At the Bottom of This Chapter:
Author's Note
Concerning the Chapter Title
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WARNING: this fic CANNOT be read without reading the first 10 chapters of my Hellboy fanfic, Once Upon a Time. So no one complain to me about not knowing what's going on or whatever if you haven't done that.
Author's Note: firstly, here's the deal. I love my fanfic, Once Upon a Time. I love it. BUT. I love angst, drama, darkness, grief, and agony, too. Unfortunately, I can only have so much darkness in Once because my beta doesn't like dark stuff. I do. And my love of darkness keeps trying to push Once into weird places, so I'm trying to fuel all of my darkness into this fic instead. Hopefully it works. Hopefully you enjoy it. So this is a Once Upon a Time Variation, just like Once Upon a Winter's Night.
See, I started reading these novels by this chick named Abigail Reynolds, variations on Pride and Prejudice, and it really sparked my imagination. So did Alydia Rackham, who writes fanfiction for The Avengers. She's got 3 different Lokane (Loki/Jane) fics that are basically "What if Loki fell off the Bifrost and was wounded and met Jane?"/"What if Loki fell off the Bifrost and was seriously wounded and met Jane?"/"What if Loki fell off the Bifrost and got captured by the Chitauri and then met Jane sometime later?" All three of which hinge on "What if something different happened when Loki fell off the Bifrost."
What's my point? I came up with the idea of doing a variation chap-fic, and that's what this is. It starts off in the middle of chapter 10, and it begs the question - what if Dylan hadn't found out about Nuada's so-called trial? And what if instead of trying to kill Nuada, Eamonn was merely attempting to get revenge on him for his so-called betrayal of the fae cause?
I hope you enjoy this Once Upon a Time variation. OH! And the chapters will hopefully be shorter than the normal Once chapters, for those of you who are gasping to death under the sheer volume of words in the original Once Upon a Time. Hugs and love to you all!
Oh, and secondly, this chapter is sort of a condensed version of relevant bits of chapter 10 and 11, with some new stuff that's changed in this variation. Everything after this chapter is new. =)
This fic updates once a month; each chapter appears a week early on my Pat. Re. On. (for some reason this site won't let me spell the word out) before being posted here. A monthly subscription to my Pat. Re. On. is $1 and gets you early access to the chapters, some fic-related art, deleted scenes, and chapter playlists, as well as 2 serialized original novels, original music, and some other stuff, so check me out.
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Once Upon a Moonless Dark
Chapter One
The Darkness Between the Stars
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I am taking you home, he'd said. And so he did. In a silent sojourn through back alleys and the strangely empty darkness of Central Park, Nuada had been a somber shadow beside her as the Elven warrior took her back to her cottage. Glamour kept anyone from seeing them; convenient, that, since her clothes were spattered with blood.
When they arrived at the cottage, Dylan simply stopped and pressed her forehead to the cool stone door. Summer still held sway in New York City, and the gentle chill of the smooth granite pushed back the prickling heat a little. She just had to stop. Her leg ached abominably from the rapid dash through the subway to find Nuada and protect the halfling baby she'd somehow managed to rescue. Sweat dampened the back of her tunic. Terror still breathed hot against the back of her neck. That Elf, Eamonn, had killed a pregnant mortal and her faerie husband just to somehow set Nuada up. That knowledge left a revolting taste in Dylan's mouth.
A gentle touch on her shoulder made her jump. She glanced over her shoulder at Nuada, who stood in the barely-there light of a waning crescent moon. Fear surged up in her throat and tried to catch her in a strangling grip. She suddenly wanted to fling herself into Nuada's arms and cling to him as she had when she'd found him in the subway…but if she did that, he'd be furious. Dylan knew she didn't dare.
"Thank you for escorting me," she whispered. He inclined his head in that simple, regal gesture she was so familiar with from the months spent in his underground sanctuary and in her cottage. And yet…why didn't he speak?
Dylan unlocked the door and gestured for Nuada to come in, but he shook his head and started to turn away. She must've made some sound, though, because he paused and looked back at her.
"Be careful," she said. "Please be careful, Your Highness."
