Author's Note: so I wanted to upload this chapter at a certain time, then realized I needed to reupload chapter 11, too, and I'd forgotten the new version at home on my computer (I'm at the library). So I had to send my husband back to get it so I could upload them both together. Grrrr…But hopefully by the time you read this, everything will have worked out. So hopefully I can say, "Hope you all enjoy the chapter!"

Huggles! And thanks to WhenNightmaresWalked and my sister for helping with the emotions and reactions in this chap.

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Chapter Twelve

A Choice Stands Before You

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Dylan watched Nuada's face very carefully, as if her entire existence hinged on the subtlest shift in his expression. In a way, it did. For the last several days she'd slowly been sinking into a sticky gray fog that had ever so patiently been swallowing her up. Nothing had seemed to matter—not Eamonn, not John, not her faith, not work…not even Nuada. Just that she let herself fall into an odd, hazy sort of half-sleep where nothing could touch her. She was alone, floating amidst the gray fog, where she didn't have to think of the fortnight she'd been Eamonn's weapon against her prince. She didn't have to think or remember anything.

But somehow that single flash of hunger had woken her up, stirred her enough that she'd gotten off the couch, stumbled to the kitchen, and gotten something to eat. The food she'd eaten had been absolutely marvelous. The long, fat green pickle had been crisp, deliciously sharp with brine. Scooping out a heaping tablespoon of creamy peanut butter to slather over the end of it had seemed completely normal…at the time. The final touch had been the dollop of whipped cream on top, to give it a little sweetness. For the four minutes it had taken her to eat that pickle, she'd been in heaven. The indescribable need to consume the entire thing as quickly as possible—while still savoring the odd assortment of tastes—had been the center of her universe. Afterward, she'd shambled back to her sofa and lay down.

Then had come her mad dash to the bathroom to be thoroughly sick. Goodbye, delicious pickle. Goodbye, peanut butter and whipped cream. Hello, nausea and pain. But every sensation had come through so clear and so sharp, it had been like being slapped awake after sleeping off a long illness.

Now the world blazed in riots of color, cacophonies of vibrant sound, intense aromas. Her skin was remarkably sensitive; not the way it had been with the Tears, where anything but a man's flesh touching her had been agony, but a strangely focused awareness of everything around her—Nuada's hands on her belly, her own hair against the back of her neck, the coolness of the silk tunic on her arms and torso, velvet-rough carpet under her bare feet.

The world had come back to her…or perhaps she had come back to the world. Resentment niggled inside her at being forced to come back this way, so abruptly, like being dumped in a pool of ice-cold water. She didn't want to be back. She didn't want to live in this world where Eamonn had shattered her only safe haven and…

But she wouldn't think about that now. Now Dylan's focus was only on Nuada, who sought inside her body with his innate magic to determine who had sired the child she'd always wanted, the child she'd never thought she could have.

The child that had forced her to emerge unwilling from the peace of the gray fog.

No. No, she couldn't think like that. She wasn't supposed to think like that. This was a baby. Her baby. Something good out of this nightmare. Something that was supposed to be wonderful. Something that might make it all worth it…if she could just have this one beautiful thing that she'd always, always wanted, then…then what? Then what had happened to her would be worth it?

Black ice frosted the inside of her chest at the thought. A vicious, hissing voice snarled in her head, No. No, it won't be worth it. He made me a whore, and now I'm pregnant, when I never wanted to have his baby. I wanted to be a mother, but not like this. He made me his whore. Now I'm carrying his child? Sudden nausea made her bite her lip until she tasted blood. Tried to calm her thoughts. The baby might not be Eamonn's, Dylan told herself. It could be Nuada's…and even if it is Eamonn's, how is that the baby's fault? It's not. Blaming the baby for that would be…it would be wrong…wouldn't it? Besides, he's taken nearly everything from me. He took my house, he almost took my sanity. He took my body. I am not going to let him win by taking this from me, too.

But the argument inside her head seemed strangely hollow. She still felt vaguely detached from everything, despite the lifting of the fog. She was still so tired. Everything seemed so…distant…except the immediacy of the baby. And the thought of the potential life inside her sent something arctic shivering through her body. Dylan tried to examine the emotions swelling and roiling inside her like some turbulent sea. Was she…unhappy about the baby?

