Hello loverly readers! Alright, I know what you're thinking - "Cap'n Z, where's the tales of Jink's hijinks?" Well, this is better - it's for your favorite fic AND mind, "ONCE UPON A TIME." I'm serious - this fic has been through hell and back (laugh - Dante reference) to be this awesome. And it's all thanks to LA Knight! So read this if you loved "Once Upon A Time", and go read the fic if you haven't!

Eighty years.

It had seemed to pass in the blink of an eye to Nuada. He had seen the earth before the People of Mud had come to be – a little snap of eighty years was nothing. Rather, it had been nothing.

Now, he had actual memories of the past eighty years of things other than exile and hatred. He had Dylan. He had practically lived his life alongside hers these past years, at her cottage in the woods. It, unlike the human cities and Dylan herself, remained untouched by time. It still looked as homey and cozy as it did the first day he had seen it.

But Dylan... she had changed much over the past eighty years. Very much. What had been strong and flexible had become weak and brittle; her back was arched and she required help to walk. Her skin felt paper thin to the touch, lined with shallow wrinkles, and her soft hands had become thin and bony. But her mind (and tongue) still remained as sharp as it had been all those years ago; that, thankfully, had not changed.

It was nothing large at first – her hair had started to grow streaks of gray, her strength had started to fade, and she winced when she had to move after sitting for too long. But she still took care of her cottage and all the Fae who came by – and of him.

Who knows how many times he had come to her, blood oozing through his hands as he tried to staunch the flow from his latest wound, or holding his arm at an awkward angle to stop his muscles from screaming in agony? He had court physicians, of course, but he trusted Dylan with his wounds more than they; she, who had healed him when her own body had been in desperate need of repair (Besides, those pompous fools would not make sure that he went through with their advice. He had known Dylan to keep him in the cottage for almost two weeks to make sure that the muscle he had strained was not actually torn).

He always enjoyed staying at her cottage – she would prepare food for the both of them, regaling him with tales of her days working at the woman's shelter and inner-city schools, and would end the night with a new story he had not heard before. Sometimes, he would insist on cooking, and she would tell him of her day while he made dinner. He knew she enjoyed it, so he tried to cook for her at least once a week.

He thought now of a book she had told him about once, during this time, called Inferno.

"It's part of the Divine Comedy, by Dante," she had explained. "It's about a man, so in love with a woman, that he went through the ten circles of Hell to deal with Lucifer himself to get her back."

"Why would anyone do that?" He had demanded.

"Love," she had said. "He did it out of love for her. He loved her so much, he was willing to risk his life and sanity for her."

He had rolled his eyes and scoffed at such an idea. Why go through such barbaric measures? Death was a part of life no one could avoid. Even he, King of Bethmoora, knew one day that Death would call. It did not make sense to fight so hard against an unstoppable force for a loved one.

How foolish he had been.

It had been about thirty years prior when he started to notice the aging. He had noticed that she would read less and less to him when he came to stay. He also noticed that she would trip over things easily within her sight. It would not have worried him so if she had not hurt herself each time; he found himself following her around her house, prepared to catch her the next time she tripped.

Finally, one afternoon he exploded, "Can you not see what is right in front of you?" after she tripped over the leg of the table for the umpteenth time. She had cried out in surprise and pain, and he barely had a moment to catch her just before she hit the floor. He could see the grimace of pain she tried to hide and the red mark where her leg had made contact with the table that he later knew would be purple and tender.

In a small voice that threatened tears, she replied, "...no. I-I can't."

It was then that it hit him: Dylan was growing old. The very idea made him feel sick to his stomach and left a vile taste in his mouth. Gone was the youth he had seen in her when they first met (even if she was considered grown by human standards). Now her body was being ravaged by the curse of time, and the worst part was that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He had apologized for yelling, and she had come clean with the truth: her sight had slowly been fading for years now, and she had not told him because she did not want to make him worry. Foolish girl – she should have realized that he would worry either way, but at least by telling him he could help.

He had not thought it possible, but after that he found himself spending even more time at Dylan's cottage, helping out where he could. He enlisted the help of a few brownies and tomte to help keep her house clean (which was quite easy – Dylan was never a messy person) and help her out while he was not there. It was hard at first, balancing life at court and life at Dylan's. Over time, it became an art, and he believed that everyone was satisfied with his plan: he would take care of court business in the morning, and head to Dylan's in the afternoon, leaving once Dylan was asleep. While he was there, he occupied her with his work, just as she had done once upon a time; she was kept up-to-date on the latest gossip, the newest rulings, and births and deaths within the realm.

