Author's Note: so now that Eamonn's dead, we can move on to other things. Who's excited? I'm excited. So here we go! And the title of this chapter refers to the song "Ariadne" by the Cruxshadows, which is about Theseus and Ariadne. The line that really struck me as relevant to the song was, "He used your love, he used your body, and then discarded everything…" I dunno, I like it. So here we go! Read and review, please!

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Chapter Eight

Ariadne

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Dylan's eyes snapped open several hours later. She bolted upright, clutching at herself because she remembered falling asleep—falling unconscious—naked…but she wasn't naked. And she wasn't wearing any of the silky nightwear Francesca had bought her to encourage her "sexuality" and that Eamonn had liked so much (and that she was going to cut up and burn at the nearest opportunity). Instead, she wore a long, crimson—tunic? Shirt?—of what felt like silk. The sleeves fell past her fingertips, the hem past her knees. The collar was embroidered with fine golden thread in a design of vines and leaves. When Dylan turned her head, she smelled pine, summer woods, the spice of evergreen. Her eyes widened as she recalled where she'd caught this scent before.

The shirt was Nuada's. Had he dressed her? She felt clean, without the sticky residue of the past…how many days had Eamonn had them both? Why didn't she feel dirty? Had she showered…? Yes, she remembered suddenly. In the guest bathroom. She'd huddled on the shower floor, doused herself with almost an entire bottle of soap worked into her skin and hair, scrubbed herself raw, and then just let the water pound down on her, washing everything away. She'd fallen asleep in the shower, woken up when the water turned icy.

How had she gotten up, though? Her bad knee should've kept her on the floor unless…had Nuada helped her? She didn't remember. The gancanaugh poison made everything hazy. All she knew for certain was that she'd fallen asleep on the rug in front of the fireplace, woken up, showered, fallen asleep again, woken up, and…and what?

She covered her throat with one shaking hand, a purely instinctual defensive gesture. Her fingertips brushed against a linen bandage covering the bony protrusion of the end of her clavicle. Swallowing, Dylan started to give herself a thorough once-over. Bandages wrapped her wrists, protecting the deep lacerations she'd gotten from the ropes. Suddenly, inanely, she remembered what Eamonn had said about Nuada being unable to heal with magic.

Eamonn. Eamonn. Blood…pain…screaming…pleasure…terror. Her stomach rolled, and Dylan covered her mouth with both hands. A fine tremor began to shiver through her body and suddenly she was sobbing, gasping, choking on the screams trying to pour out of her mouth. Her heart rammed against her ribs. Her stomach twisted into vicious knots. Clutching at her hair, sliding her hands over her face, Dylan gasped for breath through the tears. Hysteria was rising like an icy tide. Eamonn…what he'd done…his hands on her, his mouth, his body over hers…

From far off Dylan heard screaming. It rose in a high-pitched wail, piercing her ears. She thought her skull might fragment under the heavy weight of it. Something was clogging her throat. She tasted salt, blood. Realized that she was the one screaming. The screams tore from her chest, ripping at her throat. Pressing her hands so tight to her face that she could feel the bones under her skin, she fought to get control.

"Shut up!" Dylan shrieked through the hysterical sobbing. "Stop it! Stop it, stop it, stop it! Stop it! Stop! Shut up, shut up, shut up. No. No! I won't do this! Stop it!" Channeling the dark emotion churning in the pit of her stomach into screaming, demanding she get a grip, somehow Dylan managed to calm herself until she was only crying. Every sob caught in her throat, and she couldn't get enough air, but she'd managed to stop shrieking like a banshee. That was something…wasn't it?

Still crying, the tears scalding her cheeks, she struggled to the guest bathroom to splash icy water on her face. It seemed to work after a few moments; she finally just stood in front of the mirror, clutching the edges of the counter until they cut into her hands, shaking and panting for breath. With bleary eyes she got a good look at herself.

The three bites on and near her neck—and the vicious one Eamonn had delivered to her thigh at some point—were bandaged, as well. She touched her fingertips to her lips and found the cuts there had been dabbed with some kind of salve. Touched her cheeks, where Eamonn had sliced into the already-scarred flesh; someone had cleaned the dried blood from the slashes, and maybe put some salve on them earlier, because they were further along toward healing than she would've expected. They hadn't been deep, suture-worthy cuts, but they'd still been bloody and painful. Blue and purple bruises mottled her skin.

And for once, nothing hurt.

With shaking legs she went back to the den. Shivered as the door swung shut behind her. The cottage felt massive, cold, and alien to her. She knew, with a distant sort of pain that would grow the longer she thought about it, that she could never live in this cottage again. She'd been tortured, starved, beaten, and raped in her own house, in her own bedroom. Dylan couldn't feel safe there ever again.