No, she insisted silently. No. I've always wanted a baby, and now I have one. The baby can't help how it was conceived. It's not its fault. The circumstances are horrible, but I can take something wonderful out of this torture. Of course I'm happy about the baby. Of course I am. I should be. I absolutely should be. I love my baby already. I do. I love it, no matter what. I don't care if it's Eamonn's, too. I don't. I don't care. I won't care. I love it. I'm supposed to love it and protect it, and I do. I will. I love the baby. I—love—the—baby.

Didn't she?

She shoved the thought away, hard, where she wouldn't have to think about it, see it, remember it. Of course she loved the baby. She'd wanted to be a mother for so long. Now that she had the opportunity—even if it hadn't been her choice to conceive now, this way—she was going to accept that opportunity and be grateful that this one good thing had come from all that horror. With that thought, she focused once more on Nuada's face.

Nuada's slender, blond brows furrowed in concentration. His lashes made silvery crescents against the moon-paleness of his cheek and the darkness surrounding his eye-sockets. Dylan had noticed, in a vague and distant way, that those rings of shadow had slowly been deepening over the last several days. The firelight brought out glints of gold against Nuada's lean jaw, his cheeks and strong chin—rough stubble, indicating he needed to shave. Dylan wondered absently what it would feel like to run the pads of her fingers over that stubble.

Nuada's hands were a warm weight against her stomach as his fingers curled slightly, cupping the fullness of her lower belly almost protectively. Tingles spread across her skin beneath the long tunic she wore, originating at the centers of Nuada's palms and spreading outward. Warmth stole through her stomach, spilling up her spine and stretching fingers of golden magic through her chest.

The ash-blond brows shot up, then knotted again. Nuada cocked his head. Frowned fiercely. Then his lips parted in obvious surprise and the Elven warrior drew in a quick, sharp breath that was almost a gasp. His eyes snapped open and he jerked his hands back from her stomach.

A trickle of ice shivered down Dylan's spine. What was that look in his eyes? Surprise and what else? Dismay? Anguish? A knot formed in the pit of Dylan's stomach. Was the child Eamonn's, then? She wouldn't care. She didn't care. It was her baby, her blessing, and she wouldn't let anything stand in the way of them being together. She wouldn't, she wouldn't, she wouldn't!

But if Nuada should hate her for keeping the baby…if he couldn't tolerate her decision to keep a child conceived by force…

Thing, he'd called it. That thing. Tears stung the mortal's eyes, but she hastily blinked them back. Nuada hated the baby. She could tell. How obvious did it have to be, when he said things like that about it? Would he hate her, too, for loving it? Or at least trying to love it? No, there was no trying. She did love it. She did.

Was he starting to hate her for that already? And if it turned out to be his child, not Eamonn's, would Nuada hate her even more? A half-mortal child, a bastard to embarrass him at court, on top of being saddled with a human whom everyone would know had been the prince's…well, the court would think her his lover, which would humiliate him. Would he hate her for all of that, too? Hate the baby even more than he did now?

Nuada cleared his throat. The sound was like a rifle shot in the tense silence. Dylan's eyes focused on the prince on his knees before her. He drew a breath as if to steady himself. Met her eyes.

"Well…you're certainly correct," the prince murmured tonelessly. "You're…you've been impregnated." She didn't think he noticed her flinch at the cold word choice. Impregnated. Not "with child," not "pregnant," not anything to give away how happy she was. Already he was distancing himself from her, from the baby. Dylan bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. Nuada continued in that same emotionless voice, "I could sense the…the heartbeat."

"Is…" Dylan swallowed the hitch in her throat and whispered, "Can you tell if it's healthy? It's healthy, right?" That was important, wasn't it? Yes. A mother was supposed to care about her baby being healthy. A good mother would care. Dylan wanted desperately to be a good mother. She was supposed to care. She did care. She wanted the baby healthy.

An odd look twisted the prince's handsome features into something barely recognizable. "It means so much to you, doesn't it? This…" He trailed off, his eyes fixing on her middle. A strange, burning something smoldered in his eyes.

