Author's Note: hey, guys, I know it's been forever since I updated. Like, a year or more. I had a year-long gap in updating almost everything. I'm so sorry. I was working a lot, getting sick a lot, my health was deteriorating, blah blah. Well, for those who missed the memo in Once Upon a Time's author's note, I got fired from my job. Apparently being autistic means I can't do the job I've been excelling at for more than three years (am I bitter? Oh, yes). So on the downside, I'm hecka-decka broke and have a hearing to see if I'm eligible for unemployment on Monday…over the phone. I don't do well over the phone. Anxiety plus autism equals data scramble. But on the bright side, I have time to update for once! Yay!

Hope it was worth the wait. I'm going to try to update more regularly—once a month, probably the thirteenth (you know, because 13 is supposedly unlucky and OUMD's Nuada and Dylan have shit luck). Barring catastrophe, here's hoping!

If you guys want to make that happen more easily, you should check out my Pat. Re. On, where I talk about ways to help me get my fics out on a more regular schedule.

Reader Poll: I'm planning to make Once Upon a Time into a downloadable audio "book." Would you guys be interested in seeing that for this fic, too? Let me know in your reviews.

Last Time on Once Upon a Moonless Dark: after marrying to protect both Dylan and her unborn babies, she and Nuada spend four and half months hiding from the world in the underground sanctuary. But they cannot hide forever. The king of Bethmoora summons them, and they must answer at last. Now they will have to tell the king their story. They will have to relive the horror and the darkness again. Nuada isn't sure his sanity can take it. Even if it can, he is not sure the king will believe them. Dylan fears the king as well. But Nuada is decided—if King Balor proves to be their enemy, the prince will kill him…

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Chapter Seventeen
Words as Dark as Night, and Cold

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She would not be afraid. She would not. She'd been dragged into Hell three times in her life, and managed to claw her way back out every single time. She'd been battered, brutalized, and even broken. But she was not broken now. Damaged, yes. Not broken. With her dominant hand clasped lightly in Nuada's, her other hand resting protectively—and deliberately—on the noticeable swell of her belly, Princess Dylan Myers, wife of Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, glided into the Bethmooran king's great hall and tried desperately not to sweat or pass out. And dang it, her feet were already killing her, despite her boots.

They'd been married for nearly four months, she reminded herself. She was quite obviously pregnant, and a fae only had to taste the new, prenatal magic surging untapped in her blood to test the paternity. What could Nuada's father even do to them?

She didn't want to think about that.

Whispers trailed them as she and Nuada—trailed by a silent Wink, her brownie on his shoulder tucked against his neck—moved slowly along the pathway marked by a plush, scarlet, velvet rolling carpet that stretched like a streak of blood against the gold-veined, white marble floor. Dylan noted the sanguine color with clinical detachment. Nuada's blood was amber. The only other blood that had mattered at all had been silver. Her own blood hadn't been arterial, so it hadn't been so garish and bright like the carpet. Red blood had long ago lost the power to send her screaming and spiraling into a breakdown.

Nuada's silent command to stop and curtsy at the foot of the marble dais allowed her the illusion of aristocratic manners. Only when the prince gave her the mental all-clear did she at last raise her gaze to the man who was, in a lot of ways, responsible for what had happened to her and her prince.

Her brain stumbled a little at that unexpected thought even as she took in the weathered ivory face, thinning white hair, and aged amber eyes. While her gaze darted from the silver-chased elder-wood arm to the massive, sheathed, silver-chased claymore held in the upraised palms of a Butcher Guard, she considered the idea.

He'd flogged Nuada—for no reason at all. After feeling the way Eamonn's life had seeped out of him while Nuada had stabbed and stabbed at his guts and she'd strangled him with a silk nightgown, she had no compunction about killing anyone who tried to hurt her or her babies or the father of her children. So she could've easily killed Balor for that alone. But he'd accused Nuada of heinous crimes, rebuked him publicly, tortured him, allowed that monster to flay his back open with an iron-tipped whip. And because Nuada had been a mess of raw, bleeding wounds from that flogging handed down to punish the crimes her prince had supposedly committed…Nuada hadn't been able to sense him when he'd come to her cottage. Hadn't been able to fight back. Hadn't been able to save himself or her.

Because of the king. Because of his father. Because of this man right here, staring at her in complete bafflement.

It was his fault. All of it.

She took in the age lines, the antlers like carved and polished ash-gold marble thrusting up from his skull, the exhaustion and disappointment and dawning horror in that wrinkled face. She had faced worse than this. Than him. She would not let him scare her. So Princess Dylan lifted her chin and stared right back at the horrified old king she despised with every bone in her body.

