Author's Note: Okay, even though I had a crazy long author's note at the end, the actual chapter is short-ish. Sorry for all you guys who are like, "We want a long chapter!" I don't wanna add crap just for length, and it so happened that the Important Thing Regarding Nuala is longer than I intended (but I took it out; I might post it as an essay?). So... yeah. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

Mythological Being of the Day: A cù sìth is an enormous, otherworldly hound, said to haunt the Scottish Highlands and Ireland. Roughly the size of a cow or large calf, the cù sìth is dark green with shaggy fur and a long braided or curled tail (which is unusual, as most faerie hounds are said to be black, or white with red ears). In Irish mythology, the Cù Sìth had glowing or flaming eyes. Sometimes feared as a harbinger of death, it would appear to bear away the soul of a person to the afterlife. According to legend, however, the creature was capable of hunting silently, but would occasionally let out three terrifying barks that could be heard for long distances, including by ships at sea. This was said to be a warning to farmers to lock up their women, lest the beast abduct them and take them to a fairy mound to supply milk for the children of the Daoine Sìth (faeries).

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Chapter Fourteen
In the Hall of the Mountain King
that is
A Short Tale of Worry, Spies, Presentation, Commandments, Obedience, and the Bane of Life That Is Gossip

.

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All right, that was it. He'd had enough. That fainting spell three nights ago Thursday had been the last straw. He and Dylan were gonna have a talk, and they were gonna have it tonight.

John parked his beat-up red Mustang as close to the gates of Central Park as he could without getting a ticket and lurched out of the cramped driver's seat. Frustration sizzled in every line of his body. She couldn't keep doing this to him! Something had to give. The icy winter wind and frigid drizzle soaking him as he walked only amped up his anger. How was he supposed to get a decent shot at anything other than cruddy security assignments instead of the important stuff when random crap kept happening to him at bizarre moments because of his whacked-out telepathic connection to his twin? With a spine ramrod straight and clenched fists, he marched up the steps to her cottage and pounded on the door.

"Dylan! Open up!" Hunching his shoulders inside his raincoat didn't keep the chilly wind from slipping inside and leeching the heat from his skin. Gritting his teeth, he banged again. "Dylan! Come on, come out! We gotta talk."

And what, exactly, did they need to talk about? About the fact that he accidentally shot a guy in the back of the leg because of whatever had been going on with her at the time. He hadn't gotten the job at MIB, needless to say. Maybe Sector Seven was hiring. Or Roswell. Or maybe Warehouse Thirteen. Although he hadn't heard anything about Sector Seven employing psychics, Roswell and Warehouse Thirteen usually did. And they were probably the only government agencies who wouldn't care that he'd shot someone while his psychic powers – if they could even be called powers – were on the fritz. Especially at the Warehouse, as they didn't use guns. If he got desperate, he could always put in for the liaison position to Torchwood. They didn't use guns very often, either.

But he shouldn't have been desperate, darn it. After that little escapade in the alternate-dimensional black hole as a kid, the government had been very interested in his life and education. He'd been their golden boy. Or future golden boy, since he'd only been twelve at the time. Whatever. John Thaddeus Myers shouldn't have had trouble finding a government job, since Uncle Sam had paid his and his sister's way through college to bribe him into working for the government. But now, thanks to his sister, he'd lost out on the opening in MIB. What else would he lose if they didn't fix this?

"Come on, Sis!" He called. The rain was starting to pick up. Now it became icy needles driving into his skin. He shivered as frigid rain water rolled in fat, shiver-inducing drops down the back of his neck and soaked the collar of his shirt. "We need to talk!"

A sliver of unease now. Dylan wouldn't just not answer her door. She'd check the peephole, and even on those rare occasions where they'd wanted to practically kill each other, she'd never left him on her doorstep in inclement weather. Which meant she wasn't home.

But Dylan was always home at night. She didn't like being out alone after dark. After a couple weeks of feeling his sister's terror shivering through his veins after her return in February, John had finally set it up so that either he or his sister's secretary, Ariel, drove her home after dark. And he or Ariel always drove her to work, since taking the subway had led to her attack almost eleven months ago. But Ariel reported that Dylan hadn't been to the office since Thursday. That was just fine, since she had a couple weeks' vacation due, and his twin sometimes took Fridays off to do service projects with her church or other goody-goody things like that.

Except that she should be home now. The first Sunday of November was tomorrow, and he and Dylan were supposed to hash out their plans for attending the Singles' Ward Break-the-Fast at her church, since he'd finally agreed to go (on the condition that she went with him, even though it wasn't actually her ward). How were they supposed to finalize their plans if she wasn't even here?

She's always home at night, he repeated silently. Always. Even when the faires and festivals are up. Why won't she answer? With fingers numbed by the cold despite his gloves, John pulled out his cell and pressed 3 – his sister's cellular speed dial. It went straight to voicemail. Either turned off, or dead. Great.

"Dylan, I'm coming in, okay?" John called, just in case. With a trembling hand he pulled out his linked rings of keys and found the ring that held the eight keys for her door – one key for the knob, seven for the dead bolts. After turning all eight keys in their locks, he pushed the heavy granite door open. It swung easily on its oiled brass hinges and the government agent stepped into the entryway. Only night-dimmed faerie lights illuminated the floor. As soon as he walked in, shutting the door behind him with a click that echoed down the hall, he knew his sister hadn't been here in at least a couple days.

There were no signs of struggle, and the doors had been locked, which meant she'd at least left willingly. Probably. Unless she'd been held at gunpoint. But that didn't feel right. Wouldn't he have felt her fear, seen something to give him a clue? All he'd seen was the Hunter. Maybe she'd gone on a walk and run into one. Maybe it had attacked her! But that didn't feel right, either.

A white square on the floor with tiny black shapes on it caught his eye. He knelt down and picked up an unsealed envelope from the floor. His name in black ink stared back at him. John flipped open the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. Recognizing a page from Dylan's memo book, he murmured the words to brighten the enchanted hall light and scanned the words scribbled in purple gel ink in the dim glow.

