Once Upon a Moonless Dark: A Once Upon a Time Variation

by LA Knight

What if Dylan had never found out about Nuada's so-called trial? What if he remained unrescued? What if a madman didn't intend to kill Nuada until he could seek proper revenge? What if two very special children were weighed in the balance? How would everything change? A variation of the Nuada fic Once Upon a Time, starts at ch10. Updates once a month. Tw: sexual violence, torture.

24. In the Meadow

Author's Note: so this is...less dark/graphic than two chapters ago but like I said, this is my dumping ground for when life is a bitch, so this chapter isn't as hopeful as last chapter. We've had a death in the family and some other life shit so this got a little dark. I think I'm on the track to somewhat happier, more hopeful chapters after this, though. We'll see what happens. Obviously Dylan and Nuada aren't in a good place mentally but we'll see how they fare. Life seems to be going sort of rollercoaster-up-and-down for me right now, so probably the next chapter or two will be a bit lighter. We'll see.

And of course, reviews are appreciated. Hugs and well wishes to you all. The next chapter for the main fic is going up today, too.

Trigger warnings: this chapter contains sexual assault, swearing, vulgar sexual language, self-harm, pregnancy discussions, sexual coercion, implications of rape (but none in text), blood, vomiting, and mental illness. Reader discretion is advised.

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Once Upon a Moonless Dark

Chapter Twenty-Four

In the Meadow

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Making love to her in the water, her arms about his neck and the warm stream buoying them up, was glorious. Lying on his back on the soft grass to let the spring sun dry the water from their skins, his wife astride him while she took her pleasure again and he filled his hands with her, was better still. Afterward, they lay in the golden-amber light of the sun as it began finally to set, and Nuada trailed his fingers over Dylan's belly. When would the babes quicken? She claimed she could feel some small movements at times, but he yearned to be able to feel it for himself. To have some tangible proof, some physical thing, that told him the sacrifices he'd made were worth the grief.

"Have you…given any thought to their names yet?" He asked. He wasn't certain of mortal naming customs, but a name for a fae child, even a half-fae, was a serious matter. The parents discussed such matters, but in the end it was the mother who had the final say. As the first- and second-born of the heir to the throne, the king should've been consulted in their naming, but…Nuada shoved that thought aside. He would think on his father later.

Dylan had been stroking the silky head of a clover blossom, her nails catching gently on the tiny white and pink petals, letting her thoughts drift in a sleepy haze. She had to blink herself back to the present and ask Nuada to repeat his question. When he did, she frowned, thoughtful.

"I…well, I had one idea, but…but I wasn't sure you'd like it."

"They are your children, too, mo duinne," Nuada said softly, lifting his gaze to her face. "Royal babes or no, heirs to my throne or no, you are their mother. You have the final say in their naming." This, too, was customary. As their mother, as the one who carried them and suffered in the carrying, who would suffer in the birthing of them, it was her right to name them. The person that bore the risk of such things was given the greater role in determining the shape of their offspring's power, unless the bearer had done something to be considered unworthy of the privilege.

She blinked. "Oh. I…didn't know that. I thought…maybe…if one of them turns out to be a boy, I thought…Sean?"

She knew, when the shadows filled his eyes and they shifted from that warm honeyed amber to a dull yellow, that Nuada understood why she wanted that name. Sean. The Gaelic form of John, for her brother. Nuada despised her brother. Despised her entire family. John knew she was pregnant—she'd had to tell him, there was no way she could've kept it a secret—but he didn't know anything else. That she was married, that Nuada was the father. He knew she'd quit her job because she'd had to tell him after he'd tried to get a hold of her there. She'd have to tell all of her siblings…all of this, eventually.

But John…John was her twin. Her other half. Well, he'd been her other half before she'd become so entwined with Nuada. Of course she would name her son—if she had a son—after him. Dylan saw Nuada process all of this information and resign himself to it in less than a handful of heartbeats. He laid a kiss against her stomach. Cupped his palm against her belly.

"If you wish it, then of course. And if it is a girl, we can name her Seanan."

She grinned at him. Popping up, she leaned forward and kissed him, quickly, once on the mouth. "That's a great idea." Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gigantic yawn. "Ugh. I hate this part of being pregnant."

"Which part?" Nuada asked, cocking his head. So far, her list of things she hated about pregnancy was morning sickness (understandable, although his magic and some herbal remedies had helped immensely with that), sore feet, swollen ankles, and being sickeningly sensitive to the smell of beef.

She sighed. Shoved at her wind-and-water-tangled hair. "Being so tired and needing to nap all the time." She stared out at the water, drawing her knees up to her bare breasts and resting her folded arms upon them. Despite her nudity, she looked suddenly unbearably young, sitting there on his discarded tunic, pale and bruised and tired. "I know I need to sleep. I know. But I just…I don't want to dream anymore."

Dream of him. Nuada understood. They'd been plagued by nightmares of the dark Elf that had raped and tortured them both since leaving the underground healing sanctuary. How much weight had Dylan lost in the mere fortnight they'd been in Findias? How much paler had she grown, despite finally coming aboveground to fresh air and sunlight? The nightmares had done it to her. To him, as well. He knew he did not look well. Pale, thinner than he ought to be, and the shadows around his eyes and mouth darker than they'd been since…since Hiroshima, and Yukihime, and the mortals' hellish, poisonous, sun-white killing fires.

He laid a hand atop her head, smoothing back her hair. "Perhaps here in this place, no nightmares can touch you. There is no violence here, Dylan. Only sunshine and peace. Try to sleep if you need it, little witch. For their sake," with a nod to her midriff, "if not for your own. Besides, we have a long night ahead of us."

She chuckled, rueful, and shook her head at him. "You're insatiable. You know that, don't you?"

He laughed, though there was a thread of darkness in it. Trailed a gentle finger down her bare arm. "For you? Always. I think I will never have my fill of you, Dylan. Your embrace. Your kiss. The sound of your laugh, the color of your eyes. Yes," he added, meeting her startled gaze. "Yes, I am insatiable for you. For all of you. Heart and body and soul. Forgive me for craving you so."

She shook her head again, but she wasn't smiling now. "There's nothing…nothing to forgive." Her palm was soft and warm when she laid it against his cheek. "I was only kidding, Nuada. I didn't mean to make you sad. I'm sorry."

Dark lips pressed a soft kiss to her palm. "Sometimes I forget things are different now. That I have found someone who has not spurned me, despite my many sins and shadows. Someone who does not fear the beast in me, or the demon of royal magic. Thank you for that. But," he added with a smile, "that isn't what I meant by 'long night.' I have arranged a surprise for you for tonight."

"What is it?" She was grinning again, and she draped herself across his legs to gaze up at him winsomely—a mirror of what he'd done to her before they'd gone in the water. "Please tell me! Pretty please?"

"If I tell you, mo duinne," he said, "it won't be a surprise. Now sleep. Here." Arranging his discarded shirt and tunic to cover a wider expanse of grass, he whispered a word in Old Gaelic and firmed a bit of the air to make a plush pillow for her. Dylan, who'd pulled her own tunic back on so that she was (unfortunately, in Nuada's opinion) mostly covered up once more, poked the cushion of air. Her delighted amazement had him grinning again. He adored the look of wonder that stole over her when he impressed her with even the simplest and easiest of his magics. "Sleep, little witch. You are tired; sleep."

With a smile and a "yes, Mom," she laid herself on the tunic and shirt, resting her head on the air-pillow. Even as he watched, her eyelids began to droop. He smoothed the lovely tangles back from that scarred face.

"Would you like me to sing for you?" He asked. He didn't—usually. Only when her nightmares were very bad. But…but here, in the forest, surrounded by the peaceful green, he had the heart for it. Dylan nodded sleepily. Nuada cleared his throat and sang for her.

"Tar thar na cnoic, mo bhean dubh álainn na hÉireann;
Tar ar na cnoic ar do stór!
Roghnaíonn tú an rós, grá, agus beidh mé a dhéanamh ar an mhóid,
Agus beidh mé do ghrá fíor go deo.

"Tá Dearg an rós a in úd thall Fásann ghairdín;
Is cóir an lile an ghleann;
Is Glan an t-uisce a shníonn ón Bhóinn,
Ach tá mo ghrá níos cothroime ná aon.

"Bhí sé síos ag coillte glasa Chill Airne go seachrán againn,
Nuair a bheidh an ghealach agus na réaltaí a bhí siad ag shining.
An ghealach Scairt a roic ar a cuid glas na gruaige scáth,
Agus mhionnaigh sí gur mhaith léi a bheith ar mo ghrá go deo.

"Tá Dearg an rós a in úd thall Fásann ghairdín;
Is cóir an lile an ghleann;
Is Glan an t-uisce a shníonn ón Bhóinn,
Ach tá mo ghrá níos cothroime ná aon.

Níl sé an scaradh go mo pianta dheirfiúr,
Agus ní le haghaidh an bród ar mo athair.
'Tis go léir le haghaidh an grá mo bhean dubh a álainn na hÉireann,
Is é sin mo chroí go deo áthasach.