Frigid tightness invaded her chest, twisting and clutching like the lethal cold of an ice sprite's grip. He'd been about to say, "This thing." Or maybe something worse. Monstrosity? Abomination?

Somehow, Dylan managed to nod. "Of course it does." Nuada's eyes slid closed. She watched as something like fury passed over his face before vanishing, as if behind a cloud. Twisting her fingers in the folds of the tunic to keep her hands from shaking, she asked, "So? Did you discover who the father is?" Her heart hammered mercilessly against the cage of her chest.

"Does it matter?" He asked suddenly. His voice was still empty, but something shimmered beneath the question that was too close to a slap. Shards of winter crystal bit deep into her heart as she opened her mouth. "To you," Nuada added sharply. "Does it matter to you who sired it?"

Glacial topaz locked with exhausted, rainswept blue. Dylan shook her head. "I only need to know so I can protect it."

He scoffed; it was almost as if he'd slapped her. "Protect it. Of course. That is what is most important to you, is it not? Protecting it." Dark lips twisted into a ghostly mockery of a smile that faded away as swiftly as it had appeared. "Of course," he muttered, eyes hard. "Why should it be any other way?" Swallowing hard, the Elven prince cupped Dylan's belly again, his palms gliding over the natural fullness of her body. He closed his eyes. Tendrils of warmth twined in the pit of her stomach once more as Nuada touched the life inside her again. He made a soft sound Dylan couldn't decipher. Cold chilled Dylan's cheeks, her fingers. Then Nuada pulled his hands away. Opened his eyes. Slowly he raised his head to meet her gaze.

"Well?" Dylan whispered, heart suddenly pounding.

Glacial topaz eyes slowly thawing to gold slid from her face to rest once more upon her middle. He reached out and laid his hand, fingers splayed, across her lower belly, over where the unborn baby nestled inside her. His touch was gentle, but his face was curiously blank.

"They're mine," he breathed. "By the Fates…they're mine."

A fierce burst of relief shot through her chest at the word, "mine." Nuada's baby? Nuada's baby, her baby—their baby—growing inside her? Shame quickly followed that spurt of quick and sharp relief. She wasn't supposed to care. It wasn't the baby's fault who its father was. She wasn't supposed to care.

Not only am I a whore, but I'm a bitch, too, Dylan thought before she could stop herself. She squeezed her eyes shut, the better to concentrate on blocking out the harsh voice that sneered at her for being so relieved by the paternity. Her teeth sank into her tongue as the voice hissed at her, Would serve me right if I got pregnant by Eamonn. I shouldn't have let him…shouldn't have let…I should've stopped him from…

But then the rest of Nuada's words penetrated, shattering the vicious thoughts circling like sharks in her exhausted mind. Dylan's eyes shot wide and her mouth fell open. For a minute all she could do was gawp. Finally she managed to splutter, "They?"

"Twins," Nuada whispered. An incredulous, bitter laugh somehow slipped past his guard to spill from his lips. "Of course it would be twins. A boy and a girl." His fingers caressed her belly through the silk of the tunic. "You carry my children within you. My first- and second-born." To Dylan's surprise, he closed his eyes, took a strangled breath, and then allowed his forehead to rest against the bony protrusion of her hip. "Why did this have to happen? Why twins? To double my shame? To see me doubly disgraced? Shades of Annwn…why must there be a child at all?" His voice softened, and Dylan thought he might've actually forgotten she was there when he murmured, as if to himself, "Can the nightmare simply not end?" Though she couldn't see him, she could tell Nuada was gritting his teeth when he added in a low growl, "Why? Diabhal é, what more is required of me?"

Abruptly she pulled back from him. She suddenly couldn't bear to have anyone touch her, not even him. Especially not him. Not while she was still reeling from the despair in his voice over discovering the babies growing inside her were of his blood. Dylan stumbled back from her prince, shaking.

Nuada's fists clenched until his knuckles burned white and his hands shook. He drew a shuddering breath. Then he met her eyes. All the blood drained from Dylan's face at what she saw in his gaze.

