True Hate and True Love

by Kates

Imagine: what if Little Red Riding Hood was an adventurous faery princess, and the Wolf, a dreaded Dark Lord? Step into the woods with me... (Rating is for intense situations/characters)

29. Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty-six –

Words

Jaedin dreamed of many strange – and some not so strange – visions as his companions were working feverishly over him during the morning hours, those of the day, and then into the night. Little did he know, as he watched countless images play in front of his eyes, of how much danger he was in, although he would soon recall it, upon awakening.

There, in these dreams, he saw Elowyn, over and over again; the sight of her was what kept him from plunging into insanity, even in his subconscious state. She was so beautiful, and he wanted to reach out and touch her so badly, to take her in his arms and run his fingers through all her long, glorious pale gold curls, and feel her silky skin, smell her sweet scent. But, every time he put his hand out to brush it against the vision, her image would disappear. She always returned, but if he ever attempted to touch her – she left him.

Of course, this was a ploy of Elowyn's – in reality – to keep him alive, to fuel his will to leave. She knew that the thought of her gave him strange, renewed life, somehow; that was the only way she could describe how he looked at her, how he spoke to her, how he acted around her. Reminding him that, in the black void of death, she would not exist…she knew that that would force him into willing himself to live. So, by her arts of magic and enchantment, she sent him dream after dream – not really knowing, in her own mind, of what his mind would make of thoughts concerning her.

But then, she really didn't care – as long as it kept him alive.

She and Brendan remained at the sickbed for hour upon hour, neither of them leaving at the same time for even an instant. When one of them did take a moment to rest and breathe, Robbie or Sala would bring them something to eat, or drink; then, they would return to tending their patient.

The day passed slowly, wearing on and on.

Sometimes he would briefly become conscious again, but when he looked at them, he did not recognize their faces. Through narrowed slits of eyes, he would cast about the room: the movements of those eyes erratic and never resting on anything for long.

He would also plunge unexpectedly into the arms of a raging fever, his brow burning as his caretakers desperately applied cold clothes to his forehead, fanning his exposed chest and breathing spells of faery magic. Then, he would turn right around and begin to shake – violently – with uncontrollable chills. Elowyn was more than once obliged to hastily throw four or more blankets over him, and then curl herself up beside him, to cradle his trembling upper body against her own frame, in an attempt to warm him.

The closeness that they shared then was unusual: she and the Dark Lord. As she held him close to her, her fingertips would abstractedly, without her realizing it, be tracing a gentle line over the skin of his cheek and scalp as she succumbed to deep thought. She could feel his breathing: shallow and hot against her own skin, underneath her wrists, against her shoulder, in his chest, and all she could do was remain where she was, and pray – pray for his recovery, and the fate of their world. The fact that they had once been worst enemies mattered little now. She could not let him die. More than the destiny of Evyrworld hung in the balance. Much more.

And, besides that, he had laid aside their animosity to heal her – why then should she not do the same for him…?

When he was awake, Elowyn tried to get him to put something in his stomach – the soup and bread she brought in, water now and again – but what he didn't wind up vomiting out, he simply refused: beginning to murmur again, in that strange, elegantly musical and foreign language that she knew to be his own. At times, as she sat beside him, her hand over his to keep track of his vacillating pulse, when he would speak that language in his sleep, as his eyes flickered underneath their lids. It was also in those times, when she was there – alone – with him, that she would wonder what exactly was going on inside of his head.

Telling from the way he thrashed and twisted about in his bed, she knew that some of the dreams that filled his head were far from happy. Then, she would mull pensive and silently over the thought that, perhaps, these dreams contained visions of his past, and she knew that this – whatever it was – had not been an enjoyable thing for him to recall, once it had been dredged up from the depths of his mind.

Brendan was a master at the art of faery medicine, among his other lesser-known talents, and he did all that he could to bring the injured Dark Lord back to health. But even with their combined efforts, nothing seemed to have any effect on him.

In the end, Elowyn realized, it would be Jaedin alone who caused life to return to his body again. But why would he not want to live?

As the sun began to set that day, however, it appeared that a decision had been made, somewhere within the illness-wracked form of the Dark Lord; for his frame relaxed upon the cot, he began to breathe deeply and regularly again, and slept peacefully. Brendan put a hand to his wrist, closing his eyes to briefly read his patient's condition, and then exhaled: a long, slow sigh of immense relief and, she noticed, satisfaction. He looked at her after a moment, the darkness flitting out of his eyes, like shadows at dawn.

"The poison has spent itself," he told her, quietly. "He'll make a quick recovery now, as long as he doesn't overexert himself, or encounter any of his vampyric banes again."

Elowyn could only acknowledge his words with a slight movement of her head. Sweet, fresh joy was engulfing her in waves, and all she could do was think, How incredible. How utterly, insurmountably wonderful. Jaedin, you'll live. And I will wait.

* * *

The next morning, Elowyn slept in deliciously, sinfully late: taking unabashed pleasure in the fact that she did not have to spend hour upon hour of anxiety-wracked waiting and working over a languishing patient. Jaedin, when she tiptoed to the gauzy fabric door of his room in the sage-green tent that the Pings and Hobknobs had given them, was still sleeping peacefully; but when she approached him and leaned down over him, eyes roving over his features in search of any remaining signs of illness, something startling happened.

A long, soft tendril of her hair slipped down over her shoulder, and touched his bare collarbone; she hastily swept it back, behind her shoulder again, but it was too late. Jaedin stirred in his sleep – suddenly – and without warning, his arms lifted from the bed, and came around her, curving themselves against the back of her shoulders. His ungloved hands were smooth and unscarred, but for that line on his forearm, and they were also strong – very strong.

He murmured in his sleep again: "Merron nenein…"

Her breath strangling in her throat, Elowyn restrained her urge to gasp loudly and run; she managed to quickly remove his hands from their places on her back, and then tore herself away. She left the room without a glance behind herself, and stepped out into the breezy, cool morning air. Here, she stopped and looked around.

Already, the sun was shining; they were back in the forest again, only it was a different stretch of woods this time, and she supposed that only Jaedin, once he had awakened, could tell them how they would once again find their course to the Dark Gate.

Jaedin.

The thought of him made her blush – furiously, which was considerable colouring of her cheeks, for she had not yet lost that which had been caused moments before, when he had so nearly embraced her. She wondered, furtively, if he had really been sleeping.

But, then, she reflected, as she began to move off, towards a different part of their little camp, Knowing Jaedin, he would not have stopped at a mere embrace. I might have gotten at least a kiss from him – but that is not what I had been there for. Really, it wasn't.

And the Dark Lord, had he been standing there, would have looked at her with an air of male complacency and amusement, his head cocked slightly to one side as his lips curled at their corners, with arrogance: his gray eyes glittering at her engagingly.

'Oh, of course it wasn't!' he would have said to her, as he took a step towards her. 'Really, Princess – you oughtn't lie to yourself so. It's only a waste of time – your time, and, more importantly, my time.'

Indeed: arrogant was definitely a word to describe him, and she could have thought up several more suited descriptions for him, in a moment, if she had been asked.

But now he slept, thank the Fates, and she could have a moment to herself. She turned and moved towards the central part of the camp.