But he made sure that he was the only one to tend her garden. Every day, he would bring her a flower or two from something that had just bloomed in the garden. It always varied depending on the season – early on would be apple blossoms, later lilies, and in the heat of summer he brought her a clipping from a tomato plant that had brought forth the juiciest fruit he had ever tasted. And in the winter, he even managed to find her a poinsettia. Her favorite thing was the rosemary that grew abundantly around the cottage. When she smelled its sweet scent, she would smile with a new light her eyes, and he found it easier to pretend that time was not slowly stealing her body.

Despite what Dylan thought, he was quite happy to do this for her. She thought he might have been angry about going out of his way to help her, but the only thing that upset him was the natural course of events. He had never noticed the passage of time until Dylan came into his life. But now, seeing what the ravages of time had done to her... it seemed beyond cruel.

"Don't be upset," she would tell him over and over. "It's something that everyone has to go through. It's nature." He knew she wanted to add, "I'll be fine", but he knew that she wouldn't be – aging always led to death. And what was "fine" about that?

Despite how much he hated it, she had a point. Every human aged and died in the blink of an eye to one such as him. But now... he could not bear to let it happen.

He was lucky, though, for her living as long as she had. The human life was drastically shorter than the lives of the Fae, and already she had long lived past nearly everyone she knew – including her brother. She had wept at his death, but even she had to acknowledge that anyone working for that fool of a government branch would have a considerably shorter life. He remembered when she found out about John's death – no notice but a letter saying that he had "died in the field" and nothing more. That was one of the few times that he had seen Dylan cry – she had clutched him and sobbed into his shirt like he was nothing more than a stuffed toy.

He tried his best to comfort her, but what could he say to her on the subject of her brother's death? It had driven home the point that one day her time would come as well. It was proven to him over and over every day by her weight dropping, her youth fading, her already-slender body shrinking. He sometimes had nightmares that one day he would arrive at the cottage, only to find that Dylan had shrunk so much she fit into the palm of his hand – or worse, disappeared altogether. He found himself holding her and gently stroking her hair in place of actual words – he could no longer speak without his voice conveying his feelings of her impending death.

He forced himself to try and accept the idea the one day Dylan would die, but he could not. Somehow he had rationalized that if he did not think about it, it would not happen.

Yet her time had come. And he did not want her to go.

He glared at the stranger that stood in front of the open cottage door. Outside, the new moon had left the countryside in blackness, and the wind that had been blowing Platonically through the trees had stopped. It was like the night itself had died.

Since he had started helping out at Dylan's cottage, he had taken to holding her hand and talking to her as she fell asleep. Her hand was in his now, and he clenched it as tightly as he dared.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Her time has come. I have been generous – left her in your care for longer than allotted, Elf – but now I must collect what is due."

The stranger was hidden by a large, dark cloak and spoke in an eldritch voice. He had always thought that Death would look different. But how Death looked was no concern – all that he was worried about was that it was here to steal Dylan from him. And this was something he would not allow.

"You cannot have her," he growled.

"I must," Death replied. "Her time has come. Without my aid, she will not reach the afterlife meant for her."

Dylan stirred in her sleep, murmuring his name as she slowly started to wake. This angered him – she had only just fallen asleep, and she needed her rest.

"I will not letyou take her," he insisted. "By my authority as King of Bethmoora-"

"You authority and title mean nothing to me, Elf. I am commanded by the highest Power of all. And if I do not take her, then all that you know will end."

No. He could not let this happen. He wouldnot let this happen. He suddenly thought of Inferno, and of the brave man who had fought to rescue his beloved from the fires of hell. If a mortal human could fight through those infernal fires, then he could certainly fight to save his Dylan from the icy grip of death. He was King of the Hidden Folk, after all – if anyone could rescue Dylan from Death itself, it would be him.

But Dylan, apparently, had other plans. Now fully awake, she used the grip he had on her hand to pull herself up. Her dulled eyes struggled to focus on the cloaked figure, but once she figured out who it was a small smile tugged at her lips. "I was wondering when you would show."

Death gave a nod. "It is time."

Unconsciously, Nuada tightened his grip on her hand. Dylan squeezed back, and turned her nearly-sightless gaze on him.

"Stay with me," he asked quietly. "Do not leave."

"I must," she said. "It's nature's way."

"Please," he begged, laying his free hand on her aged cheek. "Do not leave me." The pain was worse than anything he had ever felt. As though someone had plunged a knife into his chest and had slowly begun to twist. A lesser man would have been driven to his knees by the sharp ache. As it was, he could feel the prickle of tears behind his eyes, and he blinked furiously to beat it back.

