Author's Note: so I posted this chapter together with the last chapter because…well, originally because I thought it was less depressing, but I gave it a quick scan just now and now I'm not certain. Be sure to let me know in your reviews what you think. Anyway, but I hope you enjoy the plot twists in this chapter and I'll see you at the end. Huggles!

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Chapter Ten

Sweet Dream (Or a Beautiful Nightmare)

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Somehow Dylan managed to keep awake until around sunset. Nuada dropped into uncomfortable asleep in his customary position stretched across the den doorway, only to be jerked awake later that night by terrified screams. He scrambled to his feet in time to see Dylan, still sleeping on the sofa, flail at an invisible assailant. Her spine bowed off the cushions with the force and volume of her next scream.

"Mommy," she shrieked in the voice of a petrified child, "Mommy!" Each word was ragged with tears and terror. "Please, Mommy...let me out! It's dark, it's dark, I'm scared! I'm scared! I'm sorry, let me out! Let me out! Please. I wanna go home. I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please let me come home. Don't let him hurt me. He's a bad man, Mommy! John! John, where are you? Help me, John! John..." She thrashed against the Morphean foe above her, moaning the word "no" over and over. And then the mortal let out an agonized scream that froze Nuada's blood.

Danu's mercy, he thought, and took a half-step nearer. He had heard such screams before, but from men and women being tortured. What kind of hell could she possibly be dreaming of? Not of Eamonn…not of the wolves…her childhood? This was what she flashed back to every night?

All of a sudden, something thick and dark and choking spilled into the room like venomous blood, and Nuada literally felt Dylan's dream change. Her screams became shriller, more frantic. Her spine arched, her hips lifted, and Nuada knew. Even before she begged, "No…no, please…please…I don't want…don't touch me…Eamonn…Nuada…please stop…" he knew. Revulsion and shame choked him. Nightmares, she'd said. Hell's teeth, and now he was the stuff of her nightmares. He staggered toward her as she whimpered, "Don't…don't…no…"

Then she cried out, every muscle stiffening. That cry wasn't one of pain. "Nuada," she moaned. Her voice then was the kind that could easily heat a man's blood. The thought made his stomach clench, because he remembered how her pleas has shattered the last fragments of his control. "Nuada, please…" The air escaped his lungs in a rush that left him dizzy. Nuada fell to his knees in front of the sofa as Dylan begged breathlessly, "Don't stop. Please, yes…"

Memory whispered to him, a siren call he struggled to resist. She'd said these words to him before, in the haze of venom and pain and need. Pleaded with him…what had he said to her? She'd begged, Don't stop, and he'd groaned, I cannot stop. I cannot. Never…A shudder ripped through him. He clenched his hands and strained to shove the memory away. She had felt so very, very good, and he had—

Stop it, Nuada raged at himself. Stop it! Don't think of it. Don't think of it! Don't think of her…

It became easier when Dylan moaned, a sound thick with fear, and began to cry. "No," she begged, weeping. "No…Eamonn…please, don't! Don't…okay," she whimpered. Her shaking hands scrunched in the blanket wrapped around her body. "Okay! I'll do it…just…don't hurt him…"

He wanted to touch her, shake her awake. End the nightmare. But he didn't dare, with memories of her body swamping his skull, wrenching at him with sharp hooks of lust and self-loathing. If he was brutally honest with himself, lying with Dylan had been perfect. As if they had been made for each other. But that had been the Tears, Nuada reminded himself sharply. The Tears had made him need…and she had been there when he needed, quenching the fire…

Oh, gods…oh, gods, he still wanted her. The very thought made him sick. His gorge rose—so quickly, so violently, he had to cover his mouth to keep from retching. The poisonous Tears had made him take her, hurt her…but his own body wanted her again.

Hell's teeth, what was wrong with him? That he could lust for her like that, after every sin he'd committed against her…and not only that, but that he should feel that desperate desire while she was caught in the throes of a nightmare that had her screaming and crying for help…

No, Nuada groaned silently. No, it couldn't be true. Was his father right? Was he a heartless, soulless monster, without honor or remorse? Had he finally become what Balor had claimed Nuada to be all these years? Had he succumbed to the darkness in him so fully that he'd become just like those animals that had raped and butchered his mother? The Elven warrior cringed from the thought. No, he wasn't like them. He couldn't be like them. He would never…never…but he had, stars curse it. He'd raped Dylan over and over again.

