Author's Note: here's the next chapter. It's a bit rushed, but it's the beginning of the month and I owe some chapters, so...yeah. Here it is! Love you guys. Happy fourth of July everybody!

.

.

Chapter Thirteen

I Surrender

.

.

When Nuada came back inside, fingers and ears nearly numb with the bitter cold, he stilled as the door swung shut behind him. A soft, terrible sound assailed him as he stood frozen in the entryway.

Weeping. Dylan was weeping.

She'd made hardly any sound the past two days, and now he returned to the torture of her muffled sobs. His heart went still in his chest. Dread flooded his body, the taste of it like mortal blood on the back of his tongue. What now? A nightmare? Had she suffered another terrible nightmare, only to wake alone when he should have been with her? Or had she…had she hurt herself again? The thought galvanized him into savage motion. He raced down the corridor and burst into the den.

At first Nuada didn't see her, and icy fear slithered in his belly like a snake. Then his body took over as the dread flooded his mind, and he walked around the sofa that faced the hearth, until he could see the woman curled into a crying ball on the cushions. Long, dark locks shielded her face from the firelight. Nuada crouched beside the sofa and cleared his throat. The sobs abruptly silenced.

"Dylan?"

"Sorry," she mumbled without looking at him or brushing her hair from her face. "Did I…did I wake you up? I didn't mean to—"

When he laid a hand on her shoulder, she fell silent. Nuada could feel her trembling beneath his touch. Settling his weight more comfortably, the Tuathan prince gently pulled the hair from in front of Dylan's face so that he could see the pale, tear-streaked face. Her lashes were spiky with tears; her eyes glimmered wetly; and her bottom lip quivered, even when she sank her teeth into it to keep it still.

Nuada cleared his throat. "I think you and I need have words, my lady. I have something that needs to be said, and once I have spoken, then I think we shall decide what is to be done. All right?"

After a long silence, Dylan nodded.

"Do you understand what it means if you choose to keep these children?" He asked gently. "If they possess the power to connect with the land, if their magic possesses the strength of the heir, I or my father will have to break that connection. They will be ridiculed for having a mortal mother and you will be ridiculed for being their mother. You will be looked on by the Faerie world as a whore, Dylan. You will be shamed, as will I. You will be in danger throughout your pregnancy and after. The people of my kingdom would be enraged that I acknowledged illegitimate halflings. They would shun you. Despise you. Doesn't that matter to you?"

She closed her eyes. Shook her head. "I can't let that matter, Nuada. I'm sorry if I'm…if I'm embarrassing you or putting you in a bad position. I know you have your obligations to your kingdom. You don't…you don't have to do anything. You don't have to acknowledge our…the babies. I won't be angry if you have to cut ties with me. With us. You don't owe me anything, Your Highness."

"Don't I?" Nuada asked softly.

"Your Highness, I don't expect anything from you. I need…things would be easier if you were with me, but I'm not going to be angry or hate you if you leave. I'll be okay if I have to take care of them on my own. It's okay. If you really can't stand being here, if your obligations mean you have to cut ties, I understand."

He rose to his feet and paced to the fireplace with a sigh. "Dylan…by the Fates, Dylan, must you always play the martyr?" He demanded bitterly. He didn't want her to do that, didn't want her to sacrifice herself for him or for anyone. She'd sacrificed enough already, hadn't she?

There was a silence so long that it began to take on weight, a heaviness that pressed on his shoulders and chest until he could scarcely breathe. Nuada turned to glance at her over his shoulder and saw the hurt in her expression, the wet gleam of tears in her eyes before she dropped her gaze to the floor and stared at her feet. Her fingers scrunched in the silk tunic that fell to cover her knees.

"I disgust you, don't I?" She asked in a voice that was barely a whisper. Nuada's brows furrowed sharply and he took a step toward her. Dylan didn't look up as she added, "You think I'm a whore for letting Eamonn do this to me. That I deserve what happened, since I won't get rid of the babies. You hate me for getting you in trouble again and again. And because I've made the decision to follow my faith, to try and do what I think I have to, what's right…you despise me now. I understand. It's happened before. I've lost my family's respect because I did what's right instead of what's easy. I don't want you to hate me, but there's not much I can do to change that now, is there?"

