Author's Note: hey, everyone. So this chapter was written right after something good happened to me, so it's a little softer – actually a lot softer – than the previous chapters. My husband got a new job. No guaranteed hours, but the pay is better and the likelihood of better hours is high. We just have to wait for his last two weeks to go through and then he can start there. Hopefully it works out. Fingers crossed. Anyway, so that hopefulness inspired this chapter.

However, I want to explain something. I received a guest review that asked how I thought anyone could take pleasure from the previous chapter, which was pretty vicious. My answer is this: I don't. I don't expect people to take pleasure in reading about Nuada or Dylan being raped or tortured or suffering from mental breakdowns or wanting to die. It's supposed to make people cringe and feel disgusted by Eamonn's actions when he hurts them. Eamonn's the bad guy. You're not supposed to enjoy what he's doing. I write this fanfic as a venting mechanism to deal with my own life. That's why it's so much darker and so much more terrible than the main fanfic. Because the main fanfic is supposed to have a lot more that's enjoyable. It's supposed to be a more well-rounded story. This is my angst/brutality dumping ground. I just want to make that clear.

Speaking of Once Upon a Time, the latest chapter just went up on my Pat. Re. On., so in about a week, it will pop up here on FF. The reason it's taken so long is the same reason it's been so easy to work on this fanfic – life is shit right now, and I draw from that. The new chapter for Once is also inspired by the hopefulness that helped inspire this chapter. I hope you guys enjoy both.

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Once Upon a Moonless Dark

Chapter Twenty-Three

Where Do We Go From Here?

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Dylan opened her eyes to silence. Aloneness. She lay sprawled out across the soft bench seat of the ensorcelled carriage beneath her husband's silk-lined leather greatcoat. But where was her husband?

The little window on the carriage door allowed tendrils of bright sunlight to dapple the carriage interior with soft spots of pale green and gold. She sat up slowly, surprised that neither her back nor her bad leg offered any protest to the uncomfortable position she'd been in most of the night.

A note lay on the bench a few inches away.

Dylan,

If you wish to explore the carriage now that we have stopped, simply go through the left-hand door. If you wish to come to your adoring husband, on the other hand, I will be waiting outside.

Ever yours, Nuada

Puzzled, she did as directed and went through the left-hand door, the one whose window showcased only shadows that shifted as the sunlight filtering in from outside did. The door swung open, and the mortal gaped at the long hallway that ran from the doorway to what felt like infinity. Nuada had said she could explore; that meant it had to be safe. He would never have let her walk into danger, not again.

She stepped across the threshold. As soon as her foot touched the stone floor, a door about four feet away swung open from the right side of the strange corridor. Dylan peeked in and grinned when she found a bathroom tiled in cerulean and emerald and lapis lazuli and slate and pearl and sapphire, all the colors of the sea. It came complete with a shower stall and a very large blue-marble bathtub studded with tiny silver and gold things. She peered at them and realized they were seashells. When it was full, it would feel like being underwater.

Wow. That is so cool. And absolutely gorgeous. She adored fancy bathtubs, adored bathing. Nuada had remembered that. Of course he had.

Darting back to the main room of the carriage, she grabbed the bag she'd packed and went into the bathroom to change clothes, drag a brush through her frizzed out curls, and brush her teeth so as not to inflict morning breath on her prince. Then she went looking for Nuada.

She opened the door to the outside world and froze, stunned into absolute stillness.

Thick trees towered overhead, oak and hawthorn and redwood and maple and ash and birch, their leaves filtering the brilliant morning sunshine into shades of pale amber and jade and beryl and malachite, turning the sunlight to jewels on the dark-honey floor of the forest, which rustled with pine needles and fallen leaves. Birdsong and the croon of the wind filled the silence she'd grown used to in the sanctuary and in the castle at Findias. She could smell the richness of spring and the first warming breath of summer on the air, even though it was still early March. Everything seemed to shimmer with potential, with energy. With magic. It set her heart pounding. She just wanted to drink up the life brimming all around her.

"It is beautiful, is it not?" Nuada's voice was a murmur in her ear that made her start slightly. She turned to see him gazing up at the canopy of trees. The sunlight glanced off his hair, giving it a luster she'd never seen in the City or the Park or in her cottage or even under the sun streaming through the windows of her palace chamber. There was a smile on his face that she'd never seen before, though his somber black tunic and trews seemed to turn it a little wistful, a little melancholy.

"Yes," Dylan said softly, arrested by the expression of absolute peace on Nuada's face. Warmth bloomed in her chest and she took his hand. That physical connection shot a tingle of awareness down Dylan's arm. She remembered with sudden vivid clarity the way his hand had felt under her fingertips the night before, warm and solid. Remembered the way his fingers had curled a little when she'd touched his palm. Remembered the taste of him, his fingers in her hair, his groans in her ears. "It's wonderful." She stifled a yawn. Sheepishly, she added, "What time is it?"

"A quarter to ten in the morning. I thought it best to let you sleep. No nightmares plagued you, I hope."

"No, none. Thank you for letting me sleep." She hadn't felt so warm, comfortable, and awakesince leaving the sanctuary. "So, is this where you wanted to take me?"

He nodded. "This is the royal forest in Bethmoora. No one comes here without the king's permission. No," the prince added, "my father does not know we're here, but I am crown prince and you are my wife and a princess of Bethmoora. It is no crime for me to be here, to bring you here."

Dylan frowned. A whisper of unease ghosted down her spine. "Will he try to punish us for being here? Is it safe?"

"Safe enough, little witch. The trees speak to me in a way they have not spoken to their king in centuries. If my father sends his iron-shod Butcher Guards to fetch me back here - which would be impossible anyway, as he has no idea where we've gone - I would be warned of it, and cut them down ere they could lay hands on you. I will not have our honeymoon interrupted."