But where was she supposed to live? She couldn't think about it now. She couldn't think about any of it now. When hysteria began to rise in her chest again, Dylan bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, dug her nails into her palms, and forced it down until she could think straight. Then she took a quick look around. Where was Nuada? He hadn't come to the sound of her screaming, so…

A piece of paper on the mantel caught her eye. Her fingers shook as she reached out and plucked it from beneath the silver-bladed dirk Nuada had set on top of it to keep it from flying away in any errant breezes. Dylan swallowed as she read his note.

I have taken your brownie to a healer. He will live. I have
also disposed of Eamonn's carcass and had another brownie
of my acquaintance clean up the mess left behind. I've gone
to tell my vassal what has happened. Keep the dirk with you
and do not leave the cottage. When I return, we shall settle
the debt between us.

—N

Settle the debt between us…He meant to kill her, then. To execute her for luring him into this trap, allowing him to be tortured and nearly killed by Eamonn. But then why take care of her? Why put her to bed in the den on the sofa, wearing what had to be his shirt? What was going on in Nuada's head? Perhaps he wanted her to be comfortable, to feel okay…the way prisoners on Death Row received a last meal and such. Would he kill her quickly, or make her suffer? How much pain did she owe him for what Eamonn had done to him?

Did it matter? Did she even care what happened to her now? As long as Nuada was safe—and now he was—she didn't care anymore. She was just…tired. So tired. Nothing mattered except…

I'm so sorry, Nuada, she thought, sinking back onto the sofa. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…She drew her knees up to her chest, feeling a dull ache in her bad knee and a rawness between her legs that would be long in healing. Except it wouldn't heal, she reminded herself. She would be dead before she'd have a chance to heal. Why was she so calm about that?

Because she wanted to die. She'd clawed her way out of a nightmare that had lasted eleven years, sworn it would never happen again, then been set upon by wolves. The only reason she'd had the strength to go on living was because of Nuada. Her prince. He didn't know it, but he'd given her the strength to put that attack behind her. Yet now…now she'd been plunged back into the nightmare, dragging her prince with her. Her safe place, her cottage, had been plundered. Her body had been violated and she…she had…she'd enjoyed it. Most of the time, anyway. That was because of the Tears, but…but still. Eamonn had succeeded where the Blackwood brothers had failed. The Elf of Zwezda had made her a whore.

Not only that, but she'd hurt her prince. The man who'd risked his life to save hers twice now. Eamonn had—there was no other word for it—raped Nuada, and used Dylan to do it.

Fresh tears stung her eyes, mortal tears with their salt and bitterness. They filled her eyes but didn't spill over; she wouldn't let them. If she started to cry again, really cry, she wouldn't be able to stop this time. But there went one tear dropping down her cheek, and another. A third. Praying Nuada would come back soon, to put an end to this guilt and self-loathing and fear, Dylan closed her eyes, leaned back, and let the tears fall silently down her cheeks, refusing to make a sound…

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Which was how Nuada found her ten minutes later. He stepped into the den and saw her, bruised and weeping silently, looking like a child in his too-large shirt. It had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done—helping Dylan to and from the shower like a child, tending to her injuries as best he could with what supplies she possessed in her cupboards, then dressing the exhausted and broken mortal in one of the long Elven shirts she'd taken from his sanctuary all those months ago. The prince had thought that the scents from the sanctuary, still miraculously saturating the cloth, would make Dylan feel safe—but it had all been so very difficult, because he'd ached for her all the while. Only exhaustion and the agony from his back had kept him from ravishing her again in the shower, on the little sofa, before the den fireplace once more. His body had attempted to rouse for her, but too long with not enough food, water, and sleep had at last taken its toll.

Now he watched her sob so hard he thought she might become ill with it, though she didn't make a sound. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her—he had caused this grief; honor demanded he offer her succor—but he dared not. After what he'd done to her, his presence would frighten her. No, he had no right to touch her. He had no right to ask anything of her or offer anything to her. The Elven warrior could only kneel before her and accept the price of her vengeance…no matter how high. If she demanded his blood, well enough. If she demanded his life…he would bare his throat to her and bid her strike true. It was what honor required, after all.

"Dylan," he murmured from the doorway. Her eyes snapped open and her head jerked up, the shorn locks of her hair falling in dark, unruly waves around her face. Tears streamed down those pale, bruised cheeks. Nuada came into the room. Her flinch when he stepped toward her was like a slap. He cleared his throat. "You…you needn't be afraid."

She said nothing. Only sniffled and swiped at her cheek with the heel of her palm. Her slender knees peeked out from beneath the hem of his shirt; the abrasion-burns still marred her skin. A memory hit him then, of Dylan on her hands and knees before him, his own hands sliding along the scarred but still exquisitely soft flesh of her back before grasping her slender hips, holding her still for his invasion as he'd taken her like a rabid animal.