"Dylan," he rasped, stunned. "Dylan, I don't—"

"It's fine," she whispered. Her chin quivered and two teardrops slipped down her cheeks. "I'd like to be alone now, please."

Nuada took a step forward. She couldn't think such things. He wouldn't let her think such things. "Dylan—"

"I would really like to be alone now," she added, getting to her feet. "Excuse me." Before he could stop her, she scuttled out of the den and down the hall. By the time he'd thought to shake himself and go after her, she was already in the guest bathroom. When he knocked, there was no answer. Only the skree of hot water in the pipes and the rapid-fire retorts of the shower spray striking tile. Feeling as if a merciless, taloned hand clutched at his heart, the prince went into the kitchen to make Dylan something to eat. It was all he could do.

.

When Dylan came back into the den, hair still damp and in a black tunic, she found a plate of sandwiches on the sofa and a cup of milk—still cold—on the small table where one of the den's lamps sat. The sight of the homey little sandwiches and milk made Dylan stop in her tracks, unable to do anything but stare at the offering for a long moment before she suddenly sank to the soft carpet, covered her face with her hands, and began to cry. She couldn't have said why she was crying. Why the plate of food made her eyes sting and her chest feel so tight. She only knew she couldn't seem to stop the sobs tearing through her body.

Sometime later, gentle arms came around her. In a distant part of her mind, it surprised her that she didn't jump, didn't scream, wasn't afraid. She merely sagged into those arms, unable to sit up on her own anymore, and cried into Nuada's shirt while he stroked her hair.

"Don't cry, Dylan," he murmured. She simply buried her face deeper into his shirt, soaking up the evergreen scent of him. He was being kind to her; wasn't that enough? Wasn't it enough that, even if he thought she was a whore, even if she disgusted him, honor compelled him to treat her well? But it wasn't enough, and she knew it. The crushing weight of the knowledge of his contempt threatened to strangle her even as Nuada murmured, "Don't cry. You're safe now. Pray, do not weep."

She didn't mean to say it, didn't mean to say anything, but the words spilled from her lips without permission. "Please, Nuada…please, don't hate me. Please don't hate me. I can't stand it, please don't hate me."

"Never," he whispered. "Never. Dylan, how could you think it? If I have given you reason to fear such a thing, I am sorry. I could never hate you. Never. Shhh, Dylan. Hush, mo duinne. Hush now." There was a few moments of silence as Dylan's sobs quieted and she focused on the way he cradled her, the strength of his arms and the solid wall of his chest, the sound of his heartbeat under her cheek. Here, at least, was safety, if not peace. Here, for this moment in time, was protection. At last Nuada said, "Dylan…do you truly not care about the consequences?"

It took her a couple tries to speak past the ghosts of her sobs, but she finally managed at reply, "I care. I just can't let it stop me from doing what's right."

"Is it right to condemn yourself, condemn me, to a life of indentured servitude when we didn't choose to come together? When we didn't choose to conceive a child? Do you truly believe that is the right thing?"

Her hand trembled when she swiped at her tears. At least he wasn't yelling at her. He was speaking kindly, gently, and that was something, wasn't it? "I'm not condemning you to anything, Your Highness. You have no obligation to me. But I've explained why I have to do this. You're not going to change my mind."

"If you do this, you trap me just as surely as you trap yourself. You owe those…things…nothing, Dylan. Will you not reconsider?" He asked softly, coaxingly. Mute with misery, she shook her head. Nuada sighed. "Very well." In a voice thick with false joviality, he added, "Shackles it is, then."

She jerked away from him, wrenching out of his hold and scrambling to her feet. "Shackles?"