There, she could already hear Robbie and Brendan debating over something – was that plant that they had stepped on Pixillian Itching Wort, or wasn't it? Robbie said yes, Brendan said no – and Sala was observing them with an air of great interest and vast feminine tolerance as she stirred the fire at her feet slightly. Elowyn gave her uncle and nephew a glance as she entered the semi-circle that the tent and fire made, and sat down beside Sala, who shook her head, her eyes never leaving the two masculine figures before them. Then, she turned to Elowyn.

"How are things?"

Elowyn smiled a bit and let her head come to rest on Sala's obliging shoulder as her dear friend threw an arm about the younger girl's shoulders and rocked her back and forth a bit, comforting her. "I feel as if I could sleep for years and years and still not drive the memories of yesterday and the night before that from my mind," she said. "I hated seeing him that way…he was so…so utterly lost. It was almost worse than seeing him as my captor."

"Words truly spoken by the one who is to save the world," commented Sala, with a smile that reflected her perpetual good nature.

The other girl shot her a wry half-smile, green eyes flickering.

"I'm not so sure I wouldn't rather forget that."

"Among quite a few other things, no?" Sala asked, as she stood. She gestured sharply at Robbie and Brendan, who were still debating – only now the subject had moved on to who knew more of the local flora and fauna, uncle or nephew.

"Hey, wonky fools," she called. When she had their attentions, she jerked her head at Elowyn and informed them, "Elowyn and I are heading out to that stream nearby to freshen ourselves up a bit. I simply refuse to go three days without bathing. So it's up to you two to somehow manage to both behave yourselves and watch over the camp – and remember that we have a convalescing patient who might need your assistance, should he awaken. We'll be back in an hour or so."

And with that, Sala made an indication with her eyes for Elowyn to leave the camp's inner circle and follow her, making their departure without another word.

Once they had gone back into the tent, Sala led the way to the room that she and her cousin shared. The structure was truly marvelous, for the wonder of its ability to set itself up and then take itself down, at a command, was not its only trick – it was also quite spacious, compared to other tents, and would take no wear or abuse, from any of the elements.

Their bedding remained fresh and unsullied by dirt or moisture, nor would they find puddles at their feet after a rainstorm, or jagged, irritating roots sticking up through the lush carpets that covered the ground underneath the tent itself. Mounds of ornately embroidered and plumply stuffed pillows were all about, along with hanging wall sconces to illuminate the night hours they spent awake, and brass incense burners, and not a few tables and chairs, which they had found were easily folded and stowed away.

And in each room, there had appeared yet another thoughtful accommodation – gold-bound chests which, when opened, revealed themselves to be carriers of fresh clothing, footwear, and even toiletries, which seemed to renew itself every morning.

Or simply whenever they happened to need it.

Sala opened her chest – which was accented with sapphires and rubies, and bore the large initial of S on its lid – and quickly found the necessary items to take with them for washing up. Elowyn dug into her own chest, which was detailed with emeralds and diamonds all over, in the shapes of trailing vines and exploding stars, her name's first letter engraved upon the top as well.

Within it, she found not only a huge, fluffy white towel and cloth for her face, but also a vial of perfume that shimmered an entrancing golden-amber when she held it up to the sunlight and swirled it around a bit.

And, to her surprise, there was a new gown today.

Its colour was what initially drew her attention, and she quickly, wordlessly, with a frown beginning to etch into her fair young features, reached down into the depths of the chest to retrieve it. Her fingertips came into contact with a silky, weighted material that she knew – instantly, upon bringing the item of the chest, holding it by its shoulders – would be clinging and seamless over her frame.

It was a truly ravishingly beautiful hue: a deep garnet that reminded her of both those exact gemstones, and a bleeding sunset. Its design was simple: a curving neckline that swooped down to a gathered V at the bodice, its waist formfitting until just below her hips, where it plunged down into a full, flowing wealth of ample skirts, its hem meant to trail out a little ways behind her. Its sleeves were just tailored enough to glide smoothly over her arms above the elbow, and then they too swept down to become full and flowing, only just exposing her longest fingers. Its back laced up, all the way from the small of her spine to her shoulder blades.

Elowyn stared at it for a moment, unable to think of anything else: not even hearing Sala as she moved around behind her.

Then, when her cousin finally spoke, she at last awakened out of her daze.

"Are you ready to go? Elowyn?"

Abruptly, almost guiltily, she came out of her reverie, and smiled apologetically at her friend. "I'm sorry, Sala," she said. "I must be getting more absentminded than I thought. Yes – I'm ready. Let's be off, then."

But her companion was also female, and knew better than she thought the workings of her fellow woman's mind. As they walked through the trees that surrounded the little clearing their camp was within and then down the slight hill that led towards the nearby stream, which they could already hear babbling in the distance, Sala began a new train of discussion – she cut quickly and without preamble or apology to the chase.

"So; that dress rather unnerved you when you first saw it – and it still does, when you look at it now, unless I miss my guess, and I don't think I do," she added, surreptitiously, eyeing her cousin out of the corner of her vision, "Because you immediately saw it as a possible means for subliminal messaging to your erstwhile admirer, the Dark Lord Jaedin of Sytherria. Am I correct?"

Elowyn stopped, and gave her a blank look.

Inwardly, she was cursing herself, Oh Fates, blast it! Why did I ever…how can I explain…will she ever…bloody underworlds!

Sala took her cousin's expression for the answer it was, and wove her arm through the other girl's, leading them both on as she continued.

"I thought as much. I must confess, Elowyn, you've had me guessing in complete puzzlement for a long while now – in fact, since we had to use your necklace on this Dark Lord we've now teamed up with, in order to keep him from killing us all. If that is what he might have wanted."

She added this last as a sort of wry afterthought. Then, she turned to Elowyn, eyes searching the face of her friend.

"When you look at a dress as if it might bite you, it can only mean a very few things, Elli – now, please, talk to me."

Elowyn looked back at her for a moment, her own eyes scanning deep and searchingly over the face that looked into hers; finally, she sighed and lowered her eyes, going to sit down on a fallen log near the edge of the little sanded area that fronted the wide stream. She began to slowly remove her long hair from its bindings – having had its upper layer tied back, so that it would not obscure her vision – and spoke as she did so.

"I've not wanted to talk to anyone about it for all this time, Sala…not even him. I've kept pushing it away, pushing it – pushing him – out of my mind, until it threatened to almost drive me mad…drive me mad, because I knew that it was there, to stay, and nothing I could do would make it otherwise."

She looked up into her friend's unreadable, pretty features, toying with the ends of her own shimmering golden hair as she revealed, "He's a part of me now, Sala. He has been, for a long time – such a long time. When I was in his palace, as his captive…"

And she held back the involuntary shudder. She had not spoken of this to anyone – save to Jaedin himself – in all of the time since it had come to pass.

And now she would have to let the truth be known, in broad daylight.

So, without fuss or hesitation then, she began to speak – began to tell her dear friend of all that had befallen her, all that she had experienced, during her time in the Dark Lord's palace of Dranthiris-Ankhar. She did not attempt to lessen or blur the details of all that he had said, all that he had done, when she spoke of him; nor did she shirk away from bringing to light the absolute truth of everything that she had said and done – how she had reacted when he had tried to win her over, tried to make her love him, to agree to be his, and forever remain with him in his fortress: the two of them against the world. She spoke with forthright honesty of her own reaction to the moment he had kissed her.

Yes, if anyone wanted to know, she had enjoyed that moment; yes, she had allowed him to woo her, intensify the microscopic attraction that she had felt for him – deep within her soul – into something much greater. And yes, she now knew – she would confess – that that attraction had not been solely of his making.

