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Hephaistos is a Mage-Smith: incapable of raw acts of power, he instead channels his magic through his forge and loom, making everyday items into coveted relics. For it, he comes to the attention of the sorceress Athena, who ensnares his heart and mind for many years, ensuring he only works to her benefit.
Things change when she bears him a son: Hephaistos' love for the child is enough to break through Athena's magics and he wins free of her, but she curses him and the child both. No longer will they be human; now half-man, half-beast, they walk on four legs instead of two with massive tails like the great lizards of an earlier age and claws sharp as falcons', akin to the centaurs of the faerie-tales Hephaistos has told his son…but wrong.
Unable to work in his changed form—or even to fit into his own house!—Hephaistos takes Erichthonios and sets off to find someone who can undo Athena's cruel, clever handiwork.
Unfortunately, such is easier said than done: the easiest way of undoing a curse such as this one is to kill the one who laid it, and such is far beyond Hephaistos' power. But the village witch Igeyorhm knows of one who may be able to help, and so he ends up at the Summer Court, surrounded by the decadent indulgence of the Fae.
But though they are willing to help, the Summer Fae are no great masters of magic: huntsmen, yes, and the tenders of trees and beasts, but they have no great magics amongst them save for those of the King of Summer, whose shadowy, ever-shifting form puts him in mind not of summer at all but autumn's inevitable decay. For the type of aid he seeks, Hephaistos must travel still further, to the Court of the Prince of the Winter.
The Prince is newly ascended to his throne, having claimed it on the death of his mother, who'd ruled the frozen wasteland with an iron hand for millennia. He inherited, says the Summer King, her gifts for the shaping of flesh, but beware: for Winter's magics are never without price.
The journey is long and arduous, unlike those Hephaistos has made up until now—the territory this far north is unfamiliar, and no others can aid him on his way now. As he draws closer to his destination, Erich swaddled in furs and held close to his chest, the cold deepens. No mere human could survive this, he thinks, as the palace comes into view: a formidable structure of ice, cut into the mountains.
And at first, it seems to be empty.
No beasts hunker down in the stables. No servants walk the halls. No art adorns the walls, nor even any furnishings save those carved from the ice itself.
He is about to leave, to give up and return to the Summer Court, when he hears a voice calling out to him.
There, his image reflected a hundred times over in the ice walls of the palace, stands the Prince of the Winter himself, beautiful as all the Fae are, but in a frigid and distant way completely unlike those of the Summer. His diadem, glass spun delicate like sugar, drips with glass or diamonds or crystals of ice—Hephaistos isn't sure which—and the way his white hair emerges from it makes him look almost haloed by the infinitely-reflected light.
"I was told of your coming," he says, without even waiting for Hephaistos to speak, peering at him with his wintry gaze, the same shade of blue as the ice itself. "I can undo this magic. Are you willing to pay my price?"
"And what is the price?" Hephaistos asks, one arm wrapped protectively around his son.
The Prince stares at him. "…two months," he says, after a long silence. "I am new-come to my throne and much in need of help. This place makes a poor home for me, and for a-any others who may seek me out. With your gifts…two months. It is all I ask—one for you, and one for your son. Materials will be provided. If you wish, you…you need not see me again."
Hephaistos agrees, telling the Prince that his company would not be unwelcome, as it seems there are few others here. It's about two weeks before he admits to Hephaistos that he is indeed alone, and that he too has been cursed—but Fae curses do not end on the death of the one who laid them.
It was his mother who laid it: when he was young, he discovered that he could free all of those she had bound, as servants or beasts or statues, and so he had. In retribution, she had laid her curse upon him, that so long as he remained unloved, he and the land around him would never know warmth.
Determined to put an end to his mother's cruelty, he has forsworn the company of all who do not choose to remain, binding no servants and no laborers. The results have been loneliness: few have been brave enough to come here at all.
None have stayed.
Hephaistos reaches out to him, taking one pale, thin hand in his own: it's cold, blue at the fingernails. It is a struggle to not pull away, and the Prince does not look at him until he lets go.