John-Boy,

Don't panic if I'm not home. I had to go help one of our neighbors, and I
had to do it in a hurry. I'm probably okay, though. Call in for me at work
if you have to – tell them whatever. If I'm not back in a week, call the
cops, because I'm probably dead, but I'm pretty sure I'll be back
by then. The guy who helped me back in December needed a friend. He'll
keep me safe.

Please feed Bat and leave cream and stuff out for our other neighbors.
And drop off my lesson stuff at the home ward tomorrow by 8:30.
Sister Johnston is expecting it. It's on the coffee table underneath
the green book, Spindle's End. And my cell phone's dead - can you
plug it in for me? I love you.

Zimmie-D

PS – If I'm gone on Sunday, even if you don't go to
Break-the-Fast, please drop off the Jello things I made.
They're in the fridge. No, you can't have any if you don't
go to Break-the-Fast. And yes, I expect you to fast
if you're going to eat there. Don't be a wimp. Love you.

One of "our neighbors." He knew exactly what that meant – a faerie. The one that had saved her and brought her to the hospital all those months ago had... how had she put it? Needed a friend. What the heck did that mean?

But she'd signed it Zimmie-D, which meant everything was okay and she hadn't had to write this note under duress. John actually smiled when he thought of how much she'd hated it as a kid when he'd called her Zimmie-D. Zimmie was one of Bob Dylan's nicknames, since his real name had been Robert Zimmerman. Since his name had been Robert, however, and hers had been Dylan, a five-year-old John had always added a D at the end. She'd hated that name, but it was also one of their code words growing up, a sign that everything was okay with her, just like he'd always let her call him John-Boy, even though he absolutely loathed The Waltons, and signed any of his okay-notes the same way. If something was wrong, he'd always signed their notes "John" or "Johnny" instead of his usual "J," and she'd sign "Dylan" instead of just "D." So she was all right. He could relax.

Well, he grumbled, staring at the memo paper, at least I'll get to pig out tomorrow. And I'm eating at least two helpings of all those Jello thingies. His sister made some pretty rockin' Jello.

.

I could slay him now. He'd never see it coming, Eamonn thought, silver eyes burning with a thrill of anticipation. Inside the cottage, the human slut's kin scanned a piece of paper. A letter, no doubt. I could leave his corpse there for her to find. And when she found him, I could come upon her while she was yet unaware, and break into her mind again, and Nuada would–

"Calm yourself, Eamonn," a cold voice ordered. The silver-eyed Elf shot a scathing look at the dark-eyed warrior at his side. If not for the silver chain around the other fayre's throat, the dark Elf would've likely slain his companion long ago. But even for the favorite lieutenant of the one Eamonn called liege, killing the favored lieutenant of the fae lord known as the Dark Hunter would've been unwise. Eamonn loathed Iolo, Master of Cŵn Annwn, nearly as much as he loathed the hypocritical Silverlance (though for vastly different reasons). "We're not here to indulge your twisted fantasies," Iolo continued. "We're here to see if the mortal returns to her home this night. If she doesn't, we are to report back to our respective masters. Nothing more."

"I don't need a lowly Welshman to give me orders," Eamonn snarled. "My king is foolish enough to trust your master, but I'm not so blinded. Don't think I've forgotten he betrays his own king with this alliance, and so do you."

"Why are you so obsessed with the mortal at all, Eamonn?" Iolo taunted, arching a brow. "One would fancy you in love with her as well, and mad with your own jealousy."

"It is Silverlance who occupies my thoughts," the dark Elf hissed. He spoke Nuada's title as if it were an obscenity. "Silverlance and the best way to break him. Believe me, I've thought of every possible thing I could do to bring that baseborn scut to his knees. The human is the key. Hurt the princess, and he dies when she does. It would be over too quickly. His father? The Silverlance will mourn, but it will only serve to fire his vengeance. But the mortal... to lose her... to lose the woman you love would steal the heart even from you, Iolo. Once I end her, Silverlance's heart will shatter. Then I can take my time with the old fool of a king and his whore of a daughter. More knives in his heart. In the end, Silverlance will beg me to end his pitiful existence. I dream of the day when I can rip out his heart with my bare hands."

With just a subtle bite of sarcasm, the Welsh faerie replied, "How charming."

Infuriated, Eamonn turned on Iolo and growled, "Welsh dog-"

"Enough of this ridiculous bickering," another voice demanded, sounding almost bored. The dark-haired Elf subsided as eyes like the summer sky glanced at him. Even Eamonn knew not to push the son of his master. The Elves of Cíocal weren't known for their patience. "We have the information my father wanted," the blue-eyed prince added. "The human is staying at Findias. Well and good. Arrachd and Iolo's men will keep watch on the mortal's home. Now let us leave this filthy place. I can smell the stink of human machines from here."

As the three faeries faded into the dark recesses of the trees, Iolo turned to the third and said, "What will your father do now, Prince Bres?"

"He'll send me to Findias to pay homage to Balor in the next few days," the bored voice drawled. "As a token of our 'continuing loyalty' in the face of Eamonn's treachery. The old Elf will be wondering about his allies now, especially with the mortal in his halls. I will also go to see what can be done with that clever little human whore... and with the delectable little princess."

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Just breathe, Dylan reminded herself as she and Nuada strode forward, Nuala on her brother's other side. Every step seemed to echo through the suddenly silent hall. The distance between the entry doors and the dais where King Balor sat upon his throne seemed to span the entire world. Still, it was strangely comforting to hear the soft tread of the Elven prince's boots in time with her own footsteps. Was he walking in time with her on purpose? That was going to be hard later, when her leg started to protest the fact that she didn't have her cane and her meds wore off.

Just breathe, she repeated. Don't panic. It's just playing pretend. Everything's going to be okay. And whenever doubt tried to slither down her throat and make her nauseous with sheer nerves, she would surreptitiously glance at the stoic prince beside her and relax a little. He won't let anything bad happen to me.

When they finally stood at the foot of the dais, Balor's golden eyes peered down at them. The light glittered off the king's golden torc and belt. His antlers speared the air high overhead. Dylan's stomach did a back-flip. Should I bow? Curtsy? What do I do now?

