As it turned out, Ser Dorian did indeed find the red-haired elf to be cute. And even though his friend took great pleasure in teasing him about it, it was not a full week before he was once again heading into the woods. It was a fool's errand, something he was very aware of, but he couldn't help it. He had to see if those eyes were as green as he remembered.
There was just something about the mute redheaded beauty that drew Dorian like a moth to a flame, and soon enough he found himself going into the woods on a semi-regular basis - at least once a week. It was odd; the slender youth did not say a word to him, indeed most of the time he acted as if Dorian was not even present. But at the same time that was rather enjoyable; he could sit at the entrance of the little cave and read uninterrupted, drifting away into different worlds and thought processes. They would share a simple meal of berries and roots, sometimes bread, and then he would wish his little friend good night and return to the castle.
As time wore on, these visits became more and more frequent. In the beginning, this was mainly to avoid the Queen, who seemed to get more and more frustrated the more time wore on. She had two sons, both of whom refused to marry no matter what she did, and she wanted grandchildren. This led to her already volatile temper flaring with increased frequency. The two royal children had inherited their mother's temper, and the rows were spectacular. Sometimes Dorian even watched, thoroughly amused by the chaos. But most of the time, he wanted the quiet and calm to read. And he found that in the woods, in the little cave with its silent occupant.
The fact that the occupant in question was beautiful was not a bad thing, either, and as the weeks became months it became the main reason he went there. Especially after prince Lysander had ran away from the castle. It was rumoured that he had at last been seen wearing a dress belonging to a female servant, but no one seemed to know for sure. Dorian hoped that wherever the youth was, he was happy. He deserved to be happy. So did his good friend prince Wren, come to think of it. The prince had become more sullen lately, his tantrums on the level of his mother's.
Dorian sighed, put his book down, and watched the elf pick nettles, not so much as wincing even though it must hurt terribly in his red, sore hands. Hands that Dorian took in his own each night, healing them to the best of his ability. He was stunningly beautiful with the sun shining on his red hair, and once more Dorian found himself wishing the boy would speak to him. If only there was more than one voice heard in this little meadow perhaps it would not be so difficult to speak about what he had been thinking lately. Of how he wanted to kiss that sweet mouth and clasp the fragile youth to his chest. He had found himself dreaming of bringing his sweet elf to the castle, to have them living together in his chambers and… well, living happily ever after, more or less. Wasn't that the way the story was supposed to go? Not that he had ever before dared to dream of a happy ever after; no, not a man like him. Not a man who had no interest in women. But something about this elf made him hope. If only he had not been mute. Dorian sighed and listlessly turned a leaf in his book, letting his eyes rest upon the willowy form. Maker's breath, he was beautiful.
Icthlarin stole another quick glance at the man sitting cross-legged on the ground outside his sanctuary. He didn't understand it; he had taken a vow of silence, and with his single-minded focus on his dreary task he was no real companion at all. So why did Ser Pavus keep returning? Why did he come, day after day, just to read? Surely there was a fine library at Castle Trevelyan. But soon, surely he would stop coming, Icthlarin thought. The air was growing colder and colder each day and soon winter would be upon them; there were less and less nettles to pick, and soon there would be none at all until spring came again. He nearly had enough fabric for a second shirt now, but he wondered what he was to do all those long, dark winter days when it lay finished, as he only waited for the sun to come again, to bring the nettles back to life so that he may start picking. He would be all alone then. His heart ached at the thought, for though they had spoken but little to each other - or rather, Dorian had said but little to him - it had been all too easy to lose his heart to the mage. Some nights, he even dared to dream that one day he would not only save his brothers and sisters, but that he and Dorian would be married, and do what every prince and princess in a fairy tale dreams to do: live happily ever after. But mute as he was, he did not know how to tell Dorian this. He dreaded winter with all his heart, for with the cold would come Dorian's absence. He could not bear the thought of not seeing him at all until spring, and the thought of not seeing him at all again was impossible. He must come again with spring, he must.
So came winter, and the first snow fell over Icthlarin's woods. There were no nettles to pick and Bela's vivid green shirt lay finished next to Ilona's. Icthlarin sat at the edge of the cave and looked out at the white covering the lands. It fell thick and heavy, and he shivered with the cold. Had he been this cold the first winter? He could not remember. Surely not. Surely it had not been as unbearable as this. He sighed and curled up, trying to make himself as small as possible to hide from the bitter winds. His thoughts drifted unbidden to the man who had stolen his heart away, the handsome mage who had become his constant companion. He longed for him with an ache that seemed to settle in his bones, the sorrow at his absence as deep and painful as the longing for his siblings. Icthlarin leaned his head against the rough stone and blinked away his tears. Surely Dorian had not forgotten him?
That was when he heard it.
"Red?" It was the name Dorian had given him once he realised that he would not speak. Red, for his hair. He stood up and hurried out of the cave to greet him, not caring that his feet were bare. He sank into the snow up to his calves, surprised that it had gotten so deep already. But he cared not for that either, seeing only Dorian getting down from a big black horse, coming to greet him with the smile he always gave Icthlarin when he arrived.
It had been two moons since he had seen the man last, and in his delight at the reunion he ran straight into his arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek. The slight stubble under his lips were a strange feeling, as was the moustache tickling his face. He bit his lip to keep from giggling.