"Crown Prince Nuada," the king said. His voice rasped in his throat, but at the first hoarse word, the entire hall fell silent as an old crypt. The nobles of the Golden Court leaned forward, watching with bated breath as Balor demanded, "Who is this?"

Nuada's grip on her hand tightened momentarily. She knew what he was thinking. Who was she? The full answer was impossible to voice. The twisted bond of desperation and need and friendship and fear and lust ensnaring them both like thorny brambles was impossible to explain. Who was she? Nuada had many names for her. Confessor, lover, wife, friend, victim. Witch, he sometimes called her in the dark of their nights while he sought solace in her body. Bewitch me, temptress, he would beg. Erase my memories with your magic. Sorceress, princess, miracle, sin-eater, keeper of his soul. So many names for her. Who was she to him? How could he explain it all to his father?

At last, Nuada only gestured to Dylan and said almost reverently, "Your Majesty, allow me to present my inestimable wife, the diamond of my heart, Princess Dylan."

Diamond of my heart. That was a new one, but apt. Diamonds were beautiful. You wanted them. But though they were beautiful, though they could bring comfort if used in the right way, they could be cold, too. They could cut. They were hard, and lovely, and dangerous. Everything she was. She comforted him, he found her beautiful, he wanted her, but her presence left him bleeding, too. It was fitting, she decided. A perfect analogy.

At his silent nudge, she curtsied again. Tried to erase her own loathing of the man from her voice when she whispered, "Your Majesty."

King Balor stared at her for several long moments before fixing his gaze on his son again. The amber eyes had lost some of their dusty gray tinge and now bronze began creeping in at the edges.

"The truth, Crown Prince. Who is this mortal that you have brought uninvited to my Great Hall?"

Dylan straightened and exchanged a long look with Nuada before he replied, "It is as I have said, Father," speaking softly but firmly and clearly. "Dylan is my wife. She wears the queen's ring—there is your proof of our marriage." Balor started, staring at the sapphire-and-white-gold ring on Dylan's left heart-finger. "And as you can plainly see, she is the mother of my first- and second-born."

The king's gaze snapped from the ring to the swell of Dylan's belly—smaller than if she'd carried human babies, but still noticeable at five months. The king blinked and a low, thrumming pulse surged up from the marble and gold throne and swept outward, a wave of warm magic that smelled of loam and early morning sunlight and the musky, rich scent of wild deer. But underneath it, Dylan detected something…fragile. Brittle. Tired. The king was very, very old, she realized. Older than his years. Too old to be on that throne anymore, because that sort of crack in royal magic led to terrible things for the land if left unchecked.

That warmth smoothed over Dylan's stomach, gentle but still discomfiting, invasive. He hadn't asked for her permission, but she knew what the old Elf was doing—testing the paternity of her twins, as Nuada had done.

When Balor's spell faded, he simply stared at them both without saying a word. The silence stretched…stretched…The courtiers began to whisper amongst themselves when the king continued to remain silent. Nuada outwardly ignored them, but Dylan felt the most minute tremor go through him.

Finally his father shook himself. Pushing slowly to his feet, he nodded to the guards. Dylan squeezed Nuada's hand.

Do not fear, Nuada murmured silently. I can slay them all, every person in his room if I must. I will not let anyone try to take you where you do not wish to go, little one. I will not let anyone harm you ever again, or our babes. This hall will flood with fae blood before they spill one drop of yours.

And behind them, Wink shifted ever so slightly and carefully, deliberately curled each of his bronze fingers into a loose, clanking fist. A movement in the silvered armor of the Butcher Guards caught Dylan's eye, and she saw her brownie tense on the troll's shoulder, a tiny hand going to his belt. What weapons did he carry, she wondered? He hadn't been able to fight well against him before that horrible Elf had crushed the tiny body as if the brownie bones were matchsticks. The brownie wasn't in their cottage now; could he fight safely? He'd barely recovered these last few months. She would not see him hurt again.

I will protect the wee one as well, though he will not thank me for it, Nuada added. But he may surprise you. While you have been in the sanctuary, he has been working to become stronger, fiercer. A warrior. He can fend well for himself against such as these.

But the king offered them no threat. All he said was, "Pray, attend me in my study."

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Nuada sensed Dylan's unease as the Butcher Guards escorted them and his father to the king's private study. Leaving the whispers of the venomous court behind had little effect on her mood or his. They had no idea how Balor would react, what he was thinking. Would they even have a chance to tell their story before Nuada was condemned?

Part of him hoped not. A small, secret part of him prayed for an excuse to fight his father, to challenge him, demand the throne under threat of the sword. The king's magic was old and failing; Nuada's was tainted now with his own shadows, but still strong, and he was better with a sword than any of his father's guards. Taking the throne and becoming the new king of Bethmoora would help in the ongoing, undeclared war to protect his people from the humans. It would help keep Dylan and the babes safe, because he would have the very land itself on his side.

