Once Upon a Time

by LA Knight

Wolves in human skin. A Beast and a lost maiden. A sanctuary in a storm. A prince of Elven blood. Sacrifices, debts, honor, & oaths. Ten long, beautiful years, and all the stories that fall within. A collected fic series; currently on book 13. Updates when I can because hey it's a pandemic. Early access available on Patreon.

9. Cheese, Apple, Bread

Author's Note:Enjoy the chapter! Love you all!

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Chapter Nine
Cheese, Apples, Bread

that is

A Short Tale of Visitations, Beliefs, and Stories

What are you doing here?" Dylan whispered, taking in the prince in his dark green silks and brown leather belt, vambraces and boots. When topaz eyes widened, dusty gold brows lifting, the mortal hastened to add, struggling for Old World formality, "I mean…I'm honored by your presence, Your Highness." She dipped a curtsy, made awkward by the bundle of mewing fur twining between her legs and the twinge of pain in her right knee. "But I had no reason to look for your coming. Why have you come?" She paused, swallowed. "Am I to die, then?"

If she was, then all right. She didn't fear death, only the pain that invariably came with it; but the Elven warrior would make her death quick and painless—his honor demanded that much. Then she wouldn't be trapped in this world anymore. The pains and sorrows of mortality would be gone, and she wouldn't have to be afraid anymore.

"If I intended to kill you," Nuada said coolly, "I would've simply allowed the leanashe to do it for me. Why do you think I would slay you? Have you broken your promise to me?"

Dylan opened her mouth, ready to bite off some snippy remark—hadn't he learned yet that she was trustworthy? Why had he let her live these past four months, if he didn't trust her?—when she saw the faint smile curving one corner of his black-lipped mouth. And his eyes…they weren't bronze with fury anymore, but pale as yellow diamonds. Could it be…that the son of King Balor was jesting with her?

She tried to remember the months in his subterranean sanctuary while they'd both recovered from their injuries. Had the Elven prince ever cracked a real smile (one that didn't involve him mocking her)? Not that she could remember.

"You know I haven't," she said, hiding her bewilderment behind civility and a blank face. "Anyway, you're welcome in my home, Your Highness. Sit, please."

Nuada sank gracefully into a large, brown leather armchair as the human woman who continued to baffle him put another log on the fireplace and sank onto a cushioned stool near the hearth.

Automatically, Dylan had mimicked the positions she and the prince had often found themselves in during their time in the sanctuary—he in a chair, she practically at his feet. Before it hadn't bothered him, but now it made him uncomfortable. She wasn't a servant. She wasn't his equal by any stretch—she was human, with burning iron in her blood and a hole in her heart that nothing would ever be able to fill—but Dylan Myers was no one's servant.

"How…have you fared, since last we met?" He asked awkwardly.

Dylan smiled and shrugged nonchalantly. "I've been well, thank you." She made a point to speak politely, faintly imitating Nuada's speech patterns. Things were different, now that she was no longer his healer and he no longer her patient. She wasn't comfortable around him, not at all. What surprised her, though, was that although he made her nervous, he didn't frighten her in any way. "My wounds have all healed," the mortal woman continued. "I have to walk with a cane during cold or wet days, though."

The Elven prince frowned. "A cane?" His eyes registered the new calluses on her palms, then darted to the gleaming wooden cane leaning against the hearth stones. "Why?"

"I broke my patella—my kneecap." Dylan frowned, chewed her lip, not meeting the glacial amber eyes of the crown prince of Bethmoora. "I sort of remember falling—I tripped and smashed my knee into the pavement. It hurt, but it didn't feel broken. Of course, I'd never broken a joint before," she added wryly, making a face. "So what would I know?"

"You've broken other bones," he said. It wasn't a question. His eyes roved over her face, a trifle pale as memories of the night they'd met tried to surface. The human sank her teeth into her bottom lip and nodded.

After a moment, she continued, voice trembling and slightly raspy, "It was just a hairline fracture, but the way it healed after I left your sanctuary means it will pain me in bad weather and it's really stiff when I sit in the same position for too long. And apparently stairs are my new worst enemy," she added with a slight smile.

"Willow bark tea will help with the pain," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I use it when…"

Realizing what he'd been about to say, he stopped abruptly and looked away from her, into the fire. This human, so fey-like in her emotions, in her compassion for others, was dangerous. He had to remember that. She'd helped him, saved his life on multiple occasions, cared for him in his illness, and they were allies—of a sort. That didn't make them friends.

Still…it was such a small thing to tell her…

"Yes?" Dylan murmured, tilting her head to the side. Several dark curls fell across her face, hiding her expression but revealing her brilliant blue eyes. The paleness of her skin was stark against the darkness of her brown hair, even in the golden firelight. "You use it when?"

"When my arm aches during snow storms. I took a barbed arrow through it when I was young."

If she'd offered pity—pity from a human! Revolting!—he might've forgotten the history between them and attacked her. However, she merely stroked the little black kitten cradled in her arms and said softly, voice companionable, "That must've been very painful, Your Highness."

He shrugged, disliking the sense of comradeship tugging at him. Nuada had only come to check that Dylan kept her promise to him to aid the Fair Folk of New York City. Seeing the vicious leanashe ready to slaughter the human who'd proved herself more honorable than—bitter, sickening thought—some Elves he knew, such as Eamonn, had turned the reconnaissance foray into a rescue mission and social visit.

Faery law was very definite on politeness. Dylan had offered him a chair—he had to take it. And now that he'd sunk into the thing and propped his boots on the velvet-covered footstool in front of it, his muscles—sore from weapons' training, tired and worn from the very last vestiges of illness—told him in no uncertain terms that if he attempted to rise anytime soon, they would be unhappy.