However, whether she could now love him: whether she could ever even so much as imagine letting herself love him, she did not know. He was a Dark Lord, and even though she felt that she was, somehow, connected to him, she would not let this hold sway over her judgment. But this connection, Sala asked her – how could it be? What did she mean by it, and her statement that he was 'a part of her'?

To this, Elowyn shrugged.

She did not really know herself what it meant, she said. All that she was yet aware of was the fact that she inherently knew that Jaedin could not lie to her, and she could sense his emotions, at times. She could also feel his pain, which had been proven only recently, and she ever sensed his presence within her mind.

It was likewise for him – he had a part of her within him as well.

She did not know how this was so; she did not know what it meant, but she was not totally putting the thought of finding it out from her mind. One day, this mystery – as all things – would be explained. As for now, only vague outlines of the future remained.

Would she do anything to save him?

Elowyn did not know how to answer this. Only the night before, she had asked herself the same question, and had only drawn a blank, instead of a revelation. At that point of time, knowing him to be her only means of saving everything and everyone she held dear, she had known that the answer was, unequivocally, yes. Always yes.

Perhaps the question was, she replied then, more towards – could she do anything that would serve to save him? He was a Dark Lord; she did not know if this was within her power to do. But it was all well and good – they had still some time yet before their quest would be complete. Then, after that time, Elowyn knew that she would be forced to find – and give – some answers. Whether this would come to be at her own soul's behest, or at the arrogant, imperative command of him, it would be so.

And a strange chill went through her, as she thought of that.

How would the Dark Lord exact his answers? When she considered this, a thousand different images flooded her mind, some quite violent and frightening, and others simply eerie.

There, again, was his unsettling side; she could never forget it.

And if she were to curse him blatantly, even within her mind, for bringing such things down upon her, she knew that he would only allow her to hear his laughter, and give her his promise that she would soon have at least that question answered.

The conversation between the two girls came to an end, as they brought out their various soaps and other luxury items. Soon enough, a pile of adventurers' clothing – heavy, well-wearing tunics, breeches, boots, and cloaks: all outerwear excepting their thick gray-white linen shifts, which needed a good washing anyway – were left lying on the sandy ground, as Sala and Elowyn entered the water.

It was a tad bit cold at first, when one first encountered it, and swimming with a long white nightgown-like thing on isn't quite easy, but before long, the princess and her companion were up to their shoulders in the surprisingly deep waters, immersing their entire bodies, and then their heads. The stream came to a slight rounded pool at the point where they now were, continuing on in either direction to its larger river tributaries. Willow and rowan trees surrounded them on all sides, and the sun danced through their branches as a trickle of playful breeze ran through the warm air.

Sala – having the shorter locks of the pair – finished her bath first and emerged from the water. As she began to dry herself off, she cocked her head: listening. Then she turned to Elowyn, with a dry little smile playing about her lips.

"They're at it again, and even more fanatically this time," she said. "Really – you'd think it was a question of life or death, of personal, everlasting honour, by the way they debate back and forth. I wonder what it is now…"

And she began to move off, towards the camp, having instantly dried off her undergarments with a quick blast of magic, and donned her new gown: a dark gray affair of silk, with gently flared sleeves and a squared neckline. She turned back, once, before she left Elowyn alone.

"You'll not mind if I go and cease their argument by putting some food in their stomachs, do you?"

Elowyn laughed and shook her head, sending crystal droplets of water flying everywhere with her movement. Under the water, she moved her arms and legs swiftly above to keep herself afloat. "Not at all, Sala my dear. Just be sure to put some tea on for me – please?"

Sala laughed as well and returned her smile.

"Tea, or chai?" she asked.

Elowyn considered for a moment, leisurely watching the branches dance merrily above her head. "Chai," she replied, after a moment; and Sala, hearing that, nodded and turned around once again, and left her there to finish.

When she was alone, Elowyn remained in the water for a little while longer, fully intending to get out and dress herself again, and start her day.

But she was tempted into remaining.

Everything around her was bright and fresh: the water a shimmering, mirror-like surface in the midst of the green forest. Each leaf on the trees and undergrowth around her seemed as if it was a perfectly cut emerald jewel, surrounded by glowing flowers of virtually every hue she could imagine. The sun shone brightly, and the air sang with the noises of birdsong, the breeze, bees and other insects humming, and the gentle babble of the waters of the stream.

All her thoughts of their previous discussion seemed to have simply flitted away, leaving her carefree and nonchalant – as if there was no encroaching war between the forces of good and evil in the world, nor her own uncertainties about the future to haunt her, nor a certain Dark Lord—

Fate, of course, has the most amazing sense of sarcasm.

Not five minutes had passed when she became aware of a presence nearby her. She had been looking, just seconds before, at a tree that stood on the bank above the water: a twisted, interestingly shaped thing draped with hangings of rich green moss, which had drawn her eye with its peculiar curves. It had been empty, then. Just a tree. Now, when she turned around abruptly in the water and looked back at it, she saw that she was not alone.

Her inevitable, unavoidable guest stood on the bank above her, leaning against the tree with one elbow propped up against a low-hanging branch, his arms folded, head cocked to one side, and his left ankle hooked casually over his right.

Elowyn looked back at him: risen out of the water so that only her head and shoulders showed above its glassy surface. Her hair was slicked back on her scalp, gleaming in the sun even though it was quite wet, and her mermaid's eyes – those eyes of alluring jade green – glared out at him from within her lovely young faery face.

Quite the affront.

Through clenched teeth, in a very carefully controlled tone of voice, she addressed him, as he stood there: continuing to watch her in his blasé, although vaguely investigative and overall insolently supercilious manner.

"You!" she said, sending him a look that would have melted a glacier in the frozen North, "What are you doing up and out of bed – and walking around?"

The way that she said those words made it explicitly obvious that she thought his presence there quite unacceptable, and although Jaedin knew that she immensely desired him to be back in his place in the tent, sleeping again, he could not deny his own personal inclinations.

It didn't matter whether she liked it or not, his being there – he would make her like it, soon enough. She would simply have to learn to like it.

But, still, he had enough chivalry within him to give her an answer.

So, as he moved away from the tree and began to walk slowly down the small incline that it was situated atop of, coming to stand closer to the water, with her following him with his eyes – still glaring – he made a return-fire of sorts.

"Do you know how disgusting it is," he asked, beginning to undo the ties of his cloak – which were, abruptly and very irritatingly, refusing to oblige him; he tugged, and was rewarded with success – "To lie a-bed, in the middle of the day, wasting away the long hours when everyone else is up and about, with their freedom?"

He threw the cloak to the ground, which sent sand flying everywhere, and Elowyn briefly turned her head aside to avoid spraying particles.

Jaedin grinned and continued, with knowing arrogance, "And besides – even at that, I have never and most likely will never ask anyone's permission to do anything; nor will I apologize for my actions, or give in to any attempt at coercion. Where would I be left if I did? No, Princess," he said, as he gently lowered himself into a sitting position on the mossy bank, "I am here of my own choice, and there is simply nothing that you can do or say to make me leave. If you don't like it, you will soon learn to."

She wanted to walk right up to him and slap him across his face right then – no matter how handsome she had found it, ever – at the look of arrogance and male dominance that he sent her. Instead, she turned her back on him.