"Well now" Dorian said, amused. "That is what I call a greeting." He turned his head, and their eyes met. In that moment, Icthlarin was unguarded and he allowed his eyes to say what his voice dared not; he looked up at Dorian with his heart in his eyes, adoration in each line of his face.
Dorian felt as if someone had stolen his breath as he looked into those beautiful eyes. He saw the love shining out of the bright green orbs, and his traitorous heart did a little dance of pure joy in his chest. He had longed for Red every day of their separation, but the whole castle had been in a state over the upcoming Satanalia celebrations and he simply had not been able to get away until now. But as he stood there in the snow with the frail, shivering body of his elf clasped to his chest, he swore not to ever stay away for so long again. He had missed him too much. Instead, he wrapped the shivering form in his thick cloak and undid the saddle bags, full of food and provisions that he had gathered up for his little friend out in the woods.
As they huddled together in the cave, wrapped in Dorian's cloak and watching the snow fall outside, they found themselves looking more at each other than anything else. The golden circlet in Red's hair made his skin glow, the amber hanging from it turning his eyes molten. As Dorian leaned in to kiss him, the lush lips opened immediately under his. He pulled Red close, letting his hands slide lower. His reward was a breathless little sigh, arms winding around his neck, and a warm body pressing against his. They fell back onto the pile of furs that composed the bedroll, mouths pressed together even as their clothing fell away. It was freezingly cold outside, but they paid the storm no mind. They kept each other warm.
When spring came, Icthlarin once again picked the nettles, spun the thread, weaved the fabric, sewed the shirt. This one was for his second sister, and he had already found a patch of sweet purple flowers to use for the dye. But he did not work as diligently as he had before, as Dorian came to visit several times a week and each time he came they spent it learning each other, loving each other. Books and nettles lay forgotten as they spent time together, wandering the forest, bathing in the lake, lying together for hours in the little cave that had become a love nest for both of them.
Spring faded into summer, summer faded into autumn, and with each visit Dorian was a little more reluctant to leave. Soon winter would be upon them, and this winter the Queen had arranged for multiple balls and parties to take place in the hope that her remaining son would at last choose a suitable bride. Attendance was mandatory, and for the entire winter Dorian would not be able to leave the castle at all. This meant not seeing Red until spring - and that was unbearable!
"Come to the castle with me" he said one day, "you are bored to tears out here anyways, there are no nettles to pick." he frowned. "I wish you would just tell me why you are so obsessed with them, Red." Icthlarin just looked at him helplessly.
"I know, you can not speak." Dorian stole another kiss. "But you can nod your head. Come now, give me a nod and let me take you back to the castle. you will be warmed and clothed and we can roll our eyes at the princesses together." Icthlarin looked at him for a moment, then nodded his head. Dorian was right; there was no point in staying in the woods all winter. He could not do his work anyways.
The winter passed in a flurry of balls and parties, and Icthlarin found it all rather amusing how the princesses would fawn and fall all over themselves in order to please a man clearly not interested in any of them. Indeed, prince Wren seemed bored with the entire spectacle and spent as much time as he could with Dorian and Icthlarin, making the latter shake with suppressed mirth at his wicked humor. Wren and Dorian had quite fun competing in who could make the cruelest observation whilst still coming off as polite, and it was an endless sense of amusement to see the princesses try to discern whether or not they were being insulted. And each night, Icthlarin slept on Dorian's arm.
Spring crept over Trevelyan Castle slowly, turning a tree here and a bush there a sweet green, and suddenly it was all over in bloom. Icthlarin, who had spent a most wonderful winter with Dorian, realised that there would soon be nettles in his little meadow and started readying himself for the journey back, thinking only of his brothers and sisters.
Dorian was most reluctant to let him go, but when Red's eyes filled with pleading tears he could not refuse him.
"But I will visit" he swore as he pressed reverent kisses to his hair, "and this winter, you will be my own again." Red smiled and nodded, pressing his body against Dorian's one last time before leaving the castle. His heart was light, and his feet barely touched the ground as he returned to his cave.
Another two years passed, and two more shirts lay complete in the cave as Icthlarin sewed the fifth one. This one he would dye a deep, solemn black for his wandering brother, who wore his onyx with pride. He found himself smiling down at the work even as his fingers ached, for he knew now without a doubt that he was loved. Loved by the mage who visited him every few days, took him in his arms and whispered of their future together. A future, neither of them had dared to dream off only a few short years ago. It was late autumn, and this year his joy had made him work twice as hard - would not Dorian be surprised to see that he had enough nettle-thread spun for the last shirt to be woven this winter! The last shirt, the one for little Feynriel. His only worry was where to find a suitable red to dye it, but surely Dorian, who knew so much more than he would ever hope to learn, would know of something.
But as autumn faded into winter, Dorian did not come and Icthlarin despaired. He had not seen his beloved mage since summer, and since he had no way of communicating or indeed knew anyone at the castle apart from the prince and his love, he knew not what kept him away. Finally, as the first snow fell, Icthlarin packed what mattered to him - the five finished shirts, the nettle-thread for the last one, and his sibling's soul-stones - and started the long trek to castle Trevelyan to find out what had happened.