Author's Note: Okay, this is a request, but not for me! TheBlackPages has this cool fanfic called "Waiting for the World to Fall." She needs a beta. I can't guarantee being able to do it because of life (job, bills, husband, ant infestation, church callings, housekeeping). Would anyone be willing to beta for her? TheBlackPages has a good thing going, but she needs a beta. Would anyone be willing?
Warning: okay, the next 2 chapters (16-17) are a bit slow. I wanted a bit of breathing space for relationship development because in chapter 19, my robot started yelling, "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" So between chapter 18 to about... 23, there's no slow, take-a-breath, relax for a minute bits. There are some slow-er bits, but I wanted to give everyone a moment to breathe. So, yeah. And though Dylan has some flashbacks here, the focus is supposed to be more on what's happening to Nuada and how she feels about that than what's happening to her.
Just an fyi, you guys aren't obligated to review. I won't be angry or upset or hurt if you don't. Don't think just because I ask that I expect you to do so. I am a shameless attention slut, yes. I didn't get enough love as a child. But if you guys don't want to review, you don't have to. I just want you to know that.
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Chapter Sixteen
In the Dark of the Night
that is
A Short Tale of Memories in the Dark, Tears in Shadow, Battle and Bloodlust, a Whisper of Failure
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Screaming terror hurled her back into wakefulness with a choked gasp. Dylan bolted upright in bed, her fist stuffed in her mouth to silence the shriek choking the breath from her. Icy sweat plastered her hair to her face and neck. Cold fear coiled sickeningly in her stomach. Tears burned and memory whispered cruel reminders of waking nightmares long past. She looked around, fighting panic. Where... how did... where was she? This wasn't her room. This wasn't her cottage! Where was she?
Then recollections of the evening, and the two days prior, slammed into her mind and she fought a sudden despair tightening around her chest. Court, the king, the pretense at love, and the melding of thoughts while alone in the dimly-lit bedroom. Escaping to the bath. Returning to find Nuada gone. Dressing for the night and going to bed. Simple. Easy. Everything was all right.
And yet, somehow, it wasn't.
A crack of thunder rattled the windows. She gasped as another crashing boom reverberated through the cold bedchamber. Her heart slammed hard against her sternum, until she thought the bones were bruising under the onslaught.
I'm okay, Dylan told herself, pushing sweat-stringy hair out of her face. She tried to pretend she didn't see the way her hand shook like a leaf in a gale. It's okay. I'm in Findias. I remember. I'm safe. It's okay.
But every deep shadow was a nightmare monster skulking through the room. Every flash of lightning was a reflection of burning silver eyes lit with evil promise. Every hiss and crackle of the low fire in the hearth was a whisper, a hushed voice murmuring brutal fantasies as Elven fingers bit deep into her skin and Elven cruelty burned inside her skull. The room breathed the name of her worst nightmares: Eamonn. Eamonn...
Flashes of darkly-dreamt torments burned against the back of her tightly shut eyelids as sounds assaulted her: Eamonn grinning over her, her blood on his pale lips and teeth; the hollow snap of her arm breaking in his grip; her own thin scream as the dark Elf pressed red-hot iron to her bare skin; her lungs struggling for air as Eamonn held his hand over her face and said, "Watch the light fade from her eyes, Silverlance."
And the hell-thing that filled her with sick horror: Nuada, struggling to rise despite the spiked iron shackles dragging him down; blood matted his hair, streaked down his bare chest; the men who laughed as Eamonn did everything in his power to destroy her beat the courageous prince who fought to reach her, who tried in vain to save her. The sight of the Elven warrior dragging himself onward with bleeding hands, trembling with the effort to keep coming, made her heart hurt. Made tears burn at the backs of her eyes. They seared her cheeks as they fell.
Stop! She pleaded to the phantom images branded in her mind. Nuada, stop! Please... I don't want to see anymore. Please... But she did see. Eyes closed, eyes open, there was nothing she could do to stop herself from seeing and feeling what Eamonn had planted in her brain -
- Hands bruising, breaking her
No, only a dream
Not real, not real!
Eamonn's mouth hard and biting
She screams when he breaks her fingers
The sobbing, pleading
Not her voice
Nuada
Blows thudding against his bare flesh
Oh, Nuada, Nuada, don't...
Nuada struggling to reach her
Can barely stand, blood dripping
Horrified golden eyes locked on hers as she dies
Over and over and over again
Just a dream! Nightmare
Not real a trick not real
Please, please don't hurt him
Eamonn, don't, please -
Help me, she thought frantically, clinging to the present with all the desperation of a trapped animal. Hysteria burned in her stomach. Terror screamed under her skin. She tried to call out, but her voice was hollow and broken by the fear and soul-tearing grief dripping down her spine like the rain smashing against the windows and running like blood.
John. Help me, John. Where are you? I need you, help me, I can't... But her twin brother was in the human world, far from Faerie. As far from her as the moon. John, I'm scared... Trapped without him in the dark, she shivered and fought to suppress the fear. There had to be someone, someone who would come and...
Nuada! Nuada, help. Please... Nuada...
Her head felt like it was splitting apart. Her chest ached, as if someone had literally punched a hole through her ribs. Dry lips parted and she struggled to call out, to break the darkness. Shadows throttled her into silence. Phantom pain stole the breath from her lungs. A dark poison festered inside her mind, dragging her back into memory, into fear and the mist of dark dreams. Always it was the same: Nuada battered, bleeding, and broken on the icy stone floor. Still struggling. Still fighting. Molten bronze eyes locked on her face every time she died in dreams.
The shadows breathed around her.
Heavenly Father, she prayed, desperation choking her. Help me, please. I'm scared. I don't know what to do. Panic and icy fear skittered up and down her spine like venomous spiders. There's something here, something trying to get me.
It was ridiculous, but somehow Dylan knew the living shadows of the room held their breath, waiting for her to move, to make the mistake of sliding out of the safety of her bed. Then they would reach out with scaly claws and drag her into darkness. It was Samhain night, the night when the veil between all the various realms grew thin as breath. The night when the dark things of Faerie waxed strong in their tenebrous powers.