"I did not inherit my mother's gifts of ice," he says, voice brittle. "I am a healer, but who would tolerate the ministrations of such as myself?"
When he leaves, Hephaistos turns back to his work. Here he has had full freedom to create as he desires: beginning with only raw materials, even his tools are of his own making, each a masterpiece of enchantment in its own right. The loom weaves woolen blankets of its own accord while he stitches leathers and furs into a warm cloak.
(If he and Erich bed down in the stables at night, it is a stable made warm by his own work. Wood and bricks cover the ice, bringing warmth into the space—and, as Hephaistos continues his labors, into the palace as well.)
It's as he puts the finishing touches on the cloak that the Prince comes to see him again. "A month of your term has passed, and you've earned the first of my bounties. I presume you would prefer to see your son freed from this curse first?"
Hephaistos doesn't even have to think about it, nodding his agreement as he combs the furs of the cloak into place, trimming free stray strands apt to become tangled.
The Prince bows his head, eyes half-shutting as he raises one hand. A web of silvery vines forms over his skin, then shatters with a sound like falling ice. "It is done. Some things I could not undo, but only reshape: he will always understand the languages of beasts, and he will always yearn to run at their side. To unweave the magic does not take the memory from the flesh. But many of your human lords would pay handsomely a man with such skills as he will never need to train, and…"
"…and? What did you do to my son?"
"I cannot unweave another's magic without laying some of my own upon him. He will heal better than most mortals, and live longer. He may well find a comfortable home in the Summer Court, and I think they would welcome him, if he feels too much a changeling in your world now."
"Then he's no more human now than he was before. This isn't a 'price' I agreed to, fae." He leaves the cloak, barely unfinished, on the counter and stomps off, claws leaving deep gouges in the ice.
Forlorn, the Prince can only stare after him. "Would that I could unweave time, mage-smith. But had I that power, I might never have been here for you to find at all."
It's a few days before Hephaistos returns to his workshop; he has his son and his temper to take care of.
When he does return, it's to sweets: his own home rendered in gingerbread, decorated with sugar spun delicate and beautiful as it is delicious. It feels almost a crime to eat it so he resolves to taste only a single tree, at which point his resolve crumbles; the maker surely knows his favorite flavors as well as they know his life.
For a moment, he fears it might be Athena's work. But surely even she would not challenge a Prince of the Great Fae in his own territory?
He stares at the cloak in his hands, lays it back on the workbench, and picks up his embossing tools.
A steel-and-leather harness is the next project: the Prince shapeshifts to stand before him as a great white bear with teeth nearly the length of Erich's fingers, and Erich is delighted to understand his speech just as well in this form as when he's fae. Hephaistos mistakes the Prince's laughter for a snarl at first, but Erich shakes his head. "He asks if you'll make a saddle as well? Size it for me—he says I'm close enough in size to the smallfolk, though lighter."
The two pieces are quick enough work, and with the addition of some warm clothing for Erich, the three soon find themselves in the woods near the palace taking down trees to use for the next phase. Erich's small enough to collect the branches, Hephaistos cuts away limbs, the bear drags the logs—and then flops down in front of the fire without changing back when they arrive home, clumped snow melting into wet fur.
The wood becomes furniture: chairs, tables, even beds previously made of ice are replaced with wood, covered in blankets woven on Hephaistos' enchanted loom from sacks of wool the Prince had acquired from…he knows not where. He doesn't ask.
His second month becomes two months, a third. His fifth month at the palace begins, and it occurs to him he hasn't seen the Prince outside of bear form in weeks.
Finally, he can stand it no longer. "Prince of the Winter!" he demands, temper already risen. "Show yourself to me! Have I not paid my price three times over?"
The bear shimmers, becomes that young-looking man again. "You have. Forgive me. I had hoped…"
"What you hope for matters naught. Give me what my work has earned, and let us be free of this place!"
The Prince nods, waving a hand. "To you also I give a boon: that ever after, both forms belong to you. No longer need you fear another's might, for yours is the freedom to choose between them."