Nuada caught her eye, and ever so slightly inclined his head toward the king. The prince shifted, and almost as if they'd practiced it, they bowed in perfect unison. Dylan knew it was only because Nuada was matching his moves to her.

The people behind them were whispering in earnest now. Dylan wished she could understand Old Gaelic better. It would've been nice to know what they were saying about her. Specifically, she would've liked to know if any of the women were plotting to poison her, rip her hair out, or gouge out her eyes. Nuada wasn't exactly bad looking, after all. There were bound to be court ladies suckered in by the charade, and jealous as a result. That jealousy would only be ratcheted up by the fact that this woman who came into the king's Hall on Prince Nuada's arm was mortal, and barely considered pretty even without the disfiguring scars that slashed her face.

"Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance," King Balor said in ancient and flowing Gaelic. His golden voice rang out through the enormous hall, silencing the whisperers. "You have not introduced your lady to your people... or to Us."

Though there was no anger or malice in the ancient voice, Dylan heard the steely undertone of command. She didn't miss the king's use of "your lady," or the royal plurality, either.

Translation, the human thought. Tell the court who she is right now, and make it obvious she's your girlfriend, or you're dog meat. They had to be very careful here. They were playing along, yes, but if they weren't convincing enough - or, on the flip-side, if they were too convincing - the king would get suspicious and figure out they were planning on slipping his current leash as soon as possible.

"Your Majesty," Nuada said in that same ringing, courteous voice. "I beg your royal leave to present my lady," and here he shifted so he could take Dylan's hand and bow slightly toward her. "Lady Dylan of Central Park." In her head, she heard Nuada say, Bow to him again, perfunctorily. She obeyed.

"You are most welcome in Bethmoora and the halls of Findias, Lady Dylan," the king said, and even though he didn't emphasize the word "you," Dylan knew he was implying that though she was welcome, Nuada most certainly wasn't. The first flicker of irritation bubbled up in her stomach. She quashed it and inclined her head regally. At least she hoped it looked regal, and not like she had gas.

"Thank you, Your Majesty. His Highness has told me of Bethmoora, of both its splendor and its king. I find he didn't exaggerate in his estimation of either." So take that, creep. At Nuada, she thought, Findias?

The name of this palace and its township, Nuada said in her mind. His voice threatened to give her brain-freeze. Why did he sound so cold? Well, probably because he was furious and trying not to show it. At least he'd smiled at her before leading her before the king. The Elven prince said, "My king, I would ask... all know it's a crime punishable by death to appear before you without royal leave. Yet my lady has done so. I would know, Sire, if she's to be punished for saving my life when the traitor Eamonn sought to murder me."

There's that "my lady" thing again, Dylan thought, trying to suppress the shiver the words sent down her spine. She knew Nuada was just pretending, but did he have to sound so... so tender when he said "my lady?" It made her feel bizarre, even though it was certainly just a simple façade for the courtship charade. And just the thought of Eamonn sent a frisson of fury and icy terror sizzling under her skin.

"We've said she's welcome here. No doubt her actions were inspired by the love she bears for you, Crown Prince. Mortals love fiercely, and are sometimes... injudicious in how their love can influence them. It would make me a cruel king indeed, to punish such loving devotion."

Oh, ouch, Dylan thought dryly, fighting not to roll her eyes. Like that wasn't loud and clear. Translation: She's an idiot for loving a creep like you, but it's not her fault, it's yours. Jeez, what a jerk.

Could you cease the commentary? Nuada replied without taking his eyes from his father's face. You're making it difficult not to smile.

So look at me and smile, she said. Make it all gushy and saccharine. That should convince them. Which was exactly what the amber-eyed Elven prince did, turning to her and lightly brushing his calloused knuckles along one of the thicker scars than ran down her cheek. Dylan suddenly forgot how to breathe as her knees went weak and her stomach fluttered. A frisson of fear shivered up her spine as she remembered the last time anyone had touched her face like that. Whoa. The sensitive scar tissue tingled from the contact. Um... okay, don't do that. Please, Your Highness. That feels... weird.

My apologies, he said silently, while aloud he spoke as if to her (though it was clear he meant for everyone to hear him). "I strive every day to be worthy of such devotion. As she stands always at my side, I have hope that I yet succeed."

Dylan fought not to choke on the snort that threatened. Where had that sap-sucking pickup line come from? He didn't really use lines like that to get girls, did he? Hopefully everyone would think her smile and the blush burning in her face were due to being weak-kneed at the prince's "devotion," and not because she was struggling not to laugh. Crud, I can't even take that line seriously, it's so cheesy.

But in her head, the prince added soberly, Translation: I'm not the monster he thinks I am, or you wouldn't be here.

Darn right, I wouldn't. What kind of girl does he think I am? She was trying to make him smile, and it worked. Dark lips stretched into a smile, a real one that reached his firegold eyes, one that made Dylan grin back without having to think about it. The whispering from the court increased. Your Highness, what are they saying?

Surprisingly, Nuada leaned in until his lips pressed against her ear. She smelled the foresty scent that seemed to always cling to him, as well as the warm familiar smell of leather. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she thought, Oh, too close, way too close. Fear shivered along her skin, but hopefully the faeries of Balor's court just thought her eyes went wide and her breathing hitched because of the prince's closeness and any romantic effect it might've had on her. "I will tell you something very interesting later... my lady." This time she couldn't stop the shiver, and it wasn't just a shiver of fear.

Whoa. Are my eyes crossed?

No, he said as he pulled back. Why?

Never mind, she said softly, absently. Now the whispering had turned to a dull roar - or was that the blood rushing to her head? Dylan knew Nuada had done the sexy-whisper-thing to give the court gossipmongers something to talk about - they'd probably been able to hear what he said, too - and to keep up the charade, but jeez. It felt like she was having a heart attack.

And as her heart began to pound, any breath of excitement disappeared, to be replaced by cold fear. Dylan had to fight against the sudden, cold slither of phantom-terror down her spine as memory tried to wrench her from the present and shove her back into the horrifying past.