And he would never have to speak of the hell he and Dylan had endured at the hands of that demon.

He had not even told Nuala. He had barely been able to get enough words out to make Wink understand him a handful of moons ago when he'd had to explain where he'd been and what had happened to wreck him so thoroughly. He could not tell his father. How could he bear it? How could he force Dylan to speak of it?

In the plush, well-appointed study done in golden wood and burgundy velvet, Balor sank into a large, crushed velvet seat while one of his guards built up the fire and the rest of them prowled the room to ensure it was safe enough for their monarch. Wink and Dylan's brownie—who'd yet to give them the privilege of his name—hadn't been allowed in the study, so Nuada had to rely on his own senses to determine if he and Dylan would be safe enough in it. When the guards had deemed it satisfactory and were far less likely to run him through for moving, the prince pulled out a comfortable chair for Dylan to sit down in; he'd noticed that despite her comfortable boots, she'd been scrunching her toes for several minutes to alleviate the ache brought on (somehow) by the babies.

Balor noticed every tiny detail of their interaction—how Nuada gently guided Dylan into the chair, how his hand smoothed up and down her back in a soothing caress just once, how his fingertips brushed the edges of her hair and the curve of her shoulder before he straightened and positioned himself to the side and slightly behind her, like a protector—or an owner, in the king's opinion. Nuada knew his father noticed all of this, thought these things, because the prince observed the king watching the Elf and mortal like a hawk intent on a bit of prey.

Let him think what he wished. Nuada would allow it to alter nothing.

The prince didn't sit. Nervous energy crackled like dry summer lightning in his blood. He dared not even pace to relieve some of his tension. He couldn't give away anything to his father that he didn't choose to give away deliberately. They were playing the political game here, the war game of thrones and double-edged words and power and weaknesses. He would not lose.

"What game are you playing, Prince Nuada?" Balor demanded softly into the charged silence. Beneath the tender hand he laid on her shoulder, Nuada felt Dylan tense. He squeezed ever so gently in reassurance.

"No game, Father. Dylan is my wife. As you no doubt determined yourself with that little spell in the Great Hall, she is with child—my children. Since you know me, you know that I would never seed a woman, fae or mortal, simply as a campaign point in a contest between you and me, and so thus you know all."

"Is this the mortal Eamonn spoke of at your trial?"

Dylan recoiled from the name. His name. They had sworn to never, ever speak that terrible name again. Beside her, it was all Nuada could do to swallow down the bile surging up into his throat, his mouth. He swallowed convulsively, desperate to keep from shaming himself by being sick all over the king's carpet. But his knees had gone weak, almost numb, and his head swam.

"Is this the human Eamonn spoke of or not, Nuada?"

That name. Eamonn. That name. He'd screamed it until his voice shattered and blood filled his mouth, fey sweet. He'd listened to it when the dark Elf had poisoned Dylan with so much toxic lust that she'd moaned it, begging, a sound of half-mad, agonized pleasure. And he…and Nuada had said that name, too. Begged Eamonn to spare Dylan whenever he'd raised his fists to her, threatened him with all manner of violent deaths when he'd taken his pleasure in her. But he'd whispered it, cried it out, in the haze of cancerous need brought on by the Tears. Moaned it while in the clutches of the poison.

Eamonn…oh, gods, Eamonn…yes, yes, gods, Eamonn, yes!

No! No, no, no! Shut up! Oh, gods, by the Fates and the stars, please, shut up, leave me be, no, he whimpered silently, but memory was on him now, slashing him, burning him. Hands on his body, like the brush of a kiss when Dylan touched him but also another touch, rough with sword calluses, and mouths on him, silk lips kissing him while the other mouth burned like hot velvet.

Oh, gods, he was going to be ill.

Shuddering, he covered his mouth with one sweaty, shaking hand, trying to hold it back.

Just breathe, he thought. Breathe through it. Breathe. Don't give in.

"Nuada?" His father's voice, sharp with concern instead of suspicion now, all else forgotten as the prince gripped the back of his wife's chair and hunched his shoulders against the urge to vomit. "My son, what's wrong?" Nuada!" Balor's voice snapped out, trying to break through the cloud of fear and memory and nausea. Somehow Nuada found himself in a chair, head between his knees, a deep silver basin between his boots. "Breathe, my son. Just breathe. Easy, now."

Oh, gods…oh, gods…

"Should I send for a healer, Majesty?" That was Sáruit, captain of the royal guard. Hell's teeth, if a healer came in here, what might they see when they looked at him? What might they say?