Unmoving, he watched her movement with an expression of interest, amused interest, playing about his features then; but in his gray eyes glittered the look of a hunter. His unknowing prey no longer faced towards him, and seemed confident in the fact that he would come no closer, so long as she was immersed in the water. What could he do…

Wrong there, Princess. Very dead wrong.

"That didn't answer my question," Elowyn muttered, inwardly seething with irritation.

Speak of the devil… she thought to herself, grinding her teeth furiously as she called the Dark Lord several highly creative names in her head.

And she had hoped to enjoy a peaceful morning – so much for that thought. If he made himself sick again, she would leave him to heal himself this time; there would be no quarter for pity on her part, then. He hadn't answered her, still, and – too late, she felt – she realized it.

"Jaedin…"

Oh well, at least she had been expecting it.

SPLASH! went the water behind her, and she turned around, her gaze briefly attracted to the new pile of clothes that had been left on the little beach: a flimsy white silk shirt, a pair of boots, and that black cloak that she had seen him wearing. Which meant…

"Arrgh!"

And she gave a squeak of protest along with that enraged female growl as she felt hands – ungloved and very masculine, very strong hands – come around her from behind. They quickly latched onto her, in the curve beneath her arms: pushing her forwards and then twirling her around so that she faced her assailant. Little more than a foot away, Jaedin regarded her with a full grin dazzling upon his features. He looked very pleased with himself.

"An answer? You wish an answer of me, Princess?" he questioned her, almost mockingly – certainly teasing.

He swept his arms out beneath the water a bit, creating a current that stirred the skirts of the long shift she wore, and came nearer to her. Elowyn instantly and without pause for consideration moved away.

Jaedin grinned all the wider at her reaction to his movement.

She was like a skittish little filly – this he knew. A pretty little mare, who would prance about and flirt her voluminous, wavy golden mane at him, her would-be master, the figure in the distance who approached her with commands and a will to dominate, to show her that – together – they could do wonders in life. She wouldn't relinquish her freedom easily, and he was entirely certain that she would never, ever allow him to win.

But that, perhaps, was why he loved her so much…

Elowyn continued to move backwards, out into the deeper water of the stream, and he followed her. They circled around one another, almost without even meaning to, their eyes never once leaving each other. Gradually, she was closer and closer to him.

But then the faery princess employed a rather insidious, girlish trick on him. She kicked her feet sharply in the water, and splashed him soundly across the face.

Jaedin blinked water from his eyes, and looked after her.

No one else would have ever dared to do that. He watched her, their eyes never once straying from one another, and felt his hunter's instincts stir within him.

Oh no, Princess, he thought, letting her hear his voice in her head, saying this to her – I'm not letting you get away that easily. You said that you wanted an answer, did you not? I am giving one to you…

If you'll but wait.

Elowyn stopped swimming away, and faced him. Something flickered through her eyes then – something dark, which almost appeared to be alarm to him, but he brushed this off as he moved towards her again. He reached out, carefully and gently entangling his fingers in the drifting strands of her wet hair. He looked thoughtful for a moment, considering them.

Then, finally, "I was lonely."

Elowyn bit back a laugh, irritated at him as she was. Mastering her inward amusement – but not before he had gotten some sense of it – she retorted, archly, "You know, for a vampyre who has had as many narrowly-avoided brushes with death as you, and yet lived, you still seem to have quite the death wish."

Her companion's shaved head jerked up – suddenly – and he was looking into her face again. She sensed him trying to read her, and tilted her head back, arching her eyebrows in superiority. Search me, she challenged him, in her mind. Look into my head and see what you can find there – but I warn you, 'twill be for naught.

But Jaedin's eyes were suddenly glittering again, with that narrowed, darkness-tainted look that she simply did not like – at all. It only remained for a split second however, for he pushed the moment aside.

"Far from it, Princess," he told her, with smooth, urbane elegance and implacable calm regard in his tone. "I am already feeling in much better health. I thank you, and your uncle, for your efforts to revive me."

There was an undercurrent of truth there, despite their bantering from the moment before, and it slightly disconcerted her – she had not been expecting it.

Hastily, she took her eyes from him: only just at that moment having become aware of just how things were, in reality. He had always told her that he found her immensely attractive – beautiful, from the beginning; now, as she looked at him, as they resided there in the water for that silent moment, she realized that she could say the exact same of him.

He had indeed healed with startling alacrity. She was amazed at how this could be the same person who had lain in such a seemingly deathly state upon his own cot, alternately trembling with a chill and then burning with a fever – the same person who had had the markings of horrible torture, the level of which she would not allow herself to imagine, etched all over his body. Now, even his eyes had become normal again…

And, right at that moment, those eyes were watching her – very carefully.

He expected her to bolt.

Run, but you know that it won't take long for me to find you – or catch you, he told her. It never did, it never has. You know this is true. You were able to avoid me for a time, but we can never remain apart for long. But – run, if you want. Run.

It was almost a taunt – it was a challenge.

So, instead, Elowyn returned them to reality.

"You're welcome."

She spoke these words softly, and then turned, slowly coming up out of the water and onto the shore. Her small, slender faery feet hardly leaving any mark in the pale sand that lay thickly there, she went to retrieve her towel and her cloak.

After a moment of silence, she heard movement in the water, and sensed – rather than saw – him come up onto the shore behind her, there to retrieve his own cloak and throw it over his shoulders, after he had replaced his shirt and hastily dried off his own soaking black velvet breeches: the only part of his wardrobe that he had allowed to get wet. They did not speak to one another for a moment; then Elowyn bit her bottom lip, considering an idea for continuing their conversation that had suddenly just popped into her head. She stood still, knowing that – were she to do it – the scene might take a turn that she might not like.

But…but the opportunity was just too interesting to pass up; some things just couldn't be refused… Slyly, she inquired: looking at him from behind, as she ran her gaze up and down his spine – Fates! Where in the bloody underworlds did he come by musculature like that? I'll wager he's had more than his fair share of women falling at his feet!—

"How long have you been up?"

Jaedin froze, was still for a second, and then pivoted around to face her. She sensed his interest – his reading of her – stirring in the air again.

"Oh…for about an hour now," he replied, standing still before her. His eyes dared her to be attracted to him, as she knew she was. What woman wouldn't be, when confronted with a face like his? When confronted with a mind, a spirit, like his?

She smiled, dryly.

"And only just this moment, you decided to come find me," she said, as if she were stating a mere dry fact.

You knew I'd be alone, you goblin. You know I've have been thinking of you, and that my overwrought emotions would have me teetering on the edge of instability, and of course, what else could you do but take advantage of it—

Oh, for the sake of my poor, aching heart, Princess – allow me some credit, will you not? I am not such an opportunistic—

Predator? Wolf? Male chauvinist pig? Take your pick! Although I know that you wouldn't think they could describe you, she spat at him, mentally.

"Interesting, isn't it?" he agreed.

Of course they describe me, Princess. I will not fight what I am. You – however – seem much prone to do so. Or will you now deny that the one greatest way you knew to ensure my living through the aftermath of my torment lay in my dreaming of you? Oh yes, Princess – I know where those dreams came from. They were drenched with the scent, with the power and presence, of you. I know you.

Coolly, she said aloud, "Yes, just isn't it."

Deny it, Elowyn.

He shrugged, a rakish lift to one eyebrow.

"I like to keep people on their toes."

And what if I won't?

