Once upon a time, there was a young boy.

He lived with his father and mother in a modest cabin in the forest.

One dark, terrible day, there was an accident. In moments, his home caught up in flames. With their remaining strength, his parents saved him by pushing him out of the burning home but, to his horror, they were unable to save themselves.

Now orphaned, the boy knew not what to do. However, the King had been a friend of his parents. And he, who had six sons of his own, took him in, promising that he would look after him in his parent's stead. For years that boy lived happily, becoming fast friends with the King's youngest son. They would run through the woods together, finding fairy circles and escaping from the rest of their brothers—who had little idea how to play with their youngest siblings that didn't involve teasing them.

"Tormenting, more like," the youngest son muttered as they hid from their brothers one day.

All but the third youngest, who would sit and read while watching and waiting for his youngest brothers to come home. When they returned, they would sit at his feet, lean against him as he read stories aloud to them to relax them or lull them to a nap in the late afternoon sun.

Sadly, one day the Queen became quite ill. She would pass away from this sickness but, mere years after her death, the King found another suitable woman he happily introduced to his sons. They welcomed her to their family, but she changed completely once she had married the King and become Queen.

Jealous of the former Queen and the King's lingering affection for her, the way he saw her in his sons, she cursed them all into swans. By some chance, she missed the youngest son but, upon seeing that he had escaped her spell, she laughed and told him:

"If you want to bring your brothers back, let's see if you can silence that ever-chattering mouth of yours for seven years. Make a shirt made of nettles for each of your brothers within that time, and the spell will be broken."

The youngest son could speak none of the many curse words he knew at her, but swore at her furiously in his head. He accepted the terms with a nod, though he promised to himself he would have his revenge upon her once he broke the curse on his siblings.

To his dismay, one day a different country's King happened upon him in his task of making shirts and was taken with him—why, the youngest prince had no idea—and asked him to marry him. The youngest son was unable to refuse but to shake his head but, without a proper reason, the King would not give up and was determined to have him for his own...

What made matters worse was that the youngest son had never learned to read and write, so had no way of communicating with anyone, much less this King.

Here, our tale begins...

"Good gods, he does not know when to give up," said a man with vibrant red hair. He straightened up, standing ankle-deep in muddled pond water as he scowled toward the entrance of the garden and the retreating back of the foreign King. Along with him were five other naked men.

The one clothed person in the whole garden was Esque, who currently had his face buried in his hands, refusing to subject himself to the sight of his naked siblings and one naked not-as-much-of-a-sibling. Worse, they'd witnessed the King's newest courting attempts, which mostly just consisted of persistent question after question that Esque couldn't answer.

"It's because Esque is just so cute," laughed another man, with hair a muddy green-brown like the reeds in the pond. Tamther was his name, with the red-haired man's name being Herth. As for the others—

Blond: Malt, light brown: Wester, black: Pembrook and Ashlin, who's hair was as grey as ash. Hence his name. It wasn't a particularly favourable name in retrospect, when you looked at why and how he had lost his parents and home. He had been called 'Ash' or 'Cinders' by some of the people in the castle when he had first been adopted, the monikers whispered scathingly behind his back.

Esque had made short work of them, you're damned right he had. No-one would be messing with Ashlin as long as he was around!

"Esque. Esque, are you paying attention?" Wester drawled and Esque heard the slosh of his brothers stepping out of the pond that they lived in while they were swans (all day, except these excruciating fifteen minutes).

"Everyone, can you please put these on," Ashlin said anxiously, fishing out robes they had stowed away. Everyone but Ashlin always just lounged naked unless pressed into dressing. Every single one of his actual blood siblings were absolute shitheads, with Ashlin the only reason why Esque was doing what he was doing.

Everyone else sucked and could stay a swan, for all he cared.

Well, no, Pembrook was all right too.

Esque was terrifically unkind toward his brothers when, deep down in his black, angry little heart he loved them all. Kind of. More or less. He didn't want to see them squawking around as swans for the rest of their lives, at least.

"You would think you'd be used to this by now," Malt said as he shrugged on one of the robes pressed on him by Ashlin. The others complied too, sitting down on the warm garden grass; all save for Ashlin who went to Esque. He patted his shoulders gently to reassure him that his brothers weren't letting themselves flap in the breeze any longer.