Rage. Such terrible rage, mingled with hopelessness and self-loathing, resentment and grief, shame and an odd, lost little-boy expression she'd never seen on his face before. It seemed so out of place, that little-boy look, and yet…and yet it didn't. But what stunned her was the anger in his eyes. It turned those eyes to glacial knives of glittering, razor-edged topaz. Dylan took another step back, and her knees hit the sofa. She sat down abruptly.

"You want these…these…you want this?" Nuada demanded. "You wish to carry to term, and bear offspring conceived through violent rape? Why?"

Lips trembling, Dylan hunched against the back of the sofa. "Because…I…I'm their mother."

"You didn't choose to be, just as I did not choose to be their…" He trailed off, and his expression twisted viciously. "Sire," he spat. "Why do you claim to want this? What woman would want this? What do you think you owe these…rape-spawn?"

"Don't say that," she whispered. "Don't call them that."

The Tuathan warrior lunged to his feet with a snarl and paced to the fireplace. Dylan watched him, wide-eyed, as he savagely stirred the fire. He stared at the flames, his back to her, for several minutes. His shoulders were stiff with some hard, violent emotion, his spine rigid. His fingers drummed rapidly on the mantel. Just when Dylan thought she might go crazy from waiting, he turned back to her. The firelight limned him in crimson and orange, turned him to a shadowy silhouette whose expression she couldn't read.

"Is it your faith?" Nuada asked in a low voice tight with fury. "Is that why you seek to force this on us both? Because your faith forbids you from ridding yourself of the consequences of your rape?" Dylan's hands shook as she raked them through her hair, but didn't answer. She didn't know how to explain…"Is that it, then?" He snarled. "What sort of God forces His children to bear such shame? To endure such horrors?"

"Through God's power, the Son of God has endured that and worse for every one of us who requires God's grace," she said dully. "But no. That's not it." Nuada stepped away from the hearth, giving the firelight room to cast across his face so that Dylan could see his baffled anger. "I could go to my bishop. I could pray and fast and counsel with him, and try to decide if aborting the babies is the right thing to do, or putting them up for adoption through the Church. Both are options in this case."

"But you won't."

She shook her head wearily. It suddenly seemed like such a Herculean effort to even hold her head up, much less try to explain this to Nuada. She didn't know what to say, how to explain…and she was so tired. The gray fog was seeping back into her, weighing her down until she could barely think.

Suddenly Nuada was in front of her, too close, too immediate, too there. Rough hands gripped Dylan's shoulders and he shook her lightly, carefully. Her gaze snapped to his as she made a soft, frightened sound. Leaning in until she couldn't have escaped him if she'd tried, Nuada scanned her face with piercing eyes that threatened to strip the wisps of gray fog away, leaving her so terribly vulnerable.

"Do you want children so desperately that you will accept them any way that you can get them? Do you value yourself so very little? Don't you care that you had no choice, no say in any of this? Does it not matter to you that these offspring were conceived without consent by you or I? That a madman has sentenced you to servitude to these…these creatures, for the rest of your life? He has chained you to the heinous tortures that he inflicted on you, chained us both, and you're going to allow him to do this? To reach beyond his coward's grave and continue to rape and violate us this way? Does none of this matter to you?"

Dylan was crying now, the tears scalding as they trickled down her cheeks. Biting her lip until blood welled up in tiny ruby droplets, she shook her head, whispering, "No. I can't let it matter. I can't let it."

"What?"

"I can't let it matter!" She jerked away from him, scrabbling across the sofa to put some distance between them. "I can't let it matter! I did have a say! My entire life has been hell, but I made it through because my faith told me how. My faith told me that before I came here, my God warned me I would be tested to the breaking point, but never past it. That I agreed to that testing before coming to this life because whatever I suffered would be worth it in the end. I've held to that ever since converting when I was young. I've held to that, and it's kept me from losing my mind. I lost my grip on that truth for a while, but now…I have to hold to it now, or I might as well just ask you to drive your dirk into my chest, because if that's not true, then why am I even here? Why survive, if there's nothing to survive for?"

