Author's Note: hey, everyone. I'm back again. I'm on a new medication regiment and though my physical abilities have kind of tanked over the months, I've figured out some work-arounds. So the goal is back to posting a chapter on the seventh/eighth of every month (unless that's a Sunday). The chapters appear a week in advance on my Pat. Re-On. before being posted here, along with the chapter-specific playlist and sometimes some extra bonus material.

There is some new info about the various fics in the World of Once Upon a Time: Once Upon a Moonless Dark, Once Upon a Utopia, Once Upon the Bane of Midsummer, Once Upon a Winter's Night, etc. Check the author's note at the bottom of this chapter for posting information. There's also a new fanfic-contributor to the collection of "I didn't write that but you should go enjoy it" fics for Once. I'll talk more about that in the author's note at the end of the chapter.

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Chapter Twenty-Five

Down to a Sunless Sea

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She kept her eyes shut tight for the rest of the carriage ride to the northern Bethmooran shore. Nuada had offered her the use of a magical shower, but the thought of being naked and vulnerable and possibly falling asleep again had nearly set her to screaming her throat bloody. A mere shower could not wash away this sickness crawling over her skin.

Fear spiked through her chest when the carriage stopped at last, but then she heard it: the soft, gentle roar of the ocean. Oh, the ocean. She'd lived in New York City but how often had she gone to the beach in her life? Hardly ever, only as a kid, and she did not—could not—live in New York City ever again. She had lost that, but now she had gained the sea.

When Nuada opened the door leading out of the Chariot of Annwn, the sharp tang of sea salt hit Dylan's nose, a wild smell of ancient waters and moonlight and the song of the tide. Before she knew with any conscious thought what she was doing, she had leapt out of the coach and raced for the dull hush of the surf. Saltwater was ancient, magical, pure. Home to selkies and merfolk and Deep Ones and undines. Water, the purest and oldest of the elements. And salt, the bane of most non-royal, land-dwelling fae, she was almost certain.

The wind had picked up a little since they'd left the meadow, and it sent stinging threads of curly hair whipping across her eyes. Behind her, Nuada yelled her name—once, twice. Then she heard his muttered oath, and the pounding crunch of his boots on the sand.

She didn't give a thought to him, to whatever fears might have slipped like carnivorous minnows through his skull. She only wanted the water. She only cared about the sea and what it could do for her just now. It didn't even occur to her that her prince might fear for her.

Right as he caught up to her, the first wave washed over her feet and ankles. Dylan threw herself to the ground, flopped on her back, and sucked in a huge breath. Held it.

Nuada, panting ever-so-slightly, stared down at her.

"Dylan, what are you—"

She let him see into her head, the need to cleanse herself, to wash away this newest nightmare. The dark Elf was a monster, a phantom with his claws hooked into her bones, but the ocean was a wild, reckless, primal thing. It could wash away the feel of his mouth, his hands, his teeth. Numb her to the nightmare. It had to; nothing else was working.

The next wave broke over her, rolling in an icy caress along her entire body. Seawater soaked her socks, her jeans, her silk tunic, all the way up to her hair. She held her breath but still tasted the brine at the seam of her lips. It didn't taste like blood, the way books said it did. It was far more brackish, stung with far more salt than human blood could ever hold. It was the most bitter thing she'd ever tasted, and it burned the taste of Eamonn's twisted pleasure from her mouth.

When the surf swept back out, she breathed. Beside her, as graceful as a willow in a soft wind, Nuada dropped into a cross-legged position on the sand.

"You'll get wet," she said softly. He'd ruin his princely clothes, probably. He had others, but…

"I don't mind, little one," her husband murmured. Unspoken, but clear as day, was his decision to stay beside her, to be at her side as she faced the water and the cold and the salt and the cleansing.

The water touched her feet. She sucked in a breath and closed her eyes right before the surf covered her again. Dylan had no idea if the tide was low or high. No thought for the dangers of frigid water or the cold bite of the March air or the possibility of hypothermia. When the waves crashed over her, all she could think of was the sting of salinated water, the roar of the waves in her ears, the prickling numbness that helped her to forget. She lay amidst nothing but sand, salt, and sea, Nuada beside her, the memory of the glory of unicorns burned into her brain, imprinted behind her eyelids like a guiding light.