"Rest assured, Dark One," she told him, stooping to pick up her towel, and at last continuing to dry herself off, "You do."

That momentarily ended their discussion, as they again took up their former tasks; then, at length, Elowyn realized that something was missing from her pile of clothing. It had been there, just a moment before – she knew that she had brought it along…

"Now…where the dickens is my dress?" she murmured.

Jaedin was now reclining against a large tree root, watching her movements with an air of great interest and intensity. He had his hands folded behind his head, his long legs stretched out lazily in front of him – never mind the sand on his boots, or the moss against the back of his cloak – crossed over at the ankles. Finally, he turned aside a bit, reaching over to something that he'd kept within arm's length for the past little while.

Elowyn heard his inquiry from behind her—

"I believe you are looking for this?" he asked, and he left no doubt as to what it was. Elowyn slowly turned around, thunderbolts in her green eyes.

"Jaedin," she said, in a very low, very controlled voice – much like that which she had used at the beginning of their discussion – "Give it to me."

He stood, straightening himself to his full height with infinite precision and care – letting her know, fully, just exactly what odds she stood against, should she decide to embattle herself against him. He held her gown loosely in one hand, although they both knew that he could, and most likely would, tighten that grasp the instant she made the slightest move towards it. The Dark Lord and his Princess were at an impasse.

Gray eyes glittered, with a menacing amusement.

"No." he said.

Elowyn was silent for a brief moment, stiffening in rage and disgust, and then she dove for the deep red gown, making a grab at the arm that he held it in. Instantly, just as she had known it would, his other arm swooped down in front of her, and caught her around her waist and elbows, shoving her gently – but firmly – back. He was now regarding her with an open smirk, one eyebrow arched sharply.

Her anger, and frustration, intensified. So: one moment, he would be thanking her for saving his life, and the next, he was stealing her dress and tormenting her with it? Well, if that was how it was going to be—!

She made another grab for the dress, and this time, he made things worse – he lifted his arm high above his head, raising the garment far out of her reach as he kept her at bay with his free hand.

With irritating ease.

"Do as I say – hand it over now!" she commanded, hopping up and down in an attempt to reach up high enough to recapture her stolen gown.

Jaedin only looked more and more amused at her antics, effortlessly evading her, while still allowing her to come exactly as close to him as he wanted her to.

"Oh, you are horrid! Give it to me – give me my bloody dress!"

"I don't think I will…" he taunted her, in a lilting, singsong voice.

She advanced on him, swiping like a cat.

"You silly vampyre."

At last, however, Elowyn managed to find the chink in his armor – dancing around him, she snaked her arm around his waist from behind and fluttered her fingers across his skin. Jaedin gave what appeared to have been some sort of violent tremor, his grip immediately slackening on the poor, abused deep red gown. In triumph, Elowyn whisked it away from him, out of his reach, and without a moment's further pause, pulled it on over her head. She was quite dry by now, and she gazed at him in triumph.

Jaedin stared at her, in what looked to be either stunned, disbelieving defeat or something quite different; she didn't wait to find out which it was.

"I really ought to just pitch you into the next available lava-pit we come across," she said, sharply eyeing him out of the corner of her vision. "You are—"

But then he was standing directly before her, and his arm had come around her waist, locking there as if it had a right to be in such a position. Elowyn looked up at him, and once more saw that unreadable expression in his eyes – the one that so deeply frightened and yet intrigued her.

Predatory – that was what he was: a being capable of great power, of lightning fast movement and thought, who could strike out at any moment and utterly destroy any opponent of his, armed or unarmed, and all without so much as batting an eyelash. Looking at the corded muscles in those long arms of his, as they rested – for the moment – at his sides, she knew that he could easily deal her the casual swat that would send her flying. Perhaps even with only one hand, and he wouldn't have to exert even an ounce of strength to do that.

Her mind boggled at the thought of how many centuries of training and careful control he had put into shaping himself into who and what he now was.

And yet, in spite of his immense, almost unfathomable age, there was not a single scar to mark his body, except for the two that she had seen long before then. The lines of his figure were long, sleek, and powerful: with a cat-like elegance and grace, holding the vast strength that was in the muscles beneath his skin in check.

In the face of such strength, she balked.

But he stepped forward, smoothly closing the gap between them, refusing to let her go any further. Elowyn did not flinch again as his fingertips brushed onto her cheeks, cupping around her face and drawing her head up, so that she looked into his face, into his eyes. Jaedin regarded her with his speculative, calm air, and seemed to be trying to read her.

"I'm horrid," he said, in response to her words, completing her unfinished sentence for her.

He moved his left hand, sweeping one of her curls over her shoulder with a nonchalant flippancy that seemed in complete consistency with his mien, but utterly in contrast to his words. Then he smirked, again.

"I know. You told me…"

He stepped even closer, and she could sense his thought.

This again…he simply refuses to give up.

As his fingers moved to lightly caress her cheek, she suddenly reached out and put her hands on his – the one that was resting on her cheek, the other that had somehow become draped about her hips, drawing her towards him, inexorably. Now, she finally looked up at him, tearing her eyes from the pock-marked surface of the sand beneath their feet. She met his gaze with hers, and gave a tiny shake of her head.

"I've told you other things before as well, Dark One," she said, softly and lowly: her quiet voice full of meaning. "When will you begin to listen to me?"

As she spoke, Jaedin breathed in abruptly, and she felt his frame stiffen – becoming rigid and unbending, and cold, like a statue – as he removed his gaze from hers and took a step back, his hands dropping down to his sides again. She realized, as a blade of insidious fear ran through her, that she had upset him with her refusal of his love, of his proposal: perhaps even made him angry. Upon a second, furtive glance at him, however, she decided that this latter was not the case.

Angry was, she thought, too strong a word for it.

Disappointed, then.

But what had he expected – for her to fall into his arms, allowing herself to forget everything, even the fact that he was still the Dark Lord, and she was still a princess of the White Realm? She trusted his word, and would not have stood by and watched him suffer, while it was in her power to heal him…but love between them, as long as the insurmountable barrier of the light against the darkness existed, could never be. No matter what her heart – longing for a love that would last for all of time, and a romance that would sweep her away to forever – told her, the love of a Dark Lord and a Princess was forbidden, and doomed to never live.

And so she drew away from him.

Jaedin, she noticed, had gone a few shades paler, and she quickly took note of the still-fading marks of the veins around his face, on his scalp, that had once been flush with the poison of silver. He was staring at her, in glowering silence.

She put out a hand towards him, bringing it into within less than an inch of his chest, and then stopped.

"Exert yourself overly much," she told him, gently, "And you will cause yourself injury – again."

She saw the muscles in his arm tense a bit, and knew that her words carried more than their intended portent to him. You have inhibitions, they told him, and you will never surmount them. You cannot forget them; you cannot lose them. Put them out of your mind for even a moment, and you will fall, again. Once again, you will fail. Even now, you are slipping. You: who have known the ages of the world.

However, even more deeply painful than that, she sensed, was the most starkly unkind and cold message of all…and at the thought of it, she wanted to turn away and weep. But he was not finished yet; he would not let her go that easily. He caught onto her wrist as she tried to move away, to run from him. His gray eyes pierced into hers, and she saw the expression in them: the closest that any part of him would come to pleading. She glimpsed his longing – the elemental desire of all creatures, to be loved and love in return – within those silvery depths.