She leapt to her feet, pacing back and forth in sharp, short strides as she hugged herself. The words practically seared her throat as she continued, unable to look at Nuada, "Everything that's ever happened has made me stronger. Better. If my life hadn't gone the way it had, I never would've met you. Or if I had, I might never have been okay enough with you to become your friend. We might never have grown close like we did. And when things were darkest, I couldn't see what was going to come of it, how it could ever be worth it. I can't see that now. I don't know if I'll ever see it. But maybe—just maybe—being pregnant is one of the things that's supposed to get me through, one of the things to make it all worth it. I don't know! All I know is that I have to believe these things happen for a reason, or I'll lose it."

Dylan stopped short. Swiped at her cheeks with trembling hands. Then she looked at Nuada, who stood immobile, as pale and ethereal as moonlight in winter. Only his eyes were alive. They blazed like amber fire as they studied her face. Dylan had the terrible feeling that the Elven warrior saw a lot more than she guessed at, or wanted him to see. But she didn't comment on that. She only looked into his eyes and whispered, "I have to believe there's a reason for this. I have to…or I'll die. I won't be able to take it anymore. And I can't believe the reason I was raped until I got pregnant is because I'm supposed to give up the children I'm carrying. I can't believe that. That can't be the reason. It just can't be. Which means that for some reason, I'm supposed to keep them."

Nuada ran a hand through his hair, clearly unsettled by what she'd said. Dylan waited for him to speak. Waited, hugging herself, for him to tell her what she was positive was on the tip of his tongue—that if she was going to not only carry, but raise the children from her rape, then she was a filthy whore who deserved what Eamonn had done to her.

The prince's face was expressionless when he asked, "Have I no say in this?"

Her eyes slid closed as she fought to hold back a freshet of tears. Swallowing salt, she managed to whisper, "I don't want to…pressure you. I know you didn't want this. I…suppose…if you just can't stand the idea…you can wash your hands of me. Us. No one has to know they're yours. I mean, they're illegitimate, so they're not in line for the throne or anything. You'll get married one day and have more kids, so…" She shrugged wearily. "I don't expect you to do anything you're not willing to do, Your Highness."

He sighed, then said coldly, "Let me think on this."

She nodded, and went back to the sofa on unsteady legs. Sinking down, Dylan let herself slump over and curl up. Unbearably weary, she closed her eyes and tried to draw the silvery gray fog around her like a blanket so she could sleep.

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Two days later, evening had fallen again and Nuada watched Dylan sleep from his place in the armchair, his soul burning within him as he considered how everything had changed in such a short time. He was to be a father. Dylan, a mortal, was the mother of his unborn children. He now had a potential heir to succeed him when he became king—whenever that happened. The children were in danger if he left them in the mortal world with Dylan, but Dylan would be in danger in Faerie as the mother of his children, unbound to him in any way save that single link of parenthood. Nuada knew he couldn't leave the future prince and princess of Bethmoora here in the mortal realm…but he couldn't take them from Dylan, either.

All I know is that I have to believe these things happen for a reason, or I'll lose it…I have to believe there's a reason for this. I have to…or I'll die. I won't be able to take it anymore… No, he couldn't take them from her. She would surely go mad.

I have to believe there's a reason for this. Have to believe there's a reason. I have to believe these things happen for a reason. A reason. Oh, gods, what reason? Where was the light at the end of the darkness? Where was the respite at the end of the trial? Could the new life in Dylan's womb be that reason? It couldn't be…could it? How could such a thing be the reason she needed, when she could have had it in almost any other way?

And what was his reason? What made his shame, his torture, the cruelties of this past moon…what made it all worth it to him? What could heal the soul-wounds he'd incurred in the past four weeks? Was there anything in this world that could wash away the sins he'd committed?

He scrubbed at his face. Tried, with little success, to suppress the memories of the night before. He didn't want to think about that moment when he'd first felt the tiny, dual heartbeats fluttering against his mind and his magic like butterfly wings. The taste of honey, the scent of heather and the flowers known as bells-of-Ireland, the sound of plovers singing—it had all washed over him when his magic had touched the small beings in Dylan's womb, telling him that these little ones were of Bethmooran blood. His blood.