Help, Dylan tried to cry. Childlike fear throttled her into silence. Help me. I can't... Was this only the after-effects of a bad dream? Or was it something worse, some malevolent shadowed thing oozing across the floor toward her, intent on the kill? Did some dark thing lurk in the blackness?
In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, Dylan prayed, trying to grasp at even a shred of anger to fuel her dwindling courage, if any devils lurk here, any evil things, I command you to depart!
But there were no devils to be cast out. No ghosts to be bound by the power of the Star Kindler. No dark forces commanded by the Adversary to be fought. Only the echoes of nightmare, and her fear of the leering, threatening dark.
Call out, a voice breathed against her heart. A tiny ember of courage bloomed inside her. I am with you. Call out.
Digging her nails into her palms, she sucked in a deep breath. Warmth flared in her chest, and she managed to choke out, "B-Becan!" She had to take another breath as an irrational tide of horror swamped her. But the voice in her heart, the prompting of the Spirit, helped her whisper, "H-help... Nuada..."
The door creaked open. A thin shaft of torchlight sliced through the dark. Then the door closed again with a muffled thump. The saliva dried in Dylan's mouth. Had someone come into her room? Who...?
Eamonn. Eamonn, coming in the dark to finish it all, to take her and break her to pieces, all for the sake of destroying Nuada's spirit -
- Teeth tearing into her wrist
Blood sheeting down an arm twisted and broken
Chains rattling, Nuada swearing
The dark Elf whispering in her ear, Tá tú a chroí. Anois, beidh mé sos sé i bpíosaí.
You are his heart. Now I shall break it into pieces.
Dizziness and pain
Fire throbbing where his teeth tore
Death like ice at the back of her bruised, swollen throat
And Nuada shouting,
Eamonn! Don't, I beg you.
Pleading for the dark Elf to spare her
Impigh mé leat... dean trócaire. Eamonn!
Eamonn laughing as the prince begs him to have mercy
Tears for Nuada's pain sting her eyes
She would die, and he would suffer
Nuada... -
With a choked cry, she threw back the thick covers and swung her legs to the floor. Needles of ice seemed to stab her feet through her socks. Still limping a little from the slight stiffness in her bad leg, she scrambled to the fireplace and coaxed the dying embers into life. Light and heat washed over her, vainly trying to push away the nightmares and the darkness. Dylan hunched on the floor, as close to the fire as she dared sit, until the heat almost seared her skin. The sudden flare of firelight told her that no one lurked in her room. Nothing waited to hurt her. She was completely alone.
After a long, tense moment where she dug her nails into her palms and sank her teeth into her bottom lip... after that, the tears came. Dylan buried her face in her hands and wept.
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Nuada raced down an endless corridor, boots pounding against smooth flagstones. No doors, no windows, no tapestries or branching hallways. In the distance he heard thunder crash, the staccato percussion of rain. He smelled human blood, sharp and metallic. The stench of slaughter. The floor was stained with ever-widening puddles of crimson.
Goblin bronze sang as a Fir Bholg gladius arced down, intent of cleaving flesh. Only the glint of torchlight on metal from the corner of Nuada's eye warned him. The prince dodged and brought up his own blade to block the heavy sword. Silver clashed against bronze. The impact shivered through Nuada's arms as he stared into familiar, sky blue eyes. Sreng. How had he escaped the Butcher Guards?
"I'll be takin' the Sword back soon, Silverlance," the Fir Bholg man said, and chuckled. He pressed with the troll-like strength of the Sons of Dela against the Elven warrior's own strength. It took everything Nuada had to hold the other fae warrior at bay. Without the Spear of Light or the Sword of Victory, the strength of Bethmooran Elves was barely two-thirds that of the Elves of Eirc. Nuada could feel his strength wavering beneath Sreng's even as the prince came to a swift decision.
Lunging to the right, Nuada dodged the bronze blade and thrust his sword deep into Sreng's foot. Blood spurted. The other warrior roared in pain and swung his gladius at the prince. The feral-eyed warrior rolled backward, evading the potentially lethal slice. With a howl, Sreng lurched toward Nuada, face a mask of fury. Nuada brought up his sword as the Fir Bholg lunged for him.
Elven silver bit deep into the other fighter's side. He staggered. Turned to face the bronze-eyed Elven prince who wasn't even sweating yet. The hatred in those sky-blue eyes brought a smirk to Nuada's lips. Attacking in anger nearly always resulted in injury or death. Battles were won with cool heads.
"Smile while you can, Silverlance. She'll pay for it," the Elf of Eirc snarled. Nuada's expression turned stony. Crimson lanced like tiny bolts of lightning through molten bronze eyes when Sreng added, "Your little human tramp. Lord Eamonn will exact retribution for all your sins from her fragile mortal flesh."
With a voice like the arctic wind, his blood burning as it pulsed through him, Nuada demanded, "Where is she?"
Sreng scoffed. "Hardly matters now. If she's still alive... well, she soon won't be." The Fir Bholg launched himself at the Elven prince and brought the gladius down with all the rage he could muster. Nuada barely managed to block the strike this time. No longer did Sreng attempt to prevent injury to himself. He slammed his broad-bladed sword down again and again.
The shock of the blows threatened to numb the prince's arms as he blocked with his own sword. The attacks were so reckless and swift he had no time to dodge. No time to even think of countering. Madness fueled by rage smoldered deep in the other warrior's eyes as he battered at the prince.
I don't have time for this, Nuada thought as pain burned through his chest. Blasted poison. He still wasn't recovered enough. I must move past this weakness and kill him quickly. Dylan is in danger. Was she with Eamonn now? Was the dark Elf hurting her?
"Eamonn said that once he finishes with your whore, I can be the one to kill her," Sreng panted, grinning at the prince. "Cut the tart into little bloody pieces, I will, and send them to you in a box. Will you weep then, traitor? Weep for the one you sold out your people for? The way you wept for your mother?"