Things would get better. She had to believe that. The nightmare wouldn't last forever.

When Nuada at last made her get up from the beach, she was entirely herself again, the nightmare pushed back and processed enough that it wasn't agony to exist in the waking world anymore. When Dylan began to shiver—in truth, when she noticed that she had been shivering for quite some time—Nuada put an arm around her. A wave of warmth spilled over her, a slow and gentle heat that began bit by bit to warm her half-numb limbs. Her knee has stiffened up, though. After a few stumbling steps, Nuada carefully lifted her into his arms and kept walking.

This was how the servants and retainers at the palatial estate of Renvyle met their new princess: bedraggled, wearing mortal trousers, hair and clothes caked with sand and dripping seawater, shivering with the cold, cradled by the prince, and laughing as he whispered something in her ear. The majordomo, seneschal, head housekeeper, chamberlain, and Masters of the Kitchens, Kennels, and Stables—the only servants Nuada had allowed to meet them, as they were all women—had seen the princess's headlong flight down the sandy hill from the carriage and hadn't known what to make of it. Had she seen someone in trouble? Was she fleeing from something? Yet the prince had not seemed in need of assistance, so apparently not. But the upper servants knew better than to question the princess, or Prince Nuada. It was not their place. The palace of Renvyle had a new mistress in residence and that was all they needed to know.

And so Lady Lyanna, the chamberlain, merely escorted the prince and princess to their suite.

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It took more than an hour to get the sand out of Dylan's curls, but she didn't seem to mind the time spent in the shower carved from honey colored marble. She only sat between Nuada's legs, every so often leaning back against his bare, shower-slicked chest when she wanted the warmth of the water pouring down, and allowed him to alternate between massaging rose-scented shampoo into her hair and running a fine-toothed comb through the curls and suds to dislodge sand particles. She was more relaxed than Nuada had seen her in weeks. Since they had left the underground sanctuary. What had happened while the ocean waves washed over her?

After her hair was clean at last, Dylan allowed her prince to help her from the shower. Her bad leg ached, though some soothing magic and the delicious heat of the water had helped a lot. Stiff as her leg was, though, Dylan was happy to let Nuada dry her off with a cream-colored towel as soft as clouds and help her don a clean, silk and wool gown the warm brown of a fawn's fur.

Supper waited for them in the sitting room of their suite: simple fare of honey-baked salmon, fresh white bread, and bowls of raspberries sprinkled with sugar and a few dollops of whipped cream. The fish still cracked a little in their own hot juices and when Dylan tore open a roll, silvery wisps of steam drifted up from the soft bread. Good. The ocean had been viciously cold, and while Dylan seemed fine, Nuada couldn't seem to shake this need to shelter her, to warm her. So he built up the fire that smelled of chamomile and lavender. He covered Dylan's legs with a russet-red, knitted blanket that had been folded and left for them on the ruddy brown sofa by the hearth. He fed her tidbits—the plumpest raspberries, forkfuls of the savory fish, and bits of warm buttered bread dipped in honey. For some reason, it made her smile. Even laugh the littlest bit. Nuada offered up a silent prayer of gratitude for that. Twice already she had laughed. Twice already, the peace of Renvyle had worked its gentle magic on her.

When Dylan began to yawn, Nuada murmured, "Do you think you can abide sleeping here tonight, little witch?"

She glanced around the sitting room, and the prince wondered if she had some notion of sleeping here, on the sofa. But no, she was merely thinking. The sitting room matched the rest of the suite—dark golden stone walls instead of dreary gray, carpets and furnishings in autumn colors, tapestries hanging from the walls showing elegant knotwork patterns of beasts and legends. If the castle in Findias was considered Balor's domain, the palace of Renvyle would have been Queen Cethlenn's. The castle was warmer, somehow gentler than the castle in Findias. So long as Nuada stayed away from that place in the forest, he could actually breathe here. Breathe freely. Could Dylan?

She snuggled up to him and slid an arm across his chest. Her head was a warm weight on his shoulder. He held her close. She didn't ask for or need comfort; he sensed that through their link, that for the moment she felt safe and content. She merely wanted to be near him. To feel him, smell his scent. He understood. Even when his desire for her lay sated and quiet, merely holding her felt so very right.