"Tá Dearg an rós a in úd thall Fásann ghairdín;
Is cóir an lile an ghleann;
Is Glan an t-uisce a shníonn ón Bhóinn,
Ach tá mo ghrá níos cothroime ná aon."

Come over the hills, my bonnie Irish lass;
Come over the hills to your darling!
You choose the rose, love, and I'll make the vow,
And I'll be your true love forever.

Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows;
Fair is the lily of the valley;
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne,
But my love is fairer than any.

'Twas down by Killarney's green woods that we strayed,
When the moon and the stars they were shining.
The moon shone its rays on her locks of shadow hair,
And she swore she'd be my love forever.

Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows;
Fair is the lily of the valley;
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne,
But my love is fairer than any.

It's not for the parting that my sister pains,
And not for the pride of my father.
'Tis all for the love of my bonny Irish lass,
That my heart is joyful forever.

Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows;
Fair is the lily of the valley;
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne,
But my love is fairer than any."

By the time the song was over, the last rich note dying away, Dylan was asleep beneath Nuada's hand, her lashes making dark crescents against her pale, scarred, too-thin cheeks. Nuada studied her for a long, long time and wondered…many things. How he would bear it when she at last grew old and died. What his father would do when the king discovered they'd left. What rumors about him and his wife were even now circulating through Bethmoora. He wondered how many of his friends would turn against him for this. Bres and Ciarán had already, though Ciarán's reaction had left Nuada somewhat puzzled. What of Zhenjin? Dastan and Dinarzadi? Kamaria and Kagiso? Anterion and Hedone? Arawn and his sons? Prince Günther? How much had Eamonn managed to steal from him in that sennight from Hell?

Don't blame me for your own lust, prince of whores, a familiar voice snarled in his ear. Nuada jerked. Whirled around, ready with teeth bared and one hand on the hilt of his knife to face that dead enemy again. But there was only the empty meadow and their own little camp. No dark Elf from his nightmares. They were alone.

Dylan gasped from behind him. Nuada's head snapped toward her. He waited, waited for the furrowed brow and trembling lips and thrashing limbs that told him his wife suffered a nightmare. Sometimes—rarely—they weren't of Eamonn, or about Eamonn, or related in any way to what the dark Elf had done. Sometimes they were from her childhood.

If his little witch's parents had still been living once he'd learned what hell they'd dropped on her as a girl, he'd have killed them, and made their deaths last. But they were dead in a bus accident a few years back, beyond his reach. She would not tell him the names of the animals that had used her when she was a child. She claimed it was for his own protection, and he understood how desperately she feared the king's wrath. Balor's judgment had been the reason Nuada hadn't known Dylan was in danger, and hadn't been able to save either of them once he'd learned of it. The king had threatened them both when Nuada had brought Dylan before him. Of course she feared Balor.

And the bruises…

Nuada stared at Dylan's poor, pale throat. At the necklace of soft blue bruises ringing her neck like a choker. He thought of the bite-bruises on her thigh and breast and clavicles. Thought of the angry striped bruising on her breasts like finger-marks. Who? Who had done that to her? She said it was from dreams, but dreams couldn't do that. He'd thought it might have been his own rabid lust, but many of the fresher marks had appeared while they'd been separated. It couldn't be him. And the only person who could've gotten to Dylan besides him was Balor, with the protections the prince had put in place.

But his father would never…

Dylan made a soft noise, but didn't thrash. Didn't cry out. She turned her head once, somewhat slowly, to one side. Let out a shuddering breath. Nuada laid a hand on her hair, felt the tension thrumming through her. A bad dream? Surely not a nightmare of the dark Elf, or she'd be screaming. A normal bad dream, then?

Suddenly Dylan's spine arched and she moaned, the sound ripe with pleasure. Her hips shifted a little. The tunic rode up, baring her scarred thighs, and Nuada scented desire from her. Ah. A dream of him, then. He would've felt her fear if it had been a nightmare, surely. They were so deeply entwined, though the bond was muffled when they slept. No, this was merely a dream of him. He would let her sleep, then. Perhaps she would wake wanting him again. Perhaps not. But it was so rare for her to sleep deeply, without nightmares, that he would not risk waking her now.

"Sleep, mo duinne," he murmured, kissing her forehead. "Sleep and dream sweetly."

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Prince Zhenjin Azurefire was readying to walk out of the Jade Dragon Palace and get on his horse to ride out to Bethmoora, accompanied by a caravan of servants and hangers-on—including two of his brothers—when a messenger shouted his name. Zhenjin slowed in his tracks. Qing, his beautiful long-ma, tossed her head. Her long, jewel-toned catfish-like whiskers drifted through the air, reaching for him. He idly stroked her scaly neck as the messenger raced over to him and threw himself down on hands and knees in the dust, dropping his head almost to the ground—but not quite. He was not emperor, only the crown prince, so the servants did not lower their foreheads completely.

"You have a message for me?" Zhenjin asked wearily. He was already weary and his journey hadn't even started yet. Whatever the outcome of the trip, someone was going to die. If the Dilong spy had been incorrect in the report that Nuada Silverlance had bedded, wedded, and seeded a human whore, the spy would be executed. If the report was true…either Zhenjin would kill the bitch for the sake of his family's and kingdom's honor, or Nuada and his human slut would die for the same reason. Either way, there would be blood. He was not looking forward to it.

"Your Most Gracious Imperial Highness, Lord of the Skies, this humble servant of the Empire has received a message from His Highness Prince Bres mac Elatha of Cíocal. It is marked with utmost urgency. This unworthy one raced to bring it to the Azure Lord as swiftly as this unworthy one was able."

The messenger held up an envelope, battered from the road, and sealed with a blob of cerulean wax, flecked with gold, and stamped with a familiar crest: an eye hovering over a goblet marked with four diamonds. Bres' personal crest, the Fomorian Eye and the Chalice of Blood, but without the crown symbol marking it as the king's own missive.

Zhenjin took the letter and broke the wax seal. He scanned the short, clipped letter, eyes widening with every sentence. Bres' letter spoke of poison, accidents, sickness, espionage, honor. It spoke of many things. And, if Bres was right, it meant that just perhaps, nobody would need to die once Zhenjin reached Bethmoora.

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Dylan woke slowly, languorously, stretching her legs until her ankles popped pleasantly, reaching out blindly with her arms until the little bit of stiffness in her shoulders faded. Nuada said she stretched like a kitten waking from a nap. She thought he was a little biased, but the comparison always made her smile. A yawn escaped her as she sat up slowly. She arched her back, popping the kinks from her spine. Warmth and wakefulness flooded her body. Her belly fluttered just a little, that butterfly flicker under her skin. She laid a hand against her stomach.

"And how are our babes this evening?"

Dylan's head snapped around and she stared, paralyzed with terror, as Eamonn lifted his head from his folded arms and regarded her with a lazy smile from where he lay on the grass, like a nude marble sculpture in the fire- and moonlight.

"No…" Dylan breathed, shaking her head. "No…!"

"Peace, little whore," Eamonn said, and his voice was surprisingly gentle. "I'm in a giving mood tonight." He rolled onto his back, lacing his fingers behind his head as he stared up at the velvety black sky. "It's been a long time since I've been able to enjoy such a place as this. I thank you for the gift. Perhaps later, I'll make love to you beneath these glorious stars."

Dylan nearly choked at his choice of words. Make love? Is that what he called it when he beat and raped her? And he'd called them "our babes" again. Damn him, damn him. They weren't his. They were hers, and Nuada's. They had nothing to do with him. But if she said that, if she said anything, his "giving mood" might disappear, and he might try to hurt her again. She wanted to keep him happy, quiet, calm. This was another nightmare. Eventually she would wake up. Nuada had said there was a surprise tonight; he would wake her. If she could play the dark Elf, keep him relaxed until her prince roused her or she woke on her own, nothing terrible would happen to her. Even though it would only be in a dream, she didn't think she could stand another nightmare of him breaking her bones while he shoved himself into her. She had to stay calm, stay quiet. Keep him calm.

She swallowed. Managed to croak, "M-maybe. Though it's…such a lovely night, I would hate to have to stop watching the stars. They're s-so pretty. Don't you think?" Somehow, her voice only shook a little.

And suddenly he was there, right there, crouched in front of her, silver eyes almost luminous in the dark. He leaned forward until his face was a mere inch from hers. She choked on a scream. Couldn't panic. Couldn't freak out. Had to stay calm, play him, keep him in that giving mood so he wouldn't hurt her.

His fingertips drifted up to brush along the thickest scar slashing down her cheek.

She didn't dare to even blink. Didn't dare swallow. She only kept her wide gaze fixed on his reptilian eyes, that cold mercurial silver like frigid iron.