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's voice echoed in his skull until Nuada almost thought he'd rather carve it out of his brain than listen for one more moment. What would his father say about this? Nuada knew exactly what the king would say. He'd tell his only son that Nuada was a disgrace to the royal family, to Bethmoora, to Balor…to Cethlenn. He'd publically disown the prince, strip him of his title and lands, then have him flogged again…or perhaps this time, his father would simply execute him and have done. But what would happen to his people? To Nuala?

What would happen to Dylan? She needed him…

With another tortured cry his terrified mortal bolted upright, one hand going reflexively to her throat as she dragged in shuddering lungfuls of air. Her hands shook as she pushed tangles of dark hair away from her face. A strangled, whimpering sound escaped her and she covered her mouth with both hands.

"Dylan," Nuada said sharply. His voice sliced through her terror and his need like a knife. "Dylan, it's all right. You're safe." He didn't dare touch her. He knew what would happen if he did. Instead, he added with forced gentility, "You are safe, little one."

Her entire body shuddered violently, then she fell back onto the sofa, gasping for breath. Her eyes were wide open, glimmering in the dim firelight with unshed tears. She didn't move, and neither did he. Only the crackling of the fire and Dylan's ragged breathing infringed on the silence. At long last, crystal droplets spilled from the corners of her eyes. Her lashes drifted down t mark her cheeks with dark shadows as the tears fell silently.

Drawing a breath hurt. His chest felt viciously tight. Still, he managed to murmur, "Dylan. Dylan, do you wish me to go?"

"No," she whispered. Her eyes scrunched shut. "No, don't go. Please."

"Then I shall stay," he whispered back.

Nuada stayed where he was while she cried. He could not go to her…and he could not abandon her. Instead, he sat with his back against one of the chairs and held silent vigil while Dylan wept herself to sleep once more. Nuada was thankful when she didn't dream again.

Once he was certain she slept peacefully, he rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered off down the hall. As silently as possible, he opened the front door and slipped out, to slump on the little flagstone stoop sprinkled with white snow. Leaning against the heavy granite door, Nuada let his head fall back. Let the icy wind and coldly-cutting snow chill his fevered blood.

He wanted her. How could he want her? She was human, for one thing, and even had she not been, he had…he'd raped her, for the gods' pity. How could he call himself honorable, how could he still call himself a man, and not a monster, yet ache for Dylan this way?

But he still remembered how it had felt to join with her. The memories of that ecstasy were like poison, slipping beneath his skin and breathing like the sweet burn of whiskey into his brain and heart. A shudder that had nothing to do with the merciless cold of the November night ripped through him. He wanted her. Lusted for her. In any other situation, he would have simply left…but she needed him. He couldn't leave her.

So what was he to do?

In the end, Nuada found no answers out there in the snowbound garden, but the cruel grip of winter allowed him to get control of his hot blood so that he could go back into the cottage and check on the sleeping mortal once more.

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Nuada settled on staying with Dylan for a least the next ten days. Whatever Eamonn had done to ensure it, Dylan wasn't missed at work. Just to be safe, she sent a message to her twin brother to bring her a new cell phone. John's arrival two days after Dylan's first nightmare involved a confrontation between the prince and the mortal whelp. Dylan didn't want to see the boy. The idiot wanted to see her. Nuada refused to let him through the door.

"Who the hell are you?" John demanded. His gray-blue eyes were like shards of dirty ice as he glared at the coldly aloof Elven prince with suspicion and rising anger. "Where's my sister?"

"Dylan is resting," Nuada said in a voice like an arctic wind on a winter's night. The whelp stood perhaps a foot away from him, the cottage threshold a flimsy barrier between Elf and mortal. Revulsion swam like poisonous lamprey in Nuada's blood at being so close to a human. And though he wasn't entirely sure why, the proximity of a male of any species made his gorge rise. An almost-mindless hatred for the pathetic human whelp churned in the prince's belly. Where was this boy, Dylan's own kin, when Eamonn had been raping her? When he'd forced Nuada to rape her?

Nuada realized he despised this boy, this mortal spawn. Not merely for his humanity, but because he was partially to blame for what had happened to Dylan…and to Nuada himself. Nuada loathed him, with a hatred that burned in his guts like poison.