He looked away then. A cold shiver of dread whispered down Dylan's spine. Then Nuada left the cottage without a word, a silver-edged shadow in the night. Dylan stared at the open doorway where only a moment before the tall warrior had stood. The prince had been unwilling—unable?—to meet her eyes before vanishing. The mortal couldn't stop the sudden frisson of fear that shivered up her spine as she wondered if there were things about tonight that Nuada wasn't telling her.
Her little black kitten, Bat, stretched up on his hind legs, put his front paws on her good knee, and meowed loudly, startling her. Darn it, the wind was getting in while she stood woolgathering. The mortal shook her head and forced her feet to move. Dylan carefully shut the heavy granite door.
As the latch clicked, as she bolted the many locks, only two thoughts pulsed through her mind: Be careful, Nuada.
Heavenly Father... what do I do now?
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A couple months passed, and Nuada did not return.
Dylan filled her days with patient appointments, counseling sessions at a teen's shelter and at the local juvenile detention center, late-afternoon dinner dates with John, a few awkward shopping trips with Francesca, sessions with her Sight-kids. Physical therapy, both with the mortal Dr. Vaughn and the narasimha healer, Lakshmi, to help combat the damage done in the long flight through the subway. Conversations with her friends, her sisters, and her cousins Dolph and Renee and trips to the library and a few of the local faires helped pass the time as well.
None of these things helped to ease the nervousness growing day by day, night by night. With every moonrise, Dylan's hope for seeing Nuada rose, only to plummet when he didn't come. She would wait for a knock at the door. Wait for that sudden sense of awareness that told her the Elven prince was there.
But in the end, he never came. The temperatures began to drop. The leaves changed from summer green to autumnal colors—russet and antique gold and orange, ruby and umber and gold as pale as winter sunlight. Frost crept across the ground. Eventually snow began drifting from skies pregnant with dove-gray clouds. And still he didn't come back.
Dylan always fell asleep curled up on the huge armchair in the living room, sucked into exhausting nightmares fueled by memories and worry for the Elven prince. She always woke in the middle of the night to the realization that another night had passed without word that the feral-eyed warrior was safe. Then Dylan would trudge to her room and fall asleep on her bed, struggling to ignore the growing fear skittering up and down her spine like insect legs.
She prayed for him, morning and night. Feared for him. What if that other Elf managed to hurt him? So she prayed for some word, some sign. There was nothing. She kept waiting. Kept praying. Kept fearing.
Nuada, Dylan thought every night as she drifted off to sleep. Nuada, where are you?
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When the summons came, nearly three moons later, the Elven prince was almost grateful. For nearly three months he had stayed away from Dylan, even though she had promised to read him something called Once Upon a Winter's Night. The tale had sounded interesting, and the mortal's enthusiasm and affection for it had tempted him. But if King Balor's messenger were to somehow find Nuada in the home of the woman he supposedly sported with, it would only cause problems for him. Instead, he spent the now-empty nights training.
At last, only a few days ere Samhain, as he and Wink bowed to each other, sweat dampening flesh and silvery blond hair, the summons—and the charges laid at Nuada's feet—finally came.
The Exiled Prince is commanded to return to Bethmoora, to the Golden Throne of Balor, the One-Armed King of Elfland, for trial on the charges of deviant cruelty toward, and the violent murder of mortals, as well the rapine of and conspiracy to murder another mortal.
Of course the king would see it that way. Nuada understood that. Glamouring a human or even another faerie into submitting to him and allowing him to bed her was rape according to the laws of the fae, and of course that could be the only way he would choose to bring a mortal to his bed—by trickery and deceit. And because he must, of course, have some sort of vile plan for this human that involved pain, torture, emotional distress, and eventually a bloody and agonizing death, that fell under "deviant cruelty" and "plotting to murder."
Will you never think well of me, Father? The words brought a cold fist of soul-pain slamming deep into his belly, though he gave no outward sign of it.
"My prince," Wink began, but one look from the Elf warrior silenced the burly troll.
"They will not kill me for this, Wink," the prince replied after a moment of tense silence. "Try to break me, yes. But they have tried before, and always they fail. I do not fear this trial."
"You need only tell them the truth—"
"The truth will avail me nothing," Nuada spat suddenly, and the nearly-mad fire of pain in his eyes burned like the molten gold heart of a star. "Nothing. I need only endure. It has always been enough. It will have to be enough now."