"No!" Nuada croaked, half-raising his head. "No healer." Besides, he had Dylan, she was a healer. If there was anything that needed to be done, she could…oh, gods. Dylan! He'd let himself be swamped by his memories but she…

Shoving his head up, he scanned the room, only to find her curled up in the armchair beside his, watching him with obvious worry in her sharp gaze. She was pale, white as skimmed milk. He could trace the bruise-like shadows of her veins with his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. His hand convulsed into a fist on his knee. "I did not expect—"

She laid a gentle hand on his arm. "I know."

Balor, to Nuada's surprise, knelt on the prince's other side and now watched him with obvious concern on his aged face and in his eyes. He laid a very careful hand on his son's other arm. In an oddly gentle voice, he asked, "Are you well, Nuada?"

After a small eternity, he shook his. "No, Áthair."

Balor nodded slowly. "I see. And whatever this is, it is why you did not return when I summoned you these last months?"

"Yes," he confessed. "Yes. Please, Father, I…" He hadn't intended to beg, not ever again. Hadn't intended to show weakness, but by the stars, he could still feel his tormentor, his hands and his body and his mouth working on him in tandem with Dylan's, making him want, making him need. "I'm sorry, I couldn't…Father, I—"

"All right," he said gently. Nuada felt like a fool. How weak could he be, how much lower could he sink? "All right, my son. Be easy for now. It is all right."

Balor said nothing for several moments, brow furrowed in thought, and the only sounds that filled the study were the snap and crackle of the flames in the heart, the soft rustle and creak of leather and armor as the guards shifted uneasily, and the harsh sound of Dylan and Nuada's breathing.

At last the king commanded, "Sáruit, take your company and leave us the room, if you please."

"Majesty!" The guard captain cried. "The crown prince is—"

"Now, Sáruit."

Dazed and sick with memory though he was, Nuada stared. Never before in his recollection had his father spoken to the guard captain that way, and Sáruit ingen Cabhan had led the Butcher Guards for more than a thousand years. She hadn't been captain when Nuada had gone into exile, but on his brief visits home to look in on the state of court and kingdom, he'd had plenty of dealings with her. The king loved her much as Nuada loved Wink, and Nuada had never spoken so to Wink in all their centuries together.

When the king's guard had all reluctantly left, Balor moved to a chair and slumped into it. He didn't move except to raise one eyebrow when Dylan moved from her chair to go to Nuada, perch on the arm of the prince's chair, and slide her arms around him, pressing close.

Nuada laid his head against her breast, breathing in the intoxicating scent of her that he'd practically memorized over the last few months. It pushed away the sudden stink of blood and sex and violence and fear burning in his nose. He closed his eyes against the view of the study and slid an arm around her waist, laying his other hand on the curve of her belly. A brief whisper of magic assured him their babes were well and content within her. That knowledge helped settle him a little. The steady drum of her heart against his cheek helped even more.

"Nuada," Balor said. His voice was soft, still gentle, yet somehow the prince knew what his father was going to ask before he said, "Where is Eam—" He broke off when Dylan made a strangled sound in her throat and pressed her face against the top of Nuada's head.

Feeling as if a metric ton of cold iron hung from his neck, Nuada lifted his head and met his father's troubled gaze.

"Swear you will not speak his name. It is in all ways abhorrent to us. We will not hear that name ever again. Swear it, or we will leave here."

Balor stared at him. "But why?"

"Swear. It." The words were carved from jagged ice. Nuada bared his teeth as he spat the shards.

The king studied him, studied the distressed mortal trembling with her arms twined around the prince, and at last canted his head. "As you wish. But where is he?"

"Dead," Nuada said flatly. Perhaps if he said it often enough, he would still believe it when it came time to sleep tonight. Perhaps then he could convince Dylan, too. Even though they both woke in the night with the phantom feeling of his warm blood on their hands, slicking their skin. Even though they still remembered with perfect clarity that moment in the aftermath of his death where they'd been dragged into that haze of need again and he'd taken her, thoroughly, desperately, Eamonn's blood still hot on their skin while she'd sobbed with need and pleasure and Nuada had thought he would die of her. "We killed him."

"You…" The king's mouth opened and closed several times without a sound. At last, the fog of disbelief began to fade from his face, leaving behind knitted white brows and eyes gone bronze with burgeoning rage. "You murdered an innocent Elf because he took you to task for forcing yourself on a helpless mortal woman—"

"I forced no one," Nuada snarled, but inwardly he heard his voice hissing in his ear, Liar, liar, liar, liar. "I did not—"

"Did this woman lie with you of her own choice?"

In his arms, Dylan flinched at the bite in the king's voice. She shook harder, and Nuada found his instincts—those instincts honed over the last half a year of hell and despair—surging up again, baying like angry hounds, desperate to obliterate whatever enemy dared to frighten his Dylan. But his father's query demanded answer.