"Is that what this is?" She came down from the carriage step and was surprised when her boots sank a little into the lush carpet of pine needles. "Our honeymoon?"

Dark lips curved into a small smile. "Actually, darling, this is me taking you out to get breakfast. Grab your bag and come with me."

The Elven prince led her through the woods, through trees packed so tightly together there was no hope of the carriage following them to their destination. Beams of sunlight caressed the occasional rainbow of wildflowers peeping through golden needles and lush grasses. Finally, after about twenty-odd minutes through the woods, he brought her to a meadow.

This wasn't the meadow he'd shown her in the dreams they'd shared in the sanctuary, as their minds reached out and entangled with each other - not that she would ever have a chance to see that place, which was now long gone. But it was a pretty, quiet place. Oak and spruce and cherry trees ringed the clearing. Snowy white veiled the cherry trees like gossamer-shrouded bridal dryads. Goldfinches, bright as sunlight on dragon treasure, nested in the dark green of the ringing trees. A wide stream, its grassy banks lined with boulders and stones of various sizes, ribboned across the greensward sprinkled with wildflowers perfuming the warm spring air. Some of the river stones glistened green and slick beneath the gently rushing water of the stream. The larger boulders made wonderful natural seats, with cushions of soft dry moss. Some of the rocks bore sharply jutting edges, but Nuada intended to set up camp a little ways away from those. Although the weather was a bit warm, delicate snowdrops bloomed near the great stones, lacy white against green grass and gray stone. Thornless wild Irish roses twined over some of the sharper rocks near the edge of the clearing, white and pink and scarlet. Butterflies in various bright hues fluttered amidst the vibrant blooms.

This was the world as it had once been, before humans' destructive ways had spoiled the wildlands. There was nowhere outside of Faerie that he could take her to that was as pure and unsullied. And no other accessible forest had what he wanted to show her. But that surprise would have to wait until nightfall.

He would not be swayed. Before taking her away from Faerie, sending himself into exile with her once more, he would give her something. Some token that, if they were lucky, would lighten her shadows and bring her some peace.

"It's so warm," she murmured as he took her toward the stream. "Isn't it still early spring in Bethmoora? Why is it so warm here?"

"It is always late spring in the royal forest," Nuada said. "With the faintest taste of summer to come."

At the stream, he drew off his tunic and shirt and dropped them to one of the larger boulders by the river to keep them dry. Yanked off his boots and socks and left them by his shirt. "Shoes off, mo duinne."

The idea was so startling she laughed. "What? Why?"

"I am going to teach you how to fish for your breakfast."

Knee-deep in the stream, his trews and her jeans rolled up to keep them dry, Nuada showed her how to tickle trout. She sat on a stone jutting out over the little creek, careful to keep her feet from disturbing the water. The feral-eyed warrior crouched over the smooth surface of the stream's shallows. One hand lay palm-up on the clean white sand at the bottom. Keeping almost completely still, firegold eyes watched a fish slowly fin its way out of the shadows of the water toward the prince. The only movement from the preternaturally still Elf was the almost-agonizingly slow wave of his fingers, which almost seemed to hypnotize the trout.

Dylan held her breath as the slick silver fish drifted until it hovered just above Nuada's pale fingers. The prince slanted her a glance from the corner of his eye. Smiled at the avid look on her face. Then, with a lightning-strike move and a splash, something silver jack-knifed out of the water and hit the rocks with a wet slap. Dylan squeaked and scootched back a ways from the trout before realizing it wasn't about to splash its way back into the water.

"Whoa." Her eyes were shining when she looked from the fish to Nuada. "That was amazing. Where did you learn to do that?"

"The army," he said, forcing himself not to preen under her praise. "Now hop off that rock, roll up your sleeves, and come over here so I can teach you how to do this."

Cool eddies swirled around her bare ankles and the sun warmed her back through her green tunic. Warmer than the sun, more tantalizing than the currents of the brook they currently stood in, were Nuada's hands on her body, gently and carefully positioning her over the water. He kept one hand at her waist in case she lost her balance. The other slid along the smooth flesh of her arm, guiding her hand beneath the calm surface of the stream and laying it on the soft sand.

"Do not tense up," he murmured in her ear. His breath was hot against her skin and she had to fight to stay relaxed. When a small shiver whispered down her spine, he chuckled softly and brushed a kiss against the back of her neck. "Do not move too swiftly or you will scare the fish. You must be patient." His thumb brushed against the pulse at her wrist, so slow, an echo of how he sometimes touched her in other places. Her heart rate jumped a mile at the thought. As if he didn't notice, Nuada said, "Now wait for it."

In the end, Dylan actually managed to catch two fish. Nuada caught six others, which made her feel rather pathetic, but he informed her that he'd been just as unskilled when first learning the trick of it. That little tidbit and a long, hungry kiss that left her legs weak helped a lot. Nuada cleaned the fish and Dylan surprised him by knowing how to build a fire. As the fish cooked, the mortal asked, "So, why go to all this trouble? What's going on?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, why take me out to this place that seems to be a bit exclusive, get me something awesome for breakfast instead of just buying something, and doing whatever other awesome and exciting things you've got planned today? This is amazing. Why do this for me?"

He looked at her for a long moment. "If not for you, then who?"

"Cheater," she cried in mock-outrage. "That's not an answer."

"You truly wish to know?" He asked softly. Taken aback by his change in tone, she nodded cautiously. "Because you deserve romance and courtship and devotion and a doting husband. But I am a prince, and broken, and haunted. I cannot be the man you deserve, so I try my best with such offerings when I can."

"Nuada…" Dylan whispered. "You...you're just fine the way you are. You can't think like that. That you're not good enough for me because of what he did. You are."

But he shook his head. "You are...strong in ways I do not think I can ever comprehend. Wise in ways I could never hope to achieve. Kind and compassionate despite all your dark memories. You deserve a king for your husband, not a shade with a broken soul-"

"Stop it." She said it softly, yet firmly. Shifting close, she reached up and cupped his face between her palms. "Stop it."