She studied his face, frowning slightly. "Are you crying?"

"No!" he snapped weakly. Him? The King of Bethmoora? Crying? Impossible. It was . . . the wind. The wind from the open door made his eyes water. That was all.

She reached out with a shaky hand and gently stroked his cheek. He thought of a time when he would have been repulsed by the touch of an aging human woman – any human woman, for that matter - but now he leaned into her hand and prayed to every deity imaginable that he would not be forced to let her go. He closed his eyes at her touch and tried to memorize the feel of her skin against his. "I know it's hard," she whispered. "And I know you want me to stay. But I can't. Everyone has to move on to the next life, and now it happens to be my turn." She heaved a sigh. "But if it makes you feel better... I love you."

His eyes shot open. He knew that she cared for him, and she knew that he valued their friendship and genuinely enjoyed her company, but this was the first time either had said the word "love." He had not thought it love when they had walked the gardens of Findias together beneath the golden light of the Harvest Moon. Had not thought the word 'love' when she had read her favorite tales to him before a warm fire. Did not . . .

Should have thought, "love." Should have known."

Well, he knew now; knew exactly what he had to do.

The Elf King let go of Dylan's hand and turned towards Death.

"What must I do?" He asked.

"Excuse me?"

"What must I do to save Dylan?" He asked again. "Fight through fire? Defeat you in armed combat?" He pulled his spear from the sheath on his back and prepared himself to attack.

Death shook its head and gave a sad chuckle. "You foolish creatures are all the same. You cannot defeat me. I am a force that is bowed down to by all – rich, poor, kings, peasants. You cannot save her, Elf." Softer, he added, "If it is any consolation... those that die by my hand do not suffer."

Nuada would not take this as an answer, and was about to attack, when he felt a feather-light touch on his arm. He looked over and saw that Dylan had flung back the covers and was using his arm to help her stand. This surprised him – she usually limited her walking.

Once she was standing, she said, "Nuada, don't. It's not worth it." She turned her attention to Death. "I'm ready when you are."

Nuada dropped his spear and let it clatter to the floor, and wrapped Dylan in his arms. "I will not let you," he said quietly.

"But you must."

He shook his head. "Do not make me. I . . . I cannot do it."

"Do what?"

"Say... good-bye." Not this time. Not to her.

She leaned forward and rested her forehead on his. "We'll be together again," she said quietly, smiling gently. "So it's not really good-bye, is it? It's just... see you on the other side."

In that one moment, Nuada could have sworn that eighty years had not passed, and he was looking into the silvery blue eyes of a younger Dylan – the Dylan he had met, and had come to care for. In that one moment, it was like nothing had changed between them – time had removed its touch, and Death was not amongst them. She was young and strong and whole again. Everything he had seen before this moment paled in comparison to the beauty of her.

He gave her a look of mute denial. With a wavering hand, she lightly traced his lips with the tips of her fingers – an-age old gesture that filled him with both warmth and sorrow. If he could, he would have given anything and everything for this single moment to last forever. For the next moment to never come.

"It will be alright, Nuada," she insisted softly.

He gave a heavy sigh. He had to be strong – for her. For Dylan. "If you are not there, do not think that I will not come looking for you," he warned finally, trying to sound stern. "Because I will."

"I plan on it." One last smile, and then the light faded from her eyes and she slumped into his arms. Dead. All he could do was mutely catch her and lay her gently on her bed. If it were possible, he would have given voice to the anguish tearing at him, but for some reason he felt as if the pain were choking him into silence.

Death, satisfied that he had collected Dylan's soul, came forward and rested a shadowy hand on Nuada's shoulder. "She's right. Though I may not be calling for you anytime soon, you shall see her on the next plane."

Nuada could still say nothing, which he preferred – if he could have spoken, he would have been hurling all the curses he knew at this figure who dared to steal his Dylan from him.

Death seemed oblivious to Nuada's inner turmoil, chuckling to itself. "Yes... Fate is quite the sucker for a good romance."

As Death vanished, Nuada sank dejectedly onto the edge of Dylan's bed, grasped her hand, and gently kissed it. The tears he had battled so hard finally came forth once again, and he felt the ice-cold trail as one escaped his rigid control and fell, to lie glittering like a diamond on Dylan's cheek.

Finally, he could speak, but all he could manage to say was, "Beidh mé chailleann tú."

I will miss you.

*gasp* See? Was it not awesome? But there's more - wonder what happens when Nuada does die? Stay tuned, my pretties!

CAPTAIN OUT!

PS - I own nothing. But Death. YES, I OWN DEATH, SO HATERS BEST BE WATCHING OUT!