Eamonn cupped her jaw. She remembered the strength of those fingers. If he wanted, he could shatter her jaw in that grip; crumble it like moldy, dried cheese. Would he? If she tried to jerk away, the odds that he would went up substantially. If she held still…then what?

He cocked his head to one side, that feral alien gesture so many fae used when studying something that perplexed them. Don't look away, Dylan reminded herself as her enemy studied her. Don't provoke him. Don't make him angry. Calm. Calm.

"So friendly this evening," he breathed. "Shall we call a truce then, in honor of the starlight?"

Somehow, swallowing with a mouth gone desert-dry, Dylan managed a nod. Truce. Whatever that meant. Safety? At least temporarily, right? He couldn't say truce one minute and then snap her fingers like twigs the next, or throttle her until she blacked out. He was nobility, but not royal. He couldn't lie. Well, perhaps he could. This was a dream. He wasn't real, so perhaps fae magic didn't bind this shadow of her enemy here. But…truce. She had to believe in that fragile filament of hope that nothing bad would happen tonight.

"So pale, however," Eamonn added, stroking the scar on her cheek again. "Little harlot, you're trembling. Shhh. No need to be afraid. I offer you no harm tonight, so long as you don't provoke me."

Her eyes stung. She squeezed them shut. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't panic. She wouldn't—

"Who do you belong to, sweetness?"

She couldn't stop her flinch. Don't provoke him, he'd said. Keep him calm, she reminded herself. Truce. Play along. So she swallowed again, cleared her throat, and whispered, "You."

Eamonn leaned in until his forehead touched hers. He tunneled his fingers into her hair, twisting the curling strands in his grip until they tugged on her scalp just enough to sting. She bit back a yelp, more of surprise than pain. Gazed at him with wide eyes. She could only blink when he drew close enough to bite her…and kissed the tip of her nose, the way Nuada did.

"Aren't you just adorable?" He asked in a low, almost purring voice. "Smile when you say it, sweetness."

Smile? He wanted her to smile while she spit out that filthy lie? Dylan was almost positive she looked like a corpse that had slipped into rigor mortis in the middle of playing a rodeo clown, her lips stretched in an unnatural smile as she blinked at Eamonn, desperate to appear pliable and demure. Her voice didn't shake or turn frigid when she whispered, "I belong to you, of course…Eamonn."

They weren't supposed to say his name. Only when the vile thing writhed in their throats and clawed at their tongues until they had to spit it out or choke was it permissible to say that name. Dylan tasted each syllable like liver oil and arsenic. She forced herself to smile, smile, smile like a happy corpse instead of grimace at the taste of the dark Elf's name. And did the monster have to look so charmed, so delighted by what she'd said? He kissed her nose again. It took everything she had not to snap at him with her teeth.

"You've learned so well," he murmured, stroking her hair. She curled her fingers into the soft, loamy soil so she didn't claw at his hand. He didn't pull her hair again. Didn't aggress her in any way…except he was near her at all. That was enough. "My sweet little tart. First lesson learned at last." His fingertips drifted down, light as spider webs and cool as a knife blade. Caressed her throat, the edge of her tunic's neckline. Dylan was suddenly acutely aware that all she wore to protect herself from him was a simple Elven tunic that fell barely to her knees. The same clothing she'd fallen asleep in. No pants or skirt. No underthings. Just the thinnest of Elven silk.

Eamonn sighed dreamily. "Say it one more time, my sweet."

She swallowed. Forced her lips into an empty, vapid smile that threatened to crack her face like porcelain. "I'm yours, Eamonn."

"My what?" He whispered. "My what?"

Lesson two, she realized. First lesson learned at last, he'd said. This was the second one, then. The words tasted like battery acid as she said tonelessly, face still stretched into a blank smile, "I'm your whore, Eamonn."

With a groan, he reached out and hauled her against his bare chest. His lips crashed down on hers and he kissed her. One arm snaked around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides. The other hand tunneled into her hair. He didn't bite, didn't savage her mouth or draw blood. Only kissed her hungrily, growling against her lips, tongue thrusting into her mouth to muffle her involuntary cry. She couldn't breathe. His arm tightened around her ribs like a band of iron until she couldn't get her lungs to expand, couldn't get air down her throat and into her chest. She whimpered, a strangled noise. The words keep him calm kept pounding through her head, but they were slowly drowned out by the jackhammer of her pulse in her skull growing louder and louder with every second.

Finally, the world sparkling with flecks of scarlet and black – but this was a dream? Did she need to breathe? – she jerked her head back, flinching at the hard pull on her hair. Eamonn bared his teeth, anger twisting his features, until he saw she struggled to pull in a breath. He immediately loosened his grip on her and blessed, cool air flooded down her throat.

"Forgive me," he shocked her by crying. He scooped her into his arms and pulled her against him again, but gently, gazing into her face. "Dylan, I did not mean to hurt you. Please forgive me. Breathe. Just breathe now. Here, let me check our little ones."

While she fought the muffled throbbing in her head from lack of air, Eamonn laid his palm against her stomach. Warmth seeped into the slight swelling of her belly and she felt that butterfly-flicker again. Magic. Similar to the spells her husband used, but they smelled and tasted different. Like ice and winter poppies and melon instead of bells-of-Ireland and summer and forests. Dylan didn't realize tension strung tight as wire through Eamonn's nude body until it suddenly faded and he sighed.

"They are well. Forgive me. I am…unused to having a human lover. I forget sometimes how terribly fragile you are."

He kissed her forehead and somehow she kept from flinching. Human lover? She wanted to scream at him. Felt her rage bubbling up in her throat, hot and poisonous. They weren't lovers. She hated him. She would've killed him right then and there if she'd had a weapon and a real chance of putting an end to him. But he wasn't hurting her. She had to keep it all bottled up so he wouldn't hurt her. Besides, she couldn't have run at the moment if she'd had a chance. Her ribs ached a little and she was still lightheaded from his unrelenting embrace.

Eamonn settled her on the grass between his updrawn knees, her back to his chest. When he gently pressed against her chin, she allowed him to push her head back onto his shoulder. The line of his jaw and the lobe of his ear were both just visible from the corner of her vision. She shut her eyes to quell the temptation to bite him on the ear until he screamed.

"Just breathe, little whore," he murmured in her ear. "Just breathe. I meant what I said about a truce. I have no intention of harming you tonight. Shhh. Just breathe."

"What…what are you doing here, then?" She mumbled. Still a little faint, it didn't occur to her that she shouldn't question him, that it might make him angry. She only kept her eyes closed and listened to him breathing behind her. Tried to stay alert to any change in breathing or demeanor that would herald any immediate danger from him. "Why are you…?"

"You brought me, of course," he said. She stiffened. He didn't seem to notice. Pressing his cool lips to her temple, he murmured, "I go where you go, sweetness. You carry me like your own shadow. I explained this to you. Remember? It is my curse, your punishment for murdering me." His voice, deceptively gentle until then, took on a razor edge. Dylan tensed even more. Would he hurt her now? But he didn't move to hit her or bite her or anything else. His voice softened when he added, "Of course, I understand why you felt you needed to kill me. I was…uninformed at the time. Or perhaps in denial. I cannot be sure. But it makes sense that you feared for your life in those moments. You still deserve to be punished for betraying your master, of course."

Stunned at her own daring, she shifted, pulling her head from his shoulder. Somehow she forced herself to meet those icy silver eyes. Look him full in the face. He was viciously handsome. Repulsively beautiful. Every inch of his face was stamped with cruelty, despite the soft expression he leveled at her.

"In…denial?" Denial of what? "You…you said you were going to kill me. You can't lie…"

He sighed. Cupped her cheek. His thumb brushed ever so lightly over her bottom lip. "It isn't a lie if you believe it to be true, though…is it, my sweet? I absolutely believed then that I had every intention of killing you both. I may even do so…one day, when I can bear my own ghostly prison no longer. I'd have to, if it came to that. I can only move on once you and our sweet prince are both dead. But being here, with you? Hearing your confession that you finally understand you're mine…I want to keep this as long as I may."

"But…" She couldn't process his words. Her mind wouldn't let her. Because it sounded too similar to…to Nuada when he…"But why?"

That argent gaze roved over her face. A rueful smile twisted his lips. "Of course you would ask. Humans are so stupid. Even you, clever little trollop that you are, can be very stupid. Don't you realize, my sweet? Don't you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

She almost threw up on him. He spoke of it as if this were some romantic confession, but he couldn't be saying he…that he loved her. He couldn't be in love with her. He didn't know her. And no one who loved her would do the things he did to her. Call her stupid, and a whore, and break her bones, and torture her, and rape her. He couldn't love her. Whatever he felt, or whatever he thought he felt, was too sick and warped and evil to be love.

"Such a face," he murmured with a low chuckle. "You look so confused. Poor thing, let me make it simple for you." He grabbed her around the waist with one arm, the other arm flashing across her chest to drag her against him again. The breath flew out of her in a tiny yelp. Eamonn's teeth scraped, ever so lightly, against the shell of her ear before he whispered, "My curse was knowledge, sweetness. Remember? I cursed you with the knowledge that you were a whore, a greedy slut for any fae man's pike willing to sheath between your thighs."