"Dylan, I only meant—"

"I know what you meant," she said softly. She moved to the sofa and sank down, careful of the plate of sandwiches. "I suppose I should offer you the choice," she added, staring at a point a little ways beyond him. Her throat was tight, her eyes prickling with fresh tears demanding to be shed. "Is that what's bothering you so much about this? That you have no choice? Because you can choose, Nuada. You can choose to stay with me, with us…you can choose to walk away and forget all about what happened here…or you can kill me."

He jolted. "What?"

Smiling felt like it would crack her face in half, but she managed to dredge up a mockery of a smile for him. "It would solve all of our problems, wouldn't it? I can die without the guilt of knowing I've killed myself and the babies. You can forget all about me."

"I don't want to forget you." He shook his head, obviously and utterly baffled. "Dylan, where is this coming from?"

She sighed. "I don't know. I don't even know. But I don't want you here if you don't want to be here, Nuada. Do you think I can stand living in this place, this horrible nightmare place, while you're stuck trapped here because you feel obligated to me? And all the while you're loathing me, disgusted by my choices—"

"I'm trying to protect you, Dylan."

"From what?" She demanded, bewildered.

He paced the length of the den before stopping in front of her and pinning her with his topaz eyes. "From throwing your life away because you—"

Dylan straightened abruptly. "I'm not throwing my life away!"

Nuada shoved his hands through his hair and then dragged them over his face with a groan. "Then what do you call this?"

"I'm trying to make something good out of something terrible. Can't you understand that?" Propping her elbows on her knees, she laced her fingers together and pressed them against her lips. He noticed her toes scrunching in her simple black socks. "Nuada, you seem to think that I'm doing this because I'm being forced into it or something. I'm not. I have chosen to follow my faith. I'm not afraid that God is going to punish me if I do something else. That's not what this is about."

For some reason it seemed he couldn't look at her. Instead he focused on the fire, which was slowly beginning to die. How often would they argue in this room, before this hearth? How often would he stand there while she vainly sought to defend herself? Dylan didn't know. How long would Nuada put up with her before he simply became fed up and left? She didn't know that either.

"Follow your faith?" Nuada demanded in a voice thick with what stung like contempt. Dylan fought against flinching. "And where is your devotion to your Christian God? I haven't seen you read your Scriptures nor heard a prayer pass your lips since I've come here. It seems as if you've forsaken the Star Kindler as surely as He has forsaken you."

"God doesn't forsake His children," she murmured, trying to believe it herself. She'd learned many things over the years; one of them was that if you couldn't find the faith, to act as if you could, and the faith would follow if you were only patient. The mortal woman had to hope that was how it worked out this time.

"So He's doing this to you on purpose, then?" Nuada demanded, jarring her thoughts.

"You're looking at it in the wrong way," she protested. "This is…it's a test. One I agreed to undergo in order to prove myself to Him. I'm not going to fail it."

He scoffed. "I agreed to no such test."

Biting back a sigh, Dylan replied, "We've talked about this before. You know my beliefs."

When he looked at her, there was something that might have been pity in his gaze. Pity mingled with exasperation. She didn't want to see either one. But she said nothing, simply waited until her prince asked in a low, earnest voice, "Are they your beliefs? Are they still?"

The words stung like a whip. "You're being hurtful," she whispered reproachfully. "Look, I know you're angry with me. I know that you—"

"Don't tell me that you know," her prince said coldly, and this time she couldn't stop from flinching at his tone. "Do not say such things, because you have made it very clear, my lady, that you don't know me as well as you think you do. Hatred and disgust are the furthest things from what I feel for you. You are brave, honorable." He shook his head almost disbelievingly. "Your courage humbles me. You have sacrificed for years for my people." Stalking toward her, he reached out and gripped her shoulders. "I would rather suffer alone at his hands for another fortnight than see you sacrifice for me now, or for anyone else." He gave her the tiniest shake. "You have given enough, Dylan. Can't you see that? What more can be asked of you?"

"Nuada, I have to have faith that this is what's meant to be, that there's a purpose in it. I have to believe in the promises my God has made me—that if I endure, and endure it well, that all my pain and all my sorrow will be made up…and so will yours. I have to believe that. I've told you that. Please…" Desperately she searched his features, her eyes roving over his face for some flicker, some sign that he was beginning to soften. "Please, can't you accept that? Can't you hold onto that one piece of hope? Can't you let me hold onto it?"

