Author's Note: so I've been feeling sick lately, and unless I'm like, dying of zombie plague, writing tends to make me feel better when I'm sick. So I've got the next chapter up. It's 4 days early (I was aiming for June 1st) but I didn't feel like waiting. So…yeah. Oh, and the chapter title comes from a song by Linkin Park that I like a lot. Enjoy the chap! Warning—angst and darkness and grief ahead, of course. And emotional turmoil. Also rape (duh). I don't think I need to tell you guys that, but just to be safe…

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Chapter Six

What I've Done

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Nuada awoke what felt like centuries later, every inch of his body aching with fatigue. Something soft and thick crushed against his cheek. Carpet? He shifted his body and agony exploded across his back. Hot wetness dripped down his spine and tickled along his ribs, and he realized his half-healed lashes had somehow reopened. How? Where was he?

When he tried to shift again, the prince realized his hands were tightly bound in front of him. Another cautious movement informed him that his feet were also bound, tied to something heavy to prevent any possible escape. A vile taste coated the inside of his mouth. His skin itched in places, as if it had been smeared with mud that had been left to dry. Lines of soft fire burned along his arms, shoulders, and across his hips. And if he wasn't mistaken, his trousers were undone and hung loose around his hips. He was trying to remember what had happened when he heard the weeping.

One golden eye, having been glued shut with sleep, cracked open. He scanned the fire-lit chamber, which included a massive oak dresser—the thing his feet were tied to—as well as a nightstand, three shut doors, and a very large four-poster bed covered in what appeared to be Elven rope and mussed blankets. The room fairly reeked of musk and pain and human blood.

Then Nuada's gaze registered the figure huddled on the bed, crying softly into a pillow. She was slender, pale as a corpse, her raggedly-chopped dark hair covering her face—That monster cut her hair, he thought without quite understanding the words. Why?—so that Nuada only caught glimpses of cruel bruises. Only a short, ripped white t-shirt and a pair of black panties covered her nakedness. Marks painted her body: vicious fingerprints covering her arms, her legs, her shaking hands, what little he could see of her neck; raw puce and cerise love-bites marred her delicate skin; ragged scrapes abraded her pale knees and the tops of her shins; and three brutal, bloodied actual bites had punctured the abused flesh around her collarbones.

Memory came rushing back to him, and he nearly retched as bile surged up in his throat and shame threatened to choke him. Flashes of sensation caressed his mind—her smooth, warm flesh beneath his hands; her nails raking over his shoulders and digging into his biceps as ecstasy swept her away; the way she'd begged him never to stop; the caress of her hair whispering over his heated skin—and the memories stirred the dregs of the poison in his veins.

How many times had he taken her? How many times had they twined together, taking half-insane pleasure from each other, while Eamonn looked on and laughed? He couldn't remember; only remembered he hadn't been able to stop…

Oh, gods, what had he done to that poor girl? He'd raped an innocent woman…barely a woman, more of a maiden…Shades of Annwn, she was barely more than a child compared to him. And he'd raped her not once, or twice, or even thrice, but countless times. Those bruises, those cruel marks on her skin, they were from him. He risked a glance down and saw blood—mortal blood, once red as holly berries, now dried and darkened to a rusty red—smeared on the skin of his lower belly, and even lower, on his—

His gorge rose again as he shut his eyes. Danu's mercy, he thought, fighting the urge to be sick. By the stars, I never meant…I never wanted to harm her, never. What have I done? After what those human wolves did to her, and Eamonn, now I've…what have I done? Shades, what have I done?

"Dylan…" Her name spilled unintentionally from his lips like a plea, and the weeping stuttered to a halt. Nuada dared to look toward her and saw with a thrill of something akin to shock that she was looking back at him. Her fey-like blue eyes were wet with tears, shadowed with pain and the echoes of terror. Shame clawed at him. What had he done to her? "Oh, gods, forgive me, please forgive me."

She frowned and swiped gingerly at the tears on her cheeks. Nuada saw her hands were bound to the posts at the head of the bed, with enough slack in the ropes to give her some freedom of movement. The flesh that showed above and below the ropes was chafed bloody. "F-F-Forgive you?"