"Give me the device and I will see she gets it."

"Uh, no. I want to see my sister. Why does she need a new phone? What happened to her old one?"

Oh, how he wanted to drive his fist into that human face. Ram his fist over and over into flesh. Hear the wretch cry out in pain. Feel bone crumble. See red blood flow. The half-insane rage pulsed in his veins, hot and seductive, goading him on. But no—it would hurt Dylan for him to start a brawl here at her front door. This was her kin. And she needed her rest. Needed what little peace sleep could give her.

Through gritted teeth, a black spot pulsing in time with his heart in the corner of his eye, Nuada said, "It was destroyed. She needs to call her place of employment. Now give me the phone and get out of here before I force you to go."

John scoffed. "I'd like to see you try. I'm a federal agent, buddy. I work for the FBI. You fae may not care about what that means regarding my authority, but it also means I'm trained in hand-to-hand combat. You don't get out of my way, I'll kick your ass. Got it?"

Feral eyes, hot bronze tinged sanguine red, narrowed at the insufferable whelp. Nuada snarled, "Touch me, and I will kill you."

The thought of someone—anyone, even Nuala—anyone other than Dylan touching him right now filled him with a nauseating fury that had him grinding his teeth so hard his jaw ached. Let the whelp touch him. Let the human filth dare to put a finger on him, and he would see how deadly the legendary Silverlance could be with a blade. Nuada would carve him into pieces with nothing but his twin-knife, and wash away the sickening sense of being unclean with hot, iron-laced mortal blood—

"What's going on?" A soft voice asked from behind him, and the rage churning in Nuada's roiling gut spiked, sending black hatred singing through the prince's veins. He turned to see Dylan standing several feet away, swaying slightly.

She wore a black Elven tunic, one of Nuada's that he'd brought from the sanctuary after speaking to Wink, and nothing else. On Nuada, it would've hit just above his knees; like the others he'd given her, this one fell some ways past Dylan's knees; it showed the healing rug-burn on her shins, though. The sight never failed to rouse Nuada's memories of taking Dylan on her knees. He forced the salacious memory away. The length preserved her precious modesty. His crimson Elven silk sash, minus the Crest of Bethmoora, cinched it about her narrow waist. The sleeves hung well past her fingertips. Just then, she clutched the ends in small, tight fists that she held to her chest. Her shoulders were hunched, and her hair hung in her face.

Seeing her was always like taking a fist in the pit of Nuada's stomach. All the blood seemed to drain from his body, the air to squeeze from his lungs. She was so fragile…so timid…not at all the courageous woman she'd been before. Then, as every time he saw her, Nuada vowed he would find a way to heal the damage done. She couldn't be permanently broken. She couldn't be.

But in the meantime…

"What—the hell—did you do—to my sister!" John yelled.

Nuada turned back to see John surge forward. Instinctively, Nuada shoved him back with a snarl. The mortal whelp nearly tripped over the threshold when he stumbled back. Dylan made a soft sound, and Nuada looked over his shoulder to see her take a step forward. Then her eyes widened.

The prince whipped around just in time to take John's fist square in the mouth. Blood filled his mouth, a crimson haze descended across his vision, and he lunged for the human who'd dared to attack him. Nuada's fist reared back, surged forward, aiming for the whelp's face with a driving blow that would shatter bone, but a terrified cry and a sudden heaviness on his arm momentarily distracted him. He tried to shrug off the weight, reaching for his enemy with his free hand.

Then the heaviness was around his neck, something scalding and wet was running down his neck like blood…blood on his skin, hot and wet, stinging with salt…oh, gods, no. He heard Dylan weeping, begging, "No, Nuada, no! Please! Please don't, please!" Oh, gods, no, what was he doing to her? What had he done to her? No, please, not again. Never again, never. He didn't want to hurt her again. Please, gods, no. No!

He jerked back from the weight around his neck, cringed from the blood on his skin, his chest, soaking his shirt. The haze of fury dissipated, leaving only fear gripping him by the throat like a merciless fist and remorse settling like a hot weight in his belly. He realized Dylan clung to him, sobbing into his shirt, shaking. Slowly Nuada came back to himself while Dylan wept.