"Warriors suffer many such wounds," he said, frowning into the fire. The Elven prince didn't wish to look at Dylan, at the expressive blue eyes that reminded him of those nights when she'd woken in the underground sanctuary, sobs stifled to hide her fear from him. He didn't wish to see the fire dancing in her eyes. He frowned more fiercely. "It is the way of things."

"A-are you thirsty?" A sliver of old fear pierced her heart when she saw the way Nuada's eyes had darkened to bronze as he stared into the fire. "H-h-hungry? I have fresh apples from the tree in my garden, and cheese from the Farmer's Market. I have somewhat fresh milk, too—it's only from this morning—and I made bread when I got home from…"

She'd been about to say "my therapy appointment," but let the thought trail away instead. The mortal knew there was nothing wrong with needing therapy—she was still plagued by hellish nightmares of the attack on the nights when no slumber-fae stayed beneath her roof. Despite the semi-weekly visits from the local Wee Winks to give her sweet dreams (and a few bakū from the East Village to eat her nightmares), there'd yet to be an end to the new night terrors, and the old ones that stank of childhood memory had never been eradicated.

And she never took the subway anymore. Her brother drove her around, or Ariel, her private secretary, did. The smell of disinfectant always made the mortal sick now, after her stay in the hospital. Any sort of cleaning solution did, so she'd bought potted roses and lilies and scattered them throughout the cottage to remind herself of the smell of the fayre sanctuary. She'd had new bronze and brass bolts put on the heavy granite front door, but that still didn't ease the feeling of being hunted, stalked. Her counselor had used words like "shell-shocked" and "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." Words that, as a youth psychiatrist, she was familiar with.

Of course she needed therapy. Dylan knew the only reason she hadn't run back to find Nuada after enduring her days in the hospital was the strength she'd gained from relying very heavily on her faith.

And, she reminded herself with a slight inward smile as brittle as glass, because she didn't remember where the sanctuary actually was. And because trying to get there would have taken her through the concrete labyrinth beneath the city, and the wolves would have…would have…

"Bring the apples and the cheese," Nuada said, breaking through the thin shell of fear. One glance at his pale eyes and the wisps of panic vanished like mist on the breeze as memories of where she was and who she was with returned. The Elven prince continued, "I will show you…something. Bring the bread, as well. I…have brought drink to share with you."

That wasn't entirely accurate; he'd planned on bringing the stuff back to his underground lair, not sharing it with a human. But as his father often said, it was dull to eat without drinking, or vice-versa.

"Bring two cups."

Surprised, Dylan went into the kitchen to get a pair of polished wooden cups, the small basket of apples, the wheel of sharp cheddar cheese in its little cloth sack, and the small loaves of bread she'd made to give the local Wee Folk. Since nursing the demi-merrow back to health as a child, she'd always done her best to leave milk and bread for the Faerie Folk whenever possible, as organic and lacking in chemicals as she could manage. She knew from experience that the bread would be fine. The "lesser" Fae couldn't handle as much contact with "human metals" and chemicals as a fayre like Nuada could. She hoped the apples and cheese would do, as well.

The human woman carried everything back into the living room and stared at Nuada seated in front of the hearth on her handmade, red and gold rag-rug. A small bottle sat on the floor beside him. When he saw her staring, the prince gestured imperiously for her to sit on the floor across from him. He plucked an apple from the basket and pulled out a small knife from the leather belt at his waist, which he used to cut a slice from the shiny red fruit.

A frisson of fear slithered up Dylan's spine as the light glinted off the blade—phantom pain burning across her face, a pain-bright edge slicing repeatedly across her unprotected mouth—but then the crown prince of Bethmoora proceeded to show a mortal woman how to make roasted apple and cheese sandwiches. The crackling fire, the cadence of an Elven voice, and the sheer nonthreatening quality of his movements calmed her suddenly-racing heart.

Dylan fought to hide her surprise as Nuada explained what to do. While in his subterranean sanctuary, she and Nuada had shared meals often enough, but usually in absolute silence and with no real interaction. She'd often eaten seated on the floor, leaning against the wall, while he'd lounged in the chair. The current meal was mostly silent, punctuated only by brief comments from the taciturn prince, yet the feel of the situation was different. That tiny curve of the mouth had returned to Nuada's face, and he was much closer to her than he'd ever been before, except when she'd been doctoring his wounds…or that first full night, long ago, when he'd pushed her hair aside to witness for himself the grief and pain reflected in her eyes.

The human took a bite of the sandwich. She'd never had cheese and apple slices together before, but surprisingly, the sharp cheddar went well with the crisp, sweet apples. And the wheat bread was just the right neutral flavor to blend the two. The mortal made a small sound of surprise, glancing up at Nuada.

"It's good," she mumbled behind the hand covering her half-full mouth.

"Give me your cup." He poured a very small amount of golden liquid into the wooden vessel. Dylan brought it to her nose and inhaled. It smelled sweet and sparkling-crisp, like freshly-pressed apple juice, but…

"This isn't alcoholic, is it, Your Highness? Or enchanted?"

Nuada shook his head, though she could tell he was puzzled. Dylan only shrugged in a silent bottoms' up gesture, and took a sip, smiling when the delicious liquid flowed across her tongue and made her taste buds tingle. It was like swallowing down the moon, or melting into the ocean surf at dawn. The life essence of spring, the warmth of summer, the sweet spice of autumn and the sharpness of winter. Life and magic and joy.

"Wow. That stuff is…wow." She realized she felt giddy and blinked. "Sure that stuff's not alcoholic?"