"I can't see why I ever would," Hephaistos half-snarls at him, shoving the cloak into his pack.
He and Erich set out immediately after breakfast the next morning. "We're leaving?" Erich asks. "I thought you liked working there."
"The fae aren't to be trusted—you'll understand when you're older."
By noon, they're reaching warm enough climes that Hephaistos tries his hand at fishing in the rivers. Erich sings two fat fish into his tiny hands before he's even spotted a single one. A hawk brings two rabbits for their dinner, taking the innards as payment. It's a week back to the Summer Court in human form, and the trip is comfortable in a way that Hephaistos finds uncanny but which delights his son: foxes show the way to safe camping grounds, a young bull moose stands guard over them one evening (and Hephaistos dares not ask from what), the birds are eager to share their prey.
The Summer Court is as decadent as he remembers, though its beauty is tainted now: he sees amongst them what his son must become. His aloofness amongst their festivities is enough to draw the attention of the Summer King's Consort, a sprightly gentleman with lavender hair and smiling eyes. "You had been gone to the Winter Court long enough, smith. Did you find what you sought?"
Hephaistos glowers at him. "The magic of your kind is its own curse. Leave us be."
"Of my—ah. You think me fae-born." He draws the bow he always carries and it shifts into a harp, singing sorrowful chords under his gently-strumming fingers. "I was as human as you were, once—a huntsman, and one evening, at the command of my lord, I flushed a white hart. I was quite shocked when it turned into the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and even more shocked when she claimed me for her prisoner. For twelve hundred years, I lived in her garden, my bow drawn to shoot the hart I'd seen, frozen in place as a statue."
Modulation: a minor key becomes a major, the hints of a melody form.
"And then one day I found myself free: healed by a single touch of the Lady's son. But healing cannot undo all of what was done to me; the fact that I lived twelve hundred years touched by magic remains. I cannot be mortal, for what mortal lives so long? And yet I was physically healthier than I'd been in my adolescence, and have remained as such ever since."
"The Prince—"
"He was not Prince yet, of course. Only a lonely little boy who'd seen enough of others' suffering, and yearned for a way to end it. It was at his command that I—and all the others—fled; he swore he'd draw her wrath, and he did. She cursed him, and while she was distracted with her spell, he killed her. I was not brave enough to look back and see what came of him after. I came with the rest to the Summer Court and settled here, and have remained since."
"And immediately won the heart of Summer's King."
Hythlodaeus laughs, his song drawing to an end. "Though it may seem so to you, I assure you such was not the case! Nearly seventy summers it took me to win his heart, and in another seventy I may yet convince him that others care for him as well."
"Seventy years…how long ago did the Prince claim his throne?"
"Technically, he hasn't yet—he can't, without the acknowledgement of the Summer Court. He has been invited, but as to why he has not come, I cannot say."
"Can't or won't?" Hephaistos' voice is sharp.
"I can't, for I do not have the information you seek. He re-emerged two winters ago and has remained alone since. None have flocked to his banner, or sought to make alliances. I only know that the Winter Queen was a tyrant, and all Faerie waits for him to prove he is not more of the same."
No sooner than they set out the following morning, Erich pelts Hephaistos with questions. "Didn't we just travel this section of road yesterday? Why are we walking it again?"
Hephaistos turns around, kneeling down before his son. "I've made an error in judgment. If I change, will you hold fast to me?"
Erich nods. "Are we going to see the Prince?"
"I—yes. We're going to see the Prince."
"Good. He has soft fur. And funny fuzzy paws. And he doesn't yell when I try to tickle him."
"You shouldn't tickle bears, you know," Hephaistos says. "Now hold on tight."
Transformed and at the best run he can sustain over such a long journey, it takes two days to reach the Winter Court. He's bone-deep tired when they arrive, nearly collapsing before the great doors; it's Erich who knocks, and the Prince comes at once, ushering them inside to the warmth of a fire from wood Hephaistos had cut, in a brick oven Hephaistos had built.