The agony and despair that had struck in that moment of realization had been nearly crippling. He'd raped an innocent woman, seeded her, and now she carried his offspring. The disgrace he'd brought to his bloodline could never be expunged. He'd lost his honor already, but now to have that fact rubbed in his face…it was as salt in the festering wound. It burned like acid in his heart. What was he to do now? With everything she'd told him last night, there was only one thing to do.

He would have to go to the king, explain what had happened, reveal his shame in what Eamonn had done to him…what he had allowed Eamonn to do to Dylan, because he'd been too weak to protect her properly. The children would be publically acknowledged as his own. Their potential mortality would be a problem, of course. If on their birth they connected to the Bethmooran lands with their magic, it could poison the kingdom forever…unless something could be done about it. Perhaps Wink could suggest something that would protect them, and Dylan, while still ensuring the well-being of his people.

And Dylan…Dylan would…if she agreed, then Nuada knew what was necessary to protect her, as well.

Nuada buried his face in his hands as the magnitude of what had happened and what needed to be done about it crashed down on him. His father would learn of the fortnight he'd spend under the influence of the Tears. The king would never believe Nuada to have been a victim. Not the mighty Silverlance. If Balor didn't kill him, or send him into permanent exile in some backwater royal estate, that was only of practical consequence. His father would still despise him even more than he did now.

And Dylan…she despised him, too. He knew she did. He could see it in the way she'd withdrawn from him after they'd argued upon discovering the infants' paternity. She'd barely eaten a thing since that night, spoken not a word to him, and done nothing besides suffer bouts of morning sickness, take a shower, and lay on the sofa—nearly exactly the things she'd done before discovering the existence of her offspring. The terrible black depression that had lain upon Dylan like the thick, choking fog she'd spoken of seemed to have returned since Nuada had revealed he was the father of her children, and that he wasn't exactly pleased by it.

If it had been Eamonn who'd impregnated her, then it was just another of the dark Elf's sins against her. But he had done it. He, Nuada, who'd sworn to protect her. He'd violated her yet again, leaving a piece of himself behind that would forever mark her as having been his unwilling plaything for those terrible fourteen days of nightmarish pleasure. Just the thought of those two weeks made every inch of his skin heat, made his hands shake. The thought of her during that time, how they'd come together again and again, burned up and down his mind like a living flame. Did she know of that shame, as well? Did she know he still lusted for her body even after he'd sated his hunger so many times before? If not, and she learned of it, would he be able to bear the fresh draught of hatred?

Self-hatred burned in his belly, a greasy black knot smoldering in the pit of his stomach. Eamonn had done this to him. Eamonn had made him… made him into…A shudder ripped through the prince. There was no other word for it: Eamonn had turned him into a whore, just as he had Dylan. In his own way, Eamonn had used Nuada for his pleasure, violating him, using her to violate him as well. And now…now his life would be forever despoiled because of the twin lives that had been created.

Unable to bear being so close to Dylan any longer—not with these thoughts riding him—he surged to his feet and stalked silently from the room.

The wind was howling when he stepped outside, but the prince didn't care. Only small flurries of snow fluttered around him, sparse whirlwinds of ice crystals, while the bitter late November wind slid icy fingers down the back of his shirt. Gooseflesh spread across his skin. Empty topaz eyes gazed up at the full moon.

Outside, away from everyone and anyone, he tried to think. Tried not to remember. He didn't want to explore the memories swimming beneath the surface of his thoughts…such delicious, horrifying memories.

Admit it, Silverlance, Eamonn's voice hissed in his brain. Nuada shuddered. Admit it. You enjoyed every moment you were inside her. You want her again. You'll never forget what it was like—the heat, the sweat, the need burning in your guts and your loins. She's in there, waiting for you. She'd be willing, you know she would. All you have to do is get your hands on her and she'll spread her legs and beg for you. That's what you want, isn't it? To hear her beg?

