It was a late, cold winter evening when Icthlarin at last reached castle Trevelyan. The snow was falling thick and heavy, and he shyly crept around the high walls to find his way inside. How he was to ask what had happened to Dorian, he did not know; he was mute, and could not write in the human language. But luck was on his side; the cook, who was an old but kind woman, was outside to see to the chickens when she saw the slender youth in the courtyard. She invited him in, and gave him broth to drink and bread to eat. When her questions were met with silence and pleading eyes, she stopped asking. Instead, she told him he might stay if he would sweep the floors and tend the kitchen fires and fetch the firewood. She gave him a cot in a corner of the kitchen to sleep, and so he stayed.

Living at Trevelyan Castle was hard work, but Icthlarin did not mind. What he did mind was his inability to find out anything about Dorian. Mute as he was, he could not ask any questions and no-one ever told a fire-tender anything. All through winter, he took to listening at doors and private conversations, but he learnt nothing. Well, nothing useful, anyway. He learnt that prince Lysander was said to have run off with a tevene mercenary, that dragons had been sighted near the eastern border (actually, much closer than that: Icthlarin had seen one flying over his forest) and that the queen's temper was most foul these days. But not a word about Dorian - or indeed, as he noticed after a few weeks - about prince Wren.

FInally, Icthlarin decided to stop trying to overhear something useful - and crying himself to sleep - and instead focused on trying to find an unused loom where he could weave the cloth for Feynriel's nettle shirt. That task proved nearly as impossible as learning of Dorian's fate. But he must not falter now, that he was so close to finish his task. And besides, once he had finished and freed his siblings, he would be able to ask as many questions as he desired.

As the winter turned into spring, the cook noticed that her fire-tender was most devout and a very good worker. He never complained, always performed his duties to the best of his ability, and was never late for anything. There was nothing to complain about, really, and so she decided she would like to know her mute little helper a bit better.

"Come, Red" she ordered, for she too called him so after his hair, "attend me." Icthlarin obediently put down his broom and scurried over to where she stood, working a bread dough.

"I have seen you guard that bag of yours with your life. Show me what is in it." She ordered, and with great reluctance - fearing he would be shown the door if he refused - he obeyed her. The cook looked at the nettle-shirts and the uneven thread, and then she looked at Icthlarin.

"The swan curse" she murmured, gently. "That is why you will not speak. Your brothers." Icthlarin's eyes filled with tears as he nodded, relieved to find someone who understood at last. He rubbed at his eyes with shaking hands, but it did not help. The tears fell hard and fast as he cried - for Dorian, for his sisters and brothers. For himself.

"There now, child, how much time do you have left?" The cook asked and Icthlarin slowly raised five fingers.

"Five months?" The cooked asked and he nodded in confirmation. They stood in silence, she kneading the dough, he weeping. Then she spoke.

"There is an old loom in one of the storerooms at the bottom of the southern tower. It should still be in good shape. Make the nettle-shirt there."

Icthlarin's hopeless eyes lit up and he smiled at her, the smile that never failed to dazzle anyone who saw it. The old woman gave him a wry smile in return.

"I expect you to still tend to your duties, boy. Curse or not, those fires do not stoke themselves."

Icthlarin nodded happily, and pressed a grateful kiss to the old woman's wrinkled cheek. The smile he got for his trouble was bashful and embarrassed, but pleased as well.

"Oh, off with you." the cook muttered fondly.

A few weeks later, as Icthlarin had finished his duties for the day and was to go to the loom in the southern tower, the cook stopped him.

"Take this tray with you and show it to the guardsmen at the stairs, they'll show you to the prisoner." Icthlarin felt bewildered - there was a prisoner at the castle? He had not had a clue! But as he was mute, all he could do was take the tray with its meager contents and hurry to the southern tower.

The guardsmen took one look at Icthlarin's tray and immediately let him past, directing him to the door at the very top. Balancing the tray on his hip, he carefully opened the door - and the food tray immediately slipped from his suddenly useless fingers. The man who sat on the thin cot, his arms and legs in heavy chains - was his Dorian.

Without thinking, Icthlarin ran through the tower room and threw his arms around him, tears falling unbidden into Dorian's dark hair. The man sat still and cold for a moment, then turned his face up to look into Icthlarin's eyes.

"Are you real?" He begged. "I have dreamt of you coming to me so many times… please, please be real this time…"

Icthlarin cried and wanted to console him, but dared not utter so much as a cry. Instead he pressed kisses to his beloved's face, over and over again, trying to show with touch that he was there, that he was real. Finally, something changed in Dorian's eyes and with a cry of joy and relief he pulled Icthlarin close, plundering his mouth with kisses.

"Red" he moaned, reverent. "My Red, my Red, you are here, you are real…"

They fell together onto the cot, desperate to prove to the other that they were in fact real, they were together at last.

As Red lay dozing in Dorian's arms, the mage began to speak.

"They say I have done away with Wren." His voice was low and sorrowful. "Nothing I say will make them believe otherwise. And why should they? No sane man would claim that a huge black dragon stole the prince from the gardens."

Icthlarin froze, and remembered the dragon that he had seen flying over the woods. It had held something in it's massive claws, but he had been so focused on hiding at the time that he had not seen what it was. The prince! Surely it must have been the prince! But he could not say a word. Not until he finished the last shirt. A wave of determination swept over him and he pressed one last kiss to Dorian's lips as he stood to leave. In finishing the last nettle shirt he would save not only his siblings, but Dorian as well.

"Will you come tomorrow?" Dorian asked as he was to go. The mage's tone held a note he had never heard before; pleading. Icthlarin pressed a reassuring kiss to his lips and went. Of course he would.