"Will you sing me to sleep?" Dylan asked softly.

He had sung her to sleep in the meadow that afternoon. It hadn't kept away whatever nightmare had made her scream like that. But he didn't mention that. There was no need; she wouldn't have forgotten so soon. So he only kissed her damp hair.

"Of course, my love. As you wish."

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Dylan woke from a fitful doze later that night. If the dark Elf had come to her in dreams, she didn't remember him. She had no idea what had pulled her from sleep, but now she was wide awake and restless. It was a familiar restlessness. She'd known it in the institution when she was older, after she had begun savaging the monsters trying to touch her. She'd wake with the taste of their blood in her teeth, her own screams locked in her throat. Escaping her room in the middle of the night to run off the frenetic energy in her legs had been next to impossible with the security guards everywhere, always watching.

But she wasn't a prisoner now, and she wasn't a child. She was a grown woman, a doctor, a princess. She could do as she wished. Nuada had sworn it to her. So she threw back the velvet blankets the color of sunlight on amber and sheets of champagne silk that reminded her both of her wedding night and, funnily enough, of Winnie the Pooh of all things (the mental connection had made her smile). Smiling a little now, she slid her legs over the side of the huge, four-poster bed.

Only when her bare feet touched the chill floor did Nuada say from the shadows, "Bad dream?"

She turned to look at him lying in a patch of moonlight. He lay with his arms folded behind his head. The silvery beams played along the star-blond strands of his hair and his ghost-pale cheeks. He stared up at the velvet canopy, but Dylan saw the deep shadows around his eyes. He hadn't slept yet. Had he feared a nightmare?

I fucked your prince…

She forcibly pictured Eamonn's lifeless, disemboweled corpse to remind herself that he was dead, that that had only been a nightmare. But then she let herself fall slowly back until her head lay on the hard, muscled planes of Nuada's belly.

"I don't think so," she said. "I don't feel like I did. But I can't get back to sleep." A moment's pause, then she added, "I used to get like this, in the institution. Like...like a craving to be outside, in the open air, free to run around. Like I felt trapped deep down and didn't quite realize it, but I knew I had to get out. I was going to go outside and sit on the beach." At that, Nuada lifted his head and gave her a sharp, startled look. She sat up and held out a hand to him. "Want to come with me?"

Which was how the two of them ended up bundled in velvet and fur cloaks against the midnight chill, walking along in the moonlight toward the beach. The wind carried the scent of brine and Dylan closed her eyes to take it in. She had only been to mortal beaches a few times in her life, but they'd been crowded with people and littered with garbage, and it was only when she had been very little, before the institution. This was entirely different. She was an adult. They were alone. And the world was a mural painted in midnight blue, silver, white, and gray. Everything was both still and in motion—nothing stirred on the beach but the two of them, yet the waves roaring against the sand drove away any uncomfortable sense of emptiness. The moon shone like a pearl surrounded by diamonds stars. Everything was peaceful.

"Does this help?" Nuada asked, brushing back a stray curl that had fallen against her forehead. "The sea air, the moon's glow?"

"Mmm-hmmm," she said. Her legs no longer trembled with that frantic, awful need to go, to move, to get out. Nuada's hand pressed to hers, warm and callused; their fingers twined together. It was as if nothing could touch them here. As if no nightmares could find them.

But then, she'd thought the same in the Royal Forest, but her personal demon had managed to find her anyway. Maybe he would find her in Renvyle, too. Maybe even the power of the sea couldn't drive him away.

She hadn't dreamt of him tonight, though. If she had dreamed of anything, she didn't remember it, and she always remembered those dreams. Maybe she really was safe at last.

"When we go back inside," she said, "we should get some hot cider sent up from the kitchens. Maybe a midnight snack. I think I'm hungry. And the cider will help us sleep."

He squeezed her hand once, gently. "I'm glad you are in better spirits, little one. I was worried for you after...after the meadow. You were so far away, I could not reach you. It…" He stopped walking and turned it to her. Disentangling their hands, he reached up and cupped her face. Touched his brow to hers. He drew a shaky breath.