Bronze eyes flashed scarlet. Sreng only laughed. Black hatred thrummed in Nuada's blood.
The Elf of Eirc made a drastic mistake when he stepped too close to the Elven prince. Nuada brought his sword up to block Sreng's attack even as he brought his heel down on the other fighter's injured foot. The Fir Bholg roared in agony and stumbled. A swift blow of sword hilt to elbow numbed the red-haired Elf's arm and forced him to drop his gladius. It clattered to the floor.
Nuada plunged his sword deep into the warrior's belly.
Blood fountained from the wound, running in golden streams down the silver blade. Blue eyes locked with eyes of Bethmooran gold. Nuada twisted his sword and drove it deep. Deeper. Sreng cried out against the fresh pain. Blood bubbled between his slack lips as he fell to his knees.
"How dare you speak to me this way? I don't weep for humans," Nuada said coldly. "But be sure I'll punish any who attempt to harm what's mine." The Elven prince wrenched out the sword and swung. Silver arced across Sreng's throat. His head toppled from his shoulders with a final spurt of dark lifeblood.
Somewhere ahead Nuada heard a sharp, all-too-human scream. He stepped around Sreng's corpse and ran down the corridor.
At the end of the hall was a door, the handle smeared with red. On the floor in front of it lay the black jewel he'd given Nuala so many centuries ago. Dylan had worn it only that night. A Ghrá, it said. The endearment was carved deep into the silver. Now the Elven prince knelt and lifted the silver necklace, letting the links slip through his spread fingers. They left thin red lines against his pale skin. When he saw that blood, smelled the iron of it and knew it to be mortal, he knew a moment of true fear. Then he heard the laughter - Eamonn's laughter - and hatred burned like hellfire to mingle with that fear.
Nuada wrenched open the door and froze. Eamonn lounged against Nuada's bed, trews hanging loose around his hips, stripped to the waist. His dark hair spilled over shoulders and chest smeared with human blood. At his feet, black-bruised eyes closed as if she slept, lay Dylan. Bruised. Broken. The too-pale flesh streaked scarlet with blood. Far too still. She didn't breathe or stir. Only lay silent and unmoving on the floor.
Nuada's bloodstained sword fell to the ground with a clatter that drove the breath from his chest.
"Cosúil le mil meá agus súatha talún, Airgetlámh. Like honeyed mead and strawberries, Silverlance." The dark-haired Elf ran a finger over his bottom lip, licked it obscenely as if savoring the last vestiges of a rare delicacy. Something icy settled around Nuada's heart. "Such sweet kisses. Exquisite, even for a human."
"You killed her," he said dully. A strange fog numbed his thoughts, his mind. There was nothing to hold onto but dull confusion. "You killed her."
"Eventually." Sickening, the smile that stretched Eamonn's lips. "But I had such fun with her first. Pity about humans, really," he added with a shrug. Nuada saw that his chest and neck had been raked by a woman's nails. "They're so very fragile, aren't they? Your little whore bled out beneath me before you arrived. Her screams were so lovely. I especially enjoyed working with her hands."
Nuada's eyes widened when he saw that each of Dylan's fingers were black with bruises, twisted at sickening angles. The ice in his chest spread cold fingers through his belly and up into his throat.
Eamonn added, "I had no idea mortals could scream like that. Beautiful. Did you know," with a wink and a conspiratory whisper, "the poor thing whispered your name as she died? Rather sweet, actually. She actually expected you to arrive in time to save her. Poor, sweet thing. But you failed, of course. You couldn't save her, you couldn't save Yukihime." Nuada jolted. How did Eamonn know about Yukihime? "You couldn't save Cethlenn. Your whore died believing you would come for her and you failed. Tsk, tsk. 'Please,' she begged. 'Nuada, please... help me.'" Nuada thought he might be sick. Eamonn added, "Although it's always a disappointment to hear a woman call out another man's name when I'm roger-"
With a roar, Nuada launched himself at Eamonn. But somehow, even as he moved, the dark Elf faded away, leaving only mocking laughter like a blow to the belly. That was how the prince knew it was a dream, but it didn't matter. Dreaming, waking, it mattered not at all. Eamonn was gone, and Dylan lay dead on the floor.
Panting with the black hate burning through him, sick from the hollow ache in his belly, Nuada dropped to his knees beside her. She looked like a broken doll a negligent child had tossed aside. Eamonn had torn her dress - the same léine she'd worn to court. Blood stained the snow-white linen. So much blood. The sight of it, so scarlet against the white, was yet another knife in his chest.
The prince slipped his arm beneath Dylan's too-still form, carefully lifted her to cradle the limp woman against him. Everything in him revolted against holding a human this way, but he'd lost control of his body. All he could do was let his eyes - and his mind, numb with shock - absorb what he was seeing.
Dylan's head lolled on her neck like a flower on a broken stem. Black fingerprints stood out starkly against her pale throat. The thin, gold chain of the medallion she always wore, broken now, slid from around her neck and fell to the floor with a clink. Crimson stained her scarred lips. A tiny trickle of blood glistened at the corner of her mouth and smeared her cheek. The same cheek he'd caressed only hours before. Pretense, that caress. Only charade. But the sight of that blood marring the bruised skin made his stomach rebel.
He couldn't process any of this. Couldn't understand how he'd failed. How he'd allowed Eamonn to reach her, allowed him to hurt her this way. Tentative fingers brushed a vicious bruise darkening her jaw. Her skin was so cold. It had been warm before, but now she was so very cold beneath his touch. His hand trembled when he traced her bruised, bloodied mouth. No breath warmed his skin, and her lips were cold now, too.
Nuada's mind tortured him with questions: had it been brutal? Had the mortal wept and called out for him as Eamonn had said? That had to be true; Eamonn couldn't lie outright. What all had the silver-eyed Elf done to her? Memories of his mother's butchering ripped through his mind. Had it been so brutal for Dylan? How long had Eamonn tortured her before finally ending it?