More tears. Not blood, thank the Fates, not mortal blood stinging with salt and iron. Just tears. Just sad, sad, bitter tears. His fault. Had he hurt her? The whelp, the human, that putrescent filth, he'd touched him, and it had been so utterly disgusting, so violating, that Nuada had had to lash out or be sick with the touching…no one could touch him, no one but Dylan. She wouldn't hurt him. Wouldn't poison him with a touch, with a venomous caress.

Nuada shuddered at the thought, at the images swimming through his mind. Memories and nightmares. He never let himself think about his own nightmares while waking. Nightmares of memory, Dylan trapped under him, her frantic pleas, the mindless need…No, he wouldn't think of that. Wouldn't allow it to poison him further. He had a task now—to soothe Dylan.

His arms came around her, and he stroked her hair gently. "I'm sorry," he muttered. His knees threatened to buckle; he locked them so as to remain upright. "I'm so sorry. I didn't…I never meant…forgive me." His voice came out hoarse, strained. Nuada cleared his throat. Forced himself to bear up and stop this pathetic weakness. Squaring his shoulders, straightening his spine, the Elven warrior eased his tight hold on the human woman in his arms and said in a much stronger voice, "Forgive me, my lady."

"You're dead," John snarled.

He started to step forward, but halted when Dylan screamed, "No, John! No!"

"But…but he…"

"Don't hurt him," Dylan cried, tightening her grip on Nuada. "Don't touch him! Leave him alone, please!"

Startled, the whelp took a step back. "D…D, I wasn't gonna…jeez, calm down. What happened? Did he hurt you? Someone hurt you. Who was it? Have you gone to the cops? Dylan, talk to me. What's going on?"

Dylan was weeping now, trembling in Nuada's arms. She tried to speak through her tears, fought to get herself under control. The prince murmured softly in her ear, promising her that all was well, that she was safe, that he was here. Eventually she could wipe away the tears are on her cheeks, careful of the healing cuts, and none fell to wet her cheeks again. She drew a shuddering breath.

"Hey," murmured the human male, coming closer. Dylan flinched as he drew near. Nuada hissed a warning. The boy frowned. "Dylan…why…what happened? What's going on?" As the mortal clearly couldn't take a hint, he took another step toward Dylan. Nuada bared his teeth in something to savage to be called a smile.

"Come one step closer, human, and I'll rip you apart," he growled. His hand came up to cup the back of Dylan's head, holding it to his shoulder, tucking her face against his chest. "Do not push me. Can't you see you're distressing her?"

"I just want to know what the hell happened! Who do I have to hunt down and shoot? Was it you?"

Swallowing, Dylan shot a furtive glance at her twin through the curtain of her hair. "His Highness didn't do this to me, John."

"Then who did?" The whelp demanded, looking sick and sorry.

And well he might, Nuada thought acerbically. Where had the wretch been when Dylan needed him? Nuala had never been hurt while out of Nuada's sight. And the one time she'd been hurt while with him…The prince forced the memory of his sister's screams from his mind and focused on the human boy in the entryway.

"A common enemy," the prince said coldly. "I dispatched him. It is none of your concern."

"Excuse me?"

"Stop it," Dylan protested. Though her voice was soft as a whisper, it halted both men in their proverbial tracks. Keeping her hair in place as a mask to hide her injuries from her twin, Dylan added, "Nuada killed the man who attacked me. I owe him my life, John. Now I need my phone, and then I need you to leave. Please."

The wretch sputtered, "What—but—I—what happened? How badly are you hurt? Have you been to the hospital? Do you need anything? I mean…what happened to you? Are you okay?"

A ghost of a smile curved the mortal woman's bruised lips. Did the wretched boy see how it hurt her to force that smile to her lips? Dylan sniffled and leaned against the solid strength of Nuada's body. "I'm fine, John-boy."

"Well…but…did you go to the hospital? What did the doctor say? Did this guy…did he…were you—"

Nuada felt the tension ratchet through Dylan's body. Knew what the human bratling was going to say. He was going to ask her, with no subtlety or finesse, if she'd been raped. Insolent, insensitive brat. Didn't the piece of vermin realize how difficult this was for her? Didn't he see how she struggled to maintain a façade of well-being in his presence?