"Dylan-"

"No." She leaned in and brushed her mouth with his. "I won't hear it. I won't hear you say these things about yourself. We made it through Hell together. You're just as strong as me, just in a different way. You are the prince and the warrior I need. No one else could...could understand me the way you do. Help me the way you have. They way you still do. Do you understand? I wish we could've come together differently somehow, but I'm still glad that we are together."

He looked at her, studying her scarred face, her still-tired eyes. Then Nuada touched his forehead to hers. Sighed.

"I do not know what I did to deserve love like yours, but I am grateful for it. You are, now and always, my lady. My love. My queen."

She smiled. "So dramatic." A quick kiss at the corner of his mouth. "You are, now and always, my love. Now let's eat. Your children want breakfast."

And somehow, he found it in himself to laugh.

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Over the course of the day, Nuada showed Dylan many of the wonders of a wild forest: a tiny flock of demi-fey sipping nectar from trumpeting morning glory, their gently-fanning gossamer wings a blur of iridescent colors; the mother fox and her kits that crept through the tall grass of the meadow; tiny schools of silver minnows darting through the water. He pointed out wild Irish roses and showed her a wild cherry tree veiled in ivory bloom. Taught her to recognize the beautiful whistling cry of a bird called a plover. Allowed her to meet a band of otters playing in a nearby pool - otters who turned out to be little water fae children in disguise, who were quite happy to splash around with the mortal two-legger wife of their prince. He even showed her how to coax a blue jay from its nest, though she wisely didn't try to touch the bright blue feathers. Birds didn't mind Elven smells, but human smells were something else entirely.

The midday meal consisted of a lot of different fruit that grew in the woods. She loved pretty much all of it, even though she didn't know what most of it was. Her favorite part, however, was when Nuada cracked open a pomegranate and tossed her half. Her favorite fruit of all time was a pomegranate seed and she'd been low-key craving them for months.

She was only on the sixth seed when she noticed feral eyes watching her. "What?"

"You remind me of her," he said suddenly. His voice was soft, almost far away, and there was an odd look in his eyes.

Dylan blinked. "Who?"

"Persephone," he murmured. "Goddess of spring. You sit there, looking so regal even though your feet are covered in dirt, and you just... remind me. And yet, there is also more than Persephone in you. There is Kore, the maiden, the goddess who walked through Tartarus and conquered its king, brought him to his knees in the hopes he might serve her, love her. You are both. Kore, the maiden. Persephone, the destroyer."

She stared at him for a long time, then asked, "Does that make you Hades?"

He smiled. "If it would earn me a throne by your side, I would be a death god for you, beloved. The mortals worshipped my shadow as a warrior god once, long ago, though I did not ask it of them. A defender, a protector of their kind and my own." He shook his head. "Blind fools. As if the Tuatha de would ever bend the knee to iron-laced blood and mortal cruelty. But they thought it of me, and my own people believed me to be their own shield, their arm to protect them from the tyranny of the humans. Now I will be your sword and shield."

Amber-kissed ivory eyes fixed on her and a shiver crawled down her spine as he whispered, "I will be Hades for you, my queen. Will you be my Persephone?"

Persephone. The destroyer, the goddess of spring. Mistress of death.

"Come here," she said, and he came to her, and he kissed her upturned mouth. Her fingers grazed his throat, her nails tickling the skin like the edges of gentle knives, and he cradled her face in callused hands that shook. She destroyed him with her kiss, searing away flesh and blood, and raised him from the abyss again when she drew him down to her. She spilled desire into his very bones as he kissed her, as he settled over her, between her updrawn knees.

He tasted mortality when he kissed her throat, sucking at her hammering pulse. Tasted life and the salt on her skin when, having bared those soft breasts to the air, his mouth found one dark nipple and suckled greedily, drinking in her moans and soft gasps. He tasted lust when he kissed between her scarred thighs, when he sipped from her with the care of hummingbirds, with tiny flicks of his tongue against that impossible sweetness, relishing, and she trembled and broke under the slow, delicate torture of his mouth.

He discarded his tunic, offered it to her for a blanket, protection against the cool, dew-damp grass. She was so beautiful. Exquisite, lying there with her unlaced tunic baring round shoulders and pale skin, propped on her elbows, watching him undo the lacings of his trousers with slow, unhurried movements. He moved just as slowly and deliberately when he knelt between her legs, his hands gliding along warm, scarred calves and up her thighs to brush aside her skirt, baring her to him. So beautiful. So ready for him. Always so ready for him and gods, he needed her now, like this, hair tangled by wind and the sun caressing her skin, no shadows in her gaze, no ghosts haunting them there in the sunlight and warm spring air. She could see it in his face, his eyes, see the need for it, and reached for him, pulled him to her, and he was helpless in her arms.

By your leave, my lady, he whispered into her mind as her body shuddered and she nodded breathlessly, gasping for him, aching for him. He pressed his brow to her warm throat, tangled his fingers with hers so that every beat of their hearts met where their palms touched. I love you, he sighed, moaned, and filled her.

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They lay together afterward, his cheek against her breast, her fingers drifting lazily through his hair. The sun shone warm on his back and he stroked with gentle fingertips over the curve of her belly.

"Do you think…" Nuada began, then cut himself off. He had no idea where the beginning of that question had come from, but he didn't want to ask her. Except...except he did. When she only continued petting his hair, he whispered, "When...when you're...gone. Do you think I will ever...ever be able to be with a woman like this? After you?"

He didn't want to think of her gone. Didn't want to think of the world without her in it. But she was mortal, so fragile and mortal, and he was Elven, he would live far longer than she. Once she was gone, would he ever know comfort, closeness, pleasure, as he knew it with her? Would Eamonn's shade continue to haunt him after her death, or would the nightmares and hallucinations follow Dylan to the grave? How could he bear to bed any other woman? The thought of another body under him, another woman astride him, another mouth against his, made his gorge rise and he turned, pressing his eyes against the swell of Dylan's breast like a child hiding from a nightmare.