Nuada! I... Flickers of memory, the feel of Eamonn's mouth against her ear whispering hideous promises, threatened to choke her. The sound of screams hammered against her skull. Suddenly she tasted the phantom copper tang of blood. For just a moment she felt Eamonn's hands on her body, touching her, violent and violating caresses. Panic was a gaping abyss stretching before her feet. Nuada, I'm going to fall, she cried, not knowing where the words came from, but knowing they were hideously true. Help me...

Don't be afraid, the prince whispered in her mind. His grip on her fingers tightened. The reassuring pressure - and, she didn't doubt, a little magic - pushed back the fear until she could focus on the fact that she stood beside Nuada, her hand in his. Familiar golden eyes kept her from slipping back into memory. I'll not let you fall, Dylan. Do not fear.

Thank you, she whispered. The only outward indication of her panic was suddenly stinging eyes, but she blinked back any tears. I'm sorry for panicking. Thank you.

All is well, he replied. So long as I'm with you, you needn't be afraid in this place. My honor demands I protect you, and I will. Do not fear. And I shall be more careful of your memories next time.

Thanks.

"I'm overjoyed that you've found such happiness and peace, my son," Kind Balor was saying. "This is surely a cause for much celebration. Chamberlain, see that preparations are begun for a feast in honor of the crown prince and his lady." By now, Dylan had managed to entrench her mind firmly back in the present. Unfortunately, the heart-stopping terror of a flashback was replaced by a stab of panic that lanced her breast now that she stood confronted with the idea of a "celebration feast."

You gotta be kidding me, she thought helplessly. Why doesn't he shoot me and get it over with?

It is only a banquet, Nuada said, surprised the idea would upset her so much. True, she was used to her little cottage amidst the woodland green, and seemed to dislike large gatherings and parties, unlike most mortals. And he knew she disliked dressing in court clothes. He'd been able to taste Nuala's irritation at trying to get Dylan ready for this court summons, even all the way in the salle. The princess had been especially exasperated by the mortal's hair. Only the potion-qualities of Elven shampoo had managed to tame the riotous brown curls that the mortal often despaired of. Yet as long as Dylan could manage her hair (and if his sister had anything to say about it, she would), there was nothing to inspire this panic in her. And as for her hair, when had she become such a vain thing?

Did you just call me "vain?" She demanded. He nearly started in surprise. He hadn't been projecting to her. How had the mortal heard his thoughts? I'm not vain, Your Highness, she added, and he could tell that if she'd been able to, she would've scowled at him. It's not my hair, or the clothes. I hate crowds of faeries. Being helpless and mortal, they kinda freak me out, considering they could all blink at me and I'd keel over dead if they wanted. Although I'm not fond of crowds of humans, either. Add the hair and clothes on top of that, and yes, I'm a little unhappy about the fact that your dad wants to throw us a party. And, Dylan added, and Nuada could feel the sudden surge of dread. There's going to be alcohol, isn't there?

Yes, he replied slowly. This upsets you. Why?

I'm not allowed to drink alcohol. Ever. That's why I don't even like going to the fancy charity dinners they do in the medical and psychiatric fields in this stupid city. They never make soda or juice or sparkling cider or, I dunno, just plain tap water available without me having to ask for it. It's always wine or champagne. And then people always give me dirty looks, which doesn't make me feel bad about abstaining since I'm making God happy, except that then everyone assumes I'm a recovering alcoholic or something and that that's why I don't drink. Which is nothing to be ashamed of and now I'm babbling and we should probably be paying attention, Your Highness. We can talk about this later.

Unfortunately, the mortal had advised him to pay attention at precisely the worst moment possible. King Balor asked, "Pray, tell Us, Prince Nuada - have you asked for the Lady Dylan's hand?"

"I-" Nuada could think of nothing to say. The panic that had so recently vacated the human at his side seemed to have taken up residence inside him, choking back any excuses he might attempt to make. Wed Dylan? Wed anyone? The thought of marrying, when war loomed on the horizon like black smoke, felt like someone had punched him in the chest.

A wife was nothing but a weakness in war. A potential hostage. And if he got his hypothetical wife with child... another potential hostage. Another weakness. And to marry a human, when they were the ones who threatened everything he held dear? But if he said that, if he spoke of war here, now, his father would-

Dylan, warmth blooming in her chest, broke in at the last possible moment with, "We've discussed it, but... a lot would have to happen first. You see, Your Majesty, I'm a Latter-Day Saint, a follower of the High King of the World. My God has commanded His followers to wed only those who follow Him in turn. And though I may love Prince Nuada with everything I am, I've loved and will always love my God more than any other, and strive always to obey His laws and edicts. His Highness and I have talked often of the Star Kindler and of faith, but he has not covenanted with the High King to follow Him. I know that my God wouldn't wish the prince to be forced to become a Latter-Day Saint - in truth, such a thing would offend Him. But until His Highness chooses of his own freewill to follow the High King, marriage to him is something I cannot consider agreeing to, even if all the kings of this world were to command it. I'm loyal to my God first.

"But," and here Dylan turned to lay her palm against Nuada's chest, over his suddenly drumming heart. The court chatter went into overdrive. "Married or not, betrothed or not, my feelings for the prince remain unchanged."

Again the Elven prince had to admire the fine edge of courtly language the human managed to walk. Her lifetime of dealing with the Gentry was obvious now in the care with which she chose her words to Balor. Never lying, always speaking truthfully, but never giving away any information she desired to keep secret. Telling the king that whether he forced them into a betrothal or not, he couldn't make her fall in love with Nuada, while giving the illusion that even if they could never be together (disgusting thought, the two of them "together" in that way) she would always love him.

And she'd made certain the One-Armed King understood that his son would have to follow the Star Kindler of his own volition, and that no commandment from King Balor would change Dylan's stance on the matter, or affect Nuada's stance toward the High King of the World.

But - and it was a very large "but" - the human was touching him. In front of witnesses. The reality of that fact washed away almost all of his admiration in an instant. Still, she was only playing to the crowd, and to his father. Just as he ought to be. Mindful of the fact that Dylan had laid her hand very slowly against his chest, giving him time to protest, Nuada fought the churning sensation in his belly and covered her hand with his own. Closing his eyes, he murmured in Gaelic, "A thaisce." He touched his forehead to hers, and added, "A ghrá geal, a stór, a mhuirnín."