In a voice nearly bestial with fury, the Elven warrior growled, "Enough of your questions. Give her the device and get gone. Question her again and I will take you out behind this cottage and thrash you like the impudent whelp you are."

The boy looked like he was about to say something—outrage flashed like lightning in the stormy blue-gray eyes—but then those eyes slid to Dylan. Softened. Her twin sighed. "'Your Highness,' was it? Well, you're a dick, whoever you are. Here ya go, D." He handed her the device. "You really need me to go? You need me to?" She nodded. He sighed. "Okay. If that's what you need. Whatever you need. Are you gonna be okay with this guy?"

Another nod and, to both men's surprise, she dropped her forehead against Nuada's chest and nuzzled him. For some reason, it soothed some of the edgy rage in the prince. The whelp sighed again and conceded defeat. After kissing Dylan very carefully on the cheek, with a promise to call her soon, he left her to the prince's care.

Once the boy departed, Dylan seemed almost to deflate. Her head dropped, her shoulders drooped, and it was almost as if the life faded from her body. She trudged back into the den and lay on the sofa. Her eyes never left the flames in the hearth. When Nuada came in to ask how she was feeling—whether she was hungry, thirsty, in any pain—the mortal answered him in toneless monosyllables that made it very clear she simply wanted to be left alone. Concern and remorse a nauseating weight in his belly, he did so.

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That night Nuada jerked awake from a nightmare of screams and blood, flesh and need, to the sound of a single hysterical shriek. Instantly he was out of the living room chair he'd accidentally fallen asleep in, racing down the corridor to the den. He barged into the room to see Dylan huddled in a corner by the fireplace. She clutched his dirk—hilt in one hand, blade in the other—in her white-knuckled fists. Sobbing, rocking back and forth, the anguished screams strangling in her throat now as she clenched her teeth. Blood seeped between the fingers of the hand clutching the dirk's blade. It dripped from her hands onto the carpet like macabre rain.

The terror that had risen up to grab Nuada by the throat eased back. Fresh, red-hot guilt burned in its place. She must have had a nightmare, he thought. A nightmare, and he hadn't been there to comfort her.

"Dylan," the Elf murmured gently. Dylan jumped at the sound of his voice. He took two cautious steps forward, hands up and palms out in a show of harmlessness. He noted that she'd discarded the bandages that had protected the rope-burns on her wrists. "Little one. It's all right. Tá túsábháilte—you are safe. Dylan, can you hear me? Can you understand me? It is all right, little one. Tá túsábháilte."

"No," she moaned. "No. Not safe. No. Never safe. I can't…I can't d-d-do this, Nuada, I can't, I can't! Help me," she pleaded softly. Her rasping voice was a mere thread of fear and despair. That thread was a noose that threatened to strangle him. New sobs came as she looked at him with haunted eyes. "Please…" The word was a knife driving into his chest. He swallowed hard, took another step toward her. Dylan sobbed, "I just want it to stop. Nuada, please…cuidigh liom. Tabhair, cuidigh liom, tabhair…"

Help me. Please, help me, please…Oh, gods. How could he resist such a plea?

Moving with excruciating slowness to keep from scaring the incredibly skittish mortal, at last the prince was at her side. Carefully he pried her fingers from around the dirk blade, which was slippery with her blood. He examined her hands: abrasions on the palm that had been clutching the hilt; superficial cuts across her other palm that seeped crimson; and a pair of shallow slices across her too-white wrists, both of which bled sluggishly.

Hesitation marks—he remembered Dylan explaining the term to him once during those two months of conversation and friendship in the cottage. Signs of attempted suicide. Gods, what had she done to herself? Tried to end her own life, only to be held back by…by what?

Lifting her into his arms was too easy; she was so light. Had she eaten recently? He realized he couldn't remember. Putting that aside for now, Nuada set about tending to these fresh wounds. Cleaning the two wrist-cuts first, he applied butterfly bandages before wrapping her wrists with fresh gauze, then bathing the cuts and scrapes on her palms. Those barely bled once he was finished.

Necessities completed, Nuada knelt and carefully took Dylan's hands in his own. They were ice-cold. Trembling. Her skin was deathly white. Looking into her dull, vacant eyes, he could only ask helplessly, "Cén fáth?"

Why? Why would she do this? Why would she seek to give up on life…on him?