She didn't speak for a very long time, and the sun crept across the sky, and the wind sang through the trees. Finally, Dylan pressed her lips to the top of his head and then lifted his chin so she could look into his eyes.

"I don't know. You'll have centuries to heal, for the wounds to scar over, so maybe. I don't want you to be alone once I'm...gone. I want you to be able to be happy."

"Happy…" He echoed. Shook his head. "I do not see how that can ever be possible when he still…" Nuada snapped his teeth shut. Blew out a hard breath. "Forgive me. I did not mean to say—"

"He still what?" Dylan demanded, and the sharpness in her voice arrested him. He found himself pinned by her gaze and he remembered what he'd said to her earlier. Persephone. The destroyer. "What is it? Tell me."

Nuada opened his mouth. Closed it again. Opened it. Drew away from her. The absence of her warmth struck him but he could not cling to her when the memories of his nightmare burned under his skin and clawed at his brain. Hunching his shoulders, he stared at the burbling stream and said nothing. Where had the sunshine gone? He couldn't stop his flinch when Dylan touched his shoulder.

"Was it your nightmare? From last night?"

Of course she would not have forgotten it. How he'd awoken from a dream of degradation and torture, body on fire with the phantom pain of Branwen's Tears, wanting her. He'd taken her like an animal there on the floor. She'd let him, offering him the solace of her arms and her heart. How could she love such a beast as he knew himself to be?

"Nuada, you can't keep this locked inside you. We tell each other everything, don't we?" Dylan shifted, slipping her arms around him, pressing against his back. Her hair caressed his shoulder, his jaw. He shuddered. Gods, the words pounded in his throat, hammered like a second heartbeat. He wanted to tell her. To confess it. To purge it in the hopes that he never had to think of it again. But what would she think of him? What would change? And if he said it, it would all become so hideously real. Every rape, every violation, every kiss, every sick and twisted word hissed with that serpent's tongue in his ears. But Dylan...she held him tight even as he shook with the memories, with the disgust and the shame. Held him, cheek against his shoulder, and whispered, "You can tell me anything, Nuada."

Anything. Here, in this pleasant, peaceful little grove, he could tell her anything.

The words spilled from him like vomit.

"I lied to you," he choked out. He dug his fingers into the soft earth; soil gathered under his nails and his knuckles popped from the strain. "I lied when I said...when I said he didn't...hadn't...I didn't remember at first. I thought I had...that we had done it to you, but…but now…" The breath whistled between his teeth. His belly knotted and churned. Gods, gods, he couldn't form the words. What sort of man was he, that he could not confess this? Could not bring himself to speak it? "Dylan, I...I cannot...the dreams, the nightmares, in them he...I remember everything that he…"

He turned to her, blindly, and buried his face against her throat. He clung to her like a child, eyes burning as if with salt or ash-wood smoke. Her arms encircled him. Enfolded him. And he sobbed against her neck, babbling against her skin. He told her everything. That Eamonn had raped him as he'd raped her, not just with Dylan's body but his own. That the dark Elf visited him in nightmares of torment and foul words and abuse and hunger. That each night, the smoldering of the Tears in Nuada's blood flared to life because of the dreams and he couldn't bear it, couldn't bear the agony, the humiliating, the shame, the desire.

It was the same thing, Nuada realized in a distant, exhausted way, that Dylan had told him in the cottage after they'd butchered their enemy. That the dark Elf had succeeded in turning his victim into a whore, a slave to his twisted whims. But what had Nuada said to her then? He could scarcely remember.

Dylan let him weep in her arms until he lay spent, cheeks clammy from tears. Nuada lifted his eyes to her. Stared into her face. Would she cast him aside now, knowing his weakness? Knowing how he could not fight off the hideous nightmares?

"Thank you for trusting me," she whispered, touching her forehead to his. Nuada shuddered. Tightened his grip on her. "This is...I don't know if it's normal, how intense the nightmares are, and the bruises I keep getting. Are you waking up with bruises?"

He hadn't thought to check. He confessed as much.

"I don't see any," she murmured. "But...we've been through something hideously traumatic and we never...we never tried to get help. Therapy, I mean. That might explain some of it. These nightmares we keep having. They're unusual for PTSD nightmares - usually PTSD causes nightmares that mimic the emotions, not replay the events themselves - but maybe it's because you're Elven, with different psychology, and we're connected. I don't know. I need to think about it. But thank you, Nuada. For trusting me with this. I would never judge you for this happening."

The Elven warrior shook his head, wiping with no little irritation at the moisture on his face. "Dylan, I...I wanted him. When he would...do things to me, I wanted him so badly—"

"You were drugged," she said calmly. "We both were. We didn't want him, Nuada. We wanted. That's all it was. We were drugged. It's just chemistry. It doesn't say anything about us, about who we are as people. He assaulted us. We didn't invite him. You told me that, remember?"

After a long moment, he nodded. Breathed out a long sigh. They clung to each other for a long time as the clouds slowly parted and golden light fell down on them again, warming their chilled bodies. Nuada laid his head on Dylan's shoulder. Breathed in the scent of her.

"What would I do without you, mo duinne?"

At that, she smiled. A real smile. She even chuckled a little. "Oh, you'd probably be very, very boring." She popped a kiss on his cheek. Another on the tip of his nose. It dragged a small smile out of him in response. "And you'd be a total grouch."

Grateful for the distraction, he demanded, "Grouch, is it? Grouch?" In a flash, he'd grabbed her around the middle and hauled her, half-naked and flailing, into his arms. "I'll show you a grouch, wife!"

"No!" She squealed, laughing, as he marched toward the little stream. "No, no, no! Don't you dare! Unhand me! Unhand me by order of the princess! Nuada!"