Dylan's breathing hitched again. My treasure. My bright love, my darling, my dearest. No one had ever said that about her before, not even John. But he's not talking about me, she reminded herself as she fought to regulate her breathing. He's probably thinking about... someone else. I'm mortal, and he hates mortals. Relax already.

But then, with a crooked smile that sent an odd thrill through Dylan, Nuada added, "Mo duinne." Dylan couldn't fight her delighted grin. No one could've thought he meant anyone else in the court when he'd said, "My brown one." The Bethmoora Elves were about as brown as the full moon.

"Such love is truly a beautiful thing," a smooth, oily voice said, shattering the moment.

When Nuada's eyes flew open, Dylan had to fight not to step back. Red as dark as blood melted into the deep bronze of sheer rage in his gaze. It took her a minute to realize he wasn't looking at her, but over her head. She turned to see the box-headed faerie with the long, creepy fingers; the same one that had argued with her the night she came to save Nuada. Instinctively, Dylan backed up, stepping closer to the prince, and barely managed to hide her surprise when one arm came around her. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder and his chin came to rest atop her head. Dylan could feel his throat working convulsively against the back of her head, as if he were trying to refrain from throwing up, and she laid her hand on his in sympathy. His grip tightened fractionally.

Box-Head continued, "I would very much like to see a demonstration of such tender feelings. As would the entire court, I think." Murmurs of assent flitted amongst the crowd and Dylan fought against slapping her forehead with her palm.

"Chamberlain," Nuada said with an icy calm that made her shiver. "I see you've not changed, even in two thousand years. Yet you seem to forget your place. I am not your dancing bear. Play a tune if you wish, but I shall not be moved, and neither shall my lady."

Obviously you don't like him. What exactly does he want? Dylan asked.

He suspects this is a sham, and wants me to kiss you. The revulsion and fury burning in his voice was unmistakable. Dylan hid her wince. She wouldn't have been the Box-Head for all the tea in China, if Nuada hated him as much as he seemed to. The prince's next words confirmed her suspicions. As for liking... loathing would be a more apt description as to my feelings for him.

Oh. Well, then. Dylan lifted Nuada's arm so she could turn and face him. The crimson and molten bronze still held sway in his infuriated gaze. With a deliberately light laugh and a coquettish smile, Dylan said coaxingly, "Gean gáire, a ghrá." Smile, my love. As she shifted her grip on his hand, without changing from the flirtatious expression she asked in his mind, My prince, do you trust me?

He blinked. Did he trust her? Did he, Nuada Silverlance, trust a human? Why would she ask that? The answer was obviously to the negative. And yet... this was Dylan who asked. Dylan, who'd yet to betray him, and had done everything in her power to stand by him honorably. Eleven moons was a long time for her to lie in wait like a poisonous serpent intent on striking. Eleven moons of tentative bonds forging. Still, to trust a mortal... If I said yes, what would you say?

I would tell you to lean in as if you were going to kiss me. The look he gave her could've drawn blood from a stone, even though it lasted only a split-second before turning to that calm politeness he'd shown his father. Trust me, she insisted. I promise this will work, and it'll give them what they want without making either of us more miserable than we need to be.

She hoped it would work, anyway. He hadn't balked at whispering in her ear. Hopefully this wouldn't be any worse for him. She didn't exactly want a man she wasn't in love with kissing her, either.

As the prince leaned forward, an expectant hush stole over the assembled courtiers. Nuada took both of her small hands in his large ones, and as he drew closer, tightened his grip on her fingers until they ached. At the very last minute, when she felt the warmth of his breath on her lips and see the anger in his eyes, she turned her head to look straight at King Balor, and Nuada's mouth brushed a chaste kiss over her scarred cheek. Silvery blue eyes locked with the king's golden gaze, and Balor arched an eyebrow.

Oh, yeah, she thought. He knows I'm not okay with this. And he doesn't really care. Why is that? Nuada always said his father was noble and strong and fair-minded. A great king and a proud warrior. So why is he doing this to us? Well, we'll see how just long this lasts. He doesn't care that I don't like this, and I just hate having my feelings ignored. Directed at Nuada, she added, You okay? You're not gonna throw up, are you, Your Highness?

I'll be fine. I will have to bathe with horse soap after this, and rinse my mouth with some of Caspar's strongest sour beer, but I'll be fine. Now act like one of those fluff-brained court females and blush.

I can't blush on command. And why would I- Dylan began, then swallowed hard, reflexively, when Nuada brought her hand to his mouth and let his lips linger against her knuckles. The heat of his mouth sent tingles up her arm. She didn't have to force herself to blush. Fire spread through her face all on its own. Nuada's amused and almost affectionate smile wasn't forced, either, if she judged right.

"Tá mo chroí istigh ionat," he said, and her heart went into overdrive. He couldn't say stuff like that to her after doing stuff like that! Not in Gaelic, anyway. People said French was the language of love, but obviously they hadn't heard Gaelic spoken by a pointy-eared Irish prince before. The lyrical language with its liquid-silver vowels and resonating consonants made even the cheesiest pickup lines sound sexy (which, in her opinion, was lame. Also unfair). After all, if someone had said "my heart is within you" in English, she'd have told them to check the latest trashy romance novel for better inspiration. Or maybe looked at them askance and then sidled quickly away, pondering the nature of stalkers.

But when Nuada said it in the Old Tongue, it made her knees weak. Again. Which was simply ridiculous, because she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he didn't mean it. The words probably referred to the fact that his life (and thus the continued beating of his heart) rested within her power. That would make way more sense than if she took the sentiment at first blush. Yet still, her pulse raced.

You're killing me, here, she grumbled, feeling idiotic. Stop that.

His only response: a smug smile that held far too much male satisfaction. He might not consider her attractive (come to think of it, he probably thought she was ugly), but apparently every guy enjoyed giving a woman jelly-legs. Even an Elven prince.