"I…I just…" Her lips quavered. She took a ragged breath. Her voice was thick with tears when she said, "I don't know what to do. I don't want to hurt anymore." She shook her head. "I'm so tired, Nuada. I'm just so tired. I can't do this anymore. I can't take it. I can't…"

"Yes, you can," Nuada whispered. He had no idea where the words came from, only that they spilled from his tongue like the blood from her wounds. "You can, Dylan. Do you know how strong you are? You are so strong, so brave—you are," he insisted when she shook her head. Reaching up, he cupped her face in his hands. Her cheeks were cool to the touch. "You have a warrior's heart, little one. You have a fighter's spirit. I have seen it. I will not give up on you, Dylan…and I pray you, do not give up on me, either. I will see you through this…molaochcrógaréamhphósta."

My brave warrior maiden, he called her. How could she doubt her own courage? Her own strength? He wiped her tears away gently with his thumbs. It hurt to see her so broken, so frightened. She had never been like this, save in the first few days in the sanctuary, and even then her spark had shown through at times. Where was that spark now? Had Eamonn snuffed it out completely?

"Will you trust me?" Nuada asked. "Will you have faith in me to help you through this? Do you believe that I can?" His eyes searched her face. After a long moment, she closed her eyes and nodded. "Swear to me, mo duinne," he said. The endearment slipped out without either of them noticing. "Swear to me you'll not do this again."

Dylan swallowed audibly. "I swear, Your Highness."

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When she was asleep at last, Nuada slipped from the room and went to the door. He trembled with each step as it became more of a struggle to take. It took everything he had not to run outside. Quiet as a cat, he slipped out into the cold. The wind blew bitterly from the north, and the snow was white as polished bone as it crunched under his boots. Nuada didn't feel that terrible wintry chill. He felt only the rising rage, the grief, the half-hysterical despair clutching at his throat.

With a strangled cry, he turned and rammed his fist over and over into the bark of one of Dylan's sleeping elder trees. Splinters—of wood and ice—gouged into his flesh. Blood trickled hot from his knuckles to freeze on the snow. His bones cringed with each impact.

A mortal man wouldn't have been able to endure the pain, but an Elf's strength was far greater than a human's. Prince Nuada beat his fist mercilessly into the frozen tree trunk. Until his arm and shoulder ached. Until he'd bitten through his lip to hold in his snarling roars of fury and pain. Until he slumped to his knees in the snow, blood oozing from his battered hand, and he had only the strength to rest his forehead against the icy trunk and shudder.

Féinmharú—suicide. She'd tried to kill herself. She'd intended to open those fragile blue veins with his dirk and spill her life's blood on the carpet. He didn't know what to do. He had no idea what to do to help her, and he had to find a way. This was his fault. He should have been there sooner, should have been able to protect her. Instead, he'd been the instrument of her torture. Nuada thought he might be sick. He'd raped her…and Eamonn had used her to rape him…

But no, he couldn't think of that. Couldn't think of hands touching and blood spilling, a wicked red fount. Couldn't think of Eamonn laughing, watching as Nuada took pleasure in a helpless innocent. The sickness of it, of having his very soul invaded…No. He had to care for Dylan. Had to repair the harm he'd done. Whatever it took, he would take care of her. Protect her. Honor and friendship demanded it.

Hell's teeth, his hand hurt. Had he cracked a knucklebone? No matter. It wouldn't infringe on his ability to defend Dylan or care for her. Rising to his feet, Nuada shook out his hand. The cold air had already slowed the bleeding. He flexed his fingers. It would be all right.

He looked to his left when movement caught his eye. Wink stood there, tense and waiting.

"I'm all right," Nuada muttered.

Wink shook his head. "No, Nuada…no, you're not." The troll hesitated, then murmured, "I have not seen you weep so, for anyone, since your mother died."

Startled, the prince swiped a hand over his cheek. Tiny chips of ice had frozen to his skin. When he brushed at them, they tore away with little stinging pains and fell to the snow. Frozen tears. Nuada stared at them for a long moment, unsure what to say. What to think. Finally, he merely shook his head as if shaking away an errant thought.

"I am able to do what's needed," the prince said softly. "I require no more of myself than that."

"Your father has summoned you back to court," his vassal murmured.