"Even the greatest injury is sweet when I with you, Elowyn," he told her: his normally vibrant, captivating, and resonant voice dropped to a soft, almost breathless whisper. "Perhaps this is because you are my sweetest injury. When I lie awake at night and let my memories pass me by, I know that my heart beats only for you."

And in her own mind, Elowyn knew at that very moment, that her heart belonged to him, and no one else. Whether or not she ever revealed this to anyone in the life that she now lived was immaterial.

She knew the truth, but had to hide it.

"No." she whispered. She removed her hand from his, withdrawing it from him as she took a step away, her eyes never leaving the depths of his. "I won't let you hurt yourself," she told him. "I won't let you hurt us."

'Us' – she had said 'us'. She had started out with speaking only of him, and then reverted to the plurality of the two of them. Small as this little slip on her part had been – or had it been deliberate? He couldn't tell, even by looking closely at her…but it gave him a flutter of hope. She had said no, but then, he had heard that word before.

Sometimes, no didn't always remain the same, in the end.

He nodded, slowly and silently accepting her words, and bowed slightly to her, like a knight acknowledging the command of his lady.

"As you wish."

Merron nenein, his mind whispered.

It was growing later and later in the morning, heading towards the hour of noon, and so now he turned halfway and held out a hand to her. Elowyn laid her fingertips lightly in the palm of it, and he escorted her, without another word, back to the camp.

When they arrived, Robbie, Brendan, and Sala were all seated in the designated dining room inside of the tent. They looked up as Jaedin raised the tent flap door and stood aside to let Elowyn enter, following into the space behind her.

After a moment of silence, Elowyn announced that, if Jaedin's wounds remained healed enough for him to ride again, they would depart from that area the next morning, and continue on their quest. Then, they all parted ways – Brendan went into the woods again, to search out some herb that grew there, with which he had made the salve they had applied to the vampyre's many injuries, and Robbie accompanied him to gather up more firewood, and attend to the horses. Sala returned to the room she shared with Elowyn, leaving her cousin and their guide alone together, once more.

After everything that had happened before, it felt odd.

Elowyn ran her gaze over the table, brushing her fingertips along its edge, as she eyed the many gold-embellished platters, goblets, utensils, and other eating items.

A banquet of seeming epic proportions laid out on the table, yet another gift from the incredible, magic-ridden tent. She had long ago decided that the Pings and the Hobknobs, even though they did not seem to have any inherent, natural powers of magic and enchantment of their own, certainly were not without experience with such things.

Finally, she turned to Jaedin.

"I'm supposing that you're going to be hungry now; at least, I know I am. And it seems that we've been left to dine with one another."

His lips curled a bit at their sides, and he acknowledged her words with a fluttering, courtly flourish of one long, well-toned hand.

"The Princess Elowyn must do as she wishes."

"Aye; so she must," Elowyn murmured, her gaze riveted on the table before her, but she heard and understood his words all too well. She took up a large plate in one hand and began to move down the length of the table, carefully making a selection large enough for both of them to eat. When at last she had finished, she hefted the by now rather heavy platter in both hands, and nodded to him.

"Where to now?" she inquired, and he held the gauzy fabric door aside for her again, allowing her to step outside into the bright, midmorning air again.

She looked back, over her shoulder, just in time to see him hold up a hand to his head: his thumb and longer fingers going to press briefly against his forehead, at the sudden blaze of light, and a sickening feeling stabbed through her stomach.

Of course he wouldn't behave as if he were still in pain, not quite recovered from his illness; what male being would?

Inwardly cursing herself for ever having let his outward air deceive her, she rounded on him and, without another word, took him by the front of his shirt – holding a rather large chunk of the flimsy white silk in her clenched fingers – and dragged him off behind her.

Jaedin, if he had wanted to, could have resisted; but, as it was, he didn't. Utterly furious, both with him and with herself, Elowyn propelled them both towards his quarters, stepped inside, and set the tray down on the table that stood beside the cot. Jaedin stood beside the door, watching her with his arms folded behind his back, one eyebrow cocked. She whirled on him, incensed beyond words.

"You vampyre blackguard," she snapped off at him, "Where do you think you came upon the right to do something like that to me? Do you possibly not know how many hours I spent at your bedside, hoping and praying that you would come out of your fever? Can you possibly not guess? And now I find you up and out of bed, specifically against anything I might have told you – and you knew it – and even against common sense itself…and you're not even fully well yet! How dare you—"

Then suddenly he was looming up in front of her, catching her wildly gesticulating hands in his own, and his face was glaring down into hers.

Again, she had made the mistake of flouting his authority over his own actions. Never, in millennia, had anyone told him how to behave, what to do and what not to do, and now she, the child of his greatest enemies, had taken to ordering him around? Even his attraction to her would not let this go unanswered; his affection did not run that deep.

The thought of fighting back, trying to free herself, to make him release her, crossed her mind – but she knew better. When he held her, it was because he wanted to, and nothing short of a disaster itself could make him take his hands off of what he wanted.

"How dare I what, Princess? Please, do tell me! Tell me that I am a base, corrupt, and depraved monster, for not having the self-restraint to force myself into distancing myself from my emotions – spit those words back in my face, as you say that you will do anything you can to save my life, and yet refuse to let me show my own feelings! Blame me for reacting to your coldness to me in this one way: for hiding my weaknesses from you when I know that I may never have your sympathy, or your care. The very thought of you was all that kept me alive, in that accursed city, as they tormented every atom of my being and sought to draw the life from me. And now you tell me that I cannot even show you my gratitude."

He released her, abruptly, and she felt very, very weak in the knees – weak and trembling all over, in fact – and sank down to sit on the edge of the unmade cot, fingers absentmindedly rubbing the places on her wrists where he had held her. Jaedin, meanwhile, paced around the room; she could feel the waves of frustration and anger radiating off of him, filling the air.

At last, he turned to her, and she saw that his eyes were smoldering with an only barely-constrained depth of emotion.

"Elowyn, Elowyn…" he said, breathing the words in a silky, deadly soft tone of voice. "I promised you that I would not do anything to harm you; I have given you my very life, it would seem, and have gone through no one knows what shadows to find my way to your side. I have sworn to help you, and do as you command. I have tried to tell you of what lies within my soul, but you never cease to push me away. I cannot bear it much longer, Elowyn; it is slowly killing me."

She felt her eyes widen, as she stared at him.

"I? I am killing you? How…"

He made a face that might have almost been one of rueful, self-deprecating grief: his mouth quirked to one side, and his eyebrows softened from their original hard angle.

"From the inside out, it would seem," he told her. "If it is impossible for you to believe that a Dark Lord can love, that is must likewise be impossible for the truth to resound in your mind that a Dark Lord can also die, for love of another."

Then he turned away from her, to look out through the sheer, breeze-stirred doorway, into the impenetrable distance. She heard him murmur faintly to himself, "He can die from that…among many other things."

"Jaedin, I cannot give you an answer."

Now he whirled around again; looked at her.

She averted her eyes, her fingers moving to trace a pattern on the coverlet that she sat upon, eyelashes flickering over the jade-green shimmer of her gaze. She spoke her next words, thoughtfully and softly.

"But I can give you my word – the word of a Princess of the faeries – that one day, whether that day is soon or very, very far off, I will. Until then…you must not ask me."

She looked back up at him again, as he came to stand beside the cot, gazing down on her as his hand moved to stroke the back of hers. Butterflies beat their wings in her stomach.