Spring slowly turned into early summer, and Icthlarin sewed on the shirt every night even though he was exhausted and his eyes burned from the strain. It was, in all honesty, his own fault since he sought Dorian's embrace before coming to the little sewing-room to work on it. But his determination to finish it before the summer equinox kept him awake even unto the small hours of the morning. On the summer equinox, it would be the sixth anniversary of the horrific day his brothers and sisters had taken flight. It was mere days away. He had to keep working.

The day of the equinox, Icthlarin woke to frantic activity in the kitchen and the cook yelling at all and sundry to hurry up. In the midst of the chaos, Icthlarin managed to find out that there was to be a great gathering later for the people, and some sort of public spectacle. He did not know what it was, nor did he care, for all he could think of was that there was still stitches to be done on Feynriel's shirt. There was still one arm to sew on, and he had mere hours to do so.

Once he had tended the fires and seen that they were burning proudly, he went to the cook for Dorian's tray. But there was no tray at the table, and he looked at her in confusion.

"There is no tray needed this day, Red" the cook said with a note of sadness in her voice. "They're burning him at noon, child. For murdering the prince." All colour left Icthlarin's face in that moment and he swayed dangerously. One of the kitchen hands was just quick enough to catch him as he fainted.

Icthlarin came to lying on his cot, said kitchen hand - a young woman - watching him worriedly. She was just about to ask him if he was alright when he heard the most horrifying sound he had ever heard, worse than his siblings desperate cries as the curse took hold. Outside, in the courtyard, the bell began to toil. It was noon. Dorian was set to burn within minutes, and one word from Icthlarin could save him. But if he spoke that one word, he was condemning his siblings to fly beneath the heavens for eternity.

Icthlarin flew from the cot and ran from the kitchen, ignoring the cries behind him. He ran as if his life depended on it, and in what way did it not? He had to save the man he loved - and his siblings, too. He flew through the castle, blind and deaf to the people having to dive out of his way as he raced to fetch his nettle-shirts from the little room in the southern tower. His feet barely touched the stone floor as he ran, and his heart thudded desperately in his chest. Dorian, his feet called as they pattered against the ground, Dorian, Dorian, Dorian. He stumbled through the old wooden door and grabbed his basket, throwing the half-finished shirt that was to be Feynriel's into it. Forgive me, little brother, he thought in despair for it was neither finished nor dyed. But there was no time. Without letting himself pause or catch his breath, he turned and sprinted for the courtyard, where the pyre was waiting for it's unfortunate victim.

When Icthlarin stumbled into the courtyard it was just in time to see two guardsmen chain his beloved to the stake, ready to burn him alive. The courtyard was full of people come to see it happen, and most of them looked on with vicious triumph. Prince Wren was deeply loved by his people, and they wanted the man they thought of as his murderer punished. Dorian said nothing, where he stood tall and proud in front of them. Regal as a king he was, even in this moment. Never had Icthlarin loved him more.

He forced his way through the crowd, not caring who he bumped into or whose feet he stepped on, caring only for his basket of nettle-shirts. Finally he stood before the pyre and their eyes met.

"Red" Dorian whispered and for a moment the mask fell away, showing terror and despair. Then it was back, as impenetrable as before. Icthlarin did not reply, instead he climbed the pyre so that he could kiss his love - the gods willing, not for the last time.

"Goodbye amatus" Dorian whispered into his hair, and Icthlarin bit his lip to hold back the sobs. A pearl of fresh red blood fell from his lip onto the little shirt in the basket and by some miracle, it turned a brilliant ruby red.

That's when the beating of heavy wings could be heard over the crowd as six black swans flew across the heavens, landing around their brother and the doomed mage, beating their wings threateningly and screeching threats to anyone who dared to come close. The man that was to set the pyre ablaze stood frozen, torch in hand. Icthlarin did not hesitate, but pulled a shirt from the basket. It was purple, and he threw it over the swan closest to him. In its place, there stood for a moment an elf maiden with long dark hair, her form flickering back and forth from maid to swan. The crowd gasped in shock and horror, but Icthlarin placed the circlet holding Kallian's soul-stone in her hair and her form stopped shifting. She was free from the curse. In rapid succession, two more elf maids and two men stood on the pyre, and with a look of despair Icthlarin threw the last, unfinished shirt over the little swan at his feet. He placed the circlet on Feynriel's soft locks and sobbed.

"Forgive me" was the first words he spoke as he fell to his knees, hugging his littlest brother who still had a swan's wing.

"You saved me" Feynriel replied, as he put his little arm around Icthlarin's neck. Standing up with his brother in his arms, Icthlarin turned to the king and queen and decreed:

"I am the amber prince of Brecilia, and I saw the dragon that stole the prince! Dorian is innocent!"

There was a moment of stunned silence, then complete chaos broke loose as everyone in the square spoke at once and did not listen to themselves nor anyone else. But Icthlarin did not care in the slightest; Fenris had with his incredible strength ripped the chains holding Dorian and he was now securely wrapped in the arms of his love.

"I just realised I don't know your name" Dorian murmured into his hair. "I should at least know the name of my rescuer."

"Icthlarin" he sighed happily, "My name is Icthlarin."

That was when King Trevelyan, Wren's father, managed to wrangle himself through the crowd to look at the people still standing on the pyre.

"Forgive us, Dorian" he said, "Please. Anything you want, it is yours."

"Yes, it is" Dorian agreed as he looked at the redhead tucked safely to his side.

"I have all I want right here. But I would not mind a grand wedding."

And since kings tend to be good for their word, a wedding was held that same evening for the brecilian prince and his mage. During the festivities, the king arranged for a group of mercenaries to slay the dragon and bring back his son, prince Wren, and truly there was nothing that the newlyweds wanted more. Apart from living happily ever after, of course. Which they proceeded to do post-haste.

-Fin.