"You frightened me, little one. I feared you lost to me, to yourself, forever. I do not know how I could bear it, what I would do, if…"

She raised up on tiptoe and gave him a kiss. His lips were warm, soft, vulnerable against hers. She kissed him lightly, then slid her arms around his neck and clung to him. She'd retreated into her own mind after the nightmare in the meadow, needing to wall away the horror, the sickness of what he had done in her dream, the hideous things he'd said about her, about her babies…

His blood is in their veins, yes. Yes, he was right about that...But remember, love, I'm a curse on you both. Every time I spill my seed in your whore's belly, every time I flood your womb with it, Silverlance's babes become a bit more mine...Every time I come inside you, your little brats become more my children. Bit by bit, drop by drop, their blood becomes my blood. Our blood...

Dylan's grip around Nuada tightened. She couldn't stop the whimper that escaped. But Nuada enfolded her in his arms, pressing his cheek to her hair, and whispered, "I'm here, Dylan. I am here with you. We are both safe, we are together and we are safe."

"Sometimes," she whispered, "I just want to stop existing so I don't have to be so scared all the time. Not die, but...but not sleep either, because the nightmares...I just want to not...be, anymore."

"I know," he said. "I know, mo duinne. I feel the same at times. Sometimes I can taste my fear like cold iron on my tongue, and it makes me so very tired. I have not been so fragile for...decades, at least, and I despise him, would kill him again thrice over for it. But when I am with you, like this, with your arms about me and your scent all around me, the fear fades a little. Sometimes even a great deal. We are together, Dylan, and we are safe right now."

Safe. Together. Yes. But the whispers of her nightmare were back now, with the lies about her babies. The memories had crawled up from the ocean that had temporarily washed them away, and she didn't want to hear, didn't want to remember. The sea had washed her clean before. It could do it again, right?

Dylan drew away from the Elven prince and dragged off her cloak. The chilly salted air raised goose bumps on her skin as she fumbled the laces of her dress. Nuada actually gaped at her.

"You cannot be serious."

"I want to go swimming," she said, although want was wholly inadequate. She needed, suddenly, to go swimming. To dive into the churning foam and feel everything dissolve into the cold and the wet. But she'd learned from earlier; she'd have to be running away from a pack of rabid wolves or a swarm of hornets before she jumped into any body of natural water in March without dry clothes to change into afterward.

Nuada cried, "It's freezing! You'll catch your death!"

"So," she said, stripping down to nothing but panties, "build me a fire to come back to you when I'm done." Shivering in the night air, arms crossed over her bare breasts—she had a vague idea that saltwater was terrible for bras—she looked her prince in the eye. "The cold...wakes me up. Makes me want to keep being. This will make me feel...better."

"Better" was the wrong word. It lacked nuance. But it was the only word she could think of that even came close. And Nuada seemed to understand, because he sighed and nodded to her.

"As my lady wife wishes. I shall build you a fire, then. But I have no desire to feel my ballocks turn to ice."

She laughed and hugged him. "Well, I definitely wouldn't want that."

Dylan turned to go, but before he let her race to the waves, he kissed her forehead and said, "Have a care for the cold, for the undertow, and for your leg."

"I will." Then she half-ran, half-limped to the water.

She had shivered and endured goose bumps in the chilly air, but that was as nothing to the biting, night-cruel cold of the sea. Her toes were numb in moments. When she threw herself fully into the surf, needles of cold drove into the skin of her arms, breasts, face, stomach. It was the exact feeling she wanted. The cold, the pain, the numbness. As it swept over her, she didn't feel bruising hands or hungry teeth or any other part of that monster on her body. There was only the wash of the waves against her tingling, chilled skin and the bitterness of sea salt on her lips.

She would talk to Nuada about making this a habit. It helped just as much if not more than a scalding hot shower—which she intended to take when they went back to the castle. Maybe, she thought with a grin, spending so much time in the water, she would grow gills and a tail and become a mermaid. Who knew? This was Faerie and supposedly anything was possible.

But it was time to get out. Cramps threatened, a tensing and tightening of her calves as a result of the cold water. It was all right, though. The quick swim had done what she wanted.