"Denied," he said, "by order of the crown prince."

And he dumped her in the water with a resounding splash.

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"You are an absolute wretch," Dylan mock-grumbled as she wrung out her hair. She sat on a small boulder beside their fire, wearing Nuada's borrowed shirt and a pair of clean underwear from her bag, trying to scowl at him. "I can't believe you dropped me in the water!"

"It was deep enough," Nuada said, sitting on the grass beside her boulder. "I did not hurt you."

She stuck her lip out at him. "No, you didn't, but I'm all wet." She rolled her eyes and lightly kicked him in the thigh when he waggled his eyebrows at her. "Ew! Pig." But she couldn't help laughing as he flopped over onto her legs, head in her lap, and flashed her a winsome smile. He even batted his lashes at her, like flutters of starlight. "Oh, for crying out loud…stop with the charm!" At that moment, her stomach rumbled. Now it was her turn to offer her husband a winsome smile of her own. "Food?"

"Here." He tossed her a small, magenta fruit. When she caught it, she realized it was a fat, deliciously ripe strawberry. Dylan cocked her head at it. Nuada drew her attention to a nearby patch of wild fruit she hadn't seen before. He plucked another and offered it to her. It nearly covered his entire palm. Mouth watering, Dylan took the second strawberry and started in on them while her prince set to work arranging for another meal of fish and wild greens foraged from the edges of the forest clearing. Because it was spring, she knew the dandelions and cress would be sweet and juicy instead of bitter the way they were in wintertime.

While the fish crackled over the fire, Nuada took a glass mason jar and scooped up some crystal-clear water from the stream. He grinned at her, one eyebrow quirked. For a moment he looked like a little boy. She wondered, suddenly, if their babies would have that charm, that smile.

"Want to see something impressive?"

Dylan nodded and finished off the second strawberry. Nuada gave her a third, just as big as the other two, and then hefted the jar of water.

"Glacaim le bronntanais nádúrtha eallaigh an rí," he said in soft, commanding Gaelic, almost too quickly for Dylan to catch. She recognized something about a king and cattle, but didn't hear the rest clearly enough to translat it. "Bán mar chúr na farraige, milis mar pailín meala, géar mar an aigéan."

Right in front of her eyes, the water in the jar thickened and clouded, turning white as pearl, white as the moon. Nuada gave the jar a quick shake, popped the lid off, and handed it to her. The glass was so cold, it wept condensation onto her skin.

"Go ahead," the Elven prince encouraged. "Taste it."

He wouldn't ever play a joke on her, or give her something that wasn't safe, so she took a sip. The delicious taste of honey-sweetened milk, offset with the sharp tang of sea salt, flooded over her tongue and she squeaked in happy surprise. Nuada smiled.

"I thought perhaps milk would be better for you than water and that this might ease some of your cravings."

Nodding without looking up from the sweetened milk, Dylan drank from the jar. She'd low-key craved milkshakes and pickles with whipped cream for a long time, but she'd avoided the milkshakes (she had no idea what chemically processed milk would do to her unborn babies) and tried not to eat the pickles where Nuada could see because it made him a bit nauseous. But this was perfect. The perfect balance of sweet and salt, with all the calcium she needed.

Swallowing a big mouthful, she hiccupped and said, "You're wonderful."

That wistfulness came back into the shadowed eyes and dark lips, but Nuada only smiled, caught her hand in his, and kissed her knuckles before going back to cooking.

"Nuada…" Dylan ventured. He lifted one brow to let her know he heard her. "Nuada, what are we going to do?"

Without looking up from the snapping fire and sizzling fish speared on green wood, he shrugged and said, "We will do what we have done thus far – protect each other. Is that not what we swore?"

Pushing at her damp hair, Dylan chewed her lip. "Yes," she said slowly. "That's what we promised each other. But that's not what I meant. Where are we going from here? We can't go back to Findias. I…I can't. And we can't stay in the sanctuary forever. We need sunlight. The babies need fresh air and sunshine. So where are we going? What can we do? We can't go back to the cottage. I couldn't survive there, and I don't think you could either. Where could we go, where we'd be safe?"

At this, the prince sat back on his haunches. His xanthous gray eyes reflected the flames, but he said nothing for a time. Uneasy, Dylan sipped her milk and nibbled her strawberries, and tried not to let unease twist her up as her prince remained silent.

"There…might be a place," he whispered. "But…my father may try to find us there."

"Where?" Dylan asked.

"Renvyle. My childhood home." He paused, stroking his chin in thought. "My father may not believe I would return there now, which might buy us some peace for a time. Perhaps a few years. I know not how long we can avoid him, but I do not wish to risk confronting him in any way before the babes are born if I can help it. And you are right, little witch. Our children need sunshine and fresh air, as do you. I have seen you become shadowed and tired and sorrowful all over again, locked away from the sun up in the palace, without even the soothing magic of the sanctuary to aid your heart. I do not want that for you." Another pause. A long sigh. Then, pulling the fish from the flames, he asked, "Will you trust me, and accompany me to the island of Renvyle?"

Dylan nodded without hesitation. "I would follow you anywhere, Nuada. And I know you would follow me."

He looked at her then. Truly looked, as he hadn't been able to bring himself to do since their lovemaking in the shower in Findias, when he'd seen the desperate need for oblivion in her eyes and the bruises marring her skin. He saw the trust in her eyes. Still, she trusted him. Still, she loved him.

She was absolutely right. He would follow her to the ends of the earth. She carried the bit and bridle to make him yield and he could not find it in himself even to fight it.

What would he ever do without her?

The thought sparked an idea. As he offered her one of the fish, the Elven warrior said, "Dylan…before we leave here, I want to teach you a little of self-defense. Some tricks with a knife, as your strength is no match for fae strength, and a little hand-to-hand. Will you allow it?"

