ready to tell me why you are out here?" Flemeth asked, looking at him with her sharp eyes.
So Icthlarin, between bites of a porridge that was rather on the bland side but filled his empty stomach nicely, told his tale. Flemeth listened quietly, nodding in places and frowning in others. Once he had finished, they sat in silence for several moments. Then Flemeth spoke.
"I know of which you speak, but I will not tell you more until I receive my payment."
"And what is your payment, witch-woman?" Icthlarin asked, prepared to pay any price.
"A lock of your hair, elf prince."
Icthlarin cut a lock of his lovely red hair, and handed it to the old witch.
"The curse the queen cast is an old one, rather of out fashion these days." Flemeth said, "The magic is very potent, and just like all old curses the rules are very specific when you want to break it."
"Do you know how to do it?" Icthlarin begged, nearly breathless, looking at the old witch with his pleading green eyes.
"Of course. Provided that you have their soulstones." She replied, amused.
"I do!" the prince cried.
"Well then," Flemeth said decisively. "Wash up, and I will show you."
Flemeth took Icthlarin on a walk through the woods, showing him various herbs and berries that were good to eat. Finally, they arrived at a small cave by a large field. The field was covered in a lovely purple flower, but when the prince leaned down to scent them he stung his hand on the leaves. He whimpered as the cut immediately started to sting and burn, and put his fingers in his mouth to soothe them.
"These are nettles" the woman said, "a common garden weed in the human lands, where we are now. We crossed the border about an hour ago. These weeds are the key to saving your brothers and sisters." Icthlarin waited patiently for the explanation, still sucking on his stinging fingers.
And so Flemeth told him he must pick the stinging leaves with his own bare hands, crush them beneath his naked feet and with the fibres make a coarse thread. This thread he must then weave into fabric, and finally use the fabric and the coarse thread to sew six shirts, one for each of his cursed siblings. As he completed each shirt, he must then dye it in the exact color as that sibling's soul stone. He had six years, one for each sibling, to complete his task, but there was an additional clause: from the moment he picked that first leaf, he must not speak a word. He must complete the task in silence, and not until he had sown the last stitch on the last shirt may he loosen his tongue. Icthlarin stood still and quiet, contemplating. His fingers stung terribly still, but his sisters... and his brothers... his eyes filled with tears as he thought of little Feynriel, barely able to walk, and now doomed to fly beneath the skies for ever unless he, Icthlarin, suffered the nettles. There was, he realised, no decision to make. He looked at Flemeth with grim determination.
"Show me to make the thread, witch-woman" he said. "And teach me to weave. I will save them."
The first few weeks passed slowly, as Icthlarin learned the painful task of making the fabric he needed. His hands stung and bled as he picked the nettles, skin reddening and burning. His naked feet were covered in blisters after having crushed the leaves beneath them, and the first few skeins of thread were so uneven they were unfit for use. Frustrated, he threw them in the little fire he had burning in the cave for warmth, and fell to his knees weeping in despair. But even in his desolation, he remembered what the witch had warned him and not a sound passed his lips. After the tears had stopped falling, he stood up with new determination. He picked up the basket that Flemeth had been kind enough to give him, and ignoring the pain he returned to the field and started filling it with the wickedly stinging nettle-leaves. For each leaf he picked he thought of his siblings: Kallian's dark hair, Ilona's laughter, the way Bela smiled… and each memory filled him with new determination. He would suffer the nettles. He would save his siblings.
Spring passed into summer, and in his little cave Icthlarin worked tirelessly each day. He rose at dawn, picked his basket full of nettle-leaves, then returned to his cave. Throwing the leaves on the ground, he trampled then beneath his feet, crushing them until there was little left. Then he took the fibres and spun the thread, weaving another section on the little loom. He would not sleep until he had used all the thread even though the night was late, and he collapsed onto his little bed with exhaustion. Then he rose again, at dawn, and started all over again. And he did this day after day, week after week, not a sound passing his berry red lips. There were days when his loneliness and sorrow had him weeping from the beginning of the day until he fell asleep, but still he toiled. There was nothing he would not suffer for his siblings. But oh, how he longed to see them, just once! Just once!
The year turned, as it is wont to do, and another spring came to the little forest and the young elf in his little cave. Icthlarin worked every day, but he had to go further and further away from the little cave to find nettles. But still; in his cave he had a completed shirt, dyed a sweet pink for his own twin sister Ilona, and the loom held more fabric. The loneliness was at this point nigh-on unbearable, even though Flemeth had taken to visiting him at least once a week. Even though there was little said - he must not make a sound, and she was not much for talking - he truly enjoyed the old woman's company. But oh, how he missed his siblings!
That night, as he put the work aside and looked out the cave opening to see the moon shining over the bare field that did not yet bear nettles, the tears once again filled Icthlarin's eyes. This time he let them fall, and sank to the floor weeping soundlessly at his loneliness and despair. He was so heartsore he could have sworn he heard the flutter of wings, but surely not. There were few birds out where he lived, and even if there were birds they rarely ventured out at night while the snakes and owls and hawks hunted. Icthlarin buried his face in the simple pillow he had made to show Flemeth he knew weaving well enough to start making the nettle-shirts, his entire body shaking from sobs, when he felt slender arms wrap around him. He jolted upright, hardly daring to believe it was true. Ilona, his twin, sat next to him and held him tight. And behind her, he could see the rest of them. Feynriel rested safely in Bela's arms, and they all looked at him with love and joy.