Esque lifted his face and glared at them all, unable to say the thousands of words that he wanted to. The last thing I want to do, he thought scathingly, is get used to seeing you lot naked. Just because I was raised with you all doesn't mean I want to burn my eyes out. Ugh. Assholes.

Alas, his witty (so he believed) repartee went unspoken, as many others had been.

How many years had it been now since he was forced to live in absolute silence? Six, he reminded himself, bolstering himself as best he could. He was so very, very close to the deadline. The pressure of it was beginning to bear down on him.

"Esque, how are the last shirts coming?" Pembrook asked in his soothingly deep, soft voice, looking up at where Esque sat on his bench. Esque shrugged helplessly, spreading his hands apart in answer. "Do you think that you'll finish them on time?"

Did he think that? Esque would have groaned, except even that wasn't allowed.

So he had to shrug again, half-nodding at the same time.

"You've got this," Ashlin said reassuringly, putting both of his hands on Esque's shoulders. He melted, fond of Ashlin more than any of the other shitheads sitting by his feet. His other brothers all looked at each other in that knowing way Esque hated (save Pembrook), and he blushed, flipping all of them off with both hands.

"If that king doesn't drag you off to marry him first," Herth said darkly, putting his chin down in the palm of his hand. "Next time, we'll swarm him. Make him make a fool of himself. See him come back from that."

"Oh, I like that plan. We can rip his clothes to shreds too and we'll get away with it," Tamther agreed, the quickest brother to jump on Herth's schemes. The more malicious the better, as it always was.

Esque flapped his hands angrily, trying to get their attention so they could see him fiercely shaking his head.

"But Esque," Wester droned, "if you get dragged off by that king... boom. That's it. There goes your free time to make those dumb shirts and we're birds forever."

"I don't want to be a bird forever," Malt added quickly. "Do you have any idea of what we have to eat, Esque? It's disgusting. I want to eat the palace food again! Ahh—dishes upon dishes of delicacies, soups and consommé, roast fowl—"

"Shut up, Malt, I'm never eating roast fowl again," Herth grumbled.

"I'd still eat it," Wester said helpfully.

"Yeah, well, some of us don't want to be cannibals."

Tamther snorted, leaning back on his hands. "We're humans and not swans, genius, we're not cannibals."

"It'd feel damn like being a cannibal. Are you okay with cannibals, Malt? Wester? Yeah? Want to eat me next, I suppose." Herth gesticulated with both of his hands, glowering.

"If you weren't so damn ugly, I'd consider it," Wester replied, grinning.

Esque rolled his eyes, wondering why they wasted their precious fifteen minutes of humanity bickering. One would think they would've gotten enough of that back in their youth.

Ashlin settled onto the bench next to him, turning his face to watch as Esque got back to threading together nettles on the most recent shirt. This one would be for Ashlin and then the last would be for tall, slender Pembrook. He felt an anxious tightening in his throat. If he failed, they'd be swans forever. He didn't want that. Especially not for Ashlin, who leaned his weight against Esque's side, supporting him as he worked.

Someone else settled on his other side and Esque glanced over at Pembrook, who nodded encouragingly at him before paying attention to the circus that was the rest of Esque's siblings.

"Time's almost up, fellas," Malt spoke up abruptly. "Any last words before we return to our feathery fates?"

"We'll be back to these ones tomorrow, no big deal," Wester said with a yawn.

"Don't eat roast fowl," Herth said fiercely to Esque, glaring at him. "You better have given it up. Imagine me roasting alive if you even think about trying it."

Esque rolled his eyes at him and Herth glared some more.

"Don't mind stepmother being a bitch," Tamther said cheerfully. "I chased her around the garden the other day. Think she about wanted to kill me."

Oh, nice, Esque thought and gave him a thumbs-up.

"No wonder she wanted to curse us," Pembrook sighed and stood up. He said nothing more than that, stroking Esque's head of black hair, the same colour as his own. Then he walked toward the pond, classily untying the robe and pulling it off (though Esque still immediately covered his eyes up with his hands, refusing to stare at any butts, especially one of his brother's butts, though he did get a nice glimpse of Pembrook's sleek, muscular back).

"Good luck," Ashlin murmured in his ear. He pecked a kiss to Esque's cheek and joined the rest of the men as, with warbles and the sounds of wings flapping, they all assumed forms of swans. Amusingly enough, they were all different colours, which made it even more bemusing that Esque's father hadn't put together where his sons had gone.