Obviously surprised, she nodded. "Of course. Let me eat first, though. I'm starving."

.

After the meal, the Elven warrior took most of the rest of the day to teach her the basics of self-defense with the dirk he'd begun carrying everywhere since surviving the hell they'd endured in her cottage. His twin-dagger against the borrowed knife made them theoretically equal in a fight. In truth, every strike of silver on silver sent painful shockwaves up Dylan's arm. Nuada was even being gentle, careful both of her exhaustion and the gentle swell of her midsection. Her hand was still half numb by the end of the lesson on blocking attacks. Offensive maneuvers were easier. A knowledge of humanoid anatomy helped a lot.

"The blade goes here, right here, in between the ribs." Nuada's hands covered hers gently as he brought the dirk to his chest and demonstrated. "Move your hand, just a little, a flick of the wrist, and sever the aorta. Or push, a little harder through the visceral pericardium. Withdraw the blade and they will bleed out in—"

"Seconds," Dylan finished, voice barely above a whisper, hands steady where once they trembled. "I know." What Nuada wasn't saying, but what they both knew, was that if she were to have a chance to actually use her blade, it would have to be with the element of surprise. She was quick for a human, yes. But Elves were faster than she could ever hope to be. Dylan had a feeling that the inherent fragility to her mortal state worried Nuada more than he let on to her. If only there was some way to augment her speed and strength…

"Be careful to avoid the sternum," the Elven warrior added. If he'd heard or guessed his lady's thoughts, he didn't let on. "The cartilage at the tip is tricky. Get your blade caught there, you will not have it long, and it won't drop your enemy or even seriously wound him. Since you're a bit smaller than those you'd be fighting against, always strike underhanded."

Then he plucked the dirk from her hand and tested the balance and weight for a moment before slipping it into the sheath at his own waist. "Remind me when we reach Renvyle to make you a twin-dagger and dirk like mine. There will be times you will not be able to go openly armed. You'll want something small and easily hidden." He showed her the more slender blade. "There is no crossguard like with a dirk, so you must be careful not to cut yourself."

Nuada slipped an arm around her waist and drew her close. Dylan found herself momentarily distracted by the sun-warmed bare skin of his chest, since he hadn't put on a fresh shirt after giving her his. Up close, in the bright spring sunshine, she saw that the smooth moony color she'd always taken for granted was speckled in places by what looked like tiny spots of soft tawny and pale gray, almost like...

"Are those freckles on your shoulders?" A delighted grin unfurled across her face. She had never been out in the bright sun with her husband before this, especially not with him bare-chested. It had never occurred to her he might have such marks. "How did I not notice those before? You have freckles."

"I-" He broke off when Dylan reached up to touch one of the marks on his shoulder. The pad of her finger alighted on Nuada's skin, delicate as the touch of a butterfly wing, warm as a kiss of sunlight. He wanted to follow the path of her fingertip with his eyes, but that would mean looking away from the entranced and entrancing gaze that currently held him captive. The prince felt himself falling into that impossibly beautiful blue gaze while Dylan's touch sent tiny sparks humming under his skin.

They had things to be doing. Preparations to make. He couldn't possibly want her again, not yet. Yet his body made it very clear that it could and did want her once more, as she stroked along his shoulders with those butterfly-light fingertips.

"That is just... so neat," she murmured, oblivious to the effect she was having on him. A gentle flick of her finger across his skin had him sucking in a sharp breath. Dylan was so absorbed in her perusal that she didn't even notice. She was entranced by the warmth of his skin under her fingertip. "I'd never noticed before. You have freckles; that's so cute."

Cute. Did she have any idea what a blow that was to his ego? The Elven warrior cleared his throat and ordered in what he hoped was a stern voice, "Pay attention."

"Oh!" She jerked her fingers back. "Sorry. Focusing now."

"Thank you. Anyway... if you are ever attacked again, and I am not there, you have to make sure you can get to your knife or your enemy's. At this angle, drive the blade upwards," and he pressed two fingers up into a point to the left of her spine, right over her kidney. It didn't hurt, but she knew if he pushed much harder it would start to. "Drive the knife in, right here, and he'll drop without a sound. The shock and pain will bring him down instantly. Be careful to avoid the ribs when you strike, however, or it will barely wound him."

There were also a few tricks to be learned with the pommel of the dirk, how to break an opponent's nose or breastbone with the cairngorm storm and drive the bone fragments into either brain or heart. Nuada briefly entertained the notion of teaching her a few hilt-taps to knock unconscious rather than to kill. Dismissed it. Giving her that option at this point would have been unwise. So he merely focused on the easiest means of defending herself with both blades.

When they moved onto hand-to-hand, he taught her a few basic joint-locks and several ways to break a man's grip, things that wouldn't require an incredible amount of strength to perform. "Best place to aim for when breaking a man's grip is a hyeol, a pressure-point." He took her hand and pressed her thumb just beneath his Adam's apple. "Push down and force someone to the ground. Push in, and collapse the windpipe. It will work even on a fae, so long as it is humanoid."

"What if it's not humanoid? What if it's a troll or something?"

Talk of trolls reminded him of Wink. Had Jenny given the prince's valet and the brownie rooming with him the message that they would be leaving, and for the pair to return to Dylan's cottage until Nuada sent for them? He had to trust Jenny Hob. She'd helped raise him. She would not betray his confidences.

"If it is a troll," Nuada said, deadpan, "run away very fast."

After that the Elven warrior showed the mortal how to deaden a man's arm by digging her fingers into the pressure-point between the biceps, and how to numb a hand and force open a tight grip using the weak spot in the wrist and on the hand where thumb and forefinger bones joined. Dylan was already a mistress of scratching and biting, but he made sure she knew the best ways to use those skills. Human defense classes had taught her palm-strikes to the face and other vulnerable spots. Finally, he taught her how to land a decent kick.

"You have long legs," the warrior informed her. "You should use them."