His tongue traced along the edge of her ear and she shivered, trying desperately not to be sick. "In your mortal tongue, I showed you how desperately you need to be fucked by fae men, how much you love it. I cursed Silverlance with knowledge, too. Knowledge that he was a harlot, just like his lady-love. Knowledge that anyone skilled in seduction could lead him around by the ballocks and make a dog of him. You've done it. So have I."

The arm around her waist loosened and the long, pale fingers drifted across her belly over the thin, dark silk. "But the price for it? Knowledge and sacrifice. I am trapped here, bound to you both, a poltergeist feeding on your lust. And the longer I remain in that half-world of ghosts and emptiness, the more I find myself yearning for every moment I can spend in your company and his. It is not love, as Silverlance loves you and you love him, but as I said, I am cursed by knowledge. It could become…become love, given enough years, enough delicious nights enjoying you both."

To her relief, he sounded almost as disgusted by the idea now as he had when he'd been alive. Eamonn could never fall in love with her. With either of them. He was too twisted, too selfish, too evil.

"But these babes, here, growing within you," he added, and her rage flared again, hot, sickening. "I find I want them as badly as I've ever wanted anything. My own little ones. I'm the last of my line, you know, save our wee ones. I will have them. Death will not stand in the way of it. And you, you are their mother, the mother of my first-born. For that, I owe you some…not respect, no, but some consideration. You are a common-born mortal strumpet, made only for my pleasure, something warm and wet to stick my cock into, as humans say," ignoring or just not seeing her cringe at his vulgar words, "but I find myself becoming…rather unwillingly fond of more than these," he brushed his knuckles across her breasts, and even as revulsion twisted in her stomach, her nipples tightened, pressing against the silk of her tunic, "and the sweetness between your legs. And so, I no longer wish you dead just now, my pet.

"No, not dead." He grasped her hand and tugged it behind her back, between them, curling her fingers around a thick rod of heated flesh. Dylan's spine went ramrod straight and fear sucked the moisture from her mouth. Eamonn's large hand kept hers trapped around his fully erect phallus as he began sliding her palm along his skin.

No, Dylan moaned silently. No, I don't want to. I don't want to. Stop…

"I wish you under me," he hissed against her ear, "gasping and whimpering every time I spear you. Wish you above me, riding me while you moan for me, fucking yourself on my pike like a good little slut." He forced her hand to move faster. She squeezed her eyes shut, hating him, hating the feel of him in her hand, hating the way his breathing quickened as he forced her to service him this way. Pain began to smolder in her shoulder at the unnatural angle of her arm.

"I want you above me, beneath me, anywhere that I can bury myself in you because I want you so much I can scarcely bear it. Oh, sweetness, you have such a lovely touch," he added, and ran his tongue along the side of her neck. It left a trail of slime like a fat, warm slug. Her eyes prickled and she squeezed them tighter to keep back tears. "I want you fawning at my feet, Dylan, ready to offer me the pleasure of your body whenever I wish it. I want you in my bed, begging me to roger you until the only thing you remember is my name," faster now, and faster, and each word came breathless and guttural in his throat. "I want you laid out for me like a meal, writhing while I drink your pleasure and hear you begging for every stroke of my tongue. I want you on your knees before me, that lovely mouth at my service, those…luscious lips…wrapped around my pike as I…spill my seed down your throat…"

Suddenly he sank his teeth into her shoulder, almost hard enough to break the skin, a snarl rumbling in his throat. Dylan yelped at the abrupt throb of pain. Hot slime spilled over her fingers. Wetness soaked into the lower back of her tunic.

You bastard, she wept silently. When he released her hand, she wiped it quickly on the grass. She could still feel the phantom-heat of him pulsing against her skin. Still feel the slick stickiness of his climax. I hate you, I hate you.

Breathing heavily, Eamonn slowly pulled his teeth out of her shoulder. Sighed contentedly. He kissed the skin he'd dented with his bite, tongue swirling quickly over the deep dents as if licking away any possible droplets of blood. Her shoulder pulsed with pain. It would bruise black in the dream. She didn't know what it would look like when she woke.

"Do you see, sweetness? Do you understand? I want you, Dylan, in all ways befitting my plaything. Even, perhaps, sitting at the window, our babes in your arms, while I think of how you taste and smell and feel. Thinking of how much I want to plant another babe in your belly. No more fighting me. No more lying to yourself or to me about how desperately you crave me. My lovely, filthy, delicious little pet whore. That is what I want of you, and Silverlance chained to my side to watch me enjoy you in the bargain, when I'm not reminding him of how much he enjoys me. But dead? No, I do not wish either of you dead. Not anymore, at any rate. Now, turn your head."

With one hand, he tugged at her chin. Trembling, she followed his command. She'd managed to clean his semen from her own hand as best she could, but some of it clung to his fingers. Silver eyes pinned hers, and she knew what he wanted. Trying with all her might not to hyperventilate, screaming internally but knowing not to utter any sound of protest, she opened her mouth. He pushed his sticky fingers between her lips and smiled approvingly when she licked the fluid from them.

Her throat convulsed at the first taste. It took everything she had to keep from gagging. It could've been worse, she told herself, even while her hands shook and her eyes burned with unshed tears. He could've forced her head down, forced his organ into her mouth, forced her to service him like that instead of with her hand. He'd done it countless times before.

She tried to keep the gasping, panicked breaths from strangling in her throat as she finished cleaning his fingers. Was this what he meant by truce? He wouldn't try to kill her anymore, but he would still torture and rape her? Break her bones, smack her around, throw her like a sack into whatever furniture happened to be handy if she didn't let him have his sick way? He wouldn't ram himself down her throat until she almost puked, or pound into her with bruising force, or shove her face into the pillows while he hammered her so that she was half-asphyxiated and barely conscious by the time he finished…but he'd do other things?

But that didn't fit with what he was actually doing now; other than that brush of his knuckles at her breasts and forcing the hand service, he hadn't touched her sexually since kissing her, and he made no move to do anything further now after pulling his fingers from her mouth, which was the opposite of what she'd expected. She'd thought, with that first step out of the way, he'd be on her now, tearing at her tunic, slapping her until she could only moan and flop like a fish while he grunted over her and shoved himself into her body again.

Yet he simply held her against his chest now, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. Cuddling her. He was actually cuddling her, the way Nuada did sometimes after they'd been intimate. The thought made her nauseous. And the wet spot on the back of her tunic chafed, clinging in a small clammy patch to her skin.

Still, how could he think she'd be okay doing any of the things he'd just said? Doing what he'd just forced her to do? He was insane. Did he really think she would just let him…after torturing her…torturing Nuada…nearly killing Becan…almost killing her more than once…

She must have made some sound of protest, because Eamonn pressed a wet, smacking kiss to the cheek he'd slashed open with his knife in her cottage.

"Oh, yes, my sweet," he crooned against her ear as he tightened his hold on her. "The night is just beginning for us."

.

In far off Findias, in the Golden Palace at the heart of the city, Becan Brownie had already packed his meager possessions into a small bag and was now ready to leave this dratted place on the shoulder of the silver cave troll Wink Ironfist. Being away from the cottage where he'd nearly died made him tired, filling his small bones with the same ache one might feel after a long day of backbreaking labor, so he'd been forced to pop in every day to ease the weight of his house-magic. Being away from his mistress, however…that left him itchy and morbid. He found his thoughts drifting, wondering how she fared. She was not well, and there was some cloud around her, some shadow…he didn't understand it, couldn't divine its nature, but it nibbled at him like a hungry minnow. Had the prince noticed? Becan couldn't be sure. The Silverlance doted on his mistress, adored her. Was very nearly obsessed with her, as his lady was with the prince. Becan knew it wasn't entirely healthy. Perhaps when his lady was stronger, after the wee ones were born, he would broach the subject of seeking a mind-healer to his mortal mistress. But the prince, wrapped up in his lady as he was, might still have missed that shadow. Becan wasn't even certain it was a real, tangible thing, or simply his own brownie senses registering the damage that had been done to his mistress's heart.

Ironfist waited for him at the edge of the city. Because it was his mistress's wish that Becan travel with the troll to where the prince wished them to go, Becan's brownie magic would allow him to pop out of the palace and appear wherever the troll was. Teleportation was a small magic, tricky but requiring little power; still, he was a brownie. A little power was all he really had, and it needed to be used in at least tangential service to his mistress and his hearth.

Becan was about to wink out of the castle and appear on the troll's shoulder when the door to the prince's bedchamber—the chamber he'd shared for a handful of days with his wife—flashed open, smashing into the opposite wall with a resounding crash.

The brownie didn't bother to look and see who it was. He glamoured himself to invisibility instantly and dove under the prince's bed. He flattened himself to the rather dusty floor—had the maids in this palace no pride at all?—and focused on his lady's orders to strengthen his power.