He swallowed his own rage and confessed, "No, but—"

"Silence." The king rose to his feet, expression thunderous. "I will hear no excuses this time. You have gone too far, Crown Prince. You take this woman, make her your victim, glamour her to want you—"

"I used no glamour!" He protested. There had been no time, no reason, no chance. He hadn't had enough undrugged conscious thought and combined with the agony of his flayed back and the cracked and broken bones from being beaten…"I didn't—"

"So the first time was brute force, then," Balor hissed. Nuada flinched and Dylan scrunched in his arms, stifling a whimper. "Did you beat her first? Is that what you require now, Crown Prince?" His title only, no name, no mention of family ties or the bonds of blood. Contempt like a whip tipped in iron. "Glamour your poor plaything, make her biddable outside of the bedroom, but when the time comes to quench your blade, you need her fear to enjoy her? Her screams?"

Oh, gods, she'd screamed for him, Nuada remembered as memory clawed through his skull. Screamed, but not in pain or fear. Pleasure. He'd wanted all of her, wanted to memorize every inch of her, and she'd screamed and sobbed for more while he did it. She'd screamed for him again on their wedding night and the days after and may the gods have mercy on him, he'd reveled in it.

"You're wrong," Nuada whispered. The memories washed over him, taste and touch, a poisonous mist of desire. He clutched at Dylan, desperate to know she was still beside him, still with her arms around him, still there for him. She couldn't leave him. He couldn't leave her. They had to be together, they had to, no matter how sick or wrong or twisted it was. "You're wrong, I didn't—"

"Let go of that child, you filthy beast!" Balor roared. Nuada felt the words like blows. "Release her, now!"

Only centuries of habit and his own nauseating, bone-deep heartsickness compelled him to instinctively do what should have been unthinkable.

He pulled away from Dylan.

As his arms left her, she cried out and began to weep. The hate that swept over his father's face in that instant left Nuada breathless, gutted, and broken once more. As he gazed into his father's face, the taste of blood flooded his mouth. In the back of his mind, he heard screaming.

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The king raged at Nuada, hurling vile accusations, shouting, but the noise and the anger and Nuada's palpable despair and her own fear crashed together, drowning out the individual words until all Dylan heard was angry buzzing like hornets and her own sobs and, as if from far, far away, the sound of a man sobbing, "No, no, no, no," in a too-familiar voice that made her hurt. Nuada's breath came in thin, reedy gasps that Dylan could barely hear over the thunder of her own heart and the roaring in her ears.

But then the king cried, "Guards! Seize the prince!"

No! Dylan nearly fell of the arm of the chair. Nuada leapt to his feet, dragging Dylan behind him, shielding her body from the Butchers' swords with his own. The Butcher Guards in their slate-gray uniforms and iron helmets stormed into the room, iron claymores drawn and rippling with royal binding magic and the warping energy of toxic mortal metal. They would take Nuada way, she realized. Separate them. Even kill him, while she just stood there weeping. No, they couldn't do that, she had to do something, say something. Anything.

"Please," she croaked as the Butchers advanced. Panic stole her voice. "Stop," she squeaked. They didn't hear her. She wet her lips, but her tongue was dry and cracked. Casting a short, desperate prayer up to her Heavenly Father, she cried, "Please!" Balor's bronze eyes widened and the color began morphing to bloody, vibrant red. "No, please!"

"Release her, Nuada!" The king ordered.

"Father, please, you don't under—"

"Don't take him!" Dylan flung her arms around Nuada's waist and held on, trembling as tears rolled down her cheeks. Nuada froze with his notched sword half-drawn from its black sheath. He shuddered like a wild horse at her touch; he always did. The king opened his mouth to bark another command and panic grabbed Dylan by the throat and ripped the next words from her. "It wasn't him! It was…" Fear numbed her lips. Tingled in her blood. But she sucked in a breath as cold as a winter night and screamed, "It was Eamonn!"

Nuada jerked in her embrace like he'd been shot.

The king stared at them, but the Butchers pressed forward. Nuada yanked his sword from its sheath and swept an arm in front of Dylan, shielding her from the guards. Balor cried, "Guards! Hold!" The advance stopped. Nobody moved.

Dylan took a breath. Took another. Her mouth tasted vile. Slowly, she released her prince and straightened. She had to swallow twice more before she could speak past the lump in her throat and that vicious taste in her mouth. "Eamonn did it. Not Nuada."

"Eam—" The king cut himself off. Frowned. "Are you the mortal Nuada has been with for the past year? His mortal lover?"

She started. Had it been a year? Yes. They'd met two Decembers ago, and now it was just past mid-March. How had so much time passed?

But she nodded. "I'm not his lover, but he's been living with me for a while."