He swallowed, loathing himself. Of course she would be incredulous at the very idea. Of course he was mad to ask it of her. He'd raped her, for the gods' pity. But the thought of Dylan despising him for the very crime he'd been wrongfully flogged for left him…gutted. He couldn't bear it. Simply could not.

"I know…I know I do not deserve…will never deserve…I know I have wronged you, I…but may the gods strike me down if I lie, Dylan, I never wanted to…I never…"

What was the use of begging like a whipped dog for her clemency? His body gave lie to his words, anyway. The sight of her—bruised though she was—with those long, scarred legs bare and the collar of her t-shirt torn to reveal hints of too-enticing flesh, was enough to wake the poison in his blood with a vengeance. Every muscle in his body tightened, ached. The breath strangled in his lungs. He shuddered.

Through clenched teeth, Nuada whispered, "I swear to you, Dylan…I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, I will free you from Eamonn. And when he is dead, I will give you recompense for the wrongs I have done you."

"Your Highness…I don't want—"

"Ahhh, you're both awake and aware once more, I see," Eamonn said jovially, stepping out of what Nuada realized was a bathing room. His hair hung damp and unbound and a few drops of water still clung to his skin. Other than the hair and the water, he was completely nude. Bites and scratches marred the moon-paleness of his flesh. He didn't seem to mind them.

With a mocking wink to Nuada and an airy, "You'll have to wait your turn, Silverlance," he strode to where Dylan lay on the bed. She scrambled back from him, but not quickly enough. He caught her by the hair and hauled her to her knees, forcing her to accept a throat-swabbing kiss that almost made her choke. His hand clamped down on Dylan's breast through the thin t-shirt with enough force that she cried out in pain. Eamonn kissed her once more before dropping her back to the mattress.

He didn't give her time to even catch her breath before he slapped her hard enough to make her see stars, pinned her, yanked off her panties, and shoved his knee between her thighs. She thrashed, flailed, but the ropes impeded her. Nuada tried to lunge to his feet as Eamonn slapped her again, but his own bonds and the damage done to his back dragged him to the floor again. Eamonn struck Dylan twice more. Nuada saw her fall limp. Snarling, he lunged against his ropes, but he was too weak from poison and blood-loss and pain to do more than struggle futilely for a few minutes before collapsing to the floor again. Eamonn glanced at the prince over his shoulder.

"You were much keener on sharing her when you were drugged," the dark Elf complained. "Perhaps I'll dose you again, now that we've both had a little sleep. Oh, don't you remember?" Eamonn added, leering at the horror on Nuada's face. "Don't you remember the two of us taking her together, your harlot caught between us, begging for more? Or those times you had her on her knees while she serviced me with that lovely mouth? And then there were those times when we switched it up somewhat, and you had her mouth at your service. Remember? Remember your little fraochún on her knees, your fingers tangled in her hair, while she obeyed your every command?"

"You're lying," the Elven warrior whispered, almost pleading. He couldn't have done that to her. Couldn't have forced her to accept such attentions…but he remembered the raw flesh on Dylan's knees and shins. Rug-burn, he realized with sick hate and self-loathing. And he remembered with vivid and brutal clarity the feel of Dylan's mouth like paradise…Rage crystallized, vicious and cold, within the prince. He bared his teeth. "You son of a bitch."

Eamonn smirked. "Don't fret—the little whore enjoyed herself." He grasped her thighs, spread them. She moaned softly; Nuada could tell she was still dazed, barely conscious after Eamonn's blows. Eamonn slid his hands under her thighs and lifted them, shoved up her knees, leaving her open to him, so terribly vulnerable. "And she's going to enjoy herself now. And you're going to watch, Silverlance, and see how a real man uses a whore."

"Nátú dteagmháilléi—don't you touch her!" Nuada roared. "I'll kill you! I'll kill you, do you hear me? A fháil amach óna—get away from her! Damn you, Eamonn, get away from her!" But though he raged at the Elf of Zwezda, vowing to kill him—and to make his death last, by the gods, until every last drop of pain had been wrung from his pathetic carcass—it wasn't enough to stop him, to drown out Eamonn's obscene groans of twisted pleasure or Dylan's whimpers and moans. And he raped her more than once. Eamonn had an Elf's stamina, and he exhausted it with a weeping, struggling Dylan.