Esque had even dragged him out here one afternoon when his father wondered where his brothers had gone. He had pointed vehemently at the swans in the pond and the king merely said: "Oh, thank you, Esque. Seeing such lovely swans does cheer me up a bit."

Herth about had a meltdown over that and had flown halfway out of the pond to attack his own father before Tamther and Malt dragged him back by the tail feathers.

Nothing can be easy, can it? Esque thought as he leaned back on the bench and watched his brothers glide out into the pond, squawking amongst themselves.

"Fair Esque—I've come to invite you to my home. Will you not come with me?"

He was very gallant, honestly he was, King Averick. He even went down on one knee as he courteously extended one of his hands to Esque. He was handsome, too, but definitely not Esque's type. He didn't like the big buff type. So, while the king was nice and all, Esque would rather drown himself in the pond than go anywhere.

His stubbornness was annoying, too. Mmf.

Esque, sitting in plainclothes on the bench, about as casual as casual could be, quickly shook his head. Next to him, the pure black swan Pembrook also shook his head back and forth in an echo of his brother. Averick was hardly deterred, merely looking with interest at the swan and nodding as if to say what a well-trained animal.

"It's but a day trip. I promise you will enjoy yourself."

Take a fuckin' hint, guy! Esque screamed in his head. If only King Averick knew the manner in which Esque spoke. His speech was littered with swear words so crass a sailor would flinch and Averick would undoubtedly be deterred in a second. He'd probably also be put off if he knew how very, very angry Esque was, especially with it having built up all of these years.

Pembrook honked in disapproval and the action was so abrupt, loud and funny Esque almost forgot himself and laughed. He slapped his hand to his throat, as if the physical contact would beat away the laugh. It worked, for the moment, and Pembrook looked up at Esque while clicking his beak together in apology.

Further out in the pond, a grey swan lifted his head with alarm, staring toward the shore and Esque.

"You may bring, erm—one of your pets, if you wish?" Averick suggested and then he stood, smiling, very dashing really. Esque tightened his grip on the shirt he was working on and looked at Pembrook who shook his head back and forth. "It's settled; let us depart at the moment! I have a carriage waiting out front!"

Hint! You! Take! It! Sic him, Pembrook! Esque looked desperately at the swan, which just honked again.

So much bigger than him, Averick easily took the shirt from his hands—Esque nearly went into an apoplectic fit—and grabbed his hand to pull him to his feet. Esque contemplated kneeing him in the crotch or punching him in the throat but, unfortunately, diplomacy was a thing he had to think about. Once his brothers were back, it'd be no big deal if he went around swearing at every princeling, prince or king but, until he wasn't the heir assumptive, he had to watch himself.

It helped that he couldn't talk. He would've been in way more trouble.

The grey swan landed with an alarmed flutter on the shore, honking urgently at Pembrook, who honked back calmly.

To see Ashlin and Pembrook so concerned was sweet, but it was hilarious the way they waddled after Averick towing Esque forcefully along. He was torn so much between amusement and fury that he settled in an odd neutral zone, helpless to being manhandled into a carriage (Ashlin and Pembrook hustled inside before Averick could stop them) or voicing his protests. If he could write, oh the things he would write. He would write a detailed account on how, no, you didn't get your way just because you were a king, and no, a shake of the head from side to side did in fact equal refusal. It wasn't a maybe or a hmm, it was a NO and if you didn't take it as a NO, a nasty future of being bitten by swans awaited you.

Esque hunched down in his seat, glaring at Averick, who took his mutinous expression for something positive and smiled.

It must be nice being so damn oblivious, huh? How the shit did you become king?

He was probably a nice person. He just needed someone to round on him and tell him off vigorously.

When I can talk again...

Esque vowed darkly as he ran his hands over Ashlin and Pembrook's feathers.

Averick's mother was nothing like her son.

Meaning, she was an awful, horrible person that Esque decided should never meet his own stepmother because they would get along famously. She got one look at him and her face contorted like she had just placed some rotten roast fowl in her mouth (it was Herth's fault he had roast fowl on the brain) and she was in the middle of a fancy dinner where she couldn't just spit it out. Yeah. He felt like something unpalatable when she looked at him, all right.

But.

The one good thing about her was that she was loudly and vehemently against Averick marrying Esque.