As soon as they're settled in, the Prince turns to leave again, and Hephaistos shakes his head. "No—stay."
The Prince frowns. "I'll only steal your warmth. Again."
"Seventy years, Prince. Where were you?"
The Prince stares at him, pale eyes wide. "Of all the questions. Do you truly wish to know? Know that if you say yes, the magic binds me. I cannot deny you."
"That's the thing about the fae, isn't it? Creatures of magic first, flesh second, whereas mortals are flesh first and magic second, and many maybe even not magic at all. But magic has rules, and you're not free from them just because you're alive. You have to conduct your lives entirely inside of what they give you, regardless of what the results may be. Yes, I wish to know."
The Prince turns away without another word, walking down the hall; Hephaistos bids Erich stay put and follows him, deeper into the heart of the palace. Walls of wood he'd finished turn to walls of what seems to be blue crystal the further they travel, and then finally to clear glass.
The cold is penetrating enough to burn at his lungs, every breath a wretched agony, but he perseveres: he must have his answer. He must, and the need grants him a terrible and fiery strength.
At long last, a far longer last than Hephaistos would have preferred, they come to the heart of the palace. Here, all is glass: floor, walls, ceiling, all wrought in delicate patterns reminiscent of giant snowflakes—
—save for the shards strewn all about the room. Stepping gingerly amongst them, Hephaistos kneels to pick one up. "You'll want this repaired, I—ow! That's…not glass. Ice."
The Prince bows his head. "So long as I remain unloved. This place was not meant to be a home for me, but my prison. My tomb. For granting others their freedom, I would be frozen in their place. So long as she did not survive, surely the land would heal, even if it cost me my own life. I do not know who remembered me kindly enough to grant me my survival and this much liberty, but I am grateful."
"Prince…"
A tear shatters against the floor, spraying further crystalline ice shards across the ice. "…my name is Themis. I do not think there are any others alive who remember it."
"…Themis." It's a struggle to dig in his satchel; Hephaistos' fingers feel like sticks, stiff and crude and numb. But he manages to pull out the cloak, now dyed and embossed and finished with a fine clasp of fiery copper from the Summer fae. "I do not know that this will keep you warm. But if anything can break this curse, it is the work of a mage-smith." He drapes it over the Prince's shoulders.
And immediately, a great cracking sound fills the air.
"I'll change," Themis shouts, barely loud enough to be heard. "Climb onto my back, and hold on!"
And suddenly there stands before Hephaistos the most beautiful creature he's ever seen, a white hart with silvery antlers and silvery hooves. Further cracking reminds him that there'll be time enough to admire later, and he wastes not a moment in climbing onto the creature's back.
Sharp hooves dig into the ice as they bound through the ice-halls, which collapse as they run into great torrents of water which the hart only barely manages to outpace.
It seems that they run for far longer than they'd walked, but Hephaistos acknowledges that that might be the fear: his breaths seem to be minutes apart. When they gain the outside, it's to fresh snowmelt and bare dirt; where the hart steps, new grass grows.
Hephaistos flings himself from its back, making to bolt back toward the remains of the palace, but something holds him in place. "ERICH—"
"He is safe. Look." Themis' hand points, guiding his eyes: amidst the watery remnants of the ice palace stands a plain log cabin. A small wooden bridge leads over the pools that surround it.
Hephaistos stares at him. "All that work you had me do—you had a plan all along."
"A plan, and a hope that someday the curse might be broken, which it was, and by the work of a mage-smith, no less." Themis smiles. "But not, I think, by a cloak. By care and compassion. By…" Pausing, he shakes his head.
Hephaistos takes up the sentence he abandons. "By love. The others fear you. But if, say, a talented mage-smith were to set up shop here, clients would come to him. People would see that you can be trusted. You could claim your throne in truth."
"Not without a Consort—but if said mage-smith desired that position, it would be his."
Hephaistos takes Themis by the hand, leading him gingerly through the new grass toward the house, toward Erich. "Always."