For a long while he stared at her, and she dared to feel a faint spark of hope in her heart. Then he closed his eyes, releasing his grip on her, and stepped back, shaking his head. Dylan felt her heart plummet into her stomach.

"I'm not sure that I can," Nuada said softly. After a moment, he looked back at her. In a voice empty of all emotion, he added, "Come now. You should eat something." He gestured to the plate of sandwiches, then offered a short bow. "Good night, my lady."

She began to eat, more to please him than because she was hungry—it seemed the only thing she could do that would please him—and somehow, despite the crushing grief in her chest, Dylan managed to wait until Nuada had shut the den door behind him before letting the tears fall once again.

.

Two days passed in silence. Nuada avoided the den, leaving Dylan to her own devices, only going in to leave her meals. She did not seek him out. He stood sentry outside the den while she slept, and there were times when nightmares throttled her awake…but he could not bear to go to her, to comfort her. Not when the anger and the lust twined together in his belly like thorns until they threatened to cut him open. He didn't understand her. Didn't understand himself. There was something savage in him, desperate to get out, but he feared allowing it free reign, feared what it might seduce him into attempting. It was violence and pain and hope all knotted together and it mocked his helplessness.

It was three nights since his last argument—his last conversation—with Dylan when he realized he could bear it no longer. He'd tried to convince her to give her heart some peace, tried to make her understand that on this path laid only heartache and grief…but nothing he'd said had the power to move her. She'd chosen a path that would wring misery and despair from her heart for the rest of life. Could he do anything other than be there for her when she suffered through it all?

She sat by the fire, the flickering flames dancing golden and sienna across her scarred face, when he entered the den. She didn't look at him; that small social cut felt as if he'd been slapped. Swallowing, dragging his honor about him like icy walls, he approached Dylan. Stopping only a pace away, he gazed down at her in silence.

When had she become beautiful? Her scars like tiger stripes of silver, ivory, and pale rose were mellowed by the firelight. Her eyes were dark from the shadows, indigo and misty gray. Her face, though…it had become so thin. Grief had shaved away any remaining youthfulness, any childlike innocence, leaving her as a carven alabaster statue—vaguely remote, ethereal as moonlight. He wanted to hold Dylan, comfort her. Wanted to lift her up and swathe her in the warmth of his shirt like a kitten. It was a physical ache in his chest, this drive to do something for her.

That pain, as well as the tangle of emotions in his chest, made him speak more tersely than he intended when he said, "Very well, my lady. You have won. I concede this matter to you."

He didn't expect her to say anything, so she surprised him by replying softly, without looking at him, "It wasn't a battle, Your Highness. I would never seek to be your enemy. I'm sorry that my honor conflicts with what you so plainly desire. I didn't want this to happen."

Frustration pried the words from him when he said, "Dylan, I only desire your happiness. I only want what is best for you. For both of us."

"Please don't say that," she whispered.

Nuada took an involuntary step back. Don't say that…why not? Because she doesn't believe me? But he didn't ask. He merely offered her a truncated bow and said, "As you wish, my lady. I have come only to inform you that I will no longer seek to sway your mind from your course. I see it's futile. Whatever you wish of me, whatever you require for your…plans…I will see it done. You may have no reason to trust me, but I give you my word of honor that I will support you in this as you've requested."

"I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do," Dylan said. He raised an eyebrow.

"Indeed? That was not my impression." He felt like a monster when she ducked her head, barely muffling a whimper as tears welled up in her eyes. Shades, he hadn't meant to snap at her. His temper was constantly fraying under the sharp edge of his own helplessness in the face of the impossible situation. "Forgive me, milady."

Dylan shook her head. Nuada stiffened. No forgiveness, then. Well, he didn't deserve it anyway, he supposed.

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to," Dylan whispered. "I won't force you."

"I will obey the dictates of my honor."