"It isn't; humans may drink it. There's a brownie in your cottage," the Elven prince said suddenly. He'd realized the place where the leanashe had spit on the floor was shiny and clean again. Not only that, but his boot had somehow been polished while he was unaware.

Dylan jolted in surprise and scanned her home. "There is?" She cried, her eyes darting to potential hidey-holes. "Where?"

"He hides from you; he knows you've the Sight. But this cottage is one of the few places the Fair Folk can come and live comfortably."

Nuada nodded toward the brass kettle on the hob and then gestured around the living room. Not a scrap of iron, lead or steel to be found in the place. All of her fixtures were brass, copper, bronze or silver. She'd done it on purpose, the prince knew, to make a sanctuary for the Tylwyth Teg and their ilk. The walls (and he suspect the foundation) were not concrete, but actual quarried granite held together with mortar. The pipes in the walls were copper and brass. Even the nails he'd spotted in the timbers of the ceiling were made of brass, titanium, and hardened wood instead of iron.

It was just like her to live in a place like this.

He smelled no cleaning chemicals, only the sharp undertaste of vinegar on the air that only a preternatural nose would pick up, masked as it was by the spice of herbs and the perfume of roses and lilies. Did she use vinegar to clean? Most humans would've found the scent unpleasant, but it only served to remind him how this extraordinary mortal had dedicated her life to helping the Bright Ones.

For the first time since meeting her, the prince considered Dylan's fate when he discovered the location of the third Golden Crown piece and brought the Golden Army to life. Would he go out of his way to keep her safe from them?

And she spoke fondly of her twin brother. Nuada knew what it was, to live without the constant contact from your other half. He didn't know if his sanity would hold, if Nuala were ever slain. Their bond was such that it seemed unlikely. And that was if he didn't die himself. What would her brother's death in the coming war do to the human who had saved him?

He could not afford to think about that now. His people needed to be freed of mortal oppression. Even his alliance with Dylan, forged out of desperation, honor, and mutual need, paled dramatically in comparison to the importance of waging war on humanity to free the Fayre before it was too late to salvage his people's lives. If he saved two humans, two who had done all in their power to help his people…

Even considering the idea surprised him. He owed Dylan's brother—John, she'd called him—nothing at all. But he owed the mortal woman seated beside him, munching an apple and cheese sandwich and sipping Elven drink. She'd saved him over and over again, had tried to save him tonight from the leanashe. Her, he would not allow to die.

But what of her brother? Would his death drive her mad? And what of her sisters?

"I suppose I'm lucky mo duinne didn't try to take my eye out," Dylan said, breaking him from his dark thoughts.

He arched one slender eyebrow at her. Mo duinne, she'd said. "You know that story, then? And where did you learn the Old Tongue?"

"Gaelic?" The human shrugged. "High school and college. In order to get into a university, I had to take two years of a foreign language. I was still in the institution at the time, but it was state law that they had to educate us (if we 'behaved,' which by then I did, usually). One of the teachers they brought in had studied Irish history, specifically, and the Gaelic culture, and taught me the language."

She shrugged again. "My parents were certain I'd never master it enough to pass the final exams, so they made me take Spanish, too, but I just couldn't get the hang of Spanish for some reason. I flunked that horribly and passed Gaelic. It's been quite useful in dealing with a lot of the Folk," she added, "which was one reason I wanted to take it. When I got out of the institution and went to college, they offered Gaelic, and in order to get into medical school, I needed a four-year degree, which also required two years of a language. I ended up minoring in Gaelic culture and mythology."

"Minoring?" Nuada asked, his mind buzzing with the strange words. Before his moons-long stay with Dylan in his subterranean sanctuary, he would've balked at showing any possible indication of ignorance to a human. Now, he munched an apple and waited for her explanation. The prince didn't realize, but Dylan did, that this meant he actually trusted her—a little bit, at any rate.

"In college, the main thing you study is called your major. For me, it was psychology—how the mind works—and medicine, so I could be a psychiatrist. You're also supposed to study something else, though not as much, and that's called your minor. So I mainly studied to be a psychiatrist—a healer of the mind and heart—and to keep from going crazy myself, I studied the culture and language of Gaelic Ireland and Scotland, so I could learn more about your people." Smiling now, her expression wistful, Dylan added, "I never wanted to forget the Fair Folk, or what they'd done for me, what they'd shown me and taught me. Your people have enriched my life in so many wonderful ways, my prince. It's the least I can do."

And she'd never wanted anyone to experience the things she had—being locked up, tortured, slowly poisoned over more than a decade because she Saw things others never could. Fairies. Faeries. The fae. That was why she'd decided to become a psychiatrist; so she could prevent such a thing.

Even with that drive, even with the help of the Hidden Folk in return for her help, she wouldn't have been able to do it, wouldn't have been able to maintain a grip on her sanity and not only survive, but thrive, if not for five things: sheer desperation, the fact that her twin brother needed her when she got out of the institution more than she'd ever needed him while inside it; government aid in getting through eight years of school in seven and getting a job at an already-established practice, not to mention putting her cottage together, because she was John's sister and John was their golden boy for what he'd managed to do at only twelve years old; help from her Uncle Thaddeus and Aunt Nimah when things got desperate; and lastly (but most importantly), relying on Heavenly Father's aid to get her through the grief and pain and fear and that one hellish year…

Remembering where she was, her smile became rueful and she rubbed a spot under her chin as she added, "And yes, Your Highness, I know the story. 'Which eye gives ye sight o' me, human?'" Dylan intoned, her voice dropping an octave. Nuada glanced at her sharply, realizing she'd heard the question before, because she'd mimicked a fear-darrig's Scottish brogue almost exactly. Her next words confirmed it. "I've lived that story."