Which was great. He too was super on board with that. He had even given the woman thumbs-ups when she was talking to her son about him and telling him about how awful a match Esque was and were those swans, why on earth had the ruffian brought those?

Ruffian, waste of space, whatever, he could live with it so long as she stopped the wedding!

Averick, meanwhile, had defended him fiercely from his mother and Esque wanted to beat him senseless.

Ashlin and Pembrook had attempted several times to nip at her heels but had stopped when they noticed how excited Esque was. Never before had he been so head-over-heels for someone who was complete and utter evil before. She could be his saviour! His guiding light! With her help he could escape Averick, but Averick was so utterly oblivious he didn't realise how encouraging Esque was being about the refusal.

And Mother Averick was just confused when her repeated nastiness only earned her Esque's sparkling eyes and encouraging nods.

In the end, she was so put off and doubting the boy's mental health that she said her bit and then swept off in more of a groan than a huff.

Failure, Esque thought when Averick turned to him after his mother had said her part and apologised, letting him know it didn't change the way he felt about Esque.

Pembrook honked with deep displeasure and Ashlin clacked his beak, making motions like he was about to start biting at any moment. Esque patted them both in comfort while he wanted to just flip off Averick to his face but all he could do was sit back and stare at the sky, wishing vaguely he'd been turned into a swan too.

Herth laughed at him.

Esque wanted to punch him in the face or, better yet, feed him some of that roast fowl he had so come to loathe. He settled for flipping off Herth and then Tamther when he joined in the laughing. The only ones who didn't laugh were Pembrook and Ashlin—Esque almost wished Pembrook would laugh; he was scary when he wore a stormy, furious expression and said absolutely nothing.

Ashlin, as usual, was gentle and concerned, fussing over Esque by putting his hands on his shoulders. He squeezed Esque comfortingly, his very worry a balm to Esque's anger.

"I'm so sorry we couldn't do anything," he said anxiously.

Esque shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. Not that you could've. I don't think even a swan bite would turn that oblivious king off of his notions of marrying me. Not that I get why.

He gestured at Ashlin, encouraging him to look, and then gestured first at his face and then at his body, hoping he looked suitably incredulous. Ashlin gave him a once over, reddened, and then shuffled his feet and looked away.

What. What was that, he demanded mentally, but Ashlin had no way of hearing him.

"Are you asking why he's interested in you?" Ashlin asked after a moment, shyly. Pembrook turned his head sharply to look at the two of them. "Esque, you are fairly... um." He fumbled his words and Esque folded his arms over his chest impatiently.

Say it. Compliment me.

Maybe it was for the best that no-one could hear Esque's thoughts.

"You're very... ah... um... attractive?" Ashlin ended in a whisper and Esque mentally thrust his hands into the air.

"What are you doing, idiot, put those down," Herth called over.

Oh. He had thrust his hands into the air in real life, too. Whoops.

Ashlin snorted, covering his mouth and nose up with his palm, though his smile was still visible. "You're the same as always, huh?" he asked Esque.

Of course. A compliment from you lights my world, Esque passionately replied.

Or he would have, in his imagination.

"That mother of Averick's is going to be an issue," Pembrook cut in calmly, shattering Esque's imaginings to pieces. He ignored Esque's exasperated glance and came closer, standing next to Esque and tilting his head so they made eye contact. "She may seem as though she could be helpful, but I am certain she will do nothing but harm to you."

You worry too much. Esque flapped his hand at him, but Pembrook seized it. His heart jolted up into his throat as his taller brother gripped his hand firmly, unyielding, his calm face twisted into that angry look from earlier.

"Hear me, Esque," Pembrook said softly, solemnly. "I need you to be careful. Do not go to that palace or anywhere near that woman again. If you must, you will bring me."

Pembrook never really got angry. He was the calm brother—despite being the third youngest, he was the most mature out of them all, by far. He was the tallest of them all in his youth and even now, despite leaning on the slender side. He was dedicated to academic pursuits rather than hunting or roughhousing like Herth or Tamther. When Pembrook said something, the rest of them shut up and listened because Pembrook knew what he was talking about. If you didn't listen, more fool you. They had all learned that lesson one by one as children.

So, if he was warning Esque so seriously, Esque damn well better take it just as seriously. That's what Pembrook's tone said, what his intent eye contact said.

Feeling shaky, certain he was paler than he had just been, he nodded.