"Until then…Jaedin, please try to stay alive. We need you, and I don't know what I'd do if you were to leave us…"

He went to sit down on the far end of the cot, leaving a good two feet in between them, and pensively poured himself a glass of wine from the bejeweled decanter. Elowyn belatedly noticed that, coiled around the bottle itself, was a golden dragon: its wings folded, graceful and taut, against its sides, with its gleaming talons and eyes of sapphires sparkling like dewdrops when the sunlight glanced upon them.

The wine itself was a deep red hue, almost the same colour of her dress, and when she saw him take a drink of it, she thought that it looked very much like blood.

And she suppressed a shudder.

Jaedin observed her, not saying anything, and replaced the wine glass on the table, slowly and deliberately picking up a thick-skinned grape, to roll it between his fingertips before he increased their pressure, popping the skin and sitting forward.

"Open your mouth."

She obeyed, and then they ate. They talked no further of love, nor his illness, although Elowyn had made a mental note to herself to reassess his healing wounds.

But only much later.

* * *

"What happened to you?"

Silence.

"I was born to a family of vampyres – Sytherrian vampyres. I had…six older brothers, three older sisters, and a younger brother and sister: twins. Together with our mother and father, we lived in the companionship of our particular clan, as vampyres as wont to do – grandparents were there with us, and aunts, and uncles, and cousins, extended relatives…you understand."
A nod.

"Then…one day, the Ebony Queen's forces attacked, without warning. The carnage and destruction they brought along with them spread like a wildfire – pitiless and unstoppable. They left no one alive."

Pause.

"No one, that is, but a three-year-old boy."

"You."

"It hardly leaves room for imagination, does it? Yes, that child – the sole survivor of a horrific bloodbath – was I, and the Queen came, and took me away from that place. After that day, she raised me as she might have raised her own son. She left me have full and complete, utterly unrestrained run of her palace, until I was nine years of age. Then she sent me to her war mines."

A long, long silence; memory.

"I spent the next eight years of my life in those terrible, blood-stained depths; and in them, I learned to deaden myself to pain, to emotion, to the sight, the sound, the feel of suffering. All the while, my bitter rage and resentment towards the one who had sent me there, into that dread darkness, continued to fester and grow, writhing within me like some vile, poisonous thing – eating me from the inside out."

Harsh and cynical laughter.

"It was there, if you can believe it, that I made most of my 'friends' – the beings who would one day become the members of my army, my officers and underlings. I learned well how to manipulate and cow, threaten and coerce, to get what I wanted, when I wanted it, however I had to do so. Otherwise…how could a mere adolescent of a vampyre have survived among such shadows? There were creatures there, Elowyn – things – that I will simply will not speak to you of…"

Again, a long, long silence.

"But then she brought you back…didn't she? She had to have done it."

"Once again, Princess, your intuition wins you another round in our game. And now it is my turn. Yes – Zaschaea, Queen of the Black City, on the day that I turned seventeen, brought me back to her palace. There, she told me that the time had come for me to take my place in the world. The moment after that is still nothing but a blur to me – blanked out by the scarlet haze of fury. In all those long, terrible years, she'd made no secret to me of my origins; every day, I had had the knowledge of who and what I was thrown and smashed into my face, until it became a caustic, biting degradation of myself – a pressure on my chest, like a booted heel. I could not remove it, and they would not let me forget."

Breeze blowing; wordless thought.

"I must have tried to attack her, then, for the thing I remember next is being on my hands and knees in the throne room, spear points and crossbows bristling in a hedge around me. That day, I received many scars…"

Scars; upon that handsome, proud face – a sense of pity, a desire to reach out and comfort, a whisper – "Jaedin…"

Refusal.

"No…no. I've not done yet."

Gathering of more words.

"She told me that from that day forth, my past would be as a blank to me – a void where mere darkness remained. I would, however, retain the knowledge, the memories and abilities that I had received in the war mines."

A thought, within his own mind – Selfish and tyrannical by age three; bitter, withdrawn, and cold by age eleven; contemptuous, unfeeling, and utterly without relent or mercy by age seventeen. We are so different…

"This having been said, she wiped out my memory – injured me so that I lay in a deeply unconscious state for almost a month afterwards – and then, when I awakened, she fed me her lie. The White Realm had murdered my family, taken away all I held dear, she told me; 'Now, go: seek your vengeance. I will help you, in return for one small thing – truly, it is an almost trifling price to pay…' "

"Your service to her."

"She would take nothing less. So I agreed to become her instrument of terror, her black knight – the Dark Lord, in short. And over the next thousand years, I thrust myself zealously into achieving revenge for my slain loved ones – I cut a swath of death, ruin, and chaos throughout whatever region she commanded me to take, and all in the name of my own personal conception of justice."

A shake of the head.

"I led…how many was it? Five hundred, six hundred? Or was it more towards a thousand battles – campaigns, strikes, forays, and many, many more – against the White Realm, as the Dark Lord. I doubt that even one of your peers who has seen more than the last five hundred thousand years in this world did not know of me. I was, I think, a household name in those days. Then…"

Silence again.

"Then what?"

"A downfall, Princess, caused by pride. I went in battle against the White Realm, to the very gates of Avalennon itself, thinking that now – at last – I would end my heart's suffering, close the gaping wound in my soul that I would reveal to no one. No one could stop me, I believed. And I fell."

"It wasn't the end, though, Jaedin."

A skeptical glance in her direction, complete with the cynical lifted eyebrow.

"No? Actually…"

A pause for reconsideration.

"Actually…I believe that you are right, Princess. It wasn't the end."

Far from it.

* * *

"Why did you want me?"

A stare, a gaze, deep into her beautiful jade-green eyes.

"To be my queen – why else? I wanted you to take your place at the throne beside me, and reign as the lady of Sytherria, the mistress of Dranthiris-Ankhar."

And from the implications of that…

"An exalted position indeed…"

"I still desire that, Elowyn. If you would only have consented, that night, to take my hand and name yourself as mine…I would have been happy. I would have shown you that even a dark lord could love. I would have shown you our dreams."

"Why? Why would you?"

Again, the cocked eyebrow, the patronizing and arrogant manner.

"Namely? You are beautiful, Elowyn. All beings capable of thought gravitate towards loveliness, in whatever form, and – to some small degree – light; they cannot help it, and both of these, you have. You are beautiful, and you are born of the Light."

"And beyond that?"

"Beyond that? What else served to stay my hand, to keep your from being destroyed – even when it became clear to me that I must disobey the commands I had been given? I have long been constrained by a class of nobility that grovels at my feet, acquiescing to my slightest whim, in hopes of currying favor – a class of nobility that will, also, turn around and tear into itself, into its various members: each of whom have nothing better to do than eternal jockey and scrabble for a better position. They are altogether base and unworthy. You – along with your friends – however, give me a challenge. You defy me, you will not grovel before me; you are different."

"I interest you."

"Is it so hard for the princess to believe? Elowyn."

Their gazes met, at last.

"You and I are connected, by a bond that no one and nothing can break. I fear to speak of such things to you, but feel that I must – rail against the bars of the cage that does indeed exist around you, my pretty songbird of the morning, and you will rend your wings to pieces, and all before your master has ever come to release you, and hold you in the palm of his hand. It is only to your downfall."

"If I were to love you, when we live in such a world, that would be to my downfall."

