"I wish to tell you a story."
Dylan raised an eyebrow and looked up at the Elf prince standing over her, arms folded across his chest, his habitual steely resolve subverted by an almost mischievous sparkle in his eyes. She glanced back down at the book in her hands.
"I would very much enjoy hearing a story, Your Highness," she said with a smile. "But I am afraid you've caught me right in the middle of my scripture reading for tonight." Nuada's eyes narrowed and indignation flashed across his amber gaze.
"I promise you, your god will surely not object to a few moments' distraction," he insisted. "And if he does, you have painted him to be quite forgiving. I am sure he would forgive a story."
Dylan considered for a long moment, and then smiled indulgently, placing her holy book down. Nuada grinned in triumph and seated himself across from her.
"So what sort of story is this?" she asked, eyes twinkling with amusement. "For I demand a story with magic, the fey folk. It must have humor, and romance, and adventure." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "And it must not begin with "Once upon a time" either." Nuada smiled slightly at the memory of their first story together.
"Unfortunately," he said. "This story cannot begin any other way." Dylan sighed in mock irritation and gestured for him to continue.
"I suppose I can let it go this time," she said, fixing her gaze upon him expectantly. Nuada leaned back, cleared his throat, and began.
"Once upon a time… there was a prince."
"Did he have a tendency to pout and pull out his stitches all the time?"
"Excuse me, I am telling the story thank you."
"Right, right. Do continue."
"Anyway. This prince was a fearsome, mighty warrior. He had fought for thousands of years. Indeed, he had lived and fought so long, he was sure that in a fair fight, none could best him."
"A humble one, that Prince is."
"If you are going to insist upon interrupting, I will not tell the rest of the story."
"Fine. Sorry."
"As I was saying… This prince powerfully believed that no one, especially mortals could best him in honorable combat. But, of course, there was nothing to be said in the case of dishonorable combat." Nuada paused, and his voice grew somewhat melancholy.
"This prince believed a great many things, and he believed them with every fiber of his being. He hated humans. So much so that no mortal could escape his presence and live. Except one, that is."
Dylan wondered briefly where this was going and what were the thoughts flickering behind the golden eyes that stared somewhere so far away, it seemed as if they were no longer sitting there within the halls of Findias.
"This prince would see the whole of the human race perish, but he could not bear to see a single one of them ravished. And one night, he heard a mortal's cry in the dark." His voice softened as Dylan flinched. "He heard the wolves howling after her, and he knew he could not leave that mortal to her fate." Nuada smiled then, somewhat bitterly.
"He could best any in a fair fight, but when do mortals ever fight fairly? He killed them, but not before sustaining grave injury to himself." His eyes met Dylan's. "But the kind, gentle, impossible mortal he had saved then saved him. Bound and cleaned his wounds, before she even looked after her own." Nuada smiled again, this time nothing bitter in the expression.
"And together they lived for many days, injured, but healing. And then it was time for the mortal to go home. The prince brought her back to her world and she left him with a promise. A promise to care for any fey she came across. And she did, as she always had. The prince returned to his world and she to hers, and for a long time, they did not see each other." Nuada paused.
"And then what?" Dylan urged, her voice small.
"Fate brought them together again." Nuada considered for a moment leaving it at that. But no. He had resolved to speak truly. "Or perhaps, the prince simply could not stay away. So they were reunited and they had adventures. Fairy tales before a fire, deep into the night. And they were happy." He sighed, a weariness he did not wish to admit passing over his eyes.
"But as all good fairy tales often do, this one took an ugly turn. For Fate is nothing if not a trickster, and it could not let them be; there were those of the Fair Folk that greatly disapproved of any… friendship between mortals and the fey. The prince, at one time, was one of them. But his impossible mortal had carved a place for herself in his heart…" He did not look at her, in that moment he could not bear to. He could not bear to see that place in his heart reflected in her eyes. Not yet. Instead, he reached out towards Dylan's hand, his fingers brushing gently across her knuckles.
"She seated herself in his life, with eyes like the moon over Bethmoora, and a heart that beat for the fey. She ripped up the very roots of his life and challenged all he believed. In short, despite all the powers of reason, she became his dearest friend." His eyes met hers at last, and Dylan found herself wondering if this was truly their story. It seemed like it, sure, but the magnificent heroine he spoke of could not be her. Dearest friend? She fought the urge to snort in disbelief. But intensity burned like fire behind his eyes. Those eyes never lied t her.
"But traitors to the prince would not let him befriend a mortal," he continued, dragging Dylan back into the story. Their story. "He was called to Bethmoora to be punished. And punished he was." He fell silent and for one wild moment, Dylan thought he would weep. A silence burdened with all the weight of memory hung between them.
"But his mortal came," Nuada murmured. For some reason, the words were difficult to say. "She stood before the court and defended the prince with all she had. And she saved him. From the moment they met she…" His voice faltered. "She never stopped saving him. No matter how much pain her efforts earned her, no matter how the prince professed to hate her, she always saved him. In more ways than she knew, or ever suspected. She saves him even now."
"Does this story have a happy ending?" Dylan asked softly, threading her fingers through his.
"I do not know," he admitted, and there was a sadness Dylan did not understand in his eyes. "I want it to. But I am not sure how it can." He sighed heavily and his other hand came up to gently touch her cheek. Dylan shivered as his fingers brushed over her scars. "But I know how this part of the story ends."
"How does it end then?" She was almost afraid of the answer.
"As all the very best fairy tales do," he whispered, leaning closer. Dylan could feel his fingers trembling against hers, could feel his warm breath against her skin. She inhaled deeply – it smelled like the earth, like fresh ground soil and trees… And maybe a hint of roasted cheese from lunch earlier, but she thought that sounded decidedly unromantic.
And then soft lips were pressed against hers and all thoughts of glorified grilled cheese sandwiches fled her mind.
She had, though she never would have admitted it, imagined what kissing Nuada would be like. She had thought he would forceful, that his lips would be insistent and unyielding, pressed against hers with all the strength she knew he had.
She had been wrong. He was gentle, tender almost. His fingers threaded through her hair, pulling her a bit closer, and yet leaving just enough room for her to retreat if she wanted to.
She didn't.
There, Dylan thought. That's it. The end. That's how fairy tales end. A kiss and then the credits. Only, this was not a fairy tale. Not really. Who ever heard of a fairy tale where there was a pack of Bad Wolves and Little Red was saved by the biggest of them all? And the princess almost never rescued the prince, and if she did, she was brave and beautiful, not scarred or broken. No, this was definitely not a fairy tale. Fairy tales ended with kisses. They never told the story of what happened afterwards… never spoke of the confusion or awkwardness that invariably followed the revelation of feelings so long denied. Prince Charming never pulled away as Nuada pulled away from her now, with tears in his eyes and anguish in his heart.
"That bad, huh?" Dylan offered weakly. Nuada shook his head.
"No, no, I…" I'm lost. He didn't say it, but he was fairly certain he didn't have to. She knew. "How do I reconcile what I have always believed with what I feel now when I look at you?" The words spilled out before he even realized he thought them.
Dylan said nothing. Some questions had no answers. He knew that. A centuries' long hate could not, would not, simply fade because a mortal did something stupid, like smile at him, or hold his hand, or make him feel a little less monstrous.
So what was he to do? There she was, sitting there before him, watching him with those damnable eyes shining with all the love he knew she had to offer, so what was he to do?
Oh, for the love of… He kissed her again.