"Kicking things makes my knee hurt," Dylan told him flatly. "Whenever I kick stuff I usually fall down. And I don't think kicking will help against an Elf." What she didn't say, but what the prince heard, was that kicking the dark Elf wouldn't have stopped him from torturing and raping them both.

Nuada simply put his hands on her hips. "Put your bad leg forward," he commanded gently. As she slid her foot toward him, he felt the way her muscles flexed under his palms. He laid a hand lightly on the outside of her thigh. Slight pressure stopped her from putting the foot too far forward. "Leave your weight on your good leg. You are less likely to fall." Dylan obediently shifted her weight. "How high can you kick comfortably?"

Nuada's hands were heavy and warm, even through the thin fabric of the shirt hanging almost to her knees. His touch was firm and gentle as he helped position her body.

"How high do you want me to kick?" She asked with a small smile.

They locked eyes, mischievous blue and intense firegold. "Do not kick me there." She grinned. His own mouth twitched a little. "Show me your range; move slowly."

Carefully, she pivoted and brought up her foot so her heel connected with his hip. He immediately grabbed her ankle. She squeaked and tried to jerk her foot out of his grip, and nearly fell. He shifted her foot up so that her heel pressed against his lower ribs. She wind-milled, struggling not to fall. "Nuada!"

"Balance," he ordered without pity. "Stop flailing and balance. Straighten out your leg. I will not let you fall."

He would never let her fall.

When she finally managed to stand there, precariously balanced in front of the prince, Nuada said, "You made mistakes. You projected the blow. I could have dodged it easily. When you kick someone, connect with this part of your foot." He ran the tip of his finger from her scarred heel, along the delicate arch, to the ball of her foot. A shiver ghosted down her spine at the tickling touch. "The whole thing. You can hurt yourself the other way, especially against an Elf or another strong fae."

The Elven warrior released her ankle and she finally regained true balance. "Okay. So how do I kick so I don't fall down or hurt myself? And what am I aiming for?"

.

Nuada made her practice everything for the next hour until she actually managed to escape his grip thrice. The first time was sheer luck. The second, she surprised him by slamming her heel viciously into his thigh before digging it in deep. A ball of white-hot fire ripped bone deep. Nauseating waves of pain raked through Nuada's leg from knee to hip and he let her go mostly out of sheer surprise. She promptly planted her elbow in his solar plexus twice, driving the wind out of him.

Dylan blushed when the Elven prince snarled something uncomplimentary in savage undertones, but she knew he wasn't talking to her. It took him a moment to get his breath back. Finally he managed to wheeze, "What did you do?"

"Traumatized your saphenous nerve," she explained, crouching in front of him. She laid a gentle hand on his thigh. Probed the pain-tightened thigh muscles with deft fingers. Nuada's breath hissed between his teeth. "Learned about it in med school. It's right..." She probed his thigh. "There." Dylan pressed the ball of her thumb into the spot and the prince grunted at the sudden stab of pain. "Hurts like blue fire, huh? Hit it in just the right spot and you can take down a full-grown man. Well, a full-grown human. I'm surprised you haven't heard that. It's hard to do, though. That was a lucky shot for me. The last time I tried that, I did it wrong and it didn't work."

"You've tried this on someone else?" He demanded, wondering if he ought to feel proud that she'd incapacitated an attacker or sympathetic that she'd brutalized a sparring partner.

"Twice," she said softly, pressing to loosen the muscles.

"Who was the lucky victim?"

After a long moment, she replied in a too-casual voice, "First time was my ex-boyfriend." Her smile was a bit forced when she added, "Only that time I did it with my toes since we were face to face. I missed the nerve. Got his balls, though." Dylan flicked her eyes to Nuada's face for a moment before returning her gaze to what she was doing. "He wasn't as understanding as you were of the whole Law of Chastity thing."

Fury coiled like a vicious snake in his belly as he realized exactly what she meant. It took him a moment to calm himself enough that he could speak without snarling at her. "Did he... did he hurt you?" Whoever this mortal was, he would die. He had laid hands on Nuada's wife. Death was the least he deserved.

"He tried," she said. "But I'm scary and fierce, remember? Always have been." When she offered no explanation of the second time she'd used such an attack, he realized who she'd tried to fight off, and understood how badly she'd failed. "So," Dylan added with false cheer. "Ready for more practice?"

The third and final time she managed to escape Nuada's grip, her blow actually caught him in the mouth.

"I'm sorry," she squeaked as the Elf prince spat a mouthful of amber blood on the grass. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry! Are you okay?" Dylan reached up and tentatively touched the cut on his bottom lip. "Sorry."

He smiled at her, wincing a little when his lip stung. "Don't be. It was well-done." He swiped at the tiny trickle of blood running down his chin. "And, as you sometimes say, third time's the charm. You broke my hold three times; very well done. I'm proud of you, little witch. Are you tired?"

"My leg's threatening to give out, actually," she mumbled, feeling her weak knee trembling a little. "I can't take meds for it, so…" Nuada helped her sit down on the grass against one of the large upright stones and offered her a drink from the magically refilling mason jar of milk, which she gratefully accepted. "You know I'm not going to be able to remember all of this," she said when her throat no longer felt like it was coated in grit. "Are all my self-defense lessons going to be this difficult?"

"That's what practice is for. And this was not difficult, my lady," Nuada informed her. "Life in the army was worse, I assure you. Even for a prince." At her inquiring look, he added, "Blistering heat in summer, frigid cold in winter. Carrying gear that weighs nearly as much as you do. Military drills when all you want to do is sleep. Day after day on horseback." His voice grew soft and strangely empty when he added almost in a whisper, "Trying to run ahead of pain and misery and loss, but always two steps behind. A life of endless marching to battles that choked the world with blood and grief, battles that never saved anything, but only wasted lives."