The king eyed her swelled midsection, but didn't comment on it. He only asked, "Why are you here, mortal child? Why are you with him?"

"Because…" If she said she loved Nuada, would the king believe her? Would he even care? Or would he take Nuada from her anyway? But you could not lie to the fae, and every other true reason was one she couldn't voice. "Because I love him."

Balor slapped Nuada with a look so vicious it should've drawn blood. But the look he gave Dylan was gentle. Pitying.

"My dear child, the prince has confused you with his magic. You're not in love with him. You cannot be in love with something like him." Dylan felt Nuada flinch at Balor's words. "He has glamoured you. He—"

"Saved my life," she whispered. Balor stopped. "You flogged him. You nearly killed him, because he killed someone to save my life and because after that we became friends. You nearly murdered your own son for being friends with a mortal."

The king stared at her. "My dear child—"

"She is not a child—" Nuada began sharply.

"You will be silent, Crown Prince!"

"Don't yell at him!" Dylan shouted, shoving in front of Nuada. A deft twist of his wrist swiped the sword out of her way before she would've walked into it. Rage throbbed through her like a toothache. Hands twisting into fists so tight they ached, she snapped, "He rescued me and killed my attackers two winters ago. He helped me recover. Made sure I got whatever medical attention I needed when I went back to the human world. He saved me again last summer from an angry leanashe who wanted to kill me. A leanashe sent by—" she was going to choke on his name, just like she'd choked on him, gagging, gasping for breath, smothered by his smell, "by Eamonn."

Nuada made a low animal sound, almost as if he were in pain. A shiver skittered along Dylan's spine. How many times would this terrible, hateful old man make her say that despised name?

"What?" Balor snapped. "Eamonn sent one of his servants to kill you? How do you—oh, grow up Nuada," he added when the Elven prince snarled at the king's use of the name. "Stop acting like a spoiled child!"

"Don't you talk to him like that!" Dylan snapped. "You have no idea at all what that monster did to us! Leave him alone!"

"What he did to you? So Eamonn flogged him," Balor said coldly. "What of it?" The lashings weren't fatal, I saw to that. What sort of man is Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, if he cannot bear a few well-deserved stripes?"

Icy sweat trickled down over Dylan's temples and the back of her neck, so at odds with the heat flaring ravenous and ugly in her gut. Nuada still shuddered, shook like a man with palsy. She clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. Say it. Had to say it, had to get it out, had to just spit it out. But she couldn't. She couldn't say the words. Tears cut her eyes like cold diamonds and she covered her mouth with both clammy hands to stifle a new sob.

It was Nuada who rasped, "He tortured us."

Balor scoffed, and Dylan saw visions of him lying twisted and broken in pools of his own blood, gurgling on his last breath. Chilled, she hugged herself.

"Oh, such torture, Crown Prince. Such torture, not to be able to slake your lust with your pleasure slave whenever your blood runs too hot. As for the torture Eamonn supposedly inflicted on her, was that not truly your doing?" The king sneered when Nuada went so gray he was nearly blue. The breath stuck in his throat. "If you hadn't spent the power to addict her to your touch, to make her crave you like some drug, there would be no harm done to her—"

Dylan snarled through gritted teeth, "You have no soul, you bastard. We're not being metaphorical, don't you get it? Eamonn literally tortured us! Both of us. He broke Nuada's ribs, beat him nearly unconscious! He dislocated both my shoulders, broke my finger, slashed up my face and my back! For heaven's sake, he bit me!" Dylan wrenched at the neck of her blue and gold gown, revealing the lavender-colored, circular scar on her clavicle that showed a perfect impression of Eamonn's teeth. "He—tortured—us. Violated us. He poisoned us so he could play his sick mind games with us because he didn't think you'd care what he did to Nuada! So don't you dare mock what we've been through, you heartless monster!"

The guards shifted restlessly on their feet, anger at her tone and her insults rippling off them like a heat wave. Balor, who'd been watching Dylan with his eyes growing wider and wider with every word, shook himself and ordered the guards out of the study once more. They obeyed—reluctantly.

"What do you mean," Balor said when they'd gone, "he poisoned you? Nuada's royal magic, as the crown prince, should've protected him, at least."

"Against Branwen's Tears?" Dylan hissed. "I doubt it." Nothing could stand up against the tears. Nothing.

Balor nearly choked. "Great merciful Danu! Branwen's…" He turned his gaze to the prince again, and Dylan wondered if the imbecile finally noticed how sick Nuada seemed. Neither of them had seen the sun since October. "Nuada…the Tears…did Eamonn…" And suddenly it was like a light bulb going off and fresh dawning horror spread across the ancient face like blood spilling across a marble floor.