"Teacht ar ais," he whispered, voice shaking. The words were not his, he didn't choose them, but still they spilled from his lips like blood. Still he pleaded in the Old Tongue, Come back. She must come back. How could he have failed in this? She must come back. "Tabhair," he said. Please. "Teacht ar ais. Dylan... tabhair nach bás. Ní féidir leat bás." Please don't die. You can't die. He'd failed. Eamonn had robbed him of honor. He'd failed her. "Impigh mé leat, oscail do shúile." But despite his plea, despite that he begged, her eyes didn't open. The hollow ache in the pit of his belly expanded until it felt as if some dark monster raked him with its claws. And he could only plead, "Dylan, tabhair... tabhair..."
The mocking laughter returned. Louder now, echoing off the walls, taunting him. The stench of blood was nearly overwhelming. It mingled with the sick perfume of terror, the acrid stink of perverse male arousal that would always, always remind him of that dark day centuries ago. He should get up and strike Eamonn down like a dog. Yet all he could think was, Eamonn bruised her face. He touched that dark smudge at her jaw again with a hand that shook. Fury... or despair? His breath shuddered in his chest. She is mortal. So fragile and mortal. That beast bruised her face. Dylan...
A hand slammed down on his shoulder. He spun, an enraged snarl of pure hate on his lips and his lance suddenly in hand...
.
And only at the last minute did he manage to pull the knife strike that would have skewered little Becan.
He wasn't in that blood-spattered room anymore. He no longer dreamt of death and mortality, and a woman broken and far too still in his arms. He was in one of the guest suites down the hall from his own suite. The walls of Findias kept out the pounding rain. Sweat dampened his bare chest. The loose, cropped trews he slept in were tangled around his legs along with the blankets. A well-laid fire crackled in the hearth, and a terrified brownie stared up at him in mute supplication, sloe-black eyes wide in the nut-brown face.
"You should not attempt to wake a warrior by grabbing them," Nuada muttered, pushing back the silvery blond hair spilling around his face. His cheeks were wet. Perhaps he'd built the fire up too high before retiring. Why else would he be sweating so hard in late autumn? Nuada swiped at the moisture on his skin with a hand he refused to admit was shaking, and slid out of bed. Stalked to the fire. The heat seared away the last vestiges of his nightmare. Why did he continue to dream of Eamonn slaying the human? Why did his mind torment him thus with failure and shame?
Becan still stood shivering beside his bed; Nuada placed the knife atop the mantel and growled, "What did you come for? What did you need to tell me?"
"My m-mistress..." Becan swallowed hard and cleared his throat when Nuada's head whipped around. In the dimness, the brownie couldn't tell if the prince's eyes had melted to bronze. "She asked m-me to bring y-y-you to her chambers."
"They are my chambers." Only Nuala's interference kept him from regaining mastery over his own bed. As if he would throw the mortal into the stables as a replacement chamber. Or worse, force himself into her bed based on its true ownership. "Your mistress summons me?" He demanded. "As if I am her dog? I do not think so." She wouldn't do that.
"P-please, Your Highness," the brownie stammered. "I heard the request from her lips myself."
Strawberries and honeyed mead, Silverlance. Such sweet kisses. Exquisite, even for a human. Eamonn's words. Eamonn's lies. He would heed none of them. Dylan was mortal. She didn't have lips that tasted of honey and sweet summer fruit. Nor, he told himself vehemently, did her lips taste of blood. They were mere human lips, neither sweet nor exquisite. Nuada didn't have to taste them himself to know that. Eamonn's sickening lies could go hang, and so could Eamonn, gods curse him to the blackest, hottest circle of Hell.
"Why did she send you to fetch me?" Nuada demanded after a moment. Sparks whipped into the air as a log shifted in the fireplace. "I'm not her dog. What does the human want with the Silverlance?"
"I... I don't know, Your Highness. She asked me to b-bring you, then began t-t-to weep. I think she may p-perhaps have had an ill dream-"
But Nuada wasn't listening. He wasn't even in the room anymore. The prince had strode from the room, a grim look on his face, promises of retribution in his eyes, before the brownie had managed to finish saying the word "weep."
.
The mortal sat hunched before the fire, the dim light turning the tear tracks on her face to pathways of diamond and glass. Nuada saw this, and saw that she didn't look up when he entered the room. Firelight danced over the dark kirtle covering her drawn-up knee and single outstretched leg. Her hair hung loose and wild down her back, gleaming with the light of the hearth.
Nuada shut the door and walked slowly toward her. Silver-washed blue eyes didn't so much as glance in his direction. She only continued to stare into the fire with empty eyes. The Elven prince smelled blood before he saw the dark smear of it at her mouth. Memory rocked him - blood smeared across scarred lips, vicious bruises darkening her face - but he shoved it down and studied her further. Flames glinted off dark fluid oozing between the fingers of her clenched fists.
She didn't look at him. Only blinked when he sat down beside her before the hearth.
"Dylan?" He reached out to touch one bleeding fist with gentle fingers. Her hand jerked, spasmed. She clutched his fingers. He could feel blood seeping from the deep crescents in her palm.
He stiffened, but didn't draw away from her. Couldn't have, even had he desired it. The mortal's bloodied mouth trembled with some suppressed emotion. A dangerous light flared in her otherwise vacant eyes. He couldn't leave her thus. Instead, he stretched out his legs so they wouldn't fall asleep and waited for her to speak.
"I can't get him out of my head," she whispered. "Him. Eamonn. I can't. It's not like before. I... I had a bad dream." Now she sounded like a forlorn child. Nuada remembered that night in the sanctuary when Dylan had confessed to fearing the dark. She'd sounded like a child then, as well. "I had a bad dream and it was scary and I couldn't fight him or stop him when he... and I woke up and it was so dark and suddenly he was right there in my mind and I can't get him out!"
She flung herself at him.