Nuada met her on the beach with a fur-lined cloak bewitched with a drying spell and led her to the lovely driftwood fire he'd built for her. Dylan didn't know the specifics, but for some reason when driftwood burned, the flames turned lovely colors: aquamarine and starry violet and the green of St. Elmo's fire. The two of them sat on Nuada's cloak, Dylan wrapped in her own enchanted one and nothing else (having laid her underwear on a rock to dry), and they watched the fire.

"The water," Nuada said after a while. "It makes you feel clean, doesn't it? Like all your pain and shadows are washed clean away. Like he is washed clean away."

She studied him in the flickering firelight for a long, long time.

"Yes," she said at last. "But it only lasts a little while."

"The sea is always here," he said. "Whenever you need to feel clean and safe again."

Dylan laid her head on his shoulder. "Thank you for always being what I need," she said. "Thank you for knowing what I need."

"It is no more than what I need," he murmured. "We are a matched pair, little witch. Perfect for each other." There was silence between them for a time, then he added, "You looked like a white selkie out there on the foam. A truly stunning sight."

She laughed and poked him in the ribs. "You weren't thinking of selkies when I came out of the water, though. I swear your jaw was on the ground."

"Nonsense. I'll not hear such slander," the prince said primly. "I was not thinking of seal maidens, true, but my thoughts were merely appreciating your loveliness. You looked like Aphrodite, come up from the sea."

"Minus the clamshell, the doves, and the dolphins?"

Nuada rolled his eyes. "Compliments are wasted on you, I see. Mocking your poor husband—"

Her kiss cut him off. She felt his mouth curve into a smile against her lips, a soft smile of affection and even a little bit of happiness. It matched her own smile. This was a good moment, a precious bit of peace. She clung to it, and to him.

When the kiss ended, she murmured against his mouth, "You were staring at my breasts and you know it, you Elven Lothario."

"Mmm." He surprised her by rubbing his nose against hers, and innocent little gesture that made her eyes sting a bit. "Well, perhaps I was, a little. They're quite lovely."

Her laugh was swallowed by another gentle kiss.

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Brrring! Brrring!

John Myers blinked awake at the tinny, atonal ringtone jangling from his cell phone. Only one person had that particular ringtone set to them on his phone.

Petra.

He could've assigned a different ringtone, a more insulting one to match the sense of impending doom he felt whenever she called, but the "classic" sound of an old corded phone worked well enough. It wasn't like he actually disliked his eldest sister; she was just a pain in the ass when it came to his twin. Petra insisted that she and the others knew best how to take care of Dylan, the "damaged" one. She and the other sisters were the ones who insisted on checking out brochures for mental health centers constantly, "just in case." Dylan didn't need to be reinstitutionalized. Especially now, being pregnant and all.

Geez, Dylan pregnant. Dylan married and pregnant. She hadn't invited him to the wedding, hadn't told him about her impending motherhood until her stomach had started to noticeably swell. That kinda stung a little, but he figured it was the Goblin's fault. John didn't know what else to call the fae man. He didn't know the guy's name, what sort of fae he was, or anything about him other than Dylan had married him for...some reason. She'd been a bit vague as to why, and she'd looked fragile enough he hadn't wanted to press.

Brrring! Brrring! Brrring!

Maybe if he ignored her, Petra would hang up and go away?

Brrring!

Ugh, probably not, he decided, and threw back the blankets. Being a rock-heavy sleeper and using his cell phone as an alarm clock meant he kept the phone on his dresser instead of right next to his bed on the nightstand. This way, when his alarm went off, history wouldn't repeat itself and he wouldn't half-consciously grab his phone and then hurl it into his fish tank to make it shut the heck up. But it also meant that when people called, he had to drag himself out of bed to answer.

Swiping across the screen, he held the device to his ear and growled, "Ohmigawd, Pet, this had better be good or I swear to Chr—"

"Where's Dylan?"

John blinked sleep from his eyes as he slumped against the wall. "What?"

"Where is Dylan, John?"

He tried to think if there was a safe answer to that question. At her house? Wait, no, she'd left the cottage. She'd told him she only went there to get the clothes her brownie left for her every week in the living room. She'd all but moved out the night she got married, apparently. But Petra didn't know Dylan was married. Or that she was pregnant. Petra and the rest of the Myers siblings probably didn't know anything about what was up with Dylan, which meant he had to squint for a second, shake his head, and try to wake up so he could think straight.