He trailed off and did not speak for a long moment. Dylan hesitantly reached out and brushed her fingertips over his wrist. "Nuada. Hey. Come back to me."

Nuada shook himself, shoving down the memories of the final war against the children of men. "Forgive me. Sometimes the memories...well, you know how such things are, of course, and it matters little." The smile he offered her did not reach his eyes this time, not even a little. "Forgive me for neglecting you, mo mhuire. Lean back and I'll see to your leg."

"You don't have to—" She broke off when he leveled a look at her. "Never mind."

While she reclined against one of the large moss-covered boulders on the river's bank, Nuada massaged away the pain in her bad knee. As his fingers kneaded and pressed and soothing magic eased the pain, Dylan leaned her head back to let the sun warm her face. The Elven prince's fingers were firm but gentle as they massaged the pain away. Every so often the heel of his palm would brush against her knee, sending pinpricks of electric warmth dancing beneath the skin. She could feel the shadows moving over her skin when Nuada shifted position, his broad shoulders blocking the sun and allowing a coolness to slide along her legs.

"So," she murmured after a few moments of silence. "If you want to tell me... when were you in the army?" They hadn't spoken explicitly of his time before his exile. Only in the vaguest terms. There had been so much darkness between them already, he hadn't wanted to poison it further.

"A very long time ago," he said softly. Memories of bloodshed and battle tried to take him, but he focused instead on the smells of the forest and the warmth of Dylan's skin under his hands, the silk of his own shirt covering her legs when his fingers brushed against the hem. "Before my exile. When I was a young man."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"In a moment. Bend your knee." She did as he ordered, and Nuada asked, "How does that feel?"

"Lovely," she replied, smiling. "Doesn't hurt at all. Thank you."

He moved to sit beside her. The smooth expanse of stone was pleasantly warm against his back. The stream gurgled happily on the other side of the rock. Dylan laid her cheek against his shoulder, and without thinking Nuada laid his own cheek against the top of her head. She melted against him, as limp and cuddly as a sleepy kitten. He nuzzled his cheek against her hair for a moment. Inhaled the fragrance of her shampoo, honeysuckle and primroses, and the misting scent of the dew and grass.

Everything was so simple just then. The warmth of her pressed to him, the silken slide of her shirtsleeve along his arm, her hair tumbling against his shoulder and lightly tickling his neck. So simple. So easy. Without any darkness at all. Why could it not stay this way?

"You had a question, my lady wife?" He asked to shove away the insidious yearning trying to take root in his chest. They were in danger if they stayed too long. In danger if the king learned of their whereabouts. They had to take care.

She scootched a little closer. "Why did your father send you into exile?"

Dylan knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that asking them had been a mistake. Nuada stiffened, tensing so much she wondered that he didn't snap. He stopped nuzzling her hair and pulled back without saying anything. After a long and tense silence, she said tentatively, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I was just wondering. And you always talk about 'before my exile' and 'after my exile' so I just... just wondered..." There was something awful in his eyes now, and a cold fist squeezed her heart when she realized she'd been the one to put it there. "Nuada, I'm sorry."

The prince looked away. "Do not be sorry. It is a logical question." He did not mean to answer it, but then she laid her fingers across his. A subtle touch that demanded nothing. A silent apology. It amazed him, how much she could convey with a single touch of her hand. He could feel her heartbeat through her fingers. Feel the hum of her blood beneath her skin. Nuada focused on that, instead of the sudden gnawing biting pain in his chest. No. No, not here. That grief had no place here.

"My father did not send me into exile," he confessed. To Dylan's eyes, the words almost seemed to strike him like blows. "I chose to go."

Gentle fingers touched his jaw, and a soft inexorable pressure turned his face toward her so that he had no choice but to look into her eyes. "He didn't try to stop you," she murmured. "Something happened, and it broke your heart. You would never leave your people and your family for something that wasn't extremely important. It broke your heart and he didn't even try..." The look in those firegold eyes, bleak as endless winter, made her own eyes sting. She brushed a caress across his cheek. What could she do? What could she say, to get that terrible look out of his eyes? Gently, she asked, "What happened?"

He opened his mouth, wanting to tell her everything. How the Master of the Sigri, the Bethmooran clan of goblin blacksmiths, had come to Balor with the idea of an unstoppable weapon. An army of golden clockwork soldiers without mercy or weakness. Seventy-times-seventy soldiers. Seventy-times-seventy still-bleeding scars on his heart, seventy-times-seventy unforgiveable sins on his soul. But desperation had driven him to urge his father to accept the burden of commanding the Golden Army. Would Dylan understand that he'd had no choice? Would she understand that he had no choice now? Not if his people were to survive much longer. Or would his lady, his love, his wife, withdraw from him when she learned just why his father and sister called him a monster?

He could not bear the thought of it. If she left him now, it would be the end of him. Better to cut his own throat, he thought a bit recklessly, than risk losing her so. And such talk had no place here. He thought of those tiny lives inside her, innocents it was his sworn duty to protect. His own children. Shades, it was so strange to think of them. Would their birth change his plans for humanity? Did their existence alter his course? He didn't know.

"Let it be, Dylan," Nuada whispered, unable to meet her eyes any longer. "It doesn't matter now."

She took his hand and brought it to her lips. Then she pressed his palm against her cheek and forced Nuada to meet her eyes once more.

"When something hurts you, Nuada, it will always matter to me. Always." Dylan turned her face into his hand, lightly nuzzling her cheek against the callused palm. "If you ever need... anything, I'm here. But you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. We'll do something else." Smiling a little, she asked, "Want to go swimming?"

"I thought you just got dry," he replied, cocking his head. "And you were complaining about not wanting to risk wetting anymore of your clothing."

Her smile turned mischievous. "Who said anything about getting our clothes wet?"

Oh. Oh.

"I think I'd like that, actually," he said, grateful to and for her. With his own grin to match hers, he stood and offered her a hand. "Shall we?"