Pembrook's severe expression softened and he pulled back, letting go of Esque's hand to stroke his hand over his hair. "We may all be cursed, but I'm still your older brother. I'll look out for you," he told him, so quiet none of the others could hear (Ashlin had also wisely moved away when it looked like Mt. Pembrook was about to erupt). He slid his hand from Esque's hair to his cheek and Esque had a feeling he was red the second that long, cool fingers touched his skin.

"Pembrooooook," Wester called. "You're doing that thing agaaaaain."

"Oh. My apologies, Esque," Pembrook said after a moment, pulling away. He'd returned effortlessly to being calm and unruffled, how did he do that?

Don't worry about it, Esque did his best to gesticulate, which mostly involved half-panicked flailing and blushing.

"Always with the intense eye contact and the touching," Herth muttered, shaking his head. "No wonder no-one ever wanted to be your friend when we were kids when you got on with that. 'Sides us, anyway."

Pembrook calmly turned to look at him. His black eyes were narrowed.

At that moment, luckily for Herth and however long he had left to live, the curse took control again and a big red swan flapped quickly away, as far as possible. The others followed at a less terrified pace, leaving Pembrook and Ashlin on the shore still.

Ashlin honked and nuzzled against the side of Esque's leg, cuddling against him before he slid into the pond and swam away. Pembrook lingered, looking between the water and Esque before he hopped up onto the bench and sat there next to Esque.

You don't have to stay, brother, Esque thought, shaking his head and jabbing his head at the pond.

Pembrook looked at him disapprovingly, so Esque shut down that thought, sat down and got back to making the shirt he'd been working on.

He would really have to make it up to Pembrook later.

Before he could do anything about it, he'd been seized from the gardens (he'd refused to give up the shirt he was working on, the very last one for Pembrook) and marched right into Averick's horse-drawn carriage. His brothers had given pursuit, honking in alarm as their baby brother was kidnapped, but they'd been unable to catch up in time. That left Esque staring desperately out of the window of the carriage for any sign of them. If it were his brothers, they wouldn't give up so easily.

If they did, he would've had a helluva lot easier time when he was a child.

Gritting his teeth, he looked down at the shirt in his grip and intently kept putting it together. Averick frowned across at him.

"Why do you do such a thing?"

Fuck off, Esque thought.

"Though it is admirable you are so dedicated to your craft," Averick said, heedless of how much Esque hated it.

How much he had struggled in the beginning, how much he struggled even now. His fingers were worn where the nettles had initially scraped him open, and there was no medicine that would make the tiny nicks and scars disappear. They were ugly and he didn't like them, no matter if Pembrook had taken Esque's hands into his and stroked them soothingly with his thumbs. Averick had no idea how Esque wished he could get a night's sleep without waking up in terror that he had failed.

It was all too much responsibility to put on his shoulders. And, for what? Because one person was jealous of someone who had died? It was such a petty, insecure reason to put seven people through this suffering, the threat of six of those people never being able to turn back into humans again.

Esque couldn't stand his brothers a lot of the time, but he couldn't imagine living without them. He had been lost already for six years without them. Fifteen minutes wasn't enough time for Malt to criticise his eating habits and direct him to the better food. It wasn't enough time to concoct tricks, traps and practical jokes with Herth and Tamther. It wasn't enough time for him to lay on his back, doing nothing with Wester besides idly watching the clouds go by. It wasn't enough time to slip into the forest and explore with Ashlin like they had when they were children. It wasn't enough time for him to hear all of the things he wanted to hear from Pembrook. Pembrook hadn't enough time to brush his hair like he used to, or calmly teach Esque how to braid. Esque couldn't even show off to him how much he'd improved with braiding, how he was certain to be able to tie Pembrook's hair in a way that would make him smile.

He bit his lips to stifle the anger and frustration, pouring everything out into making the shirt instead.

He returned safely, at the very least, suffering through Averick's enthusiastic tour of his gardens and his palace.

But it wasn't to end with that day. Now that he had stolen Esque off once, Averick made a habit of it—apparently Esque's father had even approved. When his brothers had gotten wind of that, Pembrook, Herth and even lazy Wester were ready to storm the castle and wreck as much as they could.

Marriage felt inevitable.