For a fleeting moment, Nuada thought about giving her the mark of Bethmoora—a small thing, visible to any fae. The peaceful Eildon tree, Bethmoora's crest in peacetime, it would shine through mud, paint, cosmetics, blood, or any other earthly cover-up, visible only to the Bright Ones and those mortals with the Sight. It could only be given or removed by magic, by one of royal blood. If he gave her that mark, she wouldn't have to worry about having her eyes plucked out, or being blinded by the swipe of claw or talon, for having the Sight.

She'd seen a fear-darrig. How had she survived such an encounter with the fearsome Scottish bogle?

But no, he thought, watching the way she moved to follow his example with more apples, cheese and bread. No, she was mortal. While he didn't feel the choking revulsion he once had in her presence, it didn't change the fact that Dylan had iron in her blood. He wouldn't give a human a mark of safety. As one who had lived with the Sight for nearly thirty years, she could take care of herself.

Take care of herself…

Had she killed the bogle? It would've been in self-defense, perhaps, and a very one-sided fight, but…Fury rippled through him at the thought of any human laying malicious hand on one of his people, much less slaying it.

"How did you escape the fear-darrig?" He asked coldly, watching for signs of deceit. Would she lie to him? If she did, would he know? The crown prince of Bethmoora didn't understand why, but the idea of pulling the information from the mortal woman's mind didn't sit well with him.

"May I please tell you another time?" Dylan whispered, staring into the fire with sightless eyes. He could tell from her voice and gaze that she was no longer in the cottage with him; her mind had wandered back through memory to the meeting with the bloodthirsty fear-darrig. She rubbed at the strange, pale scar at the top of her throat, as if stroking a protective talisman. "It's a rather long tale, and, if it pleases you, Your Highness, I don't want to tell it tonight. It was pretty awful. If you truly wish it, I would of course be honored to tell you the story, but I fear the words weigh heavily on my heart along with my weariness. I didn't kill him, but the story is difficult for me."

The Elven prince stared at her, marveling. She had the tongue of a courtier! Where had she learned to speak with such courtesy, picking her words the way jewelers picked precious stones? He remembered what she'd said about honor, back in the underground haven, and how he'd wondered where she'd learned such wisdom, such slyness, how to twist her words into such complicated knots. Now, he stared at this human, feeling a buzz of irritation and puzzlement as she deftly evaded answering his question.

Yet, he also remembered a human, this human, waking in the dark, her fear so great it threatened to choke them both, as the dregs of nightmares rolled away from her mind and she pulled herself back to reality. The absolute terror in her eyes had left him stricken. That fear had dragged memories of Nuala, watching as a little girl as their mother was raped to death, into the forefront of his mind. He didn't want to taste that fear ever again.

"Some other night, then," he said gruffly.

"Thank you," Dylan murmured. Bright blue eyes flicked to his face, scanning his expression, before darting back to the flames. After several moments of heavy silence, she asked suddenly, "What can I do…to make the brownie come out?"

"You would force him?" The crown prince of Bethmoora demanded, glaring with eyes like amber ice from black sockets. The heat of molten bronze began creeping in at the edges of his eyes, but Dylan didn't flinch away from his ire, merely shook her head.

"I don't want anything to be afraid of me. I would never harm mo duinne," she added softly. "I don't want him to feel like he can't show himself."

Mo duinne, she'd said again. Gaelic for "my brown one." He'd only needed to tell her the brownie had attached himself to her home, and she'd taken the little fey into her heart.

He shook his head. She was mortal, he could smell that sharp tang of human metals from the blood in her veins, but she didn't behave the way humans did. She was kind—he'd seen the bowl of fresh and the still-warm loaf of bread on her porch steps. What mortal thought to leave sustenance for the Little People in this day and age? And in the city, full of burning metal and noxious gas!

"Why do you live here?" He demanded suddenly.

She blinked, startled. "Pardon?"

"You've settled yourself in the one speck of nearly-pure land in the middle of this filth-ridden mortal city, creating a haven for those who fear the touch of iron and smog." He shook his head. It wasn't admiration—not for a human—but it held incredulity and exasperation in equal measure. "Why? Why settle here, in this gods-forsaken city of mortal filth?"

The smile the mortal woman gave the crown prince was sad, so very sad. He'd seen sorrow that deep before, of course—on the faces of dryads who knew the human poisons were killing their trees, on the nymphs whose waters were slowly fouled by toxins, on his sister and father as their people were thrust further and further into twilight and death. Where did such sorrow come from in a human?

"I moved here as soon as I finished college, so I could build this place, because I know the Gentry are running out of space, if they're not out of room already. Humanity has pushed them to the very edges, cracks, and crannies of the world. They need a safe place, at least the small ones. I'm sure something like a fragglewump can take care of itself," she added, smiling crookedly, and Nuada remembered what he'd thought of Dylan only minutes before: she can take care of herself. Did the human envy the Fayre who were strong enough to care for themselves?

"I know a lot of fae adapt to the iron of the cities. But the small ones," she continued, "the Wee Folk, like mo duinne, and the others who come to my door for milk and honey-baked bread, for porridge and cream…they're the only ones who can fit in such a small space as this. They're the ones who can't survive this city unless they can find a place to regain their strength. I try to provide such a place. Too many of your people have already faded from this world."

He shook his head again. "Are you certain you're mortal?"

She laughed. It wasn't shrill, like the cackling he heard from many mortals, or tinged with hysteria, as her past laughter beneath the subway had been. He realized with a start that he'd never heard Dylan laugh this way before.