Travel with Wink. Don't linger in the palace too long. Don't let anyone see you. Come back safe./i

No power in the mortal world or the Faerie Realm could stop a brownie from obeying the orders of their master or mistress; it was the power of their loyalty. If they had no love for the tenants of their home, the brownies would turn boggart and drive them out or, if that didn't work, leave themselves. No brownie entered the service of a person they were not loyal to, a person they did not love. And that loyalty, that love, allowed them in rare instances to do things that most fae could never do. Dylan had commanded him not to be seen by anyone in the palace except Wink. Even as the burgundy, doeskin boots stamped across the carpet and Becan recognized the identity of the interloper, he didn't fear his glamour failing him. At the order of their master or mistress, a brownie's magic could even be a match for a king of Faerie.

"Nuada!" King Balor's roar echoed in the mostly empty room. "Come out this instant! Nuada!" The brownie heard the king snarl something savage and spin around. "Where is he?"

"I was not told where he would be going, Sire," said a woman's voice. Becan recognized her, but only because he'd spent many hours over the last week exploring the castle. It was Jenny Hob, the head housekeeper. The Silverlance had said he'd informed Jenny he was leaving with Dylan, and told her to tell the king after the prince and his wife had been gone for about a day.

"Why did you let him leave?" Balor demanded.

Jenny's voice remained cool and unruffled when she said, "I had not been told the prince was under house arrest, Majesty. I had no reason to believe he was not allowed to come and go as he pleased."

A subtle reminder that, officially at least, Prince Nuada had been free to come and go. Becan didn't know the details of what had transpired that first night, because he'd been scouting his mistress's new chambers, making sure they were safe and that nothing littered them that might trigger a flashback. He'd replaced, for example, the frosted glass vases inlaid with silver and their white roses, setting out amber ones with peach and mango-colored orchids instead. All he knew about that first night in the Golden Court was that the prince had presented Mistress Dylan as a princess of Bethmoora, the wedded wife of the heir and the mother of his first- and second-born, and the king had not believed him at first. Somehow, they'd convinced him, and then things had gone sour. The king had discovered what the Beast had done to Dylan and her husband and had reacted…badly.

The Beast. Becan tried not to think of the dark Elf that had tortured, raped, and nearly killed him. The brownie hadn't known a man could be raped with tools by a creature too large to mount him on its own, but the Beast had taught him so. Even now, the pain of it—things tearing him, the shards of his broken bones grating under his skin, flesh feverish with infection, blood in his mouth—throbbed through his mind. Thank all the stars and shades, the Beast hadn't used his vile potions on Becan. Only on Lady Dylan and the prince.

It was, Becan knew, all the king's fault. The prince and Dylan knew it, as well.

"Of course he's not under arrest," Balor sputtered. "But where is he?"

"I don't know, Majesty," Jenny said with that same implacable calm. "He didn't tell me. Only that he could not, in good conscience, remain here in Findias with his wife."

The king snarled something obscene, then demanded, "And what, by Macha, does that mean?"

"I couldn't say, Majesty."

"That boy…he's completely blocked out the princess…he must have gone back to the human world, to that kingdom…what is it? America. I shall send my soldiers there. If you think of anything of use, Jenny," he added to her, "send word. I'll be in my study."

There was a rustle of skirts. Jenny must have curtsied. Balor strode out, slamming the door behind him.

Becan was about to flit away when Jenny's voice arrested him. "Do you know where they are, Master Brownie?"

Becan bit back a curse. Of course. Like he was with the cottage, so was Jenny with the palace. Just as his magic was a match for the king's in service to his house and his mortal charge, Jenny could square off against him with her own power in service to her hearth. He hadn't thought of it. He'd been too distracted by the old stag throwing his tantrum.

Still, he didn't have to make it easy for her. He didn't drop his glamour, and he didn't come out from under the bed. Jenny sighed.

"When you see Prince Nuada, warn him to have a care. The king will hunt him. I do not think His Majesty means him harm, but the mortal carries the next potential heirs to the kingdom. If for no other reason, the king will hunt them. Warn the prince, Master Brownie. I have bought them what time I can. And if you want my advice—tell the prince to go to Renvyle. It is the only place the king would never think to find him, and the staff there knows where their loyalty truly belongs."

And with that, she swept out of the room as well, leaving Becan frowning. What had all that meant? The prince would know, whenever Becan and Wink met up with them again. Flexing his magic, the brownie disappeared.

.

Dylan's eyes snapped open and she bolted upright, screaming, clawing at her face, swiping at her mouth with her hands. Nuada was beside her in an instant but she didn't see him. She only saw Eamonn above her, raping her, pumping himself into her while she lay pinned and immobile beneath him. She screamed and screamed and screamed, every scream she hadn't been able to let out while he'd been using her. She scraped her nails over her thighs, her cheeks, her lips, her tongue, desperate to erase that disgusting taste and feel of him. She raked at her palm when she remembered how he'd ejaculated over her hand.

"Dylan!" Nuada shouted. He gripped her wrists and she screamed louder, yanking at his grip until he heard one of her shoulders pop softly in protest. He shifted her, wrapping his arms around her to keep her hands pinned to her sides. "Dylan, stop! Stop! You'll harm yourself, stop!"

Little one, he cried in her mind, trying to meld his thoughts with hers. Little witch! Dylan! Dylan, you're safe, you're safe now, it's all right! He tried to touch her thoughts but her mind was chaos, an all-too familiar taste in her mouth and the phantom-sensation of hands on her, lips on hers, teeth in her flesh. Shades of Annwn, how bad had this nightmare been? Would they never have peace from him?

Nuada could only hold her fast as she strained her entire body to get away from him, but human strength was no match for Elven might. Eventually she only sagged in his arms, moaning, "No, no, no…"

Nuada rocked her, pressing his cheek to hers. "It's all right now," he croaked. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but it's all right now, mo duinne. It is over. You're safe now. It's all right, it's over. You're safe. I'm here. I'm here, Dylan, you're safe, I promise you. I'm here. It's over, it's done, I swear it."

Eventually, all she did was weep, sobs scraping in her raw throat, limp in his arms. He continued to rock her like a child. Continued promising her she was safe now, that he was there, that it was all over now. She wept so hard he thought she might be sick with it. She was sick at one point, vomiting up what was left of their meal onto the grass while she quaked on hands and knees, vomiting until her stomach offered only bile, and then after that, only dry heaves that twisted through her diaphragm like someone spooling out her muscles on an iron spindle, and racking sobs that seemed to last an eternity. When her stomach quieted, she had a few seconds of silence before she started swiping furiously at her legs, swipes that turned to clawing nails. Grunts of rage, effort, disgust dropped into the clearing as she raked at her flesh. When Nuada grabbed her wrists this time, she didn't scream. Only collapsed into his hold and wept again.

After the tears finally died away and she was quiet, vacant eyed, he dared loosen his hold on her.

She slumped to the grass, away from the spot where she'd been sick, and curled in on herself, wrapping her arms tight around her updrawn knees. She pressed her forehead against her knees and said nothing. Only lay there, silent and unmoving, blood seeping from the scratches on her legs and face.

What had happened to her in that dream? This was worse than when she'd broken down in the shower in Findias. So much worse. She'd never tried to hurt herself like this before. Never screamed like that. What had happened?

Nuada didn't know how to help her, how to comfort her. So he cleaned up their camp, packed their things. Covered the sickness with a mound of fresh earth and sweet lemon grass. It was perhaps half an hour or a little less until midnight when he finished. Midnight was when his surprise was supposed to come. Would she even be aware of it? Would it help, perhaps?

He tried to touch her mind again. Found it disturbingly blank, hollow. He couldn't sense any concrete thoughts. She was completely disassociated from their reality, the prince realized. Completely cut off from the real world, from him. The only move she made was to whimper and curl into a tighter ball when he gently touched her shoulder.

"My love?" He ventured, and through their link, iMy beloved? He'd never called her beloved before. My love, yes, a few very rare times. Not beloved. It felt…different somehow. But she didn't react to it. "Dylan? Beloved?"

By the thirteen hells, what had happened in that nightmare?

"I fucked our wife, of course."

Nuada whirled, dirk in hand and the dying firelight glinting off the long, wicked blade. On the other side of their campfire stood the dark Elf from their worst nightmares, clad in supple black boots and a pair of gray trews, smiling at him. His belly was a thick mass of bone-white scar tissue. A white line as thick as Dylan's wrist circled his throat.

Impossible. Nuada wasn't asleep, this was no nightmare. Eamonn was dead, he couldn't be here, standing there, after they'd strangled and gutted him. Nuada remembered killing him. He remembered the punch of the knife over and over into that monster's belly, the way the Elven silver had scraped on rib bones and pelvis, the stink when he'd sliced through Eamonn's bowels, the blood fountaining silver over the white skin. He remembered dragging that stinking corpse out into the snowy night when the fever of Love Talker poison had finally abated, watching Wink rip the limbs from the torso with the crunch of bones, the snap of sinew, the pop of tendons tearing. He remembered that hollow, wet crunch as his vassal split the dead thing's skull and the carrion fae came to feast on the brains.