"I dunno," he said finally. "At home?"

"Nobody's left her house in almost six months, and I can't get her on her phone. It says it's not in service anymore." The edges of Petra's voice sounded frayed, ragged. He realized suddenly as the sleep-fog began to dissipate that his sister was frightened. "Did you know she quit her job?"

"I…" Had he known that?" "Yeah, she told me, I think. I'm a bit fuzzy right now. You woke me up."

"Sorry." She didn't sound sorry. She sounded strained, tense. "John, I think Dylan's missing again."

Aw, crap. "She's not," he tried to reassure her.

"How do you know? Do you know where she is?"

"I...not exactly, but I knew about her phone. It…uh…"

It had been destroyed, shattered to fragments by the monster that had broken into his sister's cottage and attacked her. She hadn't given him details, but it was obvious by the way she carried herself, the injuries she'd acquired, that she'd been assaulted. But Petra didn't know about that, either, and it wasn't his place to tell her.

"It broke. You just need her new number. I'll talk to her about getting in touch with you and let her know you're worried, but she's not missing. I saw her last month."

"You did? Where?" Petra demanded.

John scrubbed a hand over his face. He couldn't say "in the subway," because Petra knew Dylan hated the subway tunnels with a fiery passion rivaling the heat of ten million suns. And the only way to explain why his sister could tolerate being in the tunnels for any given length of time involved explaining that Dylan's new husband, the nameless Goblin Guy, had a magical subterranean lair that helped her feel safe.

"We went out together to talk and have lunch." It was sort of the truth. They'd sat on the edge of the platform in front of the lair's enchanted entryway, munching organic pizza pockets—courtesy of a Mennonite baker—while she explained that she was expecting twin babies and she'd gotten married, all without telling him.

"And you're sure she's okay?"

"Yes," he growled. "I'll tell her you called and see if she has time to call you."

"Okay." Petra blew out a long breath. "Okay. Sorry to wake you up. Go back to sleep. Thanks. I love you."

"Love you, too, Pet."

After she'd hung up, he sludged back to bed. It was too late at night to deal with this stuff. He just wanted to sleep. He had a job interview in the morning. The federal government was still trying to figure out which of their esoteric units they wanted to shove him into. They'd even tried renting him out to foreign allied groups like Torchwood and the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, but Torchwood's leadership had said he was too "soft-hearted and naive" about the aliens and the League said he "stank of stardust and chivalry," which didn't sit well with their way of doing business. He didn't know what chivalry smelled like but whatever.

Dragging the blankets up around him so he could curl up like a bed-burrito, he wondered what his twin sister was up to just then, and if she would need him to run interference with Petra again anytime soon. He'd do it, but he expected something in return for the headache. Maybe she'd buy him the new Pokemon Alpha Sapphire or something. She had the money, especially since her utility bills had been almost zero the last six months, and he still hadn't caught 'em all.

In moments he was back to snoring away, dreaming of video games that demanded he fill out job applications before he could play them.

.

Nuada found that the gentle roar of the waves did soothe the raw edges of his nerves, even while he waited for the monster to return. It would not be unendurable. It would keep Dylan safe if it were real, and if it wasn't real...then it wasn't real, and it didn't matter.

Strange, though, how being out in the chill with the salt spray of the sea in his nose seemed to calm him. Perhaps it was his mother's blood. The Fomorians were the Children of the Sea. Nuada had been born on this very beach just as the setting sun had touched the waves on a Midsummer dusk over four-thousand years ago. He was more Tuathan than Fomorian, it was true, a Son of the Earth...but perhaps there was a bit more of the Sons of the Sea in him then he'd always thought.

Dylan slept curled up on his cloak, her own cloak for a blanket, the air warmed by his magic and the fire. She had dressed after coming up from the sea, shedding only her wet underclothes before putting on dry things. The cold waves and the warm fire and the dry clothes had all combined to make her sleepy as an exhausted kitten. Now nothing marred her peaceful expression. If any nightmares plagued her, the prince couldn't sense them.