Instinctively he opened his arms so the mortal collided with his chest. He thought briefly about pushing her away. Condemned the thought as unfeeling and dishonorable. Something a human would consider, and that made him almost ashamed. He'd failed to protect her from Eamonn, so it was his task to comfort her now.
"I'm sorry," she quavered. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I know you don't like it, I'm sorry, Nuada, but please! Please, don't let go. Please let me stay. Please don't leave me alone."
An idiot would've thought she pleaded to remain in Findias, but he knew what she wanted. She wanted - needed - to stay here. With him. Stay pressed against him as if he could shield her from every dark and frightening thing. Against his better judgment, he folded his arms around her, then drew up his knees so she was cradled between them. "Do you think I would desert you if you truly needed me? After everything you've done for me and my people? Never."
Obviously, he thought dryly, I've said the right thing, or she would not be snuggling her face deeper into my chest. Which wasn't exactly a good thing, but it was at least an improvement over the hysteria. Still, the near-searing heat of her breath against his bare chest was distracting. "I would never abandon you. Gach tá go maith, a rún amháin. All is well, my dear one. The darkness cannot hurt you while I am here."
He felt absolutely ridiculous calling her "my dear one" (not to mention revolted, if the strange feeling in the pit of his belly was anything to go by), but the Gaelic endearment seemed to soothe her further. So he added a couple more nonsensical things.
"It's all right, a chumann. Don't be afraid. Tá mé anseo; I'm here. I will stay with you, a stóirín, until you can sleep again."
Nuada thought he might be ill with the saccharine words in the Old Tongue. Sweetheart and my little darling. The Elf could feel his teeth rotting from the sweetness. But he'd fallen back into old habits from soothing his twin in this manner, and it was obviously comforting the shaking human in his arms. He felt her relax, inch by slow inch, until she was warm and limp, slumped against his chest and cradled by his bent knees.
How often had he sat this way with Nuala growing up, after she'd awakened from some nightmare or other? Too often to count. But with anyone else? Never. At least she's no longer intent on squeezing the breath from me, he thought with a smattering of half-relieved pique.
"Tá brón orm," Dylan whispered in Gaelic. Her eyelashes tickled his bare chest as she pressed closer. Her shoulders shook, but he heard no tears in her voice; only grief. "I'm sorry," she repeated in English. "Please don't leave."
"I won't," he replied, stroking her hair as he'd often done for his frightened sister. "What happened?" Nuada asked, and was surprised when the human wrapped her arms around him and clung as if she never meant to let go. A whimper crawled from her mouth to scurry away into the darkness, which hung around them like a ravenous shadow. Suddenly the dimness and oppressive night lurking outside made him uneasy. Well, he could deal with that later. Frowning, Nuada commanded, "Dylan. Tell me."
"Eamonn..." She quavered. Sudden fury coiled in the pit of Nuada's stomach, burned in his veins like poison. The dark seemed to whisper that hated name like a demonic chant. Nuada clenched his teeth. "I dreamed about... about the things he showed me. He... he hurt you. He hurt you and I couldn't stop him."
Surprised, Nuada echoed dumbly, "Me?"
Dylan nodded without taking her face away from the safety of his chest. Fresh, albeit silent, tears coursed hotly down her cheeks to drip onto the Elf's skin. "When he... when I was... he made you watch." A sob caught in her throat and she tightened her grip on him. "You tried to save me and you couldn't and it hurt you. There were iron chains. They burned you. And his men would keep hitting you every time you tried to get up. Every time you even moved. You couldn't... couldn't even stand. But you kept c-coming. You kept trying s-s-so h-hard to reach me, to s-save me, and they wouldn't stop, they were torturing you..."
Any trace of composure shattered, and Dylan began to cry; terrible, wrenching sobs that ripped from her with vicious force, worse than any grief she'd shown him in the sanctuary. All Nuada could think to do was hold her as tightly as she held him.
Not a nightmare about her, then. That wasn't what gnawed at her, what beat the tears from her haunted eyes. It was his suffering that made her weep, which explained why she wasn't protected by the magic Nuala had laid in her mind. Dylan was still forced to witness what Eamonn had done to him, and to feel every moment of grief and hurt. Something hot flared in his chest, equal parts black rage and something that lanced him, and without understanding what unholy notion possessed him, Nuada laid his cheek against her hair. Everything in him cried out to ease her grief. But what could he do?
Nothing, he thought with no little bitterness. I know nothing of comforting mortals. All I can do is let her weep, and what comfort is that?
"I'm sorry," she said after a few moments. The roiling miasma of black emotion surrounding the mortal began to fade, but the Elven prince knew those emotions weren't gone. Dylan was merely shoving them down so she could gain control of herself. She'd done the same in the sanctuary moons ago. It had surprised him then, unnerved him. It unnerved him now. Such self-denial couldn't be healthy. How long could she hold onto it, locked deep inside, before it shattered its confines? What would happen to her then? It was a struggle for her to keep doing such a thing. He felt the effort it took for her to lock away the anguish so she could speak in a voice that held steady. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. I don't know what's gotten into me. I hate breaking down this way. I almost never do anymore."
Not since I was a little girl trapped in the dark. So close to the human woman, he heard the bitter thought she couldn't bring herself to utter. Not since a pack of human wolves tried to rip apart my sanity. Why did she suddenly seem so broken? And why did it feel as if the night pressed in on them, trying to drown them both? Nuada realized he felt as if he were being watched. Yet there was no one in the room but Dylan... and perhaps Becan. Was the brownie the eyes the prince felt? Most likely. And yet...
"I don't have a good reason to cry about this," the mortal added, bringing him back to the moment. "I'm sorry."
"Dylan..." The fae warrior fought the urge to tighten his grip on the shivering human. He didn't wish to hurt her anymore than she'd already been hurt, and he found that he, too, was shaking. The memory of his own nightmare was acid in his veins. Hate and fury mingled with the fierce need to keep Dylan from crying anymore. Each tear only added to his shame. "Just because the rape wasn't physical, does not mean it shouldn't hurt you."