"I might have a trace of Faerie blood from a bazillion generations ago—probably lots of people do, from before humans were all such dunderheads," the mortal woman added, smiling wider, "but for all intents and purposes, my prince, I'm human. I'll even be totally honest and tell you not all my food is natural. I'm a slave to this gorgeous tomato bisque they serve at this restaurant about ten minutes away. It's my favorite food. And I adore French toast with powdered sugar and strawberry syrup."

"Really? Tomato bisque?" He understood that, though "French toast" eluded him. Toast made in France? Did they do it in some special way?

"Yeah. Sorry. Even I'll eat processed junk, though not often. Once or twice a month, maybe. Usually ice cream when I'm depressed. I'm definitely human." Dylan sighed, frowning. "I'm not even psychic. At least…"

"Yes?"

"There's a slight connection to my twin brother, John." Dylan noticed Nuada stiffen, and fought her own reaction of flinching away from him. She ought to trust him by now. The blond warrior wouldn't hurt her, especially for such an innocuous comment. Even if he had a fiery hatred of the name John, he wouldn't hurt her.

Ignoring the sudden intensity in Nuada's eyes, she went on, "Once, he fractured his skull and I got a headache, but it wasn't a migraine or anything. The same thing happened to me later, and he got a headache. And I found out after I…after those men…those wolves…"

She trailed off as memory rose up, dark and threatening, teeth bared and ready to sink into her jugular. She drew a swift, sharp breath.

Nuada saw her eyes go glassy, saw her sight turn inward, away from the safety of the present and back to the agony of that night in the empty subway. Her breathing went shallow, her chest barely rising with each ragged breath.

Bile rose in the prince's throat, but he swallowed it down and said, softly, "After you met me. After you saved us."

It galled him to remember he'd been rescued by a human, but he knew the words were exactly what Dylan needed, and the horrified and horrifying expression on her face sickened him.

She shook herself, gasped once, and her breathing picked up again. The color returned to her cheeks. She nodded, slowly at first, then more decisively. "Yes…yes. After you saved me," she said. He noticed she put the weight of heroism on his shoulders, as if she'd done nothing that night. "I found out that John had suffered muscle cramps and fatigue while I healed. But it's nothing…nothing strong, usually. It's not quantifiable. We can't read each other's thoughts or find each other when one of us is missing. I failed all the tests my parents put me through."

"Tests?"

"Some humans test their children for psychic ability. My theory is, mortals all have a bit of a telepathic connection to each other—hence why we have things like mob mentality. I studied the idea of a general race consciousness while I was in college."

Nuada stared at her. The Fair Folk had such a thing, a subtle linked consciousness, but humans? He'd never considered that perhaps humanity's racial cruelty and darkness might stem from this "mob mentality" Dylan spoke of. Could it be something in their blood that made mortals so vicious?

Then what of humans like Dylan? Were they not part of this mentality? Perhaps there were other mortals like this strange human, who somehow managed to slip the shackles of the racial consciousness of humankind and save themselves from the holes often found in mortal hearts. Maybe such humans could be manipulated into fixing up pieces of the world now, before he woke the Golden Army. Save the Fair Folk from having to wade through so much filth and refuse.

"But the tests are for other things—clairvoyance, foresight, empathy," Dylan continued, oblivious to his thoughts. "I don't have anything strong enough to justify any kind of training. Only my telepathy registered above a speck, and they tested that until they figured out it was just a connection to John. My parents were concerned about that," she added, "because none of the other girls had it, and they were all twins. They thought maybe it…meant something about us." The revolted look on her face told Nuada exactly what she meant. "But the people at the labs said that kind of connection was more common with fraternal than identical twins, especially if they weren't the same gender."

"Have you anything besides the Sight and your connection to your brother?"

As if those two things were somehow insignificant. The Sight in a mortal wasn't as rare as it had been before Nuada's exile, to be sure, but in those ancient days, there had been perhaps twenty or so million humans on the planet. Now there were nearly eight billion. But to find the Sight in an adult, who wasn't mad with the things she saw, and wasn't unduly afraid of the Fair Folk…Insignificant, such a thing surely wasn't.

And a connection to her brother was strangely fey-like in a human, especially as no other child in her family had such a gift. Did the woman have a fairy godparent? Such things were incredibly rare in this age of poisonous cities and murderous humans spreading like vermin, but not totally unheard of.

"A lot of the time I feel…prompted. I'll remember things at just the right time, or get the sudden urge to go somewhere or speak to someone, and later I find out something awful would've happened if I hadn't. But that's not my doing."

"Who is it, then?"

"That's God."

Nuada scoffed. So, proof that she wasn't as fey-like as he'd expected. She'd forgotten the old gods, as well. While even some fae followed the Christian deity known in the Twilight Realm as the High King of the World, that fact had always baffled and annoyed the prince. He knew that that God was real, but He was a God of the humans, not the Fae.

"Your Christian God takes no interest in mortal affairs. The Bright Ones who still reside in the supposed Christian Holy Land can attest to that."

Dylan popped the last bite of her sandwich in her mouth and drew her knees up to her chest. Chin on her folded arms, she asked, "You mean, because of things like the Crusades?"

When the prince nodded, she sighed, and the fey-like sorrow returned to her eyes. "God had no hand in that, or in any other war for land in the East. He interferes as much as He has promised to when His children let Him." Dylan sighed. "Once I turned to Him, my life improved a lot. It made the last years in the institution much easier to bear. Without my faith, I wouldn't be the woman I am. I wouldn't have been able to do the things I've done."

The crown prince of Bethmoora shook his head. "How can someone who has suffered what you've suffered, who defends my kind against mankind, believe in a deity that advocates the extermination of those who aren't like you?"