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Wink paused outside the corridor that would lead to Balor's Hall. He glanced once at the strangely silent Elven prince at his side. Nuada only stared straight ahead, glacial topaz eyes locked on the vast double doors shrouded in shadow. Between the two warriors and the doors were several hidden Butcher Guards and, more than likely, that sycophantic little toad, the Lord Chamberlain.
"Both my heart and my feet are heavy at this parting, my prince," Wink grunted in the Troll Tongue. "Every instinct warns me of danger and hidden treachery."
"I know it," the prince replied in the same tongue. "Eamonn will do his best to see me shamed this night. I am prepared for him."
"Should we not have told…the human woman?" Something in the Elf's gaze warned Wink against using the mortal's name. "Surely she would come and defend you from these charges. She would tell your father the truth."
"The truth avails nothing in Balor's court anymore. Humanity's poison has oozed too deeply into our world and our people. And even if she did come…" But no human would ever do such a foolish thing. Not for one his people. Not even Dylan. And if she did… "They would say, as they have already said, that I use my Elf magic to beguile her, to enchant and deceive her. They would not believe her to be in her right mind. And besides, I was not given leave to bring her. To come before the king of Elfland without summons can be a death sentence, with no respect to mortality or magic, rank or status, unless the king gives his pardon. My honor prevents me from endangering her thus."
With a sigh, the burly troll glanced toward the moon cresting the horizon. As the last sliver of iridescent celestial orb glided above the horizon line, something icy settled over Nuada and he let out a breath.
"It is time. Goodbye, my friend. Wait for me as agreed."
Wink fought against the steps he wanted to take after Nuada, who strode slowly toward the double doors and the silent, waiting Butchers. Instead of following after his prince, he turned away and trudged back to the corridor where those not summoned who had an interest in the court proceedings were ordered to wait.
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The doors to his father's hall swung inward. The rich, amber light caressed Nuada's face. Sweet scents and perfumes wafted on the sudden breezes. Soft, chiming music lilted on the air. And the Elven prince could not stop the leap his heart gave when he saw his father's face, nor the way it plummeted sickeningly into his belly when he saw the condemnation, anger and despair on the noble features. In fact, he saw himself condemned in every countenance that would look on him, save one.
Eamonn's eyes glinted with smug satisfaction as he watched Nuada approach without Wink, and without weapons.
Dylan, Nuada thought, surprising himself again. She has never looked at me this way. Not even when I had her by the throat and meant to kill her. She never looked at me as if I were an animal, or a criminal. How strange that a human thinks more highly of me than my own kin.
"Bare your back, Crown Prince," King Balor commanded. Not Nuada. Not even Prince Nuada. Merely "Crown Prince." Nuada fought to kill the stab of grief biting deep into his belly. There was no emotion in the king's voice, in his ancient gaze, on his withered face. And Nuala still refused to look at her twin. Her usually moon-pale face was tinged a sickly gray in anticipation of the flogging, and her eyes were shadowed. She gave no other sign that she was even aware of what was happening.
Nuada refused to look away from his father's golden eyes as he withdrew a leather thong from his pocket and tied back the thick mane of his silvery blond hair in a horsetail. Then he carefully pulled off his black leather vest without breaking eye contact. Nuada would not give Eamonn the satisfaction of looking at the dark Elf to gauge the triumph and smug satisfaction on his face, or give Nuada's father the reprieve of conscience by not gazing indifferently at the old king. In his own eyes Nuada held reproach for what his father did to him, and for what his father was allowing to happen to Nuala. Balor could not continue meeting his son's eyes, and looked away.
He handed his vest to the pageboy who stood ready to take it. Drew off his tunic and shirt. Laid his silver-etched black leather vambraces atop the pile of clothing with tremendous dignity.
The prince drew a breath through his nose, blew it out slowly through his barely-parted black lips. Breathed carefully to keep his heart from stuttering at the thought of the whip slicing through flesh to find bone. He had been struck with a whip before, as a child and as a youth. Less often as an adult, but it had happened. Few other weapons of the Old World had ever hurt him so badly, and the healers had usually seen to him fairly soon afterward to mend those wounds. He still bore some of the scars to this day. But there would be no healers rushing to his aid this night. Only two thousand iron-tipped lashes, and the warm blood soaking his trews and running down his legs like water to pool at his feet. A delirium dream of pain and betrayal. A waking nightmare.
