Days passed in silence. Young men delivered food (crusty bread and cheese and fruit from the forests, and wine, which she'd never tasted) and lit fires. Otherwise, she was left alone. Saorlaith spent her days leafing through Nuada's massive collection of books—none of which she could read. Some of them were easily hundreds of years old, weathered and dog-eared. She looked through the pictures at woodcuttings of epic battles, watercolors of peaceful agrarian scenes.

Then, one day when she slept (for the Unseen were nocturnal, and now so was she), the sound of trumpets came up to her from below. It startled her out of sleep. She dressed quickly again in one of the silk gowns the old woman had given her. It was deepest violet. Saorlaith's hands shook violently as she smoothed them through her hair. How long she survived was directly related to how attractive the Prince found her. And inside herself, she'd rediscovered a battered but still present will to live.

Hours passed like days. They were so silent—no boots thudded on the ground, no armor clanked. No voices were raised in jubilation.

Finally, when she thought her mind would break, she heard voices on the other side of the door. She recognized the voice of the old woman who'd spoken to her in the tongue of men, and a man's voice, soft but with unmistakable authority, both speaking in the flowing language of the Unseen. The discussion went on for some moments, the man sounding increasingly annoyed.

Then the door opened, and Nuada, the bringer of death, entered.

Saorlaith backed up involuntarily until she was touching the cold stone wall. He closed the door behind him, and they were alone, his form illuminated only by a single oil-lamp.

It caught on the silver crest on his breastplate, the white-gold hair that hung almost to his waist. The light skittered across his pale, scarred face, catching in particular on the amber eyes, rimmed in black, and on full dark lips. He was taller than she had expected, taller than her by half-a-head, but narrow-hipped and lean. Grace marked every step, power hummed in every movement. Nuada had lived ten of her lifetimes, and ended ten times that many. And yet the sight and smell of him (like autumn and spices and night) sent a shiver through her body that was only partially fear. He moved away, further into the darkness the oil-lamp could not penetrate

"Put that out, girl. I've had enough of light." His words floated to her from somewhere beyond. His speech was perfect, unaccented, and the tenor of his voice made her breath quicken.

She blew out the lamp, and was plunged into darkness. Saorlaith put out her hands, disoriented, backing up until she found the edge of the bed. One of her hands found the bedpost, and she held onto it as though it would anchor her.

The room was silent for agonizing moments, with only the sound of her breathing disturbing the still air. At last he spoke again, and his voice was right beside her. She startled, her blind eyes darting around as though she could find him.

"Unlike men, we don't take our own as slaves. I've never had much use for them, but the soldiers in my employ seem to think I've been...tense."

He chuckled, sliding past her in the darkness. He passed so close she could feel the air moving as he walked, feel the strands of his hair against her face. His laugh made goosebumps come up all over her body. It was a joyless sound—grim and taut.

I'm insane, she thought, feeling her body respond to his proximity in a completely unexpected way. I've got some desire to end my life, that's why I'm drawn to this monster, she told herself. But reason corrected her: This thing in front of you is death's avatar. Doing what he wants can't possibly be any more suicidal than defiance.

"Saorlaith." He said quietly. From the sound of his voice she could tell he was facing away from her, somewhere on the other side of the bed. "How old are you?"

It was the first time he had invited her to speak, and it wasn't a question she had an answer for. Once the cities fell, and the metal contraptions men once used to synchronize their time-keeping devices plummeted from the heavens, time became a tricky concept.

"About twenty. I...I think."

He snorted.

"And none of the human men managed to catch you in all that time?" He said, dryly.

Saorlaith blanched. She had no idea how he could know. She certainly hadn't told anyone. Virginity was a particular obsession of men—to the point that her own was her most closely guarded secret. And somehow he knew. She supposed they all had—maybe that was why they'd taken her.

"So young." He continued, now apparently closer to her. He may have been pacing, but his steps were so quiet and the windowless rooms so dark that she couldn't tell. Her eyes continued to search for him instinctively, even though she had no way of seeing him. Only the bedpost under her hand kept her from being wildly disoriented.