Eyes wide and guileless, she said, "I don't believe in a deity like that."

He frowned, tilting his head to study her more closely. "But you are a Christian." Not that all Christians believed such things; the fae followers of the Star Kindler, the High King of the World, didn't. But humans twisted everything until it was about hunger and destruction and hate. Even religion.

Dylan smiled, a wry smile, as if she were remembering some secret joke. "A lot of Christians wouldn't agree with you, Your Highness."

"Why is that?"

She raised her eyebrows and smiled wider. Her smile was twisted by the five thin scars slicing across her lips, but not ugly or unpleasant. Merely childlike. With an almost wicked glint in her eye, the mortal said, "I'm Mormon."

"What is that?"

"A sect of Christianity, but many don't consider it such." Her gaze turned inward, and a shadow passed over her mutilated face. The comment, and her expression, filled him with questions, but he knew pushing a woman like this for information wouldn't yield entirely successful results. Dylan pushed her thick hair back and mumbled, "I'd rather not talk about it, if that's all right with you."

"You think I'd despise you for following the Star Kindler," he hazarded, fighting back a surge of irritation. The Elven prince wasn't on even footing where this mortal was concerned, and it left him sitting uneasily in his skin, as if the world were not quite aligned properly with the rest of reality. A muscle flexed in his jaw as he concentrated on keeping his expression neutral and his tone casual. His honor did not allow him the recourse he would've otherwise preferred—using his abilities to rip through Dylan's mind. After all she'd done for him, she deserved better. Still…it galled him to have to dance around her mortal sensibilities when he wanted answers now.

"I wouldn't make suppositions about the Fair Folk, but Christians generally don't pay much respect to the Lords and Ladies."

"True enough. But you do."

Her wry smile left an odd feeling in his belly. She said, "Most fey could squash me into people-pulp by batting their little gossamer eyelashes at me, Your Highness. I've known that since I saw Sleeping Beauty as a kid. I don't want to risk their wrath if I can help it." A lift of the shoulder in a shrug. "And most of them are nice enough."

"Sleeping Beauty?"

"A fairy tale. The Germans call them märchen. I had a choice of language arts and literature avenues in college and post-grad school, so I pursued fairy tales. It was easier than obscure Brazilian literature, for example."

"Märchen. Stories of those who reside in Faerie."

Dylan nodded. "Roughly translated, yes."

"Tell it to me." The Elven prince smiled, a small smile—barely a quirk at the corner of his mouth—when Dylan's mouth dropped open and her eyes blew wide. Obviously she hadn't expected the request. "Tell me this story, this…'Sleeping Beauty.'"

"I'm no bard or minstrel, Your Highness. I'm not very good at telling stories. And the story would take a long time, to tell properly." She gestured almost helplessly, mentally reeling. He wanted her to tell him a story? A simple human fairy tale? Why? The idea made her head hurt.

"Then I will return tomorrow, and the next day, until the story is finished."

"But…the one who sent the leanashe! Won't they use such visits against you? What if you were tracked, or someone attacks you on your way here?"

She didn't add, What if someone lies in wait for you here? The only reason the leanashe had been able to get into her cottage was because the faery woman had feigned being injured, and Dylan had told her to come in so the mortal woman could aid her in any way possible. Once across the threshold, the soul-sucking Bright One had turned on her. Now the mortal knew to be on guard.

Dylan watched Nuada as he smirked, the epitome of smug masculine pride.

"I've been a warrior for more years than your religion has been on this earth. You were witness to my injuries at the hands of mortals, but that was only because I was using an unwieldy weapon, I was ill, and the cowards used guns. The fey don't use such contemptuous things. I wouldn't be too worried over my being injured. Now, tell me this tale, or I will not be pleased."

Ooh, the mortal thought. And Prince Prissy-Pants returns. Not good. I'll end up dealing with an angsty Elf. Aloud, all she said was, "There are many versions of this tale, my prince. Which would you like to hear?"

"Many versions?" When Dylan nodded, Nuada said, "Very well. I demand a story with magic, the fey folk. It must have humor, romance, and adventure. I do not wish to hear a story of a princess who falls in love with a prince after one look and they live 'happily ever after.' That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. And it cannot begin with 'once upon a time,' either."

"I know such a story. I'd have to read it to you, though."

"Go, then, and fetch the thing if you have it."

Dylan got up and went to one of the rosewood bookcases lining the living room walls. Nuada could hear her mumbling as she moved through her books, "MacDonald…no. McCaffrey…McKiernan…ah, McKinley! Beauty, no, not that one. The Blue Sword, no…Deerskin, that's not it, either…where is…Rose Daughter, no…should be right…oh! There you are. Spindle's End."

He didn't watch her take her seat in front of the fireplace, only listened to the soft, almost soothing swish-swish of her skirts on the stone floor and the shush-shush of her leather slippers as she walked slowly back to his side. She settled herself in front of the hearth with a rustle of skirts and the soft hushing noise of someone turning a page in a book. Nuada leaned back and waited.

"The magic in that country was so thick and tenacious that it settled over the land like chalk-dust and over floors and shelves like slightly sticky plaster-dust (Housecleaners in that country earned unusually good wages). If you lived in the country, you had to de-scale your kettle of its encrustation of magic at least once a week, because if you didn't, you might find yourself pouring hissing snakes or pond slime into your teapot instead of water."

Dylan fell into the familiar cadence of Robin McKinley's words, remembering as she read how the story was supposed to go. First a bit of exposition on the country itself, and how fish supposedly didn't exist. Remembering the author's words on the subject of water, fish, and swimming made her mouth curve into a grin that Nuada, not privy to her thoughts, marveled at. It was the most carefree expression he'd ever seen on her face. Then the next words came, and he wondered if perhaps she were grinning because of the book.