Nuada drew his knees up to his chest and studied the moon reflected on the rolling waves, a wavering white pearl. Every servant in Renvyle was loyal to him. They had loved the queen, loved her children. A few of his father's favorites had come with the king when he could bear Renvyle no longer in the wake of Cethlenn's death—Jenny and Colin, Dickon and Miyax, Iríall and Scáthach. But the rest have been left here, to run the estate that had been abandoned by a grieving king and is bewildered, grieving children.

He knew the servants of Renvyle had mourned the loss of the queen and the loss of the prince and princess. Rejoiced when Nuada had begun to make occasional visits back to his childhood home. Could the staff here be trusted to keep his presence a secret from the king? From anyone else who might tell the king? He believed so. Prayed it was true, the we had no idea to whom he prayed. What God or gods would help him now, when they had never offered aid before? He did not possess Dylan's faith.

The prince glanced at his sleeping wife. Once, moons ago, he had snarled at her about what he perceived to be a loss of her faith. As if it even mattered. As if he had any right to judge her. He had only been lashing out, trying to stop her from playing the martyr for him yet again.

How in the world did she bear it? How did she bear the knowledge that this life, this role, was something she would never have chosen for herself if the dark Elf had not poisoned their lives with his evil? How did she not blame him for not protecting her? Even now the relief of that truth baffled him. She had always yearned for a family, to be a mother, but not like this. How did she not despise him for his role in it all? How could she love him as she did?

"You are always so hard with yourself. Why can you not ever treat yourself more gently?"

Nuada's muscles clenched and his chest squeezed so tight he could scarcely draw breath. The world began to blur at the edges as his brain clambered for oxygen. Somehow, he managed to wheeze, "No…you cannot...it cannot be…"

A woman stepped out of the darkness into the circle of firelight and sank down into a graceful seated position on the other side of the driftwood fire he had built. She held out her hands, hands tipped with long, half-unsheathed claws, to the warmth of the flames. Firelight danced over her coppery-red skin and made her jade-green cat eyes gleam.

"You dream, forest prince," the apparition said gently. "The dead do not plague the living. Not usually, anyway."

Gods, it hurt to look at her. To see those familiar, laughing cat eyes. To hear that familiar, teasing voice. To even acknowledge that this woman had once existed in the world, but no longer.

"You are no plague," he whispered, though part of him wondered if that was true or not. Here was a shadow out of his past, a wound on his heart savagely ripped open and now spurting blood once more. He had not even let himself think her name in over a thousand years. "Shina'kin…"

"You must seek healing, my forest prince," she said gently. "You carry too much darkness. It will poison you to death if you let it. You know this."

"Maybe…" He had to clear his throat before he could continue. "Maybe it is a death I deserve, Shina."

She shook her head. The delicate points of her ears peeked through her thick black hair. Her smile was impossibly, excruciatingly gentle.

"Why do you cling to sins that are not yours?" She asked, and he found he had no words. "What is it you think you need, Nuada? Your beloved to turn against you, abandon you? One of your lost ones to absolve you? Or to condemn you?" Shina'kin stood, lithe as a jungle cat, and moved around the fire to stand over him. "I will never condemn you for my death, Nuada. Nor for the death of my son. It was not your doing. And you need no absolution from me." She knelt in the sand and kissed his forehead. The sob that tried to escape clogged his throat. It had been so very, very long since last he had seen her, heard her voice…

"Be gentle with your own heart, my love," Shina'kin whispered against his brow. "You are no foul monster, no demon, and you deserve peace. Let yourself be happy with your new beloved and your babes, and what matter how they came to you? Let yourself know joy, and live—as you once did at my side."

One moment she was there, warm and impossibly alive, the scent of the rainforest all around her, drowning him, drawing him down long-abandoned paths of memory. The next, she was gone, and the moon hung low in the sky, and the tide had gone out, and Dylan still slept beneath her cloak.

Nuada felt cool wetness on his cheeks. Swiped at them to catch the moisture. Tears. Gods, he seemed to cry with pitiable ease these days. His throat was thick with the agony of his scarred wounds. Stars curse him. Why had he dreamed of Shina'kin now, when he hadn't even let himself think her name in centuries?