Eamonn could not be here.

"I remember all of that, too, my white flower," the dark Elf murmured, still smiling. "It left its mark on me. The stronger I become, the more those marks begin to show. But enough of that, eh?" He stepped around the fire.

Ice water sliding through his guts, Nuada surged to his feet and stood between the silent, unmoving Dylan and this monster. "You're dead. You died. We killed you."

Eamonn grinned. There was blood, scarlet with mortality, on his teeth. "You did. Hurt, too. I'm dead, sweet prince, never you fear. Still a corpse. But corpses have needs, too, remember? You were so good about satisfying mine last night."

Nuada flinched. For a moment, he felt Eamonn's manhood tearing into him, the burning pain of it, the rage smoldering in his own stomach with every cruel thrust.

"If you're dead, then how are you here?" Was this a delusion? Was he that tired, to be hallucinating his dead enemy? Or was he going mad again? Back in the cottage, when he'd kissed her after learning of her pregnancy, he'd asked Dylan if Eamonn had driven them both mad and she hadn't had a good answer for him. And in the clearing earlier in the day, Dylan had said they likely needed therapy, some form of soul-healing after what that monster had done to them, to help with the nightmares and everything. Was this the consequence of not doing that? But madmen didn't know they were mad…did they?

The Elf of Zwezda shrugged. "She gives me life," he said with a nod at Dylan curled into a fetal position. "So do you. Sometimes, when we've all had a grand time, I can touch this world for a few minutes. I felt your worry for her and thought something might have happened to our lovely wife."

Nuada nearly choked. He thought he'd misheard when Eamonn had said that the first time. "She is not your—"

"Yes, she is," Eamonn said. His smile held a feral edge. "Much as all three of us hate to admit it. Mother of my children, the whore in my bed? Might as well throw 'wife' into the mix so my children aren't bastards. I suppose that makes you my husband, though I'm not a lover of men. You're nothing but a tool I'm stuck with, thanks to this damnable curse. The curse cemented what the Tears started in us all. But you helped begin my little ones, after all. That's something."

For a single moment, Nuada considered throwing his dirk at the dark Elf. He could picture it with perfect clarity: the blade glinting in the light as it arced through the air, the point slamming home right between Eamonn's eyes. Nuada's blades were all sharp enough to slice through bone. The dirk could punch through the fragile bone of the skull right above the nose, the blade slicing through the fatty brain tissue as if it were warm butter. Blood would spill from the wound, running down Eamonn's face like silver tears. He would fall. Nuada would take his sword and hack his corpse into pieces and feed them to the fish in the stream.

"Stay away," he said with an odd softness, "from my children."

"You mean my children?" Eamonn asked with a mocking smile. "No. And keep your blades to yourself. For all you know, this is a hallucination and you might end up killing our wife by accident. Hand off the dirk, please."

Nuada slowly slipped his knife back into its sheath, never taking his eyes off Eamonn. Dylan hadn't reacted at all to the conversation taking place, to Nuada's savage movements, his rage, or even Eamonn's presence. Was the dark Elf even here? Or was this really a delusion of some kind? If it was, Dylan could end up hurt by any violence he committed. And if it somehow wasn't…

"What," Nuada demanded, "did you do to Dylan?"

A shrug, rife with disdain. "I've no idea what she told you or why she's sulking about it now. All I did was make love to her the way she wanted. I was gentle. Patient. She barely has any new bruises, and the ones she does have were because I became a little…over-enthusiastic. But you know how that is, don't you? She's just so…" Nuada's stomach roiled when Eamonn licked his lips and made a sound of appreciation. "Mmmm. You know how hard it is to keep control of yourself when she's riding your cock like a trained whore—"

"Bite your tongue!" Nuada yelled.

"—and you just have to get as deep as you can inside that tight, lush body of hers before you—"

His dirk was in his hand again. In his mind, he didn't see Eamonn with Dylan. He saw Eamonn doing this to him. Again. His knuckles popped when he gripped his dirk tighter. i"Bastard—"

"—make her scream your name, eh? I was gentle, though. I made sure she enjoyed herself. You should've seen her, the way she bucked those lovely hips to cradle me into her. Should've heard her moaning my name and begging for more while I was inside her. Reminded me a bit of you in the cottage. You remember that, I'm sure. I'd never heard you say my name like that before."

Nuada flinched. An echo of memory sounded in his head. His own voice, hoarse with need, ragged and desperate. Harder. Harder, Eamonn, please. Gods, please…!

Neither he nor Eamonn were lovers solely of men, though Nuada had experimented a few times in his youth to see if he might have preferred his own gender; he had no aversion to it, it simply wasn't his first choice. The Tears could make a person crave the touch of anyone while it was in effect. It was why he craved Dylan so desperately. Nuada's skin had been saturated and dripping with the poison when Eamonn had joined him and Dylan in a pile of sweating, heaving bodies. Nuada suddenly wondered if, somehow, this shade of the Elf of Zwezda was addicted to them the way Dylan and Nuada were addicted to each other.

But no, this wasn't a ghost, a phantom to bear the burdens of the long-dead corpse. This was a nightmare-specter and nothing more.

"I miss you both," Eamonn added softly, interrupting the prince's thoughts. The words were so unexpected, Nuada's fury splintered a little. His dirk dropped to his side. "It's a bit lonely, you know, without the touch of another in the world I'm trapped in when I'm not with you two. Even your company is preferable to the emptiness of that place."

"Am I supposed to care?" Nuada's voice was a whipcrack demand.

This time, it was Eamonn who flinched, which surprised Nuada even more. The dark Elf said too softly, "Yes. You are."

Nuada spat at his enemy's feet. "I care nothing for your loneliness. Your pain. What do you know of pain? After what you did…to her…to me…You deserved death, and we gave it to you, you treacherous cur. You deserve all this suffering now, and more. I'll see you rotting in the deepest pit of the thirteen hells."

A hard smile curved the thin, pale lips. "Well, aren't we getting a bit uppity tonight? So haughty. How haughty would you be, prince of whores, if I took you right here, right now? If I took you by the ballocks and rogered you in front of our whore-wife, made her listen to you beg for me to give you release? Hmmm? It's such a treat when you beg."

This time, it wasn't the dirk he drew, but his lance. His knees felt like water. His belly was full of iron and ice.

"You can try. You can die again as easily as before."

Eamonn guffawed. "Easy? You had quite the time killing me, if I remember, Nuada! Cut up your hands a bit dicing my guts, hmmm? And couldn't even wait until my corpse was cold before you were back between your harlot's thighs. You didn't even bury me. Busy burying that." He tipped a nod at Nuada's pelvis. "But enough of this bickering, sweet prince." He jerked his chin at Dylan's curled form. "What's wrong with the sulky little bitch?"

Nuada suddenly realized that even though he'd drawn his weapon, shouted at this apparition, and the apparition was obviously talking about Dylan, Dylan was paying him no mind at all. When the prince reached out a psychic tendril toward her thoughts, he found that same eerie emptiness in her skull. Could she simply not hear Eamonn? Or was the dark Elf not actually there? But surely she heard Nuada's shouting?

"Have you tried slapping her?" Eamonn asked casually. Nuada bared his teeth. Eamonn sighed. "She likes it when I slap her, for pity's sake. Opens her legs right away after that and moans like a top-quality harlot. But fine, sit on your high horse. I don't mind. Since our lady-love is ignoring us both, what shall we do to while away the time? Shall I get on my knees for you, lover?" He quirked one thin raven brow, and Nuada's breathing hitched, remembering the exquisite agony of that vile mouth on him. "Or would you prefer returning the favor? Dylan has a delicious mouth and I enjoyed fucking it immensely, but—"

"Will you stop using those damnable human words?" Nuada snapped. Eamonn raised an eyebrow. "You condemn mortals, say they are beasts and monsters to be exterminated, yet you use their words against me. Why?"

Eamonn smiled. "I like seeing you flinch. It arouses me. The mighty Silverlance, legendary Elven warrior, War Chieftain of Bethmoora, afraid of the word fuck. It's hilarious."

The dark Elf was baiting him. That's all. He spoke so crudely, so vulgarly, to bait him. How did he speak to Dylan in her nightmares? Did he do the same? She was mortal; would the words make her flinch, too?

Was this real? Dylan hadn't reacted at all, but the bruises…they had to come from somewhere. Nuada swallowed hard with a throat gone desert-dry. Sweat slicked his grip on his lance but he refused to lay it or his dirk down. Keeping the royal weapon at the ready, he swallowed again in place of clearing his throat. Throat-clearing was a sign of weakness in a verbal battle. He needed as much of the high ground as he could manage to snatch from this…phantom.

"Dylan's bruises. The bite marks, the fingerprints. Did you mark her?"