"Brother!" Beatrice cried and rushed to embrace him now that he was aware of their presence, and within moments he was surrounded by their arms as they laughed and cried their joy at having found him at last. Even Fenris was smiling, his eyes bright with joy. They told him, interrupting each other and talking in part-sentences, how they had searched for him all over the lands of Brecilia, and how they had finally found the witch-woman Flemeth who told them where he was. They wept over his sore hands and his sisters washed his feet, wrapping them in soft cloth they tore from their worn dresses. They kissed his hands and his cheeks and begged him to speak to them, tell him what had caused such injury, but Icthlarin only shook his head and held his silence. Instead he showed them the nettle-shirt he had made, showed them the coarse thread and the loom. And they understood. They cried even more when they saw what he was doing, what he was suffering, and they held him and kissed him and told him stories of their journeys across the world during the year they had been parted. As the night ended, they kissed him one last time and promised to come back in three months time, underneath the full moon. Four nights a year they were allowed to walk the earth as elves, on the night of the equinox.
Icthlarin tried to smile, but found himself weeping as the sun rose upon six black swans spreading their wings and taking off, leaving him behind. But it was with a light heart he went to pick up his basket; he would see them again in three month's time.
It was early summer as Icthlarin hear voices other than Flemeth's or his siblings in a very long time. It was two human men, arguing, as they stood in the middle of the road. Icthlarin stood very, very still amongst the trees and listened, intrigued despite himself.
"How the blazes did you manage to get us lost in your own kingdom!?" The first one yelled, clearly exasperated. He had dark hair and a neatly trimmed moustache.
"It is not as if these woods come with a pre-drawn map!" The other replied, sounding more frustrated. He flailed his arms wildly, his messy dark hair tumbling into his bright blue eyes.
"Oh, you mean like the one you held upside down, getting us lost in the borderlands in the first place?" The first one snarked.
"Well if YOU had not been so busy flirting with that innkeeper as I was trying to get directions-"
"I was NOT flirting! I was trying to negotiate a better rate!"
"You were attempting to negotiate him straight into your bed!"
The argument would probably have gone on quite a bit further if not for the fact that the taller of the two men, the one with intense eyes and an elegant moustache, saw a shimmer of red hair between the trees. Hoping it was not a malicious creature of some kind, he called out.
"Ahem, excuse me!"
Icthlarin hesitated. His fear of strangers warred with his instinct to be helpful, a trait that had made him dearly loved by his people. His indecision gave the two men a chance to approach him. Icthlarin slowly lowered his half-filled basket, waiting in resignation for whatever fate had in store for him. He just hoped that they were not scoundrels or brigands. Then again, scoundrels and brigands did not usually wear crowns or the royal seal of house Trevelyan. The shorter of the men, the one with the messy hair and the crown, gave Icthlarin a beautiful smile that was just a bit flirty.
"Hello there gorgeous" he said in a voice that sounded friendly and a bit cheeky. "You do not happen to know how two dumbasses get out of these woods and back to the castle before dark?" He looked hopefully at Icthlarin, ignoring how the other man muttered 'Dumbass? Speak for yourself, your highness.'
Icthlarin opened his mouth to reply, then remembered what Flemeth had said about the curse on his siblings. He quickly closed his mouth and settled for nodding. He gestured for the two men to follow him, and started moving through the woods. The prince and his companion exchanged puzzled looks, then the one with the moustache shrugged and followed the slender elf through the trees.
As they walked, Icthlarin learned that the shorter one with the kind eyes was indeed prince "Wren" Trevelyan, and the man with the moustache was his dear friend and royal mage, Ser Dorian Pavus. Apparently, the prince had had a craving for adventure and dragged the long-suffering Ser Pavus along with him, getting them both helplessly lost in the forest bordering on the little kingdom. They seemed to have a friendship consisting mostly of insults and sarcasm, and several times poor Icthlarin had to press his hand to his mouth to keep from laughing. Even though the Witch of the Wilds had not said anything about laughing, he figured it was better to be completely silent all the same. He concentrated on the correct path and keeping his silence, the memory of his twin sister's terror-stricken face helping him to focus. This single-mindedness made him completely unaware of how Ser Dorian's eyes seemed unable to tear themselves away from his hair, his legs, and the way he moved. The mage was, to the prince's unending amusement, completely enthralled of the beauty escorting them back to the main road.
It was late afternoon when they reached the edge of the forest, and to both prince Wren's and Ser Dorian's great relief they could see the castle in the distance. They thanked their silent guide profusely, Dorian pressing a reverent kiss to one of Icthlarin's small hands, noting the blisters and red soreness of the fine white skin. He sent a tendril of healing magic through the kiss, healing the worst of it, and Icthlarin smiled at him in silent thanks. Then he turned, and disappeared into the woods, swiftly vanishing between the trees. Dorian stood for a few moments just staring, hand still raised as if to take the elf's. Finally, a snickering prince got him out of his stupor.
"Cute little thing" Wren teased.
"Oh, shut up!"