Still, tirelessly, Esque worked. He pushed aside sleep, not bothering in favour of making the shirt. Pembrook, for Pembrook, he reminded himself when he got tired, when he felt like laying down and giving up. Pembrook didn't leave his side much these days, even his other brothers came to his room instead, hiding in his bathtub or just sitting with him on his bed as he frantically worked. He knew they worried, but none of them had the time. The seven year deadline was looming close.

He had marked off every day on sheets of parchment ever since this had all began. It was so close he could taste the fear in his mouth.

And then, one horrible day came—

"It's been stolen!" Averick's mother screamed. "That prince stole the last king's scepter!"

What the hell is she on about, Esque thought and clenched both of his fists at his sides. Pembrook didn't manage to sneak aboard the carriage today and he was left feeling so very, frightfully alone in the face of the practically spitting woman before him. But, through her fury, he saw a light in her eyes so much like his stepmother that his lips curled into a sneer before he could think twice of it.

You're a liar. Just another liar.

"Look at the way he looks at me!" she exclaimed, turning to the royal court gathered around them. Esque had been manhandled into the throne room and Averick was curiously absent—strange, considering that he was the king and all. Call him what you will, but Esque knew Averick would defend him.

How convenient, that he should be taken away at a time like this.

"Where have you hidden it, thief?" she demanded, descending the few steps from the throne to stand in front of him. His hands were held painfully tight behind his back, but his fingers determinedly held on to the shirt there. Pembrook's. He was so close that he thought today, today he could do it, that he could finish it while Averick did this or that (the rest were even in the satchel he wore, folded up carefully), but obviously he had let his guard down.

He had planned to finish and take them all post-haste to his brothers the moment he returned home. But... but he...

I'm sorry, Pembrook. I screwed up, he thought as the gathered court shook their heads.

"He refuses to answer. He does not deny that he has stolen our kingdom's precious heirloom," said the woman imperiously, drawing herself up. She gestured with one hand. "Lock him away. Leave him with those rags he always works on, it will be a suitable distraction while we decide how we must deal with this."

Thrown in the dark, dingy dungeon, Esque completed the last shirt by the fading candlelight. Sans one sleeve, for when he reached for nettles he found none left.

He gripped it in his lap and stared up at the barred window, staring upward into the dark night as though to catch a glimpse of flapping wings.

This is kind of old-fashioned, don't you think? Esque glared down underneath him.

At his feet was a mound of twigs, of wood, and all around in the city square, people were amassing to curiously watch the burning of the thief. Of the witch, for magicking the royal scepter somewhere where no-one could find it. Was some stupid heirloom really that important? Except it was, even his kingdom had something like it.

Still. They were going to start a war, these fucking idiots!

Where are you guys? Esque thought as he scanned the sky. He tried to joke with himself, tried to scoff at the situation, but the truth of it was that he was scared. He was alone here. Averick had been taken away—he'd been sent off to some battle and wouldn't return until the morrow, some folks whispered—and the kingdom left in the hands of his mother. There was no-one here on his side. This wasn't his home. His father likely thought his future husband was treating his youngest son well.

Maybe his stepmother was in on it. That might explain why no-one was here.

Pembrook, he thought.

Averick's mother approached the pile, smiling as she accepted a torch from a nearby guard. Esque had stopped struggling against the ropes that pinned him to the stake, reassured only by the weight of the satchel still resting on his hip. He had finished them. More-or-less. He just needed his stupid brothers to get here.

Only believing they would know somehow and come was keeping him from breaking down.

"My noble subjects," she began, voice carrying. Esque's throat tightened. "We have gathered here today to judge this lying witch on his actions. He has bewitched the king, stolen the former king's scepter, and hidden it all—all while refusing to speak. What are these acts if not the acts of magic and sorcery?"

Well, it was true it was an act of magic, but more for how Esque was cursed along with his brothers.

The congregation gathered murmured assent and Esque shivered.

His eyes fixed on the flame dancing on the tip of the torch. He squirmed, feet pushing against wood and twigs and he wanted to shout, to scream out, but if he did that, it would all be over! Everything would be over, his brother's curse unbroken forever.

He couldn't do that to them to save himself.

Esque was the baby brother. Despite all of the teasing and tormenting, he was spoiled and pampered. Every single one of his brothers had given him everything. If they didn't care, they wouldn't have demanded he be there every day for the fifteen minutes they were human. If they didn't care, they wouldn't have stayed in his room with him, snuck into the castle to snuggle at his side or offer him comfort while he was desperately making the shirts to save them.