It took everything he had not to lunge for the dark Elf's throat when Eamonn smirked and canted his head.

"What can I say? I adore the taste of her, the feel of her when she bruises under my hands. Such creamy skin…such sweet blood…You know what I mean, Nuada," Eamonn added oh so softly. Eyes scarlet with rage and hatred narrowed at him. "You remember from the cottage? How you pinned her to the carpet and your fingers dug hard into those lovely thighs while you ravished her. Raped her. I know you felt it, because while you were in her, I was inside you. A lovely trio we made."

Against his will, the Elven warrior stepped back. Memories swirled at the back of his mind and he could feel Dylan under him and Eamonn at his back and the night air was suddenly sticky and hot, sweltering, the stench of gancanaugh venom and sex flooding his nostrils.

"I…no, I—"

Eamonn drew close, a slow stride that ate up the distance between them despite his casual stance. He seemed to give no thought to the lance in Nuada's hands, though he stopped at a distance equal to the length of the spear, silver eyes fixed on Nuada's face.

"I let you have that first joining, as I promised our little mortal," Eamonn murmured. "I simply watched you lose yourselves in each other. Do you know, every time you used her, you kissed the hollow of her throat, just here?" He touched a pale finger to the spot that on Dylan bore a vicious, black bruise. "A flick of your tongue to make her gasp and the brush of your lips to make her moan? Very unfair. I decided to put an end to that and bit her so you'd stop. Found I quite enjoyed the taste of mortal flesh and blood, especially saturated with the Tears, though the iron and salt stung a bit.

"But I let you have her first, and I didn't interrupt even though it took you nearly half the night to sate yourself enough that I could pull you away and have my turn. And you…you were in such pain, my white flower. Your entire body aflame. You didn't care who or what you stuck your cock into, as long as you could have some relief. You were the first for her, you know. It wasn't me."

His mouth was impossibly dry. "First?" The word was a rasp. He knew Eamonn didn't mean the first to have sex with Dylan. Surely the dark Elf knew she hadn't been a virgin. So what did he mean?

Eamonn sneered. "Must I spell it out for you? While I was busy teaching your little bitch what pleasure from a real fae man felt like, you decided you simply couldn't wait. You pushed us both over and I didn't care; it was delicious, watching her riding me, so desperate she didn't care how much she despised me then, although she has learned better now. She just wanted me inside her. And then you pushed her down, remember? So that those lovely breasts with all their interesting scars were crushed to my chest, and you put your greedy hands on that tight little tóin and spread her wide while I was still inside her, and then…

"Well, I remember she screamed and arched away from you, trying to escape what you were doing to her. It must have been agony, if the Tears didn't turn it all to sublime pleasure. It wasn't as if you'd done anything to prepare her. I remember the tears on her cheeks as you filled her with me, as we began to move inside her in tandem. I remember your groans, the things you said to her. Do you remember what you said to her? How tight she was, how good she felt. Do you remember how you wrapped one hand around her throat and your other hand cupped one of those soft breasts while you rogered her? She had bruises from your grip later; I tended them myself."

Nuada took a step back. Another step. Another. He shook his head, all courage and all hatred drained away, sucked into a vortex of horror and shame and fear. "No. No, I did not…I didn't hurt her. She said I did not. She said I didn't hurt her."

Eamonn chuckled at that. Sighed. "Oh, my sweet prince. Of course she lied to you. She loves you utterly, and she knows how weak and pathetic you are under all of that child's rage. No, Nuada, you absolutely hurt her. Don't you remember the blood on her skin? It wasn't all from me, I promise you. You gave as much as I did. You raped her, or made love to her, whichever term you prefer. You did the same to me, and I to both of you."

He lowered his voice to a soft, vicious whisper. "I remember you inside me, Silverlance. I will never forget it. The Tears burned the memory into me, into my bones and blood, my flesh. I can recall exactly where you set your hands, where you kissed my spine, where you licked my neck. I have a scar where you bit me at your first undoing inside me," and he tossed his waterfall of black hair over his shoulder to expose one ear that bore a pearly-silver scar near the tip like the indentation of Elven teeth. "You both claim you hated what happened in the cottage, but you both loved every thrice-cursed second we were tangled together, drowning in our passion. You know it's true. I bear many marks from you, Silverlance. More than these," with a negligent wave toward his scarred belly. "I'll show them to you sometime. I'll show you both."

It was all Nuada could do, but he managed to croak, "Stay away from Dylan."

One knife-thin raven brow arched. "And just what will you offer me, pray, prince of whores, to abstain from slaking my thirst for your human pet's sweetness?"

A hard swallow. Dylan's screams, silent for less than half an hour now, echoed in his skull. "What is your price?"

Eamonn cocked his head. Considered for a long moment. "Two things. I will come to your bed every night for a moon, and you will offer me no insult nor injury. You will give yourself to me wholly. You will accept my attentions. You will drink anything I offer, eat what food I give you. If I give you an order, you will obey it. An order for the bedroom, of course," he added before Nuada could do more than open his mouth to object. "I'm no fool, Silverlance. But I would enjoy bedding you without a damn fight every night."

The scarlet bled from Nuada's eyes, replaced by a sickly xanthous gray as he flicked his glance at Dylan, still curled into a ball, unmoving. She could not continue to endure this. If it was all a dream, it didn't matter, and when this shade returned to haunt his nightmares, it wouldn't remember the bargain Nuada offered now. And if it wasn't a dream, if this was real…Dylan would be safe. She would be allowed to heal for a time, to find real rest, to recover. She couldn't continue to be so sick every morning when she woke from her nightmares. Couldn't continue to lose so much sleep and spend the day so tired. She would become ill. Perhaps the babes would become ill, as well. She might hurt herself again.

"And the second thing?" He asked softly, lowering the Silverlance, though every muscle screamed against the action.

Eamonn stepped close, crowding him. The reek of him hit Nuada's nose like a fist – the cloying sweet-stink of fresh death, the musk of sex, the burning scent of the Tears, and…Dylan. Dylan's skin, her hair, her natural scent and the shampoo she'd begun to use. Oh, gods, he smelled of Dylan. What did that mean?

"Kiss me, Nuada." Eamonn spoke with predatory gentleness. "Kiss me, and prove you are in earnest, and I will leave the slut alone for the entire moon I'm bedding you. I'll content myself with making love to you alone instead."

He couldn't. He could not. Willingly lay his mouth on Eamonn's? Willingly seek a kiss from him? He tasted bile at the thought of offering himself to this monster, this killer, this traitor. But he had to. For Dylan's sake. For her sanity.

Eamonn's mouth was soft as graveyard earth and warm as a swamp. He tasted of things that sent terror coiling in the pit of the prince's stomach: Dylan's lips, like honey and summer strawberries, and Eamonn's own seed, a taste Nuada knew all too well, a taste that could only have come from kissing Dylan intimately after forcing her to…

What did you do to her? He thought as Eamonn's tongue glided into his mouth, a slow and slimy caress. It was like allowing a slug to work its way past his lips. What did you do?

I told you, my white flower, Eamonn breathed as he tunneled his fingers into Nuada's hair. iI fucked our wife. Thoroughly. For hours. And when you lay yourself down to bed tomorrow night, I'll fuck you, too, and it will be glorious. I… Eamonn suddenly jerked back, staring with wide eyes into the darkness beyond their little campfire's glow. He stepped back from Nuada. Held up his hands as if to ward something off. Nuada realized the dark Elf's hands actually shook.

"What?" Nuada demanded, turning to look over his shoulder for the threat. He saw nothing. Or perhaps…perhaps not nothing. Was the darkness a bit lighter there, in the depths of the trees? Ebon-gray instead of black?

Eamonn stepped hastily back, teeth bared. "Damned things," he snarled. "Well, I'll savor that kiss, and the time I spent with our little mortal, until the time comes for me to bed you, prince of whores. Until then, remember to keep her in form for me." Turning on his heel, he stalked away into the darkness. With him fled the last of Nuada's strength, and he sank to the grass next to Dylan's still form, shaking.

The night was turning gray now, the darkness ebbing like a sable tide. Tiny blossoming moonflower and night-jasmine began to glow with the soft light of the moon and stars at the edges of their clearing, between the trees. Some of the stones littering the forest floor shimmered with a flickering light. And the light of the waxing moon, which chose that moment to step out from behind midnight-blue clouds, lit up the woods and the meadow with a surprising brightness.

Even in the dark of the night, the glen was absolutely breathtaking now in the glow of the moon as the clouds overhead continued to disperse. The shadows of trees blocked out some of the midnight-blue velvet of the sky, but the diamond stars burned cold and clear and bright in spite of them. The moon was a soft white, waxing almost to half-full in the sky overhead. A still, tiny pool fed by the stream reflected each and every star in all their frosted perfection. Only the occasional ripple marred the image. The air became pleasantly cool on Nuada's skin and he heard the music of crickets chirping in the grass that spread out around them like a shady carpet.