Just as his nightmare of finding her brutalized and dead hadn't been real, yet it had hurt him. The sick shame and dark rage that burned in him whenever he thought of Eamonn... and a strange, hollow ache in his chest at the thought of what Dylan's death truly meant to him: no more nights full of tales before the fire; an end to their talks of faith and life and freedom; the loss of one of the few people in his life who'd never viewed him as a monster. "You're allowed to grieve for yourself... and for me if you must. There's no shame in it."
"I wish I could be as strong as you," Dylan whispered. "You're not afraid of anything, are you? Not the wolves, not the leanashe, not Eamonn." And he knew that was the sticking point: he was not afraid of Eamonn. He wished Eamonn a brutal death being drawn and quartered, but didn't fear him. She didn't know that he feared what Eamonn could - would - do to her if he ever found her alone. But Nuada said nothing; only let her continue with, "I wish I was brave like you." She sighed shakily.
"If you were any braver," or any more foolhardy, he thought, "I don't think I could take it. How many times have you risked your life to save mine? You refused to run the night we met, and nearly died trying to save me. Despite your wounds, you made sure I was safe before allowing yourself to fall unconscious. Then you forced me to care for myself, even after I nearly strangled you. You tried to save me from the leanashe. Saved a halfling child from Eamonn when you knew what he was capable of, then stood up to him when he threatened us. When you learned I was to be charged falsely, you sought out a creature that could've easily killed you in order to reach me. Risked death again by coming before my father without being summoned. And you knew he would most likely kill you. Wink told me thus. After that, you offered to take the rest of my punishment. And when I thought your reckless courage had finally attained its limit, you gave yourself up to Eamonn for rape, torture, and death to save my life.
"It's only now, in the deep dark of the night when phantoms haunt your sleep, that you finally let it all bring you low. And even in this, your tears are not solely for yourself. You weep for my pain as well, for what Eamonn did to me in your mind. You wish to be braver, Dylan? Your courage would frighten a lesser man than myself. I beg you," he added, chuckling a little, "to think of yourself next time. Be a little selfish."
Impossibly, her mouth quirked in a smile. The admiration - and exasperation - in his voice had been obvious. Translation, she thought. You're going to give me gray hair one of these days, but I'm too much of a Macho Elf Man to admit to it. But all she said was, "Thank you for staying with me, Nuada."
"I remembered the nights you woke in the sanctuary, and you were so afraid after dark dreams. As if you were trapped in your own memories. I..." He hesitated, but then she shifted to look up at him. Her smile was exhausted, but open and genuine. "I didn't wish for you to be alone."
Nuada sensed the odd feeling that flooded the mortal as she looked away and finally released him from her embrace. His skin felt strangely cold where she'd touched him, as if it missed the warmth of her. Dylan shifted and looked down at her hands. "My hands hurt." It was more a question than a complaint. Vague confusion tinged her voice. Then she touched hesitant fingers to her lip. "My mouth hurts."
Nuada briefly wrestled with his sensibilities before reaching up to gently cup her chin, touching the pad of his thumb to her bitten lip. With a brief thought he felt the soothing magic he'd used the previous evening flow into the wound. Then he covered both her hands with his - how had he never realized before how small her hands were? How small she was? - and did the same for those hurts. Neither injury was healed, but the pain was dulled enough that Dylan didn't wince when she swiped at the half-dried tears on her face with the back of a loose fist.
"Thank you. So... how awkward am I making you feel right now?"
"I am an Elf," he said with cool disdain. "I'm never awkward."
The look in the Elven prince's eyes made her lips quirk in another tired, watery smile. Elves are never awkward. Right. I bet their farts smell like roses, too. Then she wondered if Nuada could hear her. Was he glaring at her? No. The prince stared into the dancing fire, a far-off look in his eyes. His expression made her shiver. He looks like I did, the first time I looked in the mirror after my attack. Like I'd just crawled off of some battlefield in Hell.
"I dreamed darkly as well," he said suddenly in a very, very soft voice. He couldn't look at her. If he did, Nuada knew he would see her as she'd been in his nightmare: cold and still at Eamonn's feet. His grip tightened fractionally. It felt as if the darkness around them held its breath, listening intently to his words. "I dreamt that I came for you and that... that you were dead when I arrived. That he killed you. That I failed." Nuada let out a shuddering breath and Dylan realized the prince was actually shaken by his nightmare. She pressed her cheek against his breastbone. Felt the thunder of his heart against her skin, hard and fast like the wings of a bird. "I couldn't... in the dream, I failed you. I failed, and holding your corpse in my arms was the price."
And he remembered pleading in a broken rasp, Come back. Please, come back. Please don't die. Nuada thrust the memory away, and the strange icy chill that wasn't anger, though it burned coldly in his chest at the thought of Dylan lying dead in his arms. It was more difficult to suppress that memory and that cold than it should've been.
Surprisingly, Dylan said something in a tired voice that made him smile. "We're both of us pretty messed up right now, aren't we? Quite the pair."
"Yes," he said with a weak, hollow laugh, as the mortal shifted in his arms again. "We are that. Dylan... why do you always put yourself in danger for others? I would not have you do so for me." The debt accumulating between them was already too vast for him to ever be able to repay. His honor pricked him every time he thought about it. "Surely even you are allowed to be selfish at times, to think of yourself first."
"I am selfish," she mumbled, settling more comfortably against him. "Almost everything I've done for you has been because I couldn't stand seeing you hurt. I care about you, Nuada. I wasn't lying when I told your sister I consider you a friend. My only real friend, probably, even though you hate me. Well, strongly dislike me."
The prince frowned. What did she mean by that? Something dark slithered at the corner of his eye, but when Nuada turned to get a better look, there was nothing. Only darkness... and that strange feeling of being spied upon. He mentally shook himself and turned his attention back the mortal in his arms.
"It's hard to make friends with someone (real friends, I mean), when I can't tell them about the Huldufólk, and about having the Sight. There's always that secret between me and them. I've seen what secrets like that do to people. It's pretty much ruined my relationship with my sisters because they don't see what I See.