She said these words, but in his mind, he heard them differently. In his mind, he heard her say to him—

I will not let myself love you. I will not let you touch me. In the end, I will always leave you. It shall ever be so.

And she left him.

Silently, he watched her go, as his anger grew within him. He cursed the Fates that had so callously placed him and the one whom he loved – the only woman he would ever love, he was now certain – on the opposite sides of the greatest chasm imaginable, on the opposite sides of light and dark. No longer did he serve the Ebony Queen, but now he was a Dark Lord in his own right. And where the light was, the darkness could not also be. Yet his will remained determined…

Elowyn! Do not turn your back on me! You cannot so negligently brush aside the truth – when it comes to find you, what will you do to shield yourself from its heedless, bruising force? Would you not rather have the one who loves you to stand behind you, and guard you with his arms?

Not if the one of whom he spoke was himself, he knew.

But I am that one! I am bound to her by more than mere desire – we share a fate, in a destiny long foreseen by members of this world!

She is my light.

I am her darkness.

* * *

The next morning dawned clear and heartless: a bright blue sky devoid of any clouds whatsoever, as the sun shone without relent above the earth. Elowyn awakened and lay still in bed for a long time, staring at the cloth ceiling of the tent, not entirely certain that she wanted to leave her room. Across the space from her, on the other cot, Sala stirred in her sleep and then sat up, moving with the air of one who is a reluctant waker, who knows that it is necessary to rise and begin her day, and resents it.

No words were exchanged between them as they found the clothing they would wear that day and began to dress: lacing ties, fastening buttons, pulling on boots, readjusting sleeves, and brushing hair. Sala immediately left the room as soon as she was finished, while Elowyn hung back. Her sense of dread had only grown with each moment that she had remained there, delaying her departure.

She knew that just beyond those glimmering, almost entirely transparent curtain-like hangings lay the morning, and the day ahead of her. She knew that he was out there, and right at that second, the thought of meeting him filled her with apprehension and recoiling fear. Her sleep had been filled with disturbing visions the night before, and she had rested uneasily.

But the quest awaited her – she could not ignore its demands.

You must finish this, Elowyn.

And so, swallowing her misgivings about going out into the company of her friends when all of these fears and memories remained to haunt her, she set her shoulders straight, lifting her chin to a proud, unafraid and defiant angle, and stood. The sword that she had earned as her own early in her martial arts career was hung on its place at her belt, and, with one hand resting upon its golden hilt, she went out to greet the morning.

Few words were spoken among the group in those early morning hours; her friends acknowledged her presence, and they all set about preparing to leave. He had still not appeared; and she could not tell, exactly, what she felt in her heart about that. True, she feared that meeting, but she also, to some degree, desired it.

That hour slowly slipped by.

She turned, at last, to go in search of their mounts, and, as she did so, was greeted by the sight of the one whom she had learned to know the face of almost better than her own. He stood, black velvet cloak rippling slightly in the cool morning breeze, and was watching her: his silver-tainted eyes aloof and yet prescient of her being there. She halted, her own eyes flaring wide so that her lashes made a dark and vivid contrast against the paleness of her skin.

There they stood, for a long, silent moment. Simply staring at one another.

Elowyn distantly sensed that her friends had come up behind her, standing in a sort of V behind her, observing this wordless meeting. Jaedin tilted his head, so that he was looking up at her from under his slightly clouded brows.

You know that I will always feel the same for you, Princess of the Faeries, his voice said in her mind. I know not what the future holds for us; if I had the power to do so, I would make it so that everything was as I wished it – however, I cannot, and for the moment, I will not try. You have determined not to care for me, have you? Do not battle against me – I know how to fight, and I will do it, if I must.

Thus it seems our path is meant to be, my Dark One.

'My Dark One'? So – perhaps your heart is not utterly alien to me – I may yet have hope. But you shake your head; you do not know. Well, then: I shall wait, until a time comes that is better for me to seek to woo you. Our discussion is not over yet, Princess; there will be many after it. I have tried to make you see sense – my sense – long and hard now, but I see that I must yet play the hunter.

Whilst I remain your prey. So it shall be.

And she acknowledged him, in reality, with a graceful version of the most formal faery curtsey: a slight spread of her whispering silken skirts, as she let her feet assume a dancer's position, one foot angled behind the other. She inclined her head to him, her eyes sending him a challenge to respond, shooting sparks of jade.

"We await upon your readiness to ride forth, Guide."

* * *

A/N: So, we're getting a bit uneasy here – and the question must, again, be asked…what exactly is going on between these two? You'll just have to read the next chapter to find out. Follow me further into the woods: we're gaining on Red and the Wolf…

And as we go – Notes.

Grayfalcon: So, a nice long chapter complete with a dash of playfulness, some long-delayed romance, and – YES – the revelation of Jaedin's past. I'm not doing so badly here, am I… ^_~ And yes, the messenger line was somewhat derived from Mulan, although I tried to change it enough to avoid plagiarism. Ick. Thank you for being a truly marvelous reviewer!

Mystery Guest: I am honoured that you've elected to continue on with the series – it's so great to have reviewers who stick around. ^_^ I promise, also, that the action will not let up from here on out…which may or may not be the best way to give myself a severe migraine, but we shall see. The feedback I've gotten on Jaedin and Elowyn's relationship is great – thank you so very much for commenting on it, and believe me, I do try my best to avoid "corniness". *shudders* As for getting published…well, I'm working on it. Will explain further on.

Rosethorn: Well I'm glad Gavin's still in the closet. Jay and Shinzon, evil little boys, have been locked in my room for the past…well, since my last update, because of their little prank they pulled on me. I think they're now planning on challenging all the other villains in the world/galaxy/history to a Grand Duel…arrrrgh. *Kates thunks head on keyboard* Hmmm…Rosethorn likes angst…I shall do my best to keep it coming. ^_~

DarkSlytherinAngel: The Pet Psychic Lady? *throws herself in Shinzon's arms, shaking violently; he looks slightly bemused* ACK! She scares me. No, with the 'dahling' thing, I was definitely going for the more Liz Taylor or even Audrey Hepburn…creepy lady who talks to pets…now my twitch is going at it again. Anywho… ^_^ Well, if I ever get any of my books published and there is an opportunity to make them into movies, I will let you know as soon as I possibly can. After all, I'd do anything I could for my wonderful reviewers… (And as for the italics/bold/underline…I just write out the chapter, save it as a web page – instead of a Word document – and upload it. It normally works that way, although I can't get my centered stuff to center for the life of me…)

Raal the Sword Master: Hmm…it does sound like it somehow evens out. Sorry – I don't mean to batter my readers with tons of long and involved updates…ugh. And school is lovely, isn't it. Back to Evyrworld, however…*grins* There may be some lines drawn between Elowyn and the Star-Maiden – where those will lead, I can't say, but I will tell you that you're on the right track. Egads! They're getting close to figuring me out! Must elude, must confuse! As for Jaedin…the war between him and her has come to a bit of a truce, but one can never tell how long it will last. He likes to keep people on their toes: even when he's been virtually incapacitated, and nearly mummified…but yes, as you said, at least his flesh isn't decaying. (And having Elowyn around 'to make him all better' isn't exactly a cup of tea he won't enjoy…)

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! I can't express my gratefulness for your comments, and the fact that you're all reading my story. It makes it all worthwhile – more than worthwhile. ^_^ And now on to the next chapter…