Hours later, once he'd sated his sexual appetite, he forced Nuada to watch as the other Elf thoroughly and methodically beat her until blood leaked from her mouth and trickled from her nose, until she could no longer lift a hand in even a vain attempt to fend Eamonn off. That took hours as well; long enough, in fact, for Eamonn to regain his strength so that he could rape her again, repeatedly, with the same thorough brutality.

When he was finally finished with her, he loosened her bonds and hauled her off the bed, uncaring of how the ropes dragged at her hands and wrenched her arms, and he threw Dylan in front of Nuada. She struck the floor with a bone-jarring thud. Without thinking, Nuada crossed the few inches that separated them, gathered her close as well as he could with his hands tied. Dylan pressed her face into his belly and curled herself around him, shaking. The stench of the blood smearing her thighs sickened and enraged the Bethmooran Elf.

"If you come near her again," Nuada growled, his voice so low and savage he sounded like a wild beast, "I will rip you apart with my bare hands, do you hear me? I will tear out your heart."

A sneer twisted the Elf's pale lips. "So gallant. So sweet. Does it hurt you to see me with her, Silverlance? Taking my pleasure in her? Because that's the point, you know. Her pain. Your suffering. I want each moment she suffers to eat at your guts like drops of acid. I want you to know—to know—that I am hurting her, beating her, raping her, sodomizing her, and eventually that I will kill her, the woman you love. I do all of this to her…because of you. And I want that knowledge to sit in your soul until it sickens and dies from the grief and the shame of it. And my, my, think of this—what will your father say about what you've done? Especially after what happened to your poor mother?"

Eamonn turned on his heel and stalked into the bathroom. Nuada focused on Dylan, desperately struggling to suppress the sick horror at Eamonn's words about his father, as well as his body's awareness that the mortal in his arms was almost completely naked, pressed against him when he was half-naked, and the gancanaugh venom still coursed sluggishly through both their veins.

Hell's teeth, Eamonn had known exactly what he was doing when he beat her. Bruises, blood spilled, lacerations…but no broken bones, no permanent damage. Just as much pain as possible without such drastic results.

The same could not be said for Dylan's brownie. Becan lay practically motionless, breathing wetly, in his glass-jar prison. Every so often he coughed weakly, a gurgling sound that made Nuada fear for the wee fae's life. How much damage had Eamonn inflicted on the house-sprite? Nuada couldn't be certain, and if he and Dylan didn't escape from this trap quickly, the brownie could very well die.

Then again, how long did any of them have to live? Until Eamonn tired of his sick games and killed them all…

"How badly are you hurt?" Nuada whispered to the trembling woman in his arms.

Dylan mumbled her answer—which was, "Not much; it'll heal. I'll live."—against his skin, tickling and caressing him with her breath. The dull ache in his loins grew worse. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to ignore it, as well as the strange, tugging-tickling feeling against his wrists.

"Will you be all right?" It was an inane and pointless question, and the answer was clear, but it soothed him when she nodded anyway; she still had a little of that spirit he remembered from the first three moons of their acquaintance. "Do you…require any tending?" He didn't know how he would be able to tend to her injuries when she wore practically nothing and his body was screaming at him to claim her…but what else could he do but offer his aid when she was hurt so badly?

She shook her head. Her hair whispered over his belly, over his hips, over his…

He sucked in a hissing breath and tried to push the sensation away. "Can you get at my bonds?" Nuada asked, then realized the odd tugging sensation he'd felt—which he'd also ignored—was actually Dylan fumbling at the knots. The ropes scraped her fingers, ripping open tiny cuts across her already-bruised skin.

"Ow," she whispered. "I don't know if I can…my hands keep shaking. Everything's dancing. I…" She stopped, struggling for breath, her entire body quivering with exhaustion. Nuada saw her fingertips were already raw and bloody. "Something's wrong with me…everything's fuzzy…"

Nuada cursed. She was too weak to go searching for wherever Eamonn had stashed his weapons, and too weak to attempt flight. At the moment, after vainly struggling with the cords binding him, all she could do was lie there and pant for breath. Had Eamonn been feeding her? Letting her sleep? Nuada doubted it. She looked half-dead.

"Do you know how long I've been unconscious?" Nuada asked, shifting so she could lean against him. Her breath was warm and soft against the vixen-scratches on his bicep. Need whispered through his veins; he fought to suppress it.