"They think I'm crazy, did you know that? Even now. They won't leave me alone with their children. They rarely visit. I get unsigned Christmas cards and phone calls; that's about it. They came to see me when I was in the hospital, but shy of family emergency? I rarely see them. My parents never visited me in the institutions, either, because of my gift.
"A secret like the Sight can mess with your head, your heart. If you get too close to someone who's quote-unquote 'normal,' you find yourself lying about what's around you, lying about your life. Soon enough, there's nothing left of who you are. Your whole existence hinges on the life you pretend to live.
"But with you, I don't have to do that. I can be completely honest. You know what I See, what I know, who I am. And you're the only Bright One who visits me on a regular basis and wants more from me than for me to feed you or take care of you in some way. Most of my friends are fae, but even they're a bit fickle in that way; they forget about me for months on end, unless they need me for something. You don't do that. Sad as it is, you're basically my best friend in this world, besides John. Of course I'd do everything in my power to keep you safe. You're all I have.
"Besides, you're a faerie prince. I'm just a mortal woman. You're a bit more important in the grand scheme of things than I am. If it comes down to a choice between me living or you living, I pick you."
"Dylan," he said softly. The emotions churning in him were beginning to make his skull throb with tension and confusion. Would she never behave the way mortals ought to? "You don't have the right to make such a choice for me."
And I don't hate you, he thought, but didn't add. He wouldn't speak on that until he could sort through the strange feeling inside him. How could she think he hated her? Had he not allowed her to live all these months? Did he not now hold her in his arms? If he loathed her, the Elven prince would have slain her long ago. Surely she knew that he... felt... something for her that (had she been fey, and not a lowly mortal) might've been called affection.
"You've no right to choose life for me at the cost of your own."
"Me caring about you doesn't give me that right?" She asked softly. Her fingertips slowly ran over a thick scar carved deep into his right bicep. The gentle, feather-light touch gave him gooseflesh. She studied the mark with half-lidded eyes. He could feel the heat of her breath on his skin when she leaned closer to see it better. Why was the fire suddenly so uncomfortably warm? Forcing his thoughts away from the careful fingers absently tracing the sensitive scar, the soft breath, and the heat from the hearth, Nuada growled, "By that logic, I've the right to make the same choice for you."
There was a pause as Dylan pulled her hand away from his arm to tuck it against her chest. His skin tingled where she'd touched him. She whispered, "Yes, you would... if you cared about me. But you don't. So no. The choice is mine."
"I... had not... I didn't mean..." Why was it suddenly so hard for him to form a coherent sentence? Yet if he could speak like an intelligent being and not a complete imbecile, what would he say? That he cared for her? That would've been a lie. So he said nothing.
"Nuada," Dylan said, shifting to look up at him. Eyes like liquid amber locked on her tired face and she smiled sadly. "It's okay if you don't like me. I know you hate humans. I can understand why. And I know you're only here right now because your honor compels you. I'm all right with that."
Was she? Why was she all right with that, when suddenly he was not?
"But listen, you're a prince. One day, probably when I'm dead and buried, and you're finally old enough to grow a beard like your dad's," here she grinned, a flicker of mischief like will-o-the-wisps in her eyes, "you'll be the king of Bethmoora. Right? You're the crown prince. You have a responsibility to your people. I know that faerie royal families are tied by magic to the land and the people on it. If your line dies, the Fair Folk of Bethmoora die with you. You don't have the right to sacrifice yourself for me, because your life isn't your own.
"But I'm my own person. I'm just a common human. God gave me agency, freewill. I can do what I wish, as long as I'm not sinning. Actually, I can sin if I want, I just have to pay for it later if I don't repent. But because I've been given my agency, I can do whatever I wish. And what I wish is to keep you in my life as long as possible, because you're one of the best things that has ever happened to me. So yes, my prince, I am very selfish."
Something hot burned in his chest like a dying star. The prince wanted to say something to her, but everything inside him hissed and snarled at the silent words hiding at the very back of his tongue. Those words were so silent, he couldn't even tell what they were. Only that they longed to be spoken. He choked on the words and the taste of salt and sorrow. Whatever the mad part of him wanted to speak was best left unsaid. If they were words of condemnation, Dylan didn't deserve them. And if they were not... well, what else could they be?
So he continued to hold the human who felt as if she might vanish like a specter on the night wind. Only held her as the crisp citrus scent of her shampoo tickled his nose and her breath warmed his already-hot skin. He could feel each rise and fall of her breast as she breathed. After a while, as she slowly went limp as an exhausted kitten in his arms, it seemed the mortal nodded off to sleep once more.
Seemed.
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Author's Note: I'm thinking the Shadow of the Dark Elf will be a canker sore in the lives of "the Elf all the bad girls want" and our favorite LDS chick for quite some time, even with the mental block Nuala placed in Dylan's mind. The block only buffers the mental and emotional effects of what happened in the psychic assault to Dylan. Hence why now her consciousness if focusing on all the crap that Eamonn did to "Nuada" while he was building the illusions in Dylan's mind. How shall this affect our leading lady?
And did anyone cry during Nuada's dream? Was our Prince out of character (remember this is a dream, where all our inhibitions go bye-bye)? Or what?
And here comes our lovely (and completely optional) review prompt:
1) This is something I'm seriously curious about. Nuada is totally focused on the fact that Eamonn wants to hurt Dylan. He hasn't really considered the idea that Eamonn might try to attack him head-on now that the flogging didn't go through. Who'd be interested in Eamonn (or any villain) attacking and torturing Nuada? Or both Dylan and Nuada? Maybe they get captured and imprisoned and tortured together. But who's interested in the idea of Nuada as Eamonn's victim for once (in all methods of torture)? He's such a strong character, and a strong warrior, and very proud. I think it would be interesting to see how he responds to something like that. But I want to know if anyone's violently opposed (or violently in favor) of it before I think about plotting it out. And it wouldn't be for... at least 20 chapters or so.