Nuada swallowed the faintest stirring of lust and shoved the revolting wisp of memory away. "I…I won't hurt you, Dylan," he tried to reassure her, taking another step.

She merely watched him with those big, blue eyes, so reproachful with their tears. He wanted to despise the mortal for looking at him like that, as if he were a monster, but how could he? How could he hate her after what he'd done to her? He was a monster; he'd stolen what was left of her innocence and used her for his own pleasures, never thinking of her. How could he feel anything but pity, and regret, and admiration for her bravery and endurance of what both he and Eamonn had put her through? Bravery, where none should've been…and she'd tried to warn him away, knowing Eamonn would brutalize her, kill her for it. Such courage she'd shown. How could Nuada hate her?

"I swear, I…it is only that I've come to see justice done," the prince added. Her bottom lip quivered. How dare he think to offer her justice? Well enough could he understand her hurt, her grief, her outrage at his audacity. Nothing he could ever do or offer would make right the wrongs he'd done her. Still, he had to make the attempt. "I know you have seen much violence these last days. I do not seek to add to your burden but I thought…I thought you would prefer it this way. And you know how it is to be done, so it will be quick. You needn't fear…" He trailed off as the tears came again, spilling like liquid diamond from her eyes. "Dylan…please…"

"You don't need to explain," she managed to whisper. "I understand. I get it. You can't forgive me…it's my fault…I should've tried to tell you or get help or…or tried to do something. I know you have to kill me now. I understand. Just do it, please. And don't let it hurt. I don't want to hurt anymore."

Nuada took a single staggering step forward. "Kill you?" Her last words echoed in his skull, slicing him to the quick. I don't want to hurt anymore…

A forlorn nod as she continued to sniffle and weep. "I should've protected you, I should've made it clear Eamonn was here so you would go, but I was too sick and scared. I just couldn't get the words out. I'm sorry, Nuada, I'm so sorry, please forgive me."

He did go to her then, kneeling before her. Before this past fortnight—a fortnight, for the gods' pity, fourteen days he'd used her like some sort of whore-doll, forcing her to accommodate his poisonous lust—he'd have laughed at the thought of kneeling before a human…but not now, and not before her. There was no shame in kneeling before his accidental victim to offer his blood.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he murmured, voice thick with emotion, "Forgive you? No. No, my lady. It is I who should be begging you for forgiveness, little though I deserve it." He found he had to clear his throat again before he could continue. "Dylan…you know I abhor rape. The very thought of it sickens me. After seeing my mother murdered…no woman deserves such a fate. And I not only failed to protect you from my enemies, but participated in your ravishment. I took my pleasure in you, hurting you, forcing you to submit to…No, forgiveness is not mine to give; it is only mine to beg of you."

"But you didn't want to do it; it wasn't your fault. And you said…" She swiped at her cheeks, hugged herself. "You said you were coming back to settle our debt."

"My debt to you, Dylan," Nuada said. "You owe me nothing. I owe you everything for what I have done to you. Will you forgive me, or is my blood required to erase that debt? If it is, I spill it gladly for my ally…for one who was once my friend, before I trespassed against her."

Lips trembling, she whispered, "I'm still your friend, and I don't want your blood. You didn't do anything wrong." She slipped from the sofa to sit beside him on the floor. Her head fell on his shoulder, her arms twined around him, and she clung to him as if he were her only safe port in a raging storm. Nuada tensed, then slowly relaxed. Before their captivity, she never would've dreamed of doing this, nor would he have ever dreamed of allowing it, but now…now they both needed comfort. "You didn't do anything," Dylan murmured tearfully. "You're a victim, too. He…he raped both of us. You didn't do anything. You didn't do anything."

Somehow his hand found its way to her cropped hair, and he smoothed it back from her tear-stained face, a soothing gesture he'd often employed with his sister and with—his stomach attempted to roil at the thought—past lovers. Dylan shivered and took a shuddering breath. Nuada laid his cheek against the silk of her hair, surprised to find it comforted him to hold her near.

But then, of course it did. They had come through this horror together. Something more than friendship existed between them now. Now they shared the bond of enduring and escaping Hell itself, relying only on each other to do so. He'd never thought he could hold a human in such a high regard, but Nuada knew now that he and Dylan would forever be connected by the events of the past two weeks.

"Nuada," Dylan ventured into the silence a little while later. "Why don't you hate me?"

He frowned. "Hate you?" Amber eyes dropped to her face, earnest and pale. "Dylan…why should I hate you? You tried to protect me, even at the cost of your own life. Not once, not twice, but many times you have done this—the night we met, and in the tunnels, and…and this time. Do you think me a fool? I know what Eamonn would've done to you if I'd left as you tried to force me to do. Yet you strove to keep me safe despite the danger, the surety of death. How can I do aught but accept such loyalty and love, and return it?" A low, incredulous laugh wormed its way out of him. "I never thought I would say such to a human."