If they didn't care—

The woman was still speaking about something or another, but Esque's head jerked. He looked down. A golden swan was meticulously sawing away at the ropes with an open beak. Malt! he wanted to shout, hiccup, but he could make no noise. Malt looked up at him, meeting his gaze unflinchingly and nodding his head once.

On his other side—a muddy brown-green swan. Tamther. He vigorously sawed at the ropes while keeping himself more-or-less hidden. Just like they hid when they were playing tricks.

Tamther, he wanted to cry, squirming. The swan nudged his leg comfortingly before getting back to it.

Then, honking and a shout drew his attention forward. Wester plunged from the air, raking at the uplifted torch with his hind feet. Herth skittered through the crowd, flapping his wings and taking a snap at the assembled people. Ashlin was right beside him, and Pembrook—where was Pembrook?

One of the guards drew his sword as the woman exclaimed, "His filthy pets! See, these witch's familiars—agh—"

Wester slapped a wing in her face with a furious, sharp sound more man than swan, and something black got in the way of the guard advancing on him. Pembrook flapped his wings in the guard's face and Esque sagged in relief.

The rope holding his left and right arms snapped off at once and Tamther and Malt would've gone on to the ones on his legs had something not covered them. Two prickly, uncomfortable shirts covered them, yanked from Esque's satchel, and they honked sharply. Before Esque could blink, his brothers all gathered around him, close enough he could drape their shirts over every one of them.

When he got to Pembrook he paused, looked at him wretchedly, and held up the completed shirt... missing just a sleeve.

The black swan just shook his head and pushed his body into it.

Then, just like when they changed back those fifteen minutes of the day, they were all there.

"Oh my god it's so ugly," Herth exclaimed, gripping the shirt with both hands and pulling it to get a look at it. It barely covered his nudity and Esque thought he really should've made them longer after all. "What—ow—and it's so uncomfortable!"

"What did you expect!" Esque said scathingly. "It's made out of nettles, you idiot!"

Herth looked at him, grinned, and grabbed him as best he could in a hug. And finally—finally—Esque sobbed, slamming his fists against his eldest brother's shoulders.

"You were late," he snarled, as Herth shushed him and gently hugged his head against his chest. The nettle shirt rubbed uncomfortably against his cheek, itched it, and he couldn't hear anything but for his own gasping and his sobs.

He didn't hear the clamouring of the people as the missing princes from the neighbouring kingdom were there—or the more awed gasps from certain ladies and men as they realised all these princes were sans pants. Averick's mother was left agape, but no more so when the pounding of hooves heralded her son himself, the king, returned early from the battle.

"What on earth," Averick started, staring wide-eyed at the men atop an unlit pyre and Esque crying into his brother, his legs still bound to a stake.

"What a mess," Wester said with a grumble, scratching his head. He took a moment to rub Esque's head affectionately before skidding his way down the pile. "Someone, can you get six pairs of pants. Thanks a bunch. And you—" He languidly pointed at Averick. "We've got a bone to pick with you, king."

"And let's not forget your mother," Malt added, seizing the woman's arm as she made to make her escape. She struggled, but the blond man merely smiled coldly, his manner and his gaze unforgiving. "Tamther, can you send word to home? I'd like to have a word with father and our lovely stepmother as well, since we're at it."

Tamther saluted. "Strategy: divide and conquer! I'm on it." Though he did accept a pair of pants brought to him by a blushing village woman first—he winked at her as he donned them and hustled away.

"You know that I'm first in line to the throne, right? Why're you all giving orders without me?" Herth complained, running his hand over a still-sniffling Esque's head.

"You're kind of occupied," Malt replied dryly. "Maybe not in a second, though."

"Huh?" Herth blinked—and then Esque was pulled unceremoniously from his arms. He looked down at himself, frowning at the loss of his baby brother, and then across at Pembrook, all-but smothering Esque into him.

"Thank goodness we were on time," Ashlin muttered, creeping out from behind the stake once he had a set of pants. Herth stepped into a pair and scratched his head, looking at Pembrook—or, rather, his arm.

"Are you okay?" Pembrook asked quietly, putting his chin on top of Esque's head. Esque nodded, his eyes tightly shut, his throat tight. "You can talk again, Esque."