"By the gods…Danu's mercy, you don't mean…Nuada?" When his son didn't speak, Balor's eyes glazed with a sudden sheen of tears. "Oh, gods, my son. My poor boy, come here—"

But when the king stepped toward him, Nuada jerked back, and so did Dylan. She knew her fear shone in her eyes, along with her disgust and loathing, but she didn't care. Not anymore. She would protect her husband from this man at all costs.

"Don't touch us," she hissed.

Anguish flashed across the king's face. He ignored Dylan, focusing on the prince. "Nuada, I didn't know. I swear I did not know. Forgive me, please, I—"

"My wife and I are tired, Majesty," Nuada murmured. Even without looking at him, Dylan knew his gaze was on the floor, not his father's face. "We have explained ourselves sufficiently, I trust. Might we have leave to retire for the night?"

"But…I…" Clearly at a loss—she didn't care; let him flounder—Balor finally nodded reluctantly. "Of course. Your suite is all prepared. And Master Ironfist's quarters as well. But…your lady wife—"

"Will stay with my husband," Dylan said icily. "You don't have to put in any effort; I have everything I need."

"Of…of course," the king mumbled, sinking into a chair. Dylan decided to take that as a dismissal, and when Nuada sheathed his sword, she slipped her arm in his and helped walk toward the door. Her knees shook, but her skirts hid it well. As they were walking out the main door of the study, Balor added, "Good night, my son. My lady."

After another brief eternity, Nuada said, "Good night, Majesty."

Dylan said nothing at all.

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He made it to his rooms, lasted through Wink and Becan depositing the small chest of Dylan's things they'd brought from the sanctuary. Shaking, icy sweat pearling on his forehead and the back of his neck, still he held onto his composure and his nerve until everyone but Dylan was far away. Then when it was safe, he raced to the privy and was thoroughly, violently sick.

Every time he thought he was finished, the memory of Eamonn's hand, his mouth, his voice crashed into him and his stomach would clench and he'd vomit again. In the end, all he could do was hold on until there was nothing left to bring up but bile. Eventually his stomach settled. His mind did not.

He hadn't remembered everything when they'd finally ended the nightmare and killed Eamonn together. Still barely remembered half the torments and delights of those unending days in Dylan's bedroom. But the sound of that name, his name, dredged up newly recalled horrors until Nuada shook with memory and reaction, until he couldn't breathe for remembering.

An odd sound penetrated the roaring of blood in his ears. Gingerly, he lifted his head and saw that Dylan had turned on the shower. A drumming like a rainstorm echoed off the black tile walls.

"I'm sorry I said it," she whispered from where she leaned against the black marble counter. "I had to, I didn't know what else to–"

"I know," he croaked. "I know."

He pushed to his feet and went to the sink, turning the gold and crystal tap to bring forth a gush of cool, clear water. He rinsed his mouth, then splashed some water on his face while chewing mint leaves to freshen his breath and sweeten in his mouth. A wave of one hand and some words in muttered Gaelic lit candles he always used to better add to the light of the bathing room fireplace.

The bathing room was large, the size of Dylan's bedroom, done in black marble with gold and crystal fixtures. It had a tub the size of a small pond, a shower the size of a double white horse doll, and the privy chamber. Double sinks in marble counters lined the walls. The maids that had prepared the prince's suite had left towels, soap, shampoo, anything he might need. Dylan had brought her own things, and in the morning he would see about opening the small suite of rooms that were rightfully hers.

If he could face anything in the morning. At the moment, it seemed doubtful.

"Nuada?" Dylan's plaintive voice jerked his head toward her. She'd turned on the shower. The import of that hit him only then. Dylan retreated to the shower to cleanse the stickiness of fear or sorrow from herself. He'd seen it often enough both times she'd been in the sanctuary. He'd learned to take comfort from the water, as well. There was something soothing, purifying about it.

"Forgive me, little one," he mumbled, reaching for a small drying cloth to wipe down his face. "Shall I join you?"

She nodded, then hesitated. "Can you help me with my laces?"

He froze in the act of hanging up the drying cloth. He thought of it — pulling the laces through until the neck of her gown gaped, baring her shoulders and throat for him. Nuada still felt him on his skin, hands and mouth and tongue and teeth. He wanted her hands, her mouth, her tongue and teeth. It was always like this, even now. It had been nearly six moons but anytime anything reminded him of the ecstasy they'd shared, hunger awakened anew.

Just like now.

"One moment," he said, oh so very softly, and saw the shiver race through her, saw the gleam spark in her eyes and her lips part just a little. His hands only shook the smallest bit as he doffed the golden crest tied to his sash, the sash itself, his vambraces and boiled leather chest-plate, the black silk shirt. He stood before her in ivory tunic and black trews, and he watched her gaze caress him with admiration and promise.