"Éist suas—shut up," he ground out from between clenched teeth. "Éist suas, éist suas, éist suas! I don't want that. I don't want her." He knuckled his eyes as he added in a low, savage whisper, "I won't hurt her again. Never. Never, dammit. I won't." He bit his tongue until blood spilled into his mouth; anything, any pain, to suppress those memories…

Like Dylan caught between two men half-insane with need, the taste of Dylan's…or the memory of Dylan pinned between Nuada's body and the cool stone wall while Eamonn had goaded him on. Sour bile flooded the back of his throat as recollection after recollection stole into his head: Dylan's soft weight and sweet words in his ear, and over her shoulder he could see Eamonn, silver eyes greedy with lust, panting raggedly as the two Elves used the woman caught between them.

How could he not have cared? Nuada snarled silently at himself. How could a man who made claims to honor, as the prince did, have been so intoxicated by the poison, by that lovely body, that he didn't care Eamonn had been there, using her right along with him?

Tá brón orm, Dylan, Nuada thought. His hands convulsed into fists, his nails digging into his palms. Desire burned in him along with the ever-present rage and sick shame. Every muscle in his body tensed until it ached. With a groan that was half-lust, half-despair, he slid to the burning cold flagstone stoop and bowed his head. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It won't stop, Dylan, I'm so sorry. He'd left hideous bruises on her thighs. He remembered that; smudges of black and violet on the fragile skin from the force of his impassioned thrusts. I'm so very sorry. I didn't want to…I don't want to…

And now there was a child. Children. How was he to care for an emotionally fragile mortal woman who was carrying his children? He hadn't been able to protect her then; how was he to protect her and her offspring now? His back was still healing—sped up by a visit to a healer that very first night of freedom, but the already-damaged muscles had been torn badly by the constant rutting and beatings, not to mention the effort of killing the Elf of Zwezda—and he would no doubt be flogged again upon returning to Findias, and refused the services of a healer. He'd be lucky if his father's justice didn't cripple him. How was he to care for Dylan? For her children? Their children?

Disgust rose like bile in his throat when a tiny quiver of relief whispered through him. What right did he have to feel such for even one child, much less two? He had no right to feel anything because Dylan, a woman he respected and admired, was carrying his children and not Eamonn's. She hadn't wanted this. Of course she would put a brave face on it, and of course she would force herself to love the infants, but he had no right to be relieved about that. He had no right to be relieved about anything.

They'd been so small. So indescribably small. So innocent. He'd felt it the moment his mind had touched theirs. While cocooned in their mother's body, their thoughts were as inextricably linked as his and Nuala's had once been. Not even thoughts, really. Merely a faint sense of simply being, doubled, faintly tinged with the genders of their souls—one boy, one girl. Their bond would be strong once they were born; not as strong as the crown prince possessed with his sister, but strong. And he'd touched their simple minds and felt their innocence, their simple lack of knowing and understanding the dark things of the world. It had been all he could do to remain stoic instead of collapsing into Dylan's arms and weeping at the purity of that brief connection, when he himself felt so sullied by what he'd experienced in his forty centuries, when they knew nothing of it.

Would Dylan's offspring hate him when they were old enough to learn the truth of their conception? Or would his father ensure that they hated him from the moment of their birth? Would Dylan try to stop Balor's mind-poison…or would she encourage such thoughts in her little ones, to protect them from the darkness in their sire? Would her children be like him, twisted and angry, or like her? Gentle and kind?

"I don't want them," he whispered so softly that even the wind didn't hear him. He shoved his fingers into his hair. Shuddered. "I'm going mad, I…I can't want them. But she does. Or feels she should. She needs them, and I…"

It was pathetic, but somehow in that moment of connection with Dylan's son and daughter—and afterward, when he'd listened to her try to explain the unexplainable, why she should want to keep a child conceived by force—her need for some reason for the madness had reached out and caught him by the throat, sending shocks of fear through his body like lightning.

He would protect Dylan, and his kingdom. If he had to burn the rest of the world to ashes, he would protect her children, in order to protect Dylan, too. His friend, his charge. And he would find a way to earn back her trust, her friendship.

With nearly all the world turned against him, or ready to turn, he couldn't live with her hate.

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Author's Note: and how do we think he'll do with that little mission? Thoughts on the story so far, anyone? Hugs for everybody!