Nuada's eyes slid wearily closed, and he heaved a sigh. "Of course he has…but I cannot go yet. When Dylan is well again, I will go before the king."

"He may try to have you killed."

The wan smile curving dark lips was entirely without humor. "Yes," Nuada murmured. "I imagine he will."

.

The next day, Dylan called into work, claiming she had the flu. Her employer seemed very sympathetic. After the conversation, the mortal woman turned off her phone, curled up on the sofa, and stared at the fire in the hearth for an hour until she fell asleep.

To Nuada's surprise, he found himself even more worried than he'd been before, when he realized Dylan didn't read her scriptures or pray every morning and night anymore, as had been her habit before the attack. She seemed to withdraw wholly into herself. Nuada sat with her in the den, staring into the flames himself, wondering what was to be done. How was he to discharge his debt to her?

Something had to be done to pull her from this terrible apathy. She wouldn't eat, sipped water occasionally, barely spoke. Perhaps he could take Dylan to see an Elven mind-healer. It would surely do her good. Whatever he did, he knew that after the events of the previous night, something had to happen, and soon.

Several nights later, something did occur at last…but it was the one thing he'd prayed wouldn't happen, for Dylan's sake. He didn't know if her sanity could take it on top of everything else.

Nuada woke in the middle of the night to an odd sound. He lay there for a moment, trying to wake fully. His nose caught the faint sweetness of vanilla-sugar and cream and…did he smell peanuts? And something sour, like…was that brine? How strange…

It took him a moment to shove away the sticky black cobwebs of his nightmares and realize he wasn't smelling things that weren't there, and to realize just what exactly he was hearing—the distant sound of retching. He rose to his feet, still groggy from exhaustion, stiff with the residual ache of his magically-healed wounds, and made his way to the guest bathroom.

Dylan huddled on the little rug on the floor, hunched over the commode, making a concerted effort to—figuratively—spill her guts. Nuada went to her, pulling back her hair to keep it out of her way. There was little else he could do until she was finished being sick. When it was over at last, Nuada wet two wash cloths and handed her one, with which she wiped her mouth. He gave her the second one and she wiped the cool, damp cloth over her clammy face. Then the prince fetched her a glass of water. Dylan rinsed her mouth twice. Then she let Nuada guide her into the den. She half-fell onto the sofa. Nuada crouched at her feet.

She swallowed hard and stared with impossibly large eyes at the fire for a moment, then turned her head slowly to look at the prince. Her lips trembled. She pressed them together until they were nearly bloodless. Shuddered. Her fingers shook as she ran them through the curls tumbling down around her shoulders before she pressed her hand to her abdomen, over the no-doubt sore diaphragm muscles.

"Are you ill?" Nuada asked gently, though he didn't think that was the problem. After a long hesitation, Dylan shook her head. He nodded calmly, as if there was nothing wrong at all. Why was it so hard to breathe? Why did his chest feel so ridiculously tight? It felt as if a cold hand were gripping his ribcage in a merciless fist. No matter. He was not the focus here. Oh, if only he could read her better. If only he knew what she was thinking. But he couldn't, didn't. So he asked, keeping his voice low and soothing, "Are you…unwell?"

That was an entirely different question. It was a delicate way to ask a delicate question of a woman who was not one's lover or wife. Despite the couplings that had occurred between them, despite his desire for her, Nuada didn't consider Dylan to be his lover or even former lover. His charge, maybe. His friend, certainly. But not his lover. So he waited for her to process the question he'd asked, wondering what she would say.

Finally, Dylan whispered, "Nuada…I think…I think…" Her voice trembled, threatened to break. He clasped her hand. Squeezed lightly, trying to bolster her courage. A tear spilled down her cheek, and to his utter astonishment, a wan smile curved her mouth. That smile seemed to lodge in his heart like an arrow. She met his eyes. "I mo thuairimse,tá méag iompar clainne."

I think I'm pregnant.

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Author's Note: who saw THAT coming? Anyone? I mean I sort of mentioned it in the summary, but did anyone realize that's what I meant? And just a poll—who thinks the kids are Eamonn's, and who thinks they're Nuada's? What do you think this will do to our girl? What about our prince? What do you guys think will happen next? Please review, let me know what you think. I'm excited to hear your thoughts! Loves to you all!