"A little longer than me," she whispered. "Six or seven hours, I think. Before that, we…we were…"

"Yes. For hours," he replied, voice still low. His body stirred at the memory of her legs wrapped tightly about his hips, her spine bowed as he drowned her in pleasure, her sweet kitten cries…Nuada barely suppressed a shudder. "I know. I remember—" Some things very vividly, but others…"Vaguely. Did I…did I hurt you very badly, Dylan?"

She shook her head. The ragged curtain of her hair caressed like silk and he nearly groaned. Somehow, she seemed not to notice. "I'm not hurt," she mumbled.

"You are," he insisted softly. "I know it. I…there was blood, Dylan. Not virgin's blood or moon's blood, either. I hurt you. Do not lie to me in some inane attempt to shield me from the bitterness of the truth. How badly are you hurt? Are you still bleeding?"

"It doesn't matter," she protested. "You're hurt."

He scoffed. "I confess to being surprised you even care." She didn't reply. Only stiffened, trembling hard again, when Eamonn came back into the room from the bathroom. He was still nude, which didn't bode well for them, but he didn't rouse at the sight of Dylan's barely-clad form. Perhaps he was too tired. Nuada tightened his grip on her fractionally anyway.

"I want to try a little experiment, Silverlance," the silver-eyed Elf murmured, smiling a little. He kept one hand behind his back. "Your little tart has the Tears in her blood still, though not so strongly, and she must be in quite a bit of pain. After all, you were anything but gentle with her. Like a dog sniffing after a bitch in heat, actually. Yet your whore didn't seem to mind. I have to wonder…if I poisoned you again…and you raped her again—oh, don't cringe, Silverlance; you know you've been castigating yourself this whole time for ravishing your little tidbit without any finesse or tenderness—would she enjoy it as much as she did last time?"

Something black and savage surged through Nuada's veins. He tasted the quicksilver sweetness of his own blood on his tongue as he clenched his teeth. "I will see you in Hell, Eamonn."

"Only traitors go to Hell, Silverlance," Eamonn replied congenially. "When my master kills your father and sister, you'll be there to welcome them."

Nuada stiffened. "What did you say?"

"Now tell the truth, Your Highness—you enjoyed pillaging those gates, didn't you?" The dark-haired Elf tipped his head toward Dylan. "I just gave you a shove. You just needed a bit of courage to deflower your precious little virgin. You should be thanking me. After all, you relished taking her. I was there, Silverlance. I saw it."

A low snarl rumbled in Nuada's chest. When he tried to lunge for Eamonn, fresh agony raked across his back. A scream of pain strangled in his throat.

"Don't you remember, Silverlance?" The other Elf continued to taunt him. "Don't you remember how she spread her legs for you? The way she offered you…everything? Oh, and you took it. She begged you for more and you gave it to her. You savored every moment, didn't you? Do you remember how it felt to bury yourself deep inside her? Do you remember her cries?"

"Shut up," Nuada hissed as his body responded to the words, to the vile memories they conjured. He shuddered, tremors racking his frame, slamming him with pain from his back. "Shut up!"

Eamonn's smile was coldly amused. "You remember her beneath you, but do you remember her above you? I watched her, Silverlance. I watched her ride you like a wild horse to the taming and drive you over the edge again and again, and you were helpless to prevent her. Helpless to do anything but let her have you. In a way, you're just as much a whore as she is. Have you ever thought of that?"

And without warning, he whipped his hand out from behind his back. Something burning cold splashed over Nuada, slipped past his lips; soaked his hair and his trews, dripped down his chest to pit-pat against Dylan's chest. It filled his veins and his mind with fiery ice so that he shuddered like a wild horse readying to bolt.

But he had nowhere to go. Nowhere to go, and only one thing to do—cover Dylan's mouth with his, ravishing her mouth even as he thrust her to the ground, spread her thighs with mindless urgency, and ravished her vulnerable body, losing himself once more in the hellish paradise of her, all the while drowning in Eamonn's laughter and Dylan's screams.

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Author's Note: of course Nuada's not going to escape from this little field trip to Hell without some emotional and psychological damage. But since this isn't angst for the sake of angst (or darkness for the sake of darkness), the pace will pick up in the next chapter (no pun intended). What do you guys think will happen, hmmm? Remember, reviews are love, of course. Hugs to everyone!