"It didn't have to be anything scary or unpleasant, like snakes or slime, especially in a cheerful household—magic tended to reflect the atmosphere of the place in which it found itself—but if you want a cup of tea, a cup of lavender-and-gold pansies or ivory thimbles is unsatisfactory. And while the pansies—put dry in a vase—would probably last a day, looking like ordinary pansies, before they went grayish-dun and collapsed into magic dust, something like an ivory thimble would begin to smudge and crumble as soon as you picked it up…"

So the night went on, and the words came like the scent of apple blossoms, or the rush-rustle of pine needles as a stag picked his way through the woods. Nuada turned and watched her, watched the firelight dancing across her hands cradling the book, creating shadows beneath her eyes and at the side of her nose, in the hollow of her throat.

Memories of his mother and sister, sweet memories of reading before the fire on cold winter nights, made his heart ache, but a strange contentment settled over him as well, easing the pain in his heart. Dylan's voice lulled him, a gentle drone unfolding a story unlike any mortal tale he'd ever heard.

Thus the night passed.

End of Book 1: Underground

Our story continues in Book 2: Between the Realms

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Author's Note: so it has been a long time, my loves. I haven't done any work on this fic in... what, a year? I hope the magic is still here. This is sort of like the exposition into the next arc. I hope you like the chapter, and I hope it's still believable. Review?

Copyright Issue: Robin McKinley has requested that her fans not write fanfiction using her books. I assume this means, using her stories and worlds and such. I quote two paragraphs from the beginning of her "Sleeping Beauty" novel, Spindle's End, because it is one of the most unusual and splendid fairytale retellings I've ever read and I think it would take uniqueness to intrigue Nuada. No disrespect or copyright infringement was intended.

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Mythological Creature of the Day: Pixies. Pixies (also Pixy, Pixi, Pizkie, Piskies Piskeys, and Pigsies as they are sometimes known in Cornwall) are mythical creatures of folklore, particularly concentrated in the areas around Devon and Cornwall, suggesting some Celtic origin for the belief and name. They are usually depicted with pointed ears, often wearing a green outfit and pointed hat. Sometimes their eyes are shown as pointed upwards at the temple ends. These, however, are Victorian Era conventions and not part of the older mythology. In modern use, the term can be synonymous with fairies or sprites.

They are often ill-clothed or naked, though they have a preference for bits of finery, such as ribbons and scraps of pretty fabric. Some pixies steal children or lead travellers astray. This seems to be a cross-over from fairy mythology and not originally attached to pixies. Thomas Keightley observed that much of Devon pixie mythology may have originated from fairy myth. Pixies reward consideration and punish neglect on the part of humans. By their presence they bring blessings to those who are fond of them. Pixies are drawn to horses, riding them for pleasure and making tangled ringlets in the manes of those horses they ride. They love exploring the countryside and all manner of places.

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Concerning the Chapter Title: "Cheese, Apple, Bread" is a parody of the title "Snow, Apple, Glass," which is a short story by Neil Gaiman. Probably inspired by Tanith Lee's "Snow White" adaptation "Red as Blood," Snow White is actually the bad guy. She's some kind of succubus or something. Anyway, both "Red as Blood" and "Snow, Apple, Glass" are really good, scary shorts, although one has a happy ending and one doesn't (not telling which).

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References Made in This Chapter:

- The main chemical ingredient in aspirin comes from willow bark.

- Dylan's house and the way it's put together is inspired by three places, one of which I've been to, and two of which I've seen/heard of. The Globe Theatre in London, England is made of stone, wood, straw, and mortar. It's made in the same way the original was put together back in the 17th century - down to the wooden pegs instead of metal nails. The only "human" metal I saw in the place was the wire-mesh they use to hold the thatch (yes, thatch) down so it doesn't blow away, probably because it's super hard to find enough thatch to thatch the entire top of the wall (Globe Theatre has no roof).

The other two places are houses of people my dad actually knows. In Sedona, there was a man who lived in a house entirely powered by wind, water, and solar power (which is amazing). His house was made of red sandstone like the red rocks found in Sedona. In Flagstaff (I believe), there's a man whose house in built into the side of a mountain and is made of timber and stone (no concrete, no cement, nothing). It is entirely "green," and actually made the news. Combining these three places, I came up with Dylan's cottage.

- I read the thing about invitations when I was studying witchcraft as a kid (middle-school age). The books I read warned of being very careful about calling on fairies to help you with magic because they would always come, but they're fairies, and therefore dangerous.

- Yōsei is the Japanese word for "fairy/fairies." This usage in this chapter specifically refers to Japanese fairies. See also: Bright Ones, Kindly Ones, Shining Throng, Wee Folk, Hidden People, Faeries, Fee-Faire, Fayre, Tuatha De, Tylwyth Teg, Aos Si, Sidhe, etc.

- Baku are good Japanese "beasts" (probably faerie animals) that devour nightmares.

- Wee Winks: as far as I know, there's no such thing as a Wee Wink. I created them based on the story of Wee Willie Winkie, who looks like a little boy in a nightshirt and cap carrying a candle. I believe (I may be remembering incorrectly) that Wee Willie Winkie has connections to sleep and dreams. In this universe, the kiss of a Wee Wink is supposed to bestow sweet dreams.

- I chose the name Ariel for Dylan's secretary NOT because of Disney's The Little Mermaid, but because of the sylph-like air sprite from Shakespeare's The Tempest. Ariel's last name is Smith (after the air-sprite driver in Mercedes Lackey's "Cinderella" novel, Phoenix and Ashes).