And there were the whipping posts. Such beauty in the silvery beams as thick as an Elf's calf and inlaid with gold-washed script in Old Gaelic. But Nuada knew the silvery sheen came from the burning iron, and the elegantly scripted Gaelic words were curses on those having their backs laid open by the whip. Iron chains reinforced with magic so that even he, the legendary Silverlance, could not break them, hung from the tops of the posts. It would burn when those shackles were clamped around his wrists.
He strode past the whispering courtiers, every step slow and measured. He never took his eyes from his father's empty countenance. He wanted to find Nuala's gaze – in the past, when he'd suffered a well-deserved strapping for disobedience, his sister's eyes had been all the comfort needed to make the pain and humiliation bearable. But he could not look away from Balor, and even if he had, Nuala would not have returned his gaze. There was no emotion from her now. Only a vast and nearly unbearable void, empty and cold, where warmth and love and peace should have been.
Nuada did not flinch when the shackles clicked shut around his wrists. Did not so much as bat an eyelash as the iron against his skin began to tingle, then itch, then burn. Even as the pain radiated up his forearms and he smelled the sickly meat stink of burning flesh, he showed nothing. He only stared at the One-Armed King of Elfland.
It was Eamonn – Eamonn, who had raised the charges against Nuada—who took up the whip with its thin, spiked iron tip. As accuser, it was Eamonn's right to determine who inflicted the prince's sentence. The Elven warrior knew that the dark Elf would never pass up the opportunity to do it himself.
Metal scraped across the inlaid marble floor as the dark-haired Elf moved into position. Nuada wanted to close his eyes, wanted to let his mind seek sanctuary in memories, but where would it go? Thoughts of his father, of Nuala, made his heart bleed as if from a wound. Thinking of Wink would only make him long for his friend and servant, long for the one who knew he had honor, knew he would never sully that honor with base acts of cruelty and evil. And he could not afford to long for anyone in this moment. He had to stand alone, or fall for all to see.
I wish I had heard that story, he surprised himself by thinking. Already his body was bracing for the brutal crack of the whip. The one Dylan wanted to read to me. "Once Upon a Winter's Night." Father will not allow me to go back to her. He thought of silver-washed blue eyes scanning pages yellowed with age, and the scarred mouth forming the words as she read aloud before the fire. I wish I could have heard just one more tale. I wish I could've had just one more night of peace.
Then the whip came down across his back. Nuala screamed.
And the whip came down again.
Again.
And again...
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Dylan bolted upright in bed, choking on a scream. Coppery blood stung her mouth and she realized she'd sunk her teeth into her knuckles to bite back that terrified scream. What had she been dreaming? She couldn't remember. Something about Nuada…and Eamonn…and iron posts. A punishment. And blood. So much blood, the drip-drip of it sprinkling a floor of gold-veined white marble. The same nightmare she'd had for the last two nights.
Nuada. Eamonn had whipped the flesh from his back. The sight of Nuada's ruined back left a scream clamoring in her mouth, desperate to be free. He'd hung from the iron chains circling his wrists, unable to keep on his feet. Had that only been a dream or had something terrible happened to him?
She threw back the sheets and swung her legs over the side of the bed. There was no chance of her sleeping now. Not after a nightmare like that. She'd go…read or something. Drink some hot chocolate in front of the living room fireplace. Hot chocolate had always helped her and John fall back asleep after bad dreams. Snagging a robe to wear over her nightgown, she tied the sash and left her room.
In the kitchen, she quickly set the milk to heating on the stove and pulled down the vanilla, cinnamon, and cocoa powder she'd need. It only took a few minutes to get the hot chocolate ready. She added a few French vanilla marshmallows—her special treat for herself on bad nights. Taking her cup, she went and sat in the suede armchair Nuada had often used when she'd read to him. Dylan closed her eyes, enjoying the crackling warmth of the fire, and sipped.
If it hadn't been for Eamonn, she wouldn't have been so afraid for the prince. Eamonn had butchered two people, and tried to kill an infant, in an attempt to lay some kind of blackmail trap for Nuada. At this point, Dylan wouldn't have put anything past the dark-haired Elf. He'd seemed to have a personal vendetta against Nuada.