I wonder how many of the court bimbos got jelly-legs from watching that. Nuada only quirked a brow at her. Fighting the urge to grin like an idiot at the far-too innocent expression on the prince's face (or maybe scowl, she wasn't sure which), Dylan wondered, Think the Chamberlain's satisfied? Or is he such a total creep that we'll have to throw down on the floor and do the sweaty pretzel? She ignored the prince half-choking and glanced at the assembled courtiers and Lord Box-Head of the Creepy Fingers.

Some of the fae looked enchanted, some disgusted, some amused, and others with that condescending expression she'd seen on the faces of human adults looking at their love-snared teenage offspring; the "aww, isn't that cute" look. One, a beautiful dusky-skinned woman with wheat-blond hair tumbling around her shoulders and beautiful amber eyes, actually looked approving. She smiled. The human smiled back as a familiar feeling of peace unfurled in her chest. Here, at least, was an ally. She'd have to ask Nuada about her.

But Dylan saw that not one of the Daoine Maithe staring at her and Nuada looked disbelieving. At least, not that she could see. So they'd pulled it off. Hopefully the king thought they'd capitulated, and their ploy had bought some time to figure a way out of this "courtship" thing.

Don't be too swift to assume us safe, Nuada said in her mind. The Samhain feast is tonight, and we must attend, which means we'll be in the public eye for some time. And behold my father's face.

When she saw the ancient Elf king's expression - coolly amused, determined, and subtly challenging - she knew they weren't out of the political woods yet. Well, Dylan replied with a sigh. Crud.

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Wink emptied the jack of weak ale in one swallow and motioned for one of the little bierasal barmaids to refill it for him. As the barely-four-foot-high tavern sprite took the leather jack toward the bar, the silver troll scratched his belly and inspected the nearly-regrown finger on his hand of flesh. As long as he kept up this drunken pretense of disinterest, the Kindly Folk around him continued to chatter on, oblivious to the fact that the crown prince's oldest companion listened intently to their gossip.

So far, none of those who frequented the tavern - aptly named the Drunken Dweorg - had mentioned anything about Nuada, Dylan, or the failed assassination attempt and coup at Findias three nights past, except for some to say they'd seen an Elf of Bethmoora striding through the streets, a silver cave troll at his side, the same night as when Wink knew the battle had occurred. But other than to speculate that the Elf may have been the Exiled Prince (it was no secret he kept a rather large silver troll as valet), nobody said anything about Nuada. Which, the troll knew, was nothing but good news. The knowledge that Nuada had been flogged wouldn't have bothered the prince if it got out - many of the common fae believed Balor's rule had failed and thought the prince could do no wrong - but anyone hearing about the human healer's involvement in the fiasco would cause nothing but problems.

The bierasal returned with the now-full jack. Wink took a sip and winced as he realized he'd grown spoiled drinking the Elf liquor that Nuada - on those incredibly rare nights when, after visiting with the human, he'd returned in a very good mood - sometimes brought out and shared with the troll. Wink knew this because the weak ale in his jack reminded him quite strongly of the stench of horse urine.

Ah, it doesn't matter, he thought, and downed the contents in one long swallow. Such weak alcohol lacked the necessary power to intoxicate him, even though this was his fourth serving. Drink is drink, though few establishments compare to Fafner's Cave, his and Nuada's favorite tavern. But I believe I'll take my leave of this place. There's nothing for me to learn. Besides, it stinks of Annwn swine here. Not surprising, as Wink noticed a Dyfed-dweller sucking down blue Cornish ale from a tin cup.

As he stood to leave, tossing a few extra coppers on the table for the little bierasal who'd made sure to keep his jack full, the tavern door swung open. For a moment, the shadows turned what stood in the doorway into a strange, monstrous shape. Then a cù sìth padded in on silent paws. The beast looked fairly young, approximately the size of a year-old calf. Many of the otherworldly faerie dogs grew to be the size of fully-grown bulls come adulthood. This one must've been a puppy.

On the dog's back rode a short, lean figure in burgundy and black velvet. Once the figure that perched atop the cù sìth's broad back slid down, the green-furred hound shook itself and trotted over to the communal fireplace, where it plopped down, placed its head on its massive paws, and closed its luminous red eyes with a tired sigh. No one seemed to care that the beast's hide still sparkled with raindrops, or that it stank of wet dog. Wink only wrinkled his nose at the stench.

The faerie hound's diminutive owner climbed onto an empty table and yelled, "Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance has returned to Bethmoora! The Royal Exile has returned to Findias at last!"

Wink sank slowly back down to his bench and eyed the huge, green dog for a moment, ignoring the shouting clurichaun. Was the beast from the Royal Kennels? Because although the animal didn't look like the thoroughbred Sluagh hounds bred by the royal family, the troll was almost positive he recognized the clurichaun standing on the table, jabbering a mile a minute. Wasn't he one of the servants beneath Miyax, the kennel-mistress?

He motioned for the bierasal, and this time took one of the heavy mason jars full of honeyed mead from the tray she kept afloat above her head. Sipping carefully at the sweet alcohol, he listened to the freshly-arrived gossipmonger.

"Me own sister tol' me not an hour ago," the clurichaun was chattering to the entranced listeners. Several of the surrounding fae were offering to pay for the imbecile's drinks in exchange for more gossip. Ridiculous, Wink grumbled silently to himself as the drunk faerie added, "Works in the Royal Kennels, she does. The Silverlance is returned, she says, an' betrothed to a blinkin' human, to boot!"

The troll choked on his mead.

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Author's Notes: Oooh! So, what do you guys think? You like so far? You know I love reviews, but I know it can be hard to figure out what to put in reviews sometimes. So here's the review prompt! I would like to know 4 things (and part 4 is easy-peasy)-

1) Do I need to lighten up on the Nuala/Balor bit? I don't want them to come across as evil. More like ambivalent and more concerned with what they want versus what Nuada and/or Dylan want. Are they too cruel right now? Before answering this question, I would very much like for you all to read through the References section for a more indepth analysis of the situation, as well as the Thing About Nuala section (if you feel that they're too evil. If not, don't even worry about reading it unless you wanna).