"You don't owe me anything."

"We have already established that this isn't true—" He began, but was interrupted when Dylan squeezed her eyes shut and made a sharp sound that might have been anger, fear, or grief.

Sucking in a breath that whistled between her clenched teeth, she snapped, "If you don't want to be here, then just go!"

He stared at her in silence for a long moment, then nodded. "As you wish. Good night." With a final quick bow, he walked out of the room.

The door clicked shut behind him and he nearly staggered. His hand shot out and he leaned heavily against the wall, feeling his legs shake. There. He'd said it. He'd surrendered to her completely; not only that, he'd made certain she knew it. She despised him for opposing her in this matter, but if she cared for these unborn ones as much as she seemed to, after her anger had had time to cool she wouldn't hesitate to use him as a tool in their protection. And that was as it should be—she was their mother. Or at least thought of herself that way.

He'd decided to do what was necessary to protect her, to help her heal, but he'd wanted to take some time to talk to her as well, to see if perhaps in the rush of the discovery and the emotional upheaval that followed, she was acting rashly. Once they discussed the situation, perhaps she might see things differently—so Nuada had thought. Yes, he'd touched the essence of the unborn babies growing in Dylan's body. Yes, they were of his blood. But the Elven prince wanted, first and foremost, what was best for Dylan. His debt was to her, not to her children. If she needed them to mend her broken heart and fragile sanity, he would ensure she had them, because she needed them, not for their own sake. He'd hoped it wouldn't come to that, but he'd been a fool. Her determination to uphold honor and do the right thing, so foreign to every other child of Adam in this gods' forsaken world, had always been something he admired in Dylan.

If you don't want to be here, then just go! Her dismissal echoed in his skull until he thought he could bear it no longer. Somehow he made it outside, into the bitter cold. The sharp slap of the wind, icy against his flushed cheeks, helped clear his head. Leaning against the door, he raised a hand and beckoned to the shadows. Out from the tenebrous night came Mr. Wink, concerned etched into every craggy feature of the troll's face.

"Are you well, my prince?" The troll rumbled.

Nuada scoffed lightly, downplaying the turmoil that had taken residence within him. "As well as can be expected, given the circumstances. I need a message sent to my father. A request for an audience. I will write to him myself to explain the reasons for this audience but I need to make preparations first. Tell him I will not be coming alone; I will have one other with me. A princess."

Wink raised an eyebrow. "A…princess, Your Highness?"

The prince closed his eyes. This was what was necessary. Honor and loyalty demanded it of him. He had much he owed Dylan, and he would repay the debt, even if he choked on the bitterness of what it had cost them both for the rest of his life. "Yes, a princess. I also need you to deliver a discreet message to Themba—I'll have need of him in the next few days. And the leader of the Star Kindler's congregation in the castle—what is his name? Ah, yes, Lord Malcolm McTavish—I'll need him as well, in perhaps a week. You must take care when you go to Findias, my friend, that you are not followed back here."

"Of course, Sire, but…Nuada…what are you planning to do?"

He let out the breath he hadn't been aware of holding. Well Wink might ask. Well anyone might ask. It was a foolish thing, anyway, to make such preparations without Dylan's consent, but…but though Dylan hated him yet, he knew that his offer would be accepted. They'd spoken often enough about the High King's edicts to know what she would do now.

"I mean to do the honorable thing," Nuada said. "Go, my friend, and take care."

.

As before, when Nuada entered the house, he was confronted by the sound of Dylan's soft weeping. It gnawed at his guts the moment the sound touched his ears. What now? What had happened to make her cry this time? Was it simply being with child? He'd heard that expectant mothers were often known to cry over the littlest things. Their husbands were expected to pet and cosset and soothe them as necessary, even if the tears had no reasonable source. Well, after everything that had happened over the last weeks, Dylan certainly had enough reason to cry.

He found her in the den, as expected. He hadn't expected the scene that greeted him when he opened the door, however.

Dylan sat on the floor in front of the lit fireplace, knees drawn up to her chest, her hair a dark curtain all around her head, crying bitterly. She rocked herself back and forth, keening and weeping. Her fingers were practically bloodless where they pressed against her legs.