Dylan offered him a wan smile that quickly slipped away like a ghost. She reached up to brush some of the ragged hair from her face, and a small, distressed sound escaped her. Nuada glanced at her sharply.

"What is it?"

"N-nothing," she mumbled.

Brushing the tangles of hair from her eyes, he said, "Tell me."

"You'll…you'll g-get mad," she whispered in the voice of a frightened child. He swallowed bile and wondered at the way his eyes suddenly burned, as if stung by the wind. "It's stupid. You'll be m-m-mad," Dylan whispered tremulously.

Striving for gentility, he murmured, "No, I won't. Tell me—what is it?"

"It's just…just…my hair." She clutched at a fistful of the cropped curls, let them go in despair. "I spent y-years trying to g-grow it out that f-far. So it would l-look like my mother's. And he c-cut it all off and now it's ugly and," she was crying again now, hiccupping sobs that would've terrified a lesser man, "and I'm, I'm ugly and you g-got hurt and it was m-my f-f-fault and I have to m-move out of my h-house now and I d-don't know what I'll d-d-do and I'm a wh-whore and—"

Rage shot through Nuada in three quick, black, icy pulses. He turned abruptly and grabbed Dylan's frail shoulders, momentarily forgetting the bruises hidden by the red silk shirt. She yelped and froze, her breath coming in rapid shallow gasps like a frightened rabbit. Furious, Nuada shook her hard, once, very quickly.

"That is not true. You are not a whore. He raped you, stars curse it! You didn't ask for this!"

"Yes I d-did!" She choked out, crumpling. "I was b-begging, he made m-me—I couldn't h-help it, everything was just—I mean—I c-c-couldn't think, but I had to, I had to, it h-hurt so m-much and it wouldn't st-stop, and you were s-so—you were—it f-felt like I was, was drowning and h-he made me a whore—"

The rest of her words were brought to a sharp halt when Nuada yanked her against him, arms tight around her, hardly knowing what he was doing. She sobbed into his shirt, clutching at his sleeves, shaking violently. Only once in his life had he dealt with this sort of grief—with Nuala, in the aftermath of their mother's brutal murder—and he did now what he had done then: he rocked Dylan like a child, petting her hair, his chin resting atop her head as she cried. He murmured continuously, using similar words to the ones he'd used with his sister.

"No, darling. No. That isn't true. None of that is true. It wasn't your fault, little one. No, darling, don't cry. Shhh. Do not cry. It is all right now, little one. Don't cry. It is all right."

Nuada knew it wasn't. He knew it would be a long time before Dylan felt that anything was all right again. Just as he, Nuada, would be a long time before feeling things were all right—or at least that they'd returned to normal. The sick sense of violation, the ugly feeling of shame and degradation that seemed to seep from his very pores, wouldn't fade anytime soon. Eamonn had used him, stripped him of his will and used him as a tool in his attempt to destroy Dylan—and Nuada himself.

Perhaps Dylan was right. Perhaps Nuada was just as much a victim as she was. Perhaps the dark Elf had succeeded in raping them both, until they felt they would never be clean again. And if Eamonn had raped him, physically, in truth…thank the gods, he hurt enough everywhere that he had no proof of it, nor did he remember it.

Sometime later, Dylan whispered tremulously into his shirt, "Are you going to leave again? Like before?"

He couldn't. How could he? She was in no condition to be left alone. Instinct warned him that leaving her to her own devices again could prove fatal to her. What if she attempted to harm herself? Hysteria seethed just beneath the surface of Dylan's psyche like a poisonous miasma. And if…if there were…consequences of the fortnight they'd spent under Eamonn's power…what would he do then?

"No," he murmured, giving none of his thoughts away. "No, I'll not leave you again. Not for awhile, at any rate." He couldn't stay with her forever, unless…unless…honor would demand that he make reparations of Eamonn had managed to…

Dylan sniffed quietly. "You won't d-disappear again?"

Nuada shook his head. "No, little one. I shan't vanish on you again." When he was certain her tears had dried up for the time being, he gently leaned her back and skimmed his hand over her hair. "If you truly dislike your hair, I can fix it. Shall I?"

It stunned him no little bit when her timid, childlike nod broke his heart.

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Author's Note: so a warning of this fic - Dylan and Nuada are a LOT more unstable in this variation than in the other variation or in the original timeline. Which will give me interesting things to explore. However, there will be no more rape/sexual torture in this fic. There may be threats of it, but no actual occurrences. I've exhausted that well of torment. So hope you guys enjoyed the chap! Tell me what you think will happen next?