And the light beyond the edge of the trees, like luminous pearl melding with the velvet blackness, continued to draw closer.

It was something Dylan very much wanted, what he had to show her; they'd spoken of it occasionally in the sanctuary, and he hadn't missed the undercurrent of yearning in his wife's voice. He'd wanted to surprise her with this gift before they essentially went back into hiding. And he would pretend, just for now, that no shadows threatened and no dangers loomed, so that she could enjoy the beauty of what he meant to show her.

If she could. She hadn't stirred yet. Had made no sound. Shades and phantasms, what had happened in that nightmare, to do this to her? His brave, brilliant princess. Cautiously, Nuada laid a hand on her hair.

Dylan's death-grip on her updrawn legs relaxed the merest fraction.

"Dylan?" Nuada ventured. She had made no sound during his bargain. What did that mean? "Mo duinne?"

The smallest, shallowest, hitching little sigh. Beyond the edge of the meadow, that soft light drew ever closer.

"Dylan," he murmured. "Little witch, you're safe now. I swear to you, you're safe. I'm here with you. No one will harm you so long as I am here, little witch. Please, come back to me. Leave the shadows and come back. You are safe with me, my love. Please, mo duinne, come back to me. Come back." He had to believe that. Eamonn hadn't been here. It was merely his exhaustion, his guilt, his own fevered mind. Everything was all right and they were both safe here. As the dark of the night began to melt away faster now, pushed back by that approaching glow, Nuada continued to whisper, "Come back, Dylan. It's all right now. Come back to me, my love." As time trickled by, the tension slowly began to seep from her body and her spine uncurled a little, her grip on her legs easing so her knuckles did not shine white in the gloaming.

Nuada lifted his head and saw what was giving off that beautiful, soothing, impossible light. Dylan had to see it. So he very slowly, very carefully scooped her up. She flinched a little, but didn't coil herself back up like a terrified child. Instead she curved her body around his, holding tight to him. She reacted to his touch, his presence, but not his confrontation with the shadow. Had he even been speaking aloud? Or had he imagined it all? What if he was going mad for true? But he couldn't think about that now. Had to think of Dylan. And when he shifted his weight so that those vacant blue eyes could see the silvery-white light...

Dylan's mouth dropped open and she made a soft, slow exhalation of a sound, a whisper of shock and awe and disbelief and agonized joy, and Nuada felt the last of that rigid terror and grief drain away from her. Hands clutching at the arm he draped across her solar plexus to keep her upright, almost trembling at the sight, Dylan watched the unicorns appear with wide eyes that were no longer empty.

They came in silence to drink from the pool that reflected the stars so beautifully. Their pure white coats shone softly with an inner light. A few were dappled with palest clouds and shadows of soft dove gray. Moonlight illuminated the crystalline luster of shining hoof and delicate, spiraling horn. They seemed almost to glide across the glen, their hooves hardly touching the grass save for a gentle chime with each step. Far more slender and elegant than a horse, with long necks and angular, almost feral-looking faces, their fathomless cobalt eyes reflected the stars overhead more perfectly than the pool. Their silky moonbeam tails and manes unfurled behind them on the faint breeze like banners to catch the shine of those same stars. Here, in their presence, there could be no shadows, no ghosts. Only peace and safety.

They moved with the sort of grace Dylan had never seen from any living creature, though Nuada had. Power, the kind that clung to the oldest fae beings like a second skin, breathed along their alabaster hides, giving them an ambient glow like a ring of hoarfrost around the full moon. And when they had finished drinking from the pool, almost as one the entire glory turned to regard the Elven prince and the mortal princess watching them.

Dylan gasped and tensed, but Nuada hugged her and murmured, "Do not be afraid, little one. If they did not want us here, they would have let us know."

So she held very still and waited as one of the unicorns slowly came forward. Its eyes were the most beautiful shade of sapphire either of them had ever seen, soft as the spring sky and clear as crystal. They held an ancient wisdom and nobility that made Dylan suddenly feel very, very small, and yet a part of everything all at once. Looking into those eyes eased some of the sickness, the shame, the rage. Tempered it with peace, and a flickering hope that everything—everything, including her nightmares, her babies, the situation with King Balor—would be all right.

The unicorn stopped so close that if she had wanted to—if she had dared—Dylan could have reached out and touched the pearlescent velvet of its nose. It carried the scent of moonflowers and fresh spring water, sunlit meadows and fresh-tilled earth, and a strange and otherworldly fragrance she didn't quite recognize that teased at her nose a little. It vaguely reminded her of her mother's perfume, when she'd been a little girl and her mother had given her a world's worth of cuddles and hugs. The unicorn's breath puffing against her skin was pleasantly warm.

*Welcome, mortal child,* a rich voice, like the ringing of a bronze bell, echoed in her skull. The unicorn stallion inclined his head a little. Dylan's eyes widened even further and her mouth dropped open again. The stallion added, *Welcome, Silverlance.*

"I thank you, my lord, for allowing us this privilege," Nuada murmured in a tone she'd never heard from him before—one of abject respect and just a faint undercurrent of awe. The normal undercurrent of princely arrogance had all but disappeared. Pressing a fist to his heart, he bowed his head and added, "You have my deepest gratitude."

*You are most welcome, fae child. The best wishes of our glory for your mating and the foals your mate carries.* The unicorn focused on something at Dylan's throat—her golden medallion. *Star Kindler's daughter, child of the High King of the World, follower of the Holy One of the Lost Tribes.* The impossibly wise, ancient eyes shifted to Dylan's face. *You are injured. Be still.* Very gently, the stallion laid the very tip of his impossibly long, spiraling ivory horn against the mortal woman's scraped cheek that she'd raked bloody with her nails.

Dylan held her breath. There was a sudden sting, followed by a pleasant coolness, and then a soft warmth that flowed through her face into her other cheek and her mouth. It erased the loathsome taste from her nightmare and eased the ache in her scratched and bitten tongue. The warmth drifted down to her throat, to the scratches there, and down further, over her breasts, her belly, her thighs, healing every bloody furrow she'd ripped into her own flesh.

The unicorn stepped back. *It is done. You have other hurts, but these are greater than my skill, wounds of the heart and soul. You will survive them, but not without scars. You are always welcome in this glen, mortal maiden. You, your mate, and your foals. Should your shadows prove too heavy a burden, come to us. We shall ease you. But for now, be well.*

The unicorn turned away and went back to the others. Swiftly thereafter, they withdrew to the darkness of the woods beyond the faerie glen, leaving Dylan speechless with Nuada's arm around her.

"Well," the prince said softly after a long silence. "I must admit I had not expected that part of it. Are you all right, mo duinne?"

She nodded very slowly, as if in a daze. "I've only felt this calm once in my entire life," she murmured. "I feel...at peace, I think. I...I..." She touched her cheek with hesitant fingers and found no wounds. Dylan stared in amazement at the unblemished skin at the tops of her breasts, over her legs. "I don't believe it." She flexed her jaw to test for stiffness or pain; there was none. "Wow." Then she looked up into Nuada's eyes. "You… this was what you'd been planning all day. You wanted to show me the unicorns. That's why we didn't leave."

"Yes," he said softly. "I thought this would bring you joy." He brushed back her hair where it had fallen into her face and murmured, "You deserve so much that I cannot give you. I hoped that this… would make up for it a little." Callused fingertips smoothed over the curve of her cheek where a bruise had ached only moments before. His touch was rough velvet against her skin, a barely-there caress. "Are you truly all right, little one? The nightmare...it was very bad, wasn't it?" Dylan nodded and dropped her face into his chest. He held her close, kissed her hair. "I am so very sorry, Dylan. I did not sense any fear or I would have woken you. Forgive me."

She simply nodded and squeezed him tighter.

"Little witch…" He was afraid to ask, but he had to know. "Have you seen...him...at all in waking? Did you see him tonight, after you woke from your nightmare? Or hear his voice? Anything?"

Dylan shook her head.

"Only in my nightmares. That's why I hate sleeping. I...I don't want to take any drugs," she quavered. "But Nuada, I'm so tired. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep dreaming about him, I can't!"

Pressing his lips to her hair, he whispered, "I know. I know, dear heart. We will think of something. I will find a way to help you, I promise." She'd heard nothing, seen nothing. Eamonn hadn't been there before the unicorns came. What did that mean? But there was no time to dwell on that now. He tilted Dylan's chin up and found her gaze with his, moonlit blue and sunlit topaz. "Do you believe me? That I'll find a way to help you?"

When she nodded without hesitation, it nearly broke his heart.

"Come on," he said gently. "Let us both get fully dressed, and then we'll be on our way to Renvyle. Shall we?"

"Okay," Dylan said. But there was something in her voice - a hopelessness, a thread of despair that circled Nuada's neck like a silken noose and told him that even with the unicorn's blessing, his wife was not well in her heart, in her mind. He would watch her. He would care for her.

And gods forbid she try to harm herself. Gods forbid he should ever harm her.

If the gods hadn't abandoned them already...