Firelight turned the silver blade of the Elven warrior's dirk red as human blood where it lay on the hearthstones, within easy reach of the sobbing mortal. Nuada took a step forward. What had happened? Why was his dirk there? Did she intend to…knowing that she was killing her babies as well as herself, did she truly intend to drag that cruel blade across her wrists and end her life?

"Nuada," Dylan whimpered. His heart jerked in his chest. How long had she known he was there? He opened his mouth to answer her, to demand to know what she thought she was doing, when she sobbed, "Nuada, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please come back. Please come back, please." The harrowing sobs tore through her with brutal force as she continued to plead in a trembling voice, "I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry. Don't go. Don't go. Don't leave me alone. I don't want to be alone. I'm scared, I'm so scared, I can't do this alone. Please…"

Then she lifted her head to reveal the tears spilling down her cheeks, her eyes wet and frightened. But she didn't look toward him. Her eyes found the ceiling, and her mouth trembled, and she whispered, "Heavenly Father…he's gone. He left me. I told him to leave and he left. I…I…I can't do this without him. I don't know what to do."

The prince's back hit the wall of the den and he sank to the carpet, relief and shame and hope and anguish twisting inside him into a rope that threatened to strangle him. She was praying. Thank the Fates, she was praying. She hadn't prayed aloud, as far as he knew, since the attack. Now she continued to rock back and forth, back and forth, hugging her knees while offering up her heart to the Star Kindler.

"I'm sorry I haven't been praying or reading my Scriptures, I'm sorry I've been so angry, I'm sorry. I'll try to do better. I will. I will, I promise, but…but I don't know if I can handle this on my own. I know that Thou can do anything, I know, but I'm so scared. I'm just so scared. I need Nuada, Heavenly Father. I need him. And he left because he hates me. He thinks I'm a whore because I want to keep the babies, because I wanted them even if they were Eamonn's. He's so angry and disappointed and he thinks I'm a whore and we've been arguing all the time and I told him to go so he left, I looked everywhere but he was gone, he left me alone. Please, I'll do anything, but bring him back. Make him forgive me. Please, please, I need him back. I can't do this without him. Please bring him back."

She began to sob harder, the words slurring and scrunching together as she pleaded with her God to bring the prince back. Back? She thought he'd abandoned her? Why? But he knew; he'd spent a great deal of time out there in the cold and the snow over the last several days, thinking and struggling and searching the tattered remnants of his soul. And because of that, because they'd quarreled off and on over the last days, now she believed he thought her a whore? For wanting her babes, for wanting to keep the one supposedly good thing she'd received from this horror?

How had she known Nuada was gone? I looked everywhere…Dylan never went anywhere in the cottage anymore except the den, living room, kitchen, and guest bathroom, and she never went alone. Always her trips from the den meshed with whatever the Elf was doing so that she could see him at all times. Had she searched for him? Most likely. Had she ventured into the…into the master bedroom? Nuada mentally skewered himself at the thought that he'd frightened her so badly that she'd dared to go into the seat of her past tortures. Had she flashed back to the terrible things Eamonn had done to her there?

Had Dylan remembered any of the times Nuada had made love to her there?

He instantly ripped the thought to shreds. How dare he ask such a thing, even in the privacy of his mind? He hadn't made love to her. He'd raped her. He'd pinned her to the mattress with his weight against her body, spread her thighs, and taken her in a frantic haze of lust. That wasn't lovemaking. It was an abomination, an obscenity.

His thoughts were torn from self-castigation when Dylan slumped to the floor and curled into a ball on the rug, nearly choking on her sobs. Her hands covered her face as she wept. Nuada could bear no more.