It did not matter. He would not let it matter. Instead of thinking on it, letting himself fall into waiting memories of the life he had once hoped to build with the Elven woman of Iara—memories of her warm, hungry kisses in the midst of thunderstorms; memories of loving her as the rain drummed across their bare bodies; memories of her soothing him in the wake of war-born nightmares; memories of teaching her son to climb trees and track game and read the stars—Nuada forced himself to scan the dark, empty beach. Forced himself to be ready. The dark Elf had said he would come to him tonight. If Nuada let himself dwell on the kiss that still somehow warmed his brow instead of preparing for the nightmare to come, he might break this night under the cruelty of his own fevered dreams.

He would not break. He had beaten Eamonn once. He would defeat him again.

Gentle fingertips brushed his ankle like the wings of a butterfly and he started at the unexpected contact. Looking down, he saw a sleepy-eyed Dylan smiling up at him. She stretched out one languorous hand to him.

"C'mere," she mumbled, and licked her lips. "I think I want to kiss you. You look so handsome in the moonlight like that. And I had a nice dream about you."

Let yourself know joy, and live...

A slow flush of pleasure warmed him at the thought of Dylan dreaming of him. The oncoming nightmare could wait for a little while, he supposed. He might be a monster, a shadowed thing with scarcely any honor, but Dylan loved him. His Morphean enemy could never take that away. So in the meantime, he let Dylan kiss him. Her kisses tasted of contentment and the sea. He let her draw him down to her, let her have what she would of him. It was enough for him in that moment, to lie with one who loved him, and know a breath of peace.

Eamonn never came. Nuada fell into a dreamless sleep in Dylan's arms, his head upon her breast, and was glad of it.

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Author's Note: Important Scheduling Information: I'm going to be trying to update that story once a month, a week after Once Upon a Time's chapter goes up.

I've recently updated Once Upon a Utopia, the variation-fic where Dylan has gone insane in the wake of the rise of the Golden Army and the war against the humans. Going forward, that fic will likely be updated once a month, with the next chapter likely being posted in March. Those chapters are shorter than my other fics and more character-driven, but there's also less political drama because Nuada's king now and stuff.

I'll be posting a drabble collection entitled Once Upon a Silver Heart, about the seven great loves of Nuada's life, on Valentine's Day on my Pat. Re-On., which will pop up here on the 21st, barring accidents as long as that's not a Sunday.

I will also be posting another set of flash-fiction pieces to Once Upon the Bane of Midsummer on my Pat. Re-On. on March 21st, to appear here on the 28th. I've decided to do those flash-fiction pieces quarterly, on the equinoxes and solstices. Those flash-fic shorts are about major events affecting Nuada on or around his birthday. He's over four-thousand years old, so that's a lot of birthdays.

I've been rereading Once Upon a Winter's Night, another Once variation (where Dylan and Nuada confess their feelings for each other after actually kissing in chapter 31 instead of almost kissing), and depending on if I can maintain the posting schedule with Once, Moonless, and Utopia until about June, I'll begin updating that once a month as well. As with my other fics, chapters go up a week in advance on my Pat. Re-On. along with bonus content including original music, playlists, wallpapers, and other nifty bits.

Anyone who wants to pop over to my Pat. Re-On., I post all fic chapters a week in advance of their posting on this site, as well as monthly updates for two of my original novels, two original short stories a month, and about 6-8 book reviews a month, sometimes with art, as well as the occasional literary essay. And that's for a $1 monthly subscription. Just saying…

Lastly, there's a new fanfic contributor featured in the FF community, The World of Once Upon a Time, which you can reach through my profile. Their name is Silverlance's Blue-Eyed Mortal, and apparently they write the smut for this fic and its variations that I don't: the sex that happens off-page, the sex that's glossed over, and some alternate endings to chapters that could have ended in sex but canonically didn't for reasons. I've teamed up with them at their suggestion, and their fics – which I've heard are pretty good; also I skimmed a few they sent me as well as the one they've posted so far – will be available 2 weeks in advance as a fancy-schmancy artistic download on my Pat. Re-On. before they post the chapters here on FF. They said they'd probably do 1-3 a month. So that's something to look into if you're interested.