I love you all! Your support and reviews and readership mean so much to me! I just want to snuggle all of you, omg!
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Flash-Fic Challenge: inspired by REM's "I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight," the topic: what if Dylan really did die? What if Nuada never saved her from Eamonn that night and the dark Elf had time to do everything he wanted: torture, rape, slow death, the whole 9 yards? Or what if he saved her, but Eamonn got to her again? What if Eamonn made all of Dylan's nightmares come true? When would that happen? How would Nuada react? Or what if they both die in each others' arms (like in Final Fantasy... 10? Or 10-2, I can't remember which)? What if Dylan died in childbirth? Or what if Nuada was the one to die in Dylan's arms? Or (if you go with the less gut-wrenching route, you adorable people with your love for romance... oh, wait, I'm one of those people!) what if, after a long and happy life together, Dylan died of old age?
Please keep it appropriate for 15-17 year olds (and keep the use of F- and C-words out, please). Love you!
PS - If someone does the flash-fic, then does a "what if Dylan dies of old age" piece and it's totally amazing (I have high standards, and I love dark anguish and despair, so it would have to be super, super amazing) I will add an extra chapter as a reward, as well as give that person or persons a Spoiler Special or Cameo Cookie.
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References Made in the Chapter:
- Dylan's experience upon waking from her nightmare is from an experience I had when I was maybe 9 years old. I slept on the bottom bunk of a bunkbed (nobody slept on the top). Because I was afraid of the dark, I always made sure my closet was shut and that I had "curtains" made of blankets and/or sheets hung up so I couldn't see out, and nothing could see in. But one night, I was dead certain there was something in my room with me. Something bad, that wanted to do something awful to me. As a kid, I had the idea that if I called out in the dark and wasn't answered, after a certain amount of time something would eat/kill me because it knew I was awake and no one would hear me screaming. So I would always work my way up to screaming by whispering, then saying, then shouting whatever I wanted to say. This time, as the sounds of harsh breathing and the creaking of someone creeping across my bedroom floor turned my blood to ice, I said, "Daddy... Daddy. Daddy!" I had to do it twice, which made me think I was going to die very quickly, but my dad ran in and turned the light on and I started crying because now that my dad was there the monster couldn't eat me.
As an adult, I've had similar experiences (usually following dreams). In fact, I had one in May when I went to a convention. I woke up in a cold sweat, terrified out of my mind, and called for my best friend (we were sharing a queen bed because it was us two and our other best friend in a room at my husband's aunt's house). She jolted awake and I started crying that I'd had a bad dream, which made me feel stupid since I was (am) 22, but I was just so scared I couldn't help it. I drew on all those experiences when working on this scene.
- Dylan prays because LDS children (and converted teens, if they've got smart Church member friends) are told that when a bad dream scares you (when anything scares you), you say a prayer for comfort. I've done it since my conversion, and it worked for me (it also helps that my husband will check under our bed for monsters if I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night).
- The command Dylan gives about the devils is what members of the Church are taught to say if they believe there is an evil spirit or ghost or some other bad hobgoblin in their area.
- "The Adversary" is another name for Satan.
- I did get the line "You are his heart. Now I'm going to break it into pieces" from the movie Ghost Rider. One of the worst threats I've ever heard a bad guy give to a hero with a girl is when Blackheart says to Roxanne, "You hold his heart. Now I'm going to break it." Or something like that.
- I made up the Elves of Eirc. Since the Fir Bholg, Fomorians, and Tuatha de are so similar, it seemed like, in this universe, they'd probably all be Elves, just Elves that look different from each other. So in the same way Nuada is an Elf of Bethmoora and Eamonn is an Elf of Zwezda, Sreng is an Elf of Eirc (father of Eochaid, King of the Fir Bholg in mythology).
- Ha! I can say "Silverlance" in Gaelic! Okay, no I can't, but I can write it down. Wootness. I love that word, wootness. Anyway, Silverlance in Gaelic is Sleighe Airgead (literally "Spear of Silver," but translates as "Silver Spear" or "Silver Lance").
- Okay, I'll be honest. The part of Nuada's dream where he's saying, "Come back," is totally inspired from this horribly sad scene in the anime movie, Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust. It is SO sad! () Quick FYI, this contains spoilers for the third Matrix and LotR, as well as Beauty and the Beast television show. Anyway, in the movie Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust, the vampire that D is hunting, Meier Link, is in love with a human named Charlotte. And the whole time your wondering, "Does this guy really love her?" It's obvious pretty early that she loves him, but does he love her? Later in the movie, Charlotte gets bitten by an evil vampire and drained almost to death. Meier saves her from being killed, but he doesn't have time to save her from actually dying as a result of the blood loss.
So he's holding her, unconscious, in his arms, and he says, "Charlotte, come back. Charlotte, I need you. Please come back." And he's actually crying. I was like, "Oh, snaps." I cried. A lot. Buckets. So yes, any time Dylan almost dies (or if she ends up dying in the end), those scenes are inspired by that one. I do NOTrecommend watching the movie (it's rated R) but Google "Charlotte Elbourne Death Scene" and see if that one part is on Youtube.
I also draw on the scene in Return of the King where Eomer thinks Eowyn died, and the scene where Sauron shows Aragorn that Arwen is dying, as well as Leonard diCaprio's moving mourning scene in Romeo+Juliet.
In fact, pretty much, I rely on all the best death scenes I've ever seen in movies and on television (West Side Story, when Tony dies, is a good one, too, and so are the almost-death scenes and the death scene in Beauty and the Beast with Ron Perlman; another awful one is when Trinity dies in the last Matrix movie).
- About the sleeping gear. Nuada actually strikes me as one who would sleep naked, but that would be awkward. But, since he's incredibly uncomfortable where he has to sleep, he'd want to be able to jump out of bed and kick butt if he had to, so I figure rough linen cropped pants would do it. Now, all you girls, picture that in your head for a minute. Go ahead, say, "Yum."