"Do you even know who I am?" He spoke again, now so close she could feel his breath on her throat, the exposed portions of her breasts.

Her mind seemed to jam up for a moment. She wasn't sure what was worse—her traitorous body that inexplicably wanted him or her practical mind that feared him appropriately.

"Prince Nuada Silverlance." She said at last.

He sighed.

"It would have been better for you, perhaps, not to know." He said, and she felt suddenly that he pitied her. Not an emotion she had expected from the being that had cleansed the earth of men with blood and fire.

His cold lips touched her neck, the tip of his tongue seemingly tasting her pulse-point. Saorlaith shivered, but warmth started somewhere in her belly and spread out between her legs.

Nuada chuckled, the sound starting deep in his chest. He inhaled deeply.

"I was going to tell you not to be afraid of me, but apparently you're not."

She whimpered, confused and, regardless of what he thought, completely terrified.

"I...is that...magic?"

"Magic? You mean a glamour? No. Apparently you find me appealing all on your own, little human girl. I'm flattered."

He touched her hair, moving it off of her shoulder. Then one fingertip came to rest gently on her lips, then trailed down her chin and whispered between her breasts before disappearing.

"I have to admit, I feel similarly. And I don't usually have time for such things."

"But I'm human."

"We're not so different—in the ways that matter at the moment. Why? Do I seem so alien?"

"No." She answered truthfully. What was there to lose? "You're beautiful. But I'm afraid of you."

The gown slipped off her shoulder. He nipped at her skin, and she was again surprised at how cold his lips were. Saorlaith drew a breath sharply.

"I have no intention of hurting you. In fact, you may even find your acquaintance with me...pleasurable." He said.

Her eyelids fluttered closed. Nuada didn't need to put a glamour on her to be utterly intoxicating. He put a cold hand to her face and she leaned into it, tired of fighting herself.

His lips met hers, his long hair whispering against her neck and shoulders. The smell of him already had a pleasant association for her: his bed was full of it. A bed where she'd been lying in warmth and comfort for the first time perhaps ever.

His lips opened hers, and his tongue was on her lips, then in her mouth, but gently. She should have resented the intrusion, or at least shivered at the chill of his touch, but she didn't. Something passed between them—she knew he felt it from the way he closed the distance between them in a half-step, pulling her into him.

Nuada had discarded his armor at some point in their conversation, and now she could feel his heart hammering against his ribs through the thin layers of fabric between them. Her breath was coming quick now, and she couldn't stop a moan from escaping as he pushed the gown off of her other shoulder and cupped a breast in his hand.

"There's something strange about you, little human girl." He whispered into her neck.

There was nothing strange about her, but she agreed that something unusual was happening. But if it was magic he would have known—the Unseen could see magic moving in the air like men saw smoke from a fire.

"Please..." Saorlaith said, trembling. "...I want to see you."

She was, of course, a slave making requests to a Prince. She wondered if he was about to make her regret speaking. But there was silence for a moment, and he withdrew. Then reality seemed to shimmer around them, and the oil-lamp on his desk re-lit itself.

Nuada was resplendent. His hair looked almost silvery for most of its length, before terminating in gold. His eyes, too, were striking in the dim light—amber with flecks of deep orange and scarlet. His pupils contracted suddenly in the light but he didn't look away, and she noticed with some satisfaction that she'd brought color to his white face.

His strange eyes (like the sun in the hottest months, she thought) flickered over her, studying her face, but he didn't move. She was puzzled for a moment as to what he was searching for. He could see her just as well in the dark—probably better, in fact. Then she realized that he was assessing her reaction to seeing him. His eyes caught on her parted lips, then found her eyes again, returning her gaze levelly. A smile touched his lips.

"Satisfied?" He said softly.

Saorlaith nodded, and the oil-lamp extinguished itself.

He didn't speak again, but scooped her up easily and deposited her in his bed, underneath the covers, then sliding in next to her.