Why, though? Dylan wondered, taking another sip. The heat from the hearth easily penetrated the terrycloth bathrobe and the silky nightgown that had been a Christmas gift from her sister Francesca. What could Nuada have done to him that made Eamonn hate him so much? The prince had even said that Eamonn had been trying to get Nuada into serious trouble for a long time. Considering Nuada was hundreds if not thousands of years old, a long time was probably a really long time. Why does Eamonn care if Nuada spends time with me?
The clock on the mantel caught Dylan's gaze. How long had it been since she'd seen Nuada? Nearly three months. He'd vanished from her life again in the middle of August. Tonight was the night before Halloween. Almost November. Where was he? Had Eamonn done something to him? Had Nuada actually gotten in trouble?
A sudden icy chill swept down her spine right as someone knocked on her door. Dylan's eyes flew to the door, then back to the clock. It was almost two in the morning. Who could be knocking on her door at two in the flipping…
Nuada.
The thought crystallized in her mind. Dylan was on her feet and half-racing, half-staggering to the door without a second thought. She checked the peephole and an electric jolt shot through to the very center of her pounding heart. With shaking hands she undid the locks and flung the door open. Without thinking, she threw her arms around the Elven prince.
"Oh, Nuada, you're safe. You're safe, you're safe. I thought Eamonn…I thought something had happened. Are you all right?" Dylan jerked back, realizing what she was doing. Shoving at her sleep-mussed hair, suddenly conscious of the way the lapels of her robe gaped a little because of her mad dash to the front door, she added, "I'm sorry, Your Highness. I didn't mean…I've just been so worried. I didn't hear from you and I thought Eamonn might've done something and I've just been sick with worrying about you. Are you all right?"
Nuada inclined his head. "I am fine. Eamonn did nothing to me, but I could not come sooner. I know it is quite late, but I knew you would worry." His gaze flicked to the doorway and those glacial topaz eyes lightened considerably. In the faint light coming through the open door, they looked almost gray. "May I come in?"
Dylan shook herself. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Please come in. Please." She stepped into the cottage, shivering from the late-autumn cold. She clutched at the lapels of her bathrobe and wondered what had possessed her to put on such a skimpy nightgown. Well, that had an obvious answer—her three flannel nightgowns and the rest of her decent pajamas were in the dirty clothes hamper. She'd have to wash them in the morning. Silk or fake silk or whatever this was didn't do anything for the cold without fuzzy socks and a thick robe.
The door slid closed behind her and another wash of cold air made her shiver harder. She couldn't wait to get back in front of the fire. Although Nuada was probably half-frozen. Dylan thought she might've had cider that she could heat up and offer to him. Or at least apple juice, which wasn't as good but was better than nothing.
A series of clicks told her Nuada had slid the locks into place. She turned around to thank him and froze.
Silver eyes, cold as steel, with cat-slitted black pupils. A waterfall of black hair tied back in a long horsetail. Black tunic and trews without the sash or Bethmooran crest. Pale lips curved into a familiar and cruel smile. Before Dylan could so much as scream, Eamonn reached out and grabbed her wrist, yanking her close. His other hand tangled in her hair and yanked, jerking her head back.
"It's a sad but very true fact—humans really are simply too stupid to live," the Zwezda Elf murmured. His smile widened. Something cold gleamed in those quicksilver eyes. "I told you I'd come and pay you a visit sometime. Didn't I, sweetness?"
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Author's Note: oooohhhhh, dear. Maybe I'm a sadist, but I've always wanted Eamonn to have a few days—or maybe just a few hours—of unlimited access to Dylan. I don't know why; the poor girl's been through so much already. Maybe because Eamonn's so... weird. I don't know. I'll figure it out eventually. But anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and I'd love some reviews of course. Huggles for everyone!
- LA
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Concerning the Fic and Chapter Title: the fic title, Once Upon a Moonless Dark, was a collaboration between me and WhenNightmaresWalked, who is spectacularly brilliant, I must say. As for the chapter title, I wanted to allude to Eamonn and his whacked-out scariness (he is an Elf of Zwezda, a Child of the Stars), as well as a lack of light. So... yeah.