This one isn't as important, but I'm curious about 2) Is anyone bothered by the religious element of the story? Because I've noticed I only get reviews from like, 5 or 6 of the same people every time and a lot of my old reviewers (and people who've favorited this story) haven't reviewed, and I'm wondering if anyone checked it out, found out Dylan was LDS, and left because of that. Lots of people hate Mormons (sigh) so I was just wondering. Or if anyone thinks Dylan would be better as a Catholic or Bhuddist or something. This is not something I'm going to change, but it is something I would like to know about just because I would (it makes me a bit twitchy not to know). Or do you love the faith element? I know a couple of you guys have said you liked certain parts of the faith element, but I haven't heard on it from all of you yet, so I'm wondering.

And of course you can also tell me things you liked, things you didn't, etc. I love all of you guys. Thank you so much for your support!

Important Reading Reminder: Don't forget to read OceanFire9's phenomenal "Red Riding Hood" literary short, "Red Under the Moon!"

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Challenge #2: A flash fiction piece? The topic: when Nuada and/or Dylan realize their feelings for each other. It can be just Nuada, or just Dylan, or both of them at the same time.It could be as someone is dying or seriously injured, it could be at the dreaded arranged wedding, it could be anytime, anywhere, in any situation. Although I'll admit, I love super sad ones, and super steamy ones where nothing really happens and I'm left going, "Are they gonna kiss or not!" Like in Twilight and Phantom of the Opera. Those, IMHO, are harder to write than ones where people are ripping off their clothes and rolling around in bed. You can write one of those if you like, since it's your choice, but it won't get a chapter reward because I can't read it. please! You've no idea how hungry I am for good flash-fiction about Nuada!

So, just to review.

Chapter 6's Challenge:a one-shot (or more than a one-shot) about Dylan's time in the mental institution.

Chapter 8's Challenge: a dual ficlet, one from Nuada's POV and one from Dylan's, set during the time in chapter 8 where they don't see each other.

Chapter 13's Challenge: it's actually a vid challenge, BUT if you can't make a vid (an MV of the fic to Celine Dion's "I Surrender") then maybe you can write something based on the lyrics to the song? About Nuada and/or Dylan surrendering. To what? To Eamonn, to save one or the other? To their love? To Nuada's desire to wipe out humanity? It's up to you.

Chapter 14's Challenge: when Nuada and/or Dylan realize their feelings for each other. It can be just Nuada, or just Dylan, or both of them at the same time. It could be as someone is dying or seriously injured, it could be at the dreaded arranged wedding, it could be anytime, anywhere, in any situation. Although I'll admit, I love super sad ones, and super steamy ones where nothing really happens and I'm left going, "Are they gonna kiss or not!"

Chapter 15's Challenge: If you feel the final scene could've ended differently (not should've, just could've), I want to know how. What would've happened? I totally want to see what you guys come up with. Please indulge me. No word limit.

I know it's only chapter 14, but chapter 15 is up, too, so yay!

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Concerning the Chapter Title: "In the Hall of the Mountain King" is one of my favorite pieces of classical music ever! Just saying. I don't know who wrote it, but it's pretty famous, and it is one of my favorites. At least I think it's classical. Might be baroque or something.

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References Made In This Chapter:

- Sector Seven is one of those "doesn't exist" government agencies that appear in Transformers 1 & 2.

- Roswell, I believe, is the town nearest to Area 51 (you know, where the aliens and stuff are). There's an old show/book series called Roswell High. But Roswell is (at least in some stories and books I've read) a "doesn't exist" government agency as well.

- Warehouse 13 is another "doesn't exist" agency (henceforth known as a DE). They're out in Nevada in the ScyFy Channel show Warehouse Thirteen. The Warehouse itself holds all kinds of neat, famous "Artifacts." Some include things like HG Wells' time machine and Excalibur. The Warehouse operatives don't use guns, but these things called Tesla guns.

- Torchwood is a British DE agency on the show Torchwood and Doctor Who. Apparently after Queen Victoria met the Tenth Doctor, she wasn't that impressed, and set up Torchwood both to fight the Doctor if it was ever needed, and to fight the "alien problem." Captain Jack Harkness, one of the sexiest men on television, is one of their operatives.

- Every first Sunday of the month in the LDS Church is called Fast Sunday. Church members choose to fast for 2 consecutive meals (breakfast and lunch) and attend a special Sacrament meeting known as Fast & Testimony meeting. Instead of having speakers like they normally do, members of the congregation are allowed to go up to the pulpit and bear their testimonies (literally testifying of the truth of a gospel principle they've learned the truth of, or just testifying of the gospel in general). For the Singles' Wards (congregations made up of people between 18 and 30 who are unmarried), instead of sending people home to break their fast there, they hold this event called Break-the-Fast, where people who've previously signed up bring lots of yummy food. My favorite Break-the-Fasts ever were when we had baked potatoes, and when we had bread bowls with broccoli and cheese soup. Yum.

Dylan isn't part of the Singles' Ward, even though she's only 29 and single, because she was called to serve as a Nursery teacher in a home ward (a ward for married people and people under 19 and over 30). Sometimes YSA (young single adults - people 18-30) are called to home ward positions, and they leave the singles' wards. But since she's going to Break-the-Fast with her brother (who is only 21), she's bringing food anyway. Or she planned to, anyway.

- John-Boy Walton is the name of the main character from the 60s television show The Waltons. They called him John-Boy because his father's name was John.

- "The good neighbors" or "kindly neighbors" is another term for the Fair Folk, which is why in her note, Dylan says "our neighbors."

- Bob Dylan (whom Dylan is named after) has this song called "You've Gotta Serve Somebody." And in the song, he says, "You might call me Bobby, and you might call me Zimmie." And when I was a kid, I was like, "Wait... what? Why Zimmie?" Turns out, Bob Dylan's real name is Robert Zimmerman.

- Jello is capitalized because Jello is actually a brand name. The stuff you're eating is actually called gelatin.