"Dylan," he rasped, voice husky with the strain of swallowing his words of self-loathing. That wasn't what she needed now. She didn't need to hear his self-recriminations or feel the lash of his rage. Instead, he said, "Dylan, it's all right. Don't cry." It was nothing close to being all right, and she had every right to cry, but he couldn't bear the sight of her tears. Somehow the prince managed to get to his feet and take a step forward, and before he could take a second step, Dylan had scrabbled to her feet and flung herself into his arms, sobbing so that her tears soaked his shirt. He stroked her hair, murmuring softly, "Do not weep. Do not weep, little one. I would never abandon you. How could you think it? Shhh, little one."

Ah, gods, she smelled of lilacs. The sweet scent and the exhausted warmth of her filled his senses. Knowing it was time to lay everything out for her, surrender utterly, Nuada said, "Dylan, if this is truly what you want, then I am with you. I'm sorry that I have been so cold, so angry. I…this is difficult for me, little one, as it is for you. I want so much to help you and I cannot. It seems that I can do nothing for you. I'm not…I must do something, Dylan. Anything you ask of me, it is done. You have made your choice. I will support it. I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. Don't cry. Please don't cry."

"I don't want to force you," she sobbed. "I don't want you to hate me."

"Think nothing of that," he replied soothingly. "I could never hate you, I've told you, never. And I have only been resisting this because I don't want you to feel forced into anything. I want you so much to be happy. To feel safe, to heal. I don't want you to suffer anymore. But if this is what you need, then this is what we shall do."

Sniffling, she pulled back and wiped her eyes. "We?" She quavered, breaking his heart all over again.

Nuada met her eyes and then slowly sank to his knees before her, placing his hands on her hips and spanning his fingers across her lower belly. "Out of torment comes beauty," he whispered. "Out of darkness comes light." Nuada stroked a soft line across her belly from one hip to the other, then he slid his hands around to cradle her hips and laid his cheek against the smooth, silk-shrouded curve of her belly. Whispered hoarsely, "There is so much I want to say, so much I wish I could explain…but my heart is too full for words. Yes, Dylan—we will do this."

Cautiously, Dylan lifted her hands and let one fall to his shoulder. The other rested lightly against the back of Nuada's head, her fingers sliding over the spidersilk strands of his hair. He stiffened for a split-second before all the tension eased from his body. He sighed. They stayed that way for several long moments, in silent healing communion with each other. But finally Nuada had to break that sweet, sacred silence.

"Dylan," he murmured. "There is one thing."

Silence, and then she asked tentatively, "What is it?"

"In order to better protect you…and the children…I have to end my exile. We have to go to Findias, the capital of Bethmoora."

"Okay," she whispered reluctantly. Nuada's fingers tightened fractionally at her hips, because not only was there more to that simple statement, but he knew she wouldn't be happy about it. "What else?"

"To afford you and the children the most protection, I have to give you legitimacy. We…we need to wed, Dylan. For the children's sake, if nothing else."

Somehow he felt the cold shock through her entire body. She managed to whisper, "Wed?"

Nuada lifted his head to lock eyes with her. He knew his gaze was earnest when he replied, "You will be protected when we marry, because you will be my wife, and a princess. Our children will be protected by both your title and mine, as well as their own. Do you see? It will allow you the freedom to be with them, to have full authority in their upbringing. It is for their sake, Dylan."

Their eyes remained locked as he watched Dylan processed what he was telling her. He knew exactly what she was thinking: the easiest, safest way to be with her children—and for him to be with them as well—was to marry him. They'd spoken hypothetically of similar situations. There was no sin in marrying Nuada for those reasons. She was supposed to strive for marriage in the Star Kindler's temple…but with a child weighed in the balance, the child came first.

Which meant, really, that there was no question about what her decision would be; he'd known that.

"So you're asking me to marry you?"

Nuada hesitated for a fraction of a second, then said, "I am. Dylan Myers, will you be my wife?"

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Author's Note: the thing about Nuada real quick is that there is no way he's just going to be okay with what's going on. He's got a lot he's dealing with (or refusing to deal with, rather) and it's causing a lot of friction. So to be realistic (and respectful of the sort of trauma they've gone through) certain things are going to have to progress in a certain way. So I hope you enjoyed this chap and I hope Nuada's not being a douche.