Unbidden, she slid her hands under his tunic and pulled it over his head, discarding it. Her hands traveled along the muscles of his chest and stomach, catching on raised scars and one freshly stitched wound that made him hiss when she touched it.

He got a hand around her and undid the laces of her gown, pushing it down off of her hips and dropping it by the bedside with a flutter.

Nuada's cool touch traveled over her shoulders, then over her breasts and stomach, his strong fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. His mouth settled on her throat then a nipple, and she arched unconsciously into him, gasping.

Feeling emboldened by the blush she'd brought to his face, Saorlaith buried her hands in the Prince's long hair. It felt finer than human hair, almost silken, and to her satisfaction he made a decidedly pleasure-filled noise when she pulled her hands through it.

His muscled back was covered in scars. Her fingers trailed them even as she enjoyed his ministrations. She knew how he'd gotten these scars but something inside her wouldn't let her contemplate the fact for too long.

Saorlaith kissed his cool lips, his long hair falling onto her face and neck, drawing his weight down on herself.

Nuada put a knee between hers and slid between her legs, his hips settling between hers. She gasped when she felt him pressing into her, knowing that this was how it was done but not much more. In the moment, she'd forgotten how inexperienced she truly was, and she was frightened anew.

He chuckled softly from above her, his breath finally warm against her face.

"Did I not tell you I wouldn't hurt you?" He said.

Before she could answer, she felt his hand travel up her thigh before settling between her legs. He touched her softly, his fingers finding the warm wetness and sliding her open.

The tension went out of her slowly, replaced by a spreading pleasure. Saorlaith drew a sharp breath as he entered her with a finger, exploring gently. His presence inside her was strange, but felt undeniably good. He'd found the core of feelings she'd never explored, his touch building something up inside of her that she couldn't even identify.

Still feeling bold, Saorlaith slid a hand under the waistband of his leggings and touched him where she hadn't yet dared. She was rewarded with a gasp, and he rested his cool forehead against hers.

"Something..." Nuada's breath hitched, "...very strange about you."

Between the two of them they quickly had his trousers discarded. Saorlaith should have been frightened, horrified even. Plucked from the dark, hungry woods by soldiers, taken here to enemy's very compound as consort to the Prince himself—who, a human lifetime ago-led the army that destroyed the world of concrete and steel. And somehow she wasn't.

Nuada entered her carefully, and she found herself arching into him instead of away. He was kissing her and she wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips.

Her breath caught, pressure turning to pain for a moment...then easing. She released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. He was very still, his face hovering over hers. The darkness was complete, but she could feel his strange eyes on her face, his breath.

Feeling her relax under him, he kissed her again. Her heart felt like it would beat right out of her chest. She braced herself for pain that never came. He slid slowly into her again and she realized that it felt...good.

Nuada sighed against her mouth, and for a moment they were breathing the same air. There was a third stroke and unexpectedly, pleasure blossomed in her stomach and spread throughout her entire body, all the way into tingling fingertips.

"Yes." He whispered, shivering.

He moved slowly at first, his weight balanced one elbow, the other hand on her face, in her hair. His skin was slowly warming, heat spreading out from his heart until he was as warm as she was. Saorlaith wished again that she could see him, see the warmth she was bringing to his white face, see his eyes.

Something was building inside of her and he could feel it, pulling her along into a quicker rhythm. It started where their bodies met and became more insistent until she felt like it would overcome her.

"Let go." Nuada said, his voice throaty, and without knowing how, she did.

Sensation ripped through her, her nails digging into the flesh of his back, her legs tightening around him. The air seemed to shiver around them, and for a moment she was somewhere else entirely (green fields long destroyed, flashing amber eyes, fires on the horizon) then she was back in the Prince's bed.

He'd rolled them over so that she was resting on his heaving chest. His lips found hers again, then kissed her neck, again seeming to hover over her pulse-point. He shivered again.

"Call me by my name, Saorlaith." He said in a raw whisper.

"Nuada." She said once, burying her hands again in his soft hair, and she felt his lashes move against her cheek as his eyes closed.