"Shall I?" He asked hoarsely. He wasn't talking about laces.

"Yes," she breathed.

"You want this?" He always asked. Always. He would have her, and her consent, always. There could never be any doubt.

She nodded. "Yes."

He was on her in a burst of Elven speed, pinning her to the slick marble wall beside the glass door of the shower with his body. A gentle spray of water from the shower misted his cheek. Droplets like tiny diamonds clung to her elegant curls. Her back was to him, so that she hugged the wall, looking back over her shoulder and up at him. He was careful of what pressure he put on her, careful of the gentle swell of her belly. One dark curl had escaped her pins to lay like an invitation against her pale, scarred cheek.

"Is the knot too hard for you?"

"No," he said.

The knot was not too hard. He set to work. Each loop of silk brocade lacing came loose with a few deft tugs of slender Elven fingers. Silk and velvet slid along Dylan's skin until his eyes could feast on the creamy column of her neck, the gentle curves of bared shoulders. Knowing what it did, he leaned in and flicked the tip of his tongue against the vivid purple scar at the nape of her neck: a gancanaugh's bite, the flesh still exquisitely sensitive from the latent venom still saturating it.

Dylan gasped and arched. "Nuada—"

"Turn around," he rasped, and she did. He reached up oh so slowly and carefully slid every jeweled pin from her hair. The dark locks tumbled down nearly to her waist. He thrust his hands into the silken wealth of it. Her hair. It was so, so lovely. So soft. He loved it sliding on his skin, tangled around his fingers. Gods above and below, he wanted…

He knew what he wanted. What did she want?

"What do you wish this time, mo duinne?" He whispered. "What phantom haunts you? What demons shall I slay tonight?"

"I can…taste him," she confessed. Rage spiked in his blood, twining with the desire. "His name is like poison in my mouth. I don't want it. I hate it. Get rid of it. Please, Nuada…"

"Oh," he breathed. "I shall absolutely do that."

"And you?" She asked softly, stroking gentle fingertips over the bared patch of flesh framed by the low neck of his tunic. Her fingers skirted up along his throat, over the course of his neck, to caress the tips of his ears. "What do you want from your witch?"

Nuada shuddered, but this time it wasn't disgust or fear or loathing. He leaned in, hands braced on the marble wall, and breathed against those lush lips, "Witch, I name you, for witch you most certainly are, my wife. Keeper of my soul. Enchantress. Temptress."

"Tell me what you need, Nuada."

He breathed in the scent of her skin again, her hair. Gazed longingly at her mouth. She'd painted it plum-colored rouge for this night. He wanted that rich plum color smeared on his mouth, on his skin. He wanted…

"I can feel him," he said. "His mouth on me. Erase it. Bewitch me so that I can forget it, Dylan, I beg you."

She lifted her hands to the loosened neck of her gown. Silk and velvet slipped to the floor in a whisper of fabric, a poofed puddle of blue softness. She grabbed his wrists and slid his hands up, from the wall and the cascade of her hair to the top. He threaded his fingers through it. Dylan met his gaze. Licked her lips.

"Show me what you need. Take it."

Looking into her eyes, he said, "By your leave, my lady."

The air escaped him in a long, tortured breath as he obeyed her, showing her what he yearned for, giving her what she craved. He gave himself up to her, the magic of her replacing the hideous memories for a time. He had to brace himself with one hand against the marble when his knees threatened to buckle, his other hand crushing her hair in his fist. A cry slipped from between his clenched teeth at the end as heat licked up his spine and stars burst across his vision. He trembled in the aftermath of it and realized he still hungered for her.

She saw that hunger in his eyes. Matched it with her own need gleaming back at him as she looked up at him and her tongue darted out to sweep over her lips. He nearly fell to his knees before her then.

"I think we need the water," Dylan said, rising from where she'd knelt before him on the cushion of her discarded gown. She took his hand and led him on somewhat unsteady legs toward the shower. "I want…"She hesitated. Sometimes, after a display of dominance like she'd just given, she turned shy and uncertain. He still was not sure why. "I want to see you with wet hair."

He blinked. "Why?"

"Well…it's just…it really, really hot."

That explained so much about all the times they'd made love in the sanctuary bathing chamber.

"Your wish is my command."

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Author's Note: I hope it was worth the wait. I am really sorry. But, if it is any consolation, I seriously jacked up my hands trying to get this thing typed up. I wrote it out by hand while I was stuck in bed and then tried to type it up super fast and ended up causing a flare-up in my carpal tunnel. Please let me know what you guys think. It's been a while since I've worked on this, I wanted to make sure I still had the tone of it. Thank you so much. Have a great December. I will try to have the next chapter up on January 13. Bye. Oh my God my hands hurt.