- The phrase "shell shocked" was used to describe a lot of WWI and WWII veterans. This term described men who suffered what would later be called PTSD, or "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

- People actually did (and still do, in some places) leave milk and bread, or porridge or bowls of honey or other nice things, out on their doorsteps for the Faeries who might come by. An explanation in some parts for why the stuff never actually got eaten was that faeries don't "eat," per se, but absorb the "virtue" (the nutrients) and the goodness from the food, leaving the physical stuff behind.

- The cup is "polished" wood because non-polished wood usually leaves splinters, which are bad. For all you detail-oriented people, the thing was sanded (with actual sand, not a sander or sand paper) just like in the olden days, then polished and painted with a natural walnut stain to prevent splintering. But that's too much information for the actual text.

- When I say "lesser" Fae, I mean little things without much super-power, like brownies, gnomes, will-o-the-wisps, etc. "Greater" Fae would be, like, Elves or woodmen or mermaids or something like that.

- A rag rug is a rug made of braided/knotted rags or cloth scraps. They were really big in the 16-19th centuries. I used to know how to make one (we learned on this field trip to a Colonial America reenactment place; they taught us to make rag rugs, weave on looms, card wool, spin thread, and even churn butter) but that was more than 10 years ago and I've forgotten how to do all but the carding wool and the churning part. =(

- Because Dylan is LDS (Mormon), she can't drink alcohol, tea, or coffee (which is why she asked). And only an idiot accepts a drink from a Faerie without making sure it's not enchanted first (seeing as how you're not supposed to eat or drink while in a faery hill).

- Brownies are Scottish household faeries who do the housekeeping in exchange for gifts or treats – usually honey, milk (or other dairy products), or bread. They usually only work at night and do not like to be seen. It is said humans with the Sight can see them, but some brownies possess the ability to remain invisible even under the Sight. If the gifts given are referred to as payment, the brownie will get angry and leave. He will also leave if he is abused. An angry brownie will become a boggart (wrecking the house, souring the milk, etc), but if appeased in some way, can return to being a brownie again. Never, ever, ever thank a brownie; it will be forced to leave whoever thanked it, no matter what it wants to do.

- I have a special place in my heart for the fear-darrig. Originally the fear-darrig was called a "Draigh." Draigh is LA Knight's crappily remembered spelling of "dearg," another name for the fear-darrig, which is a Scottish bogle that feeds on fear unless pissed off. Then it eats you. A dearg will invite you to sit at its fire (or similar thing), and if you accept, will ask you to tell it a story. If you refuse to go to its fire, if you refuse to tell the story, or if it doesn't like the story you tell, it will cook you and eat you (while you're still alive). If it likes your story, it will bless you with luck and stuff. Also called a far darrig, fear darrig, far dearg, and fear dearg.

- Mo duinne is a Gaelic endearment that means "my brown one."

- Dryads are Greek tree nymphs.

- Naiads are Greek fresh water nymphs (oceanids being saltwater nymphs). There are different types of naiads based on what they are bound to: crinaeae (fountains and wells), eleionomae (marshes), pegaeae (springs), limnades (lakes), potameides (various types of rivers), etc.

- That tomato bisque is served at Mimi's Cafe. The French toast is from IHOP.

- Clairvoyance is the psychic ability to see things that are happening far away. Precognition is the ability to see things in the future (foresight) and retrocognition is the ability to see that which has transpired in the past (hindsight as applied to psychic ability). Empathy is the ability to sense other people's emotions (receptive empathy) or influence them (projective empathy).

- LDS doctrine states that they (we) believe the Holy Ghost prompts those with whom He abides when they're in danger or there is something they need to do, either to help themselves or to help others.

- The Lords and Ladies is another term for Faeries, especially in England and Ireland.

- Although the Disney film Sleeping Beauty, to which Dylan is referring, is different from the original story, it still showed me when I was... gosh, 17, that pissing off a faery is a bad, bad idea.

- Germans actually refer to the standard faery tales like "Snow White," "Cinderella," and "Rumpelstiltskin" as märchen. It actually means "those who reside in Faerie" but I wanted to use both definitions.

- George MacDonald (the MacDonald Dylan skips over when looking for Spindle's End) wrote The Princess and theGoblinand The Princess and Curdie.

- Anne McCaffrey, respectfully known as the Dragon Lady, unfortunately died a few years ago. But she wrote tons of books about psychic ability, about dragons, and even one about King Arthur. Her first book as far as I know was Dragonflight, the first book in the Dragonriders of Pern series. I also recommend Dragonsong (first book in The Harper Hall Trilogy) and the Rowan(which is book one in a quintet).

- Robin McKinley is one of those fairytale writing goddesses. Married to Peter Dickinson (that charming gentleman who wrote AFlightof Dragons and stars in the animated Rankin Bass film of the same name), she has written many retold faery tales: Beauty("Beauty and the Beast"), Deerskin("Donkeyskin"), A Door in the Hedge(multiple), A Knot in the Grain(multiple),Rose Daughter("Beauty and the Beast"), and Spindle's End("Sleeping Beauty"), as well as two anthologies about elementals (Waterand Fire) and two books about very strong female warriors (The Hero and the Crown and The Blue Sword). I discovered The Hero and the Crownwhen I was seven/eight, and fell in love with her books.

- The thing about the fish and swimming is that, according to the people who live in "that country," fish don't exist, but are in fact imaginary water beings. Anything that says it's a fish is actually something else turned into a strange water being. Swimming is considered highly dangerous in this country as well, and anyone who does it is labeled stark raving mad. And apparently water in this book conducts magic incredibly well.