"I'm okay," he croaked. It had been so long since he had last used his voice that it didn't feel like his own. "But you... I'm so sorry, Pem."

"It's all right. It's just an arm." Pembrook calmly looked down at it. He had wrapped an arm around Esque's waist and another around his shoulders. The one around his shoulders was feathered right down to his elbow, from where stretched a black and rough-skinned forearm. Every one of his fingers ended with a sharp nail, and in-between his fingers stretched black webbing. It was a startling sight on a human man, but Pembrook merely held fast. "So long as you don't revile me for it, I see no issue."

Esque sniffled, shaking his head. There's no way I could ever, he thought, too used to responding with silence he didn't remember that he could reply properly.

"Well, that's done," Herth declared as he dusted off his hands with neat claps.

Their stepmother had been confined in a dungeon, a magician called in order to enchant the bars so that she couldn't attempt an escape. Their father had been aghast, but no-one had been more aghast than Averick. Not just because his mother had tried to kill his affianced, but because his affianced was against the whole engagement thing to begin with.

"I'm sorry," Esque had said, right to his face, "but I'm seriously not interested in you one bit. I've got someone else in mind to marry. I wouldn't mind being friends, but there's no way in the ten hells am I marrying you. No offense."

He'd paused and added, against Ashlin's gestures of no, don't. "I'd say it's not you, it's me, but it's totally you too. You better get your wits about you, 'cause if you pull what you pulled with me with anyone else, you'd get a proper beating. If you hear 'no', it means fucking 'no'. Don't matter if it's someone shaking their head or someone yelling in your face, pay the hell attention next time around."

"He's really pent up from everything that happened," Ashlin had to apologise to the white-faced Averick afterwards.

Tamther just nodded fondly, as if to say that's our Esque.

Out of all of the siblings, Esque was undoubtedly the worst one of all.

Now, they had all gathered by the pond, out of some strange sense of home there.

"Don't swim," Malt said, glancing at Herth, who coloured up pink.

"Shut up. I'll make you swim," he swore, brandishing a fist.

Esque was out of breath, feeling as though he was in a dream somehow. He had dreamed he finished the shirts and broken the curse and now he could talk. He touched his throat tentatively and looked around at his brothers, dying to say so many things that he—oh, right.

He turned to Ashlin, extending one of his hands to him. His childhood friend blinked, tilting his head curiously.

"What's the matter, Esque?" he asked kindly, taking the proffered hand.

When Esque dropped to one knee, then he started to panic.

"Ashlin, won't you marry me?" he proposed, his words layered with the dramatic flair he had a penchant for at times he thought appropriate.

"Oh." Ashlin's attention diverted from him and he stared uncomfortably at the rest of their brothers, who just stared back. Aside from Pembrook, who had folded his arms, and was tapping the claws of his monstrous hand against the bicep of the opposite arm impatiently. "Um. Actually. Sorry, Esque, I don't like you that way."

"What," Esque said flatly, narrowing his eyes.

"I'm really more into, um. A different type of person, I guess?" Ashlin said vaguely, shuffling his feet. "You're great and I do love you—but as a brother."

"What," Esque repeated, but despondently.

"I do love you and I'm really flattered," Ashlin stammered, looking again to the brothers for help. Herth shrugged, Tamther grinned, Wester yawned, Malt put his palm against his forehead and Pembrook finally looked at Ashlin's face. Ashlin gave him as urgent a look as he could muster, indicating frantically toward Esque with small jerks of his head. "But, um. Sorry. I'll be happy if we can stay close to each other, though!"

Esque let go of his hand and slumped on the ground. But, as any of the brothers could tell you, he wasn't near as despondent as he made himself out to be. Pembrook walked over to him (shooting a sharp look at everyone else, who wisely began to back away and didn't get any funny comments ready) and lowered to kneel in front of Esque.

Esque was chewing his lower lip, very nearly on the border of tears but, when Pembrook filled his line of sight, he looked at him sulkily.

"I suppose you'll turn me down now too if I say anything," he bit out.

Pembrook moved to take both of Esque's hands in his own, one human and one not, calmly pulling them close to his chest. "No. Assuredly not," he replied, and his calm voice was gentle, his features softening into a smile that would've made Esque damn near weak at the knees if he'd been standing. "It would be my pleasure to have you all to myself."

"Okay," Esque mumbled, pitching forward to bury his face in Pembrook's chest. "Good."

THE END