- Iolo is the lead huntsman of Gwynn ap Nudd (king of the Tylwyth Teg and sometimes of Annwn, one of the Welsh-Celtic otherworlds) in Welsh mythology, and the Master of Cwn Annwn. Cwn Annwn means "the hounds of Annwn." They're the Welsh wild hunt.

- Findias is one of the four great cities of the Tuatha de, and the one where the Sword of Nuada was forged. Since they never tell you what the King's palace was called (I've read Anthatal, but I don't know if that's cannon or someone made that up) I chose Findias, for its connection to Nuada.

- Cíocal was the leader of the Fomori when they first came to Ireland in Gaelic myth. He is not the King in the fic, though, because at the time that the mythical Nuada was King of the Tuatha, Cíocal had already died. So instead, we're using it as a Elven Clan name.

- Elven Clan names. So far, we've encountered the Elves of Bethmoora (pasty Elves with silvery blond hair and golden eyes), the Elves of Zwezda (pasty Elves with silver eyes and black hair), and the Elves of Cíocal (tanned, golden-blond, blue or green eyes). At some point, we will also run into the Elves of Nyame, Álfar, Iara, Bulukiya, Dilong, Onibi, Ubasti, Eirc, Orang Bunian, and Menehune.

- "Just breathe" is hopefully recognizeable to all who love fairy tales, as one of the lines played most in the trailer for Ever After, which is one of the best "Cinderella" movies I've ever seen.

- In case it wasn't clear, when Dylan said, "His Highness has told me of Bethmoora, of both its majesty and of its king. I find that he did not exaggerate in his estimation of either," she was actually saying, "Nuada told me this place was gorgeous. He also told me you were a jerk. He was right on both counts."

- LDS people have this thing called "the Word of Wisdom." It's about treating your body right. One of the things we're not supposed to do is drink alcohol. Sometimes (often), LDS people are uncomfortable at parties and events where alcohol is the main thing being served. For me personally, it's more a fear that I'll suffer a sudden attack of stupid and take a sip of beer. I'm a total lightweight. Even the smell of alcohol makes me act dumb. Hence why I decided not to drink, even before I got baptized. Not to mention, alcohol tastes bad. Pretty much anytime someone tells me something is "an acquired taste," I'm like, "Meh. Not worth it, sorry. Gimme pizza and Kool-aid." Although actually, I LOVE sparkling cider and would drink it every day if it wasn't so blasted expensive.

- What Dylan says/implies to Balor (that he can't just order Nuada to join Dylan's faith) is true. Just because the King orders Nuada to be a Christian, even if Nuada got baptized and went to Church, doesn't mean he's a Christian. If he doesn't believe of his own volition, it doesn't count. For pretty much any religion that I know of, the person who attempts to follow it has to believe it's true first - or at least be open to the idea that it might be true.

- The "do you trust me" wasn't inspired by Disney's Aladdin, I promise. It just sounds similar. Great movie, though. =)

- Balor and Nuala are not bad guys. I just need to point this out. They are monarchs. Unfortunately, rulers (not just kings, but prime ministers and presidents) have to make decisions that totally screw up Person A's life, because it will save/protect/seriously help Persons B-Z. That's the case here. Nuala and Balor aren't villains. They're just trying to do what's right, both for the Fae and for humanity. They're trying to keep Nuada from wiping out mankind. I'm all for that. And this goes here because, as I'm going through my footnotes, I got to the part where Dylan realizes Balor knows she's ticked about the whole courtship-set-up, and doesn't care that she's mad, which makes him seem mean, but it's more like he's resigned to the fact that neither of them are going to like it, but it's too necessary to put a halt to just because they're unhappy. In the words of Tamora Pierce, "Good kings are not necessarily good men." Sometimes royals, leaders, and people like that have to make decisions that some people don't like, for the good of other people. In this case, Nuala and Balor don't want to hurt Nuada. They love him. That is obvious even in the film that they love him, even though they seriously despair of him. But if it's a toss-up between a) making Nuada happy and wiping out an entire race, or b) breaking Nuada's heart and saving mankind, I personally would go with B. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, as Nuala (and Spock) said.

- Horse soap is another term for the stuff they washed horse blankets and tack and such with. It's really, really strong. It would actually probably make your hands crack and bleed if you actually used it on yourself.

- Who knows who the brunette chick and the blond guy are? If you can guess right, I'll answer 2 spoiler questions of your choice! Muahahahaha...

- A jack is basically a bag/cup of stiffened leather that people sometimes carried with them, if they were worried about dirty glasses at a pub.

- Dweorg is the Old English word for "Dwarf," so the tavern is called the Drunken Dwarf.

- For those who don't remember, a bierasal is a kobold (Germanic house sprite) that works in taverns and inns.

- Anwnn is the Welsh otherworld (similar to the English Avalon, the Tibetan Shambala, and the Irish Tir na nOg). Apparently they have magical pigs there. These magical pigs are possibly the inspiration for Henwen, the oracular pig in the Black Cauldron (Disney film and novel by Lloyd Alexander). One of the Kings of Anwnn, Arawn, gave a gift of otherworldly pigs to Pryderi, the Lord of Dyfed (some Welsh kingdom or other), and the little swine (hehe) took up residence in Wales as well.

- A Dyfed-dweller is not a type of faerie. It literally means someone from Dyfed. In this instance, it's an unknown Welsh faerie (probably a knocker or coblynau) drinking Cornish ale (Cornwall and Wales are likethis *crosses fingers to show closeness*). The cup is made out of tin because many Cornish and Welsh faeries are associated with tin mines.

- The ale is blue because you know how, in The Shining by Stephen King, the kid keeps seeing "REDRUM," which is vocalized as "red rum." (It's actually "Murder" backwards.) Well, one of my best friends (we call her Latte), whenever she hears "red rum, red rum," she would go, "Blue ale! Blue ale!" So, yeah.

- Clurichaun: very similar to the leprechaun, only they are often drunk and are always surly.

- For those who don't know, mead (unlike pretty much every other type of alcohol) isn't made with fruit or grain, but with honey. I don't know HOW, but it is made from honey (whereas wines, cordials, and a lot of jacks and brandies are made from fruit, and pretty much everything else is made with grain).