Once Upon a Time

by LA Knight

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

44. Twas But a Dream of Thee

Author's Note: and I am a day early but that's because I so want everyone's opinions on this chapter like, ASAP. Why? Because of the surprise. What surprise? Muahahahaha. Okay, this is our last take-a-breather chapter for a while (like, the next 6 chapters or so). And it's kind of long because there's a happy surprise! Yay! Everyone be happy about the happy surprise. We love happy surprises, don't we? Trust me, you will like this happy surprise. Of course, you'll also want to stab me in the eye with a fork, but I hope your love and devotion will prevent you from doing so. So yay! Happy surprises. And this surprise is a big and long one. I made it so for you guys because I know I haven't updated in a while. *huggles*

Anyway, this chapter fluff, comfort, sorrow, steaminess, cuteness, rawr-ness, upped stakes, and all that other good stuff we like. Anywho, enjoy!

Oh, and for anyone who reviewed chapter 43 and did NOT get a review response, let me know. Things have been crazy around here and I'm sorry if I forgot anyone.

Useful Info: the word "sinistral" means "left," as in "left or right."

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Chapter Forty-Four

'Twas But a Dream of Thee

that is

A Short Tale of a Prince's Vigil, a Brave Little Warrior, the King's Warning, a Ring, Sleeping Arrangements (and Other Details), and a Swimming Lesson

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Her blood had been replaced with ice water but fire smoldered in her chest, inside her skull. Everything slipped by through darkness and exhaustion. Every so often she awoke from the dark and saw worried firegold eyes gazing down at her. Gentle hands would smooth back her hair. Help her sit up enough to sip from a cup of something warm and soothing that tasted like distilled starlight and the tang of ocean breezes, the green wilds of the Old World and silvery moonbeams. The sweet healing brew banked the fire and thawed the ice. Then there would be another cup, of hot spiced cider to soothe the healing ache in her throat. After that, those same gentle hands would help her lie back and tuck her in again.

Sometimes she heard a familiar voice murmuring the old myths of Ireland, those rare times when sleep proved elusive but she was too exhausted to do anything except shiver. When vicious dreams forced her awake, reassuring words and the whisper of Gaelic lullabies helped her fall back asleep. She thought it was the melodies caught inside the glass flowers Nuada had given her, but the songs didn't sound quite right. The words interwove with the twilight mists of Faerie.

And there was always that tender brush of fingers against her hair. A gentle touch that never failed to soothe her.

Dylan was sick for two days. Two days of burning fever and restless, broken sleep. Two days of dark dreams that wrenched her awake, strangling her with faceless terror. Nuada didn't leave her bedside in case his lady woke frightened. Dylan always woke frightened. Whenever she jolted awake from the nightmares, softly calling for him, he allowed himself to brush back her sweat-dampened hair and tell her gently that he was here, that he was with her. That she was safe. As long as Becan was asleep, Nuada would sing softly to Dylan, or read some of the old stories from his mother's book to her. It seemed to comfort her.

But nightmares found her whenever she managed to catch some sleep. Though he never entered her mind to push the nightmares away, Nuada knew what she dreamed: a heart-pounding race through midnight winter woods, brutal hands catching her, hot scarlet blood spilling across white snow, and those hands sliding around her throat. It always ended just when Dylan began gasping for breath.

Wink's potion was brewed quickly and kept the worst of the fever at bay. Troll potions were the best in Faerie. The bottle Wink had brought held water from the inlet near Roan Inish, one of the islands that served as home to the selkies. Water from Faerie could have either malevolent or benevolent effects on humans. The magic of Roan Inish was, for the most part, benevolent. The seal-shifters were well known as healers and apothecaries, just like trolls. A few drops of that mystic water would keep a mortal from sickening worse, but more than those few drops at a time could be dangerous.

Once the first batch of the potion was made, Wink returned to the underground lair. The troll was uncomfortable in the cottage with its low ceilings and narrow doors. He assured Nuada he would return in a couple days to brew another batch of healing tonic if it was needed.

The Elven prince sat in the chair that had never been taken from beside Dylan's gargantuan four-poster bed. Sat and studied the sleeping mortal woman who tossed and turned, shivering with fever chills. Arched a brow when Bat limped into the room and tried to hop onto Dylan's bed.

They hadn't realized the kitten had sprained a paw landing after Eamonn's throw. Becan had done what he could for it. As for the rest of the cat's wounds...Becan had shorn off a large patch of sleek dark fur to get to the scrapes beneath in order to treat them. Bat still refused to grace the brownie with anything but frosty glares in response to the indignity.

What Nuada hadn't told Dylan was that the little cat's ribs had cracked from the force of the dark-haired Elf's throw. Apparently Becan knew a young bakeneko from Manhattan's East Village in training to be a healer and had called the feline shapeshifter to heal the kitten. Without that aid, Bat well may have died. How sad would Dylan have been then? He knew she loved the (often irritating) little creature. And Bat very well might have saved Dylan's life. Now Nuada watched as that fiercely devoted little beast tried to claw up the blankets to get to his human's side.

Nuada bent down, carefully scooped him up, and deposited him on the bed beside the sleeping human. Bat gave him an affronted look, as if to say, I could've done that myself, you know. The Elven warrior gave him a mildly challenging look in return. The cat turned up his little black nose, flicked his tail in Nuada's direction, and curled up next to Dylan in a ball of black fuzz and purred. Not the purr of a happy cat; the purr of a grown cat soothing a distressed kitten. He'd made that same sound while licking the ice from Dylan's eyelashes and trying to massage warmth back into her body.

Nuada rubbed behind the kitten's ears. "Good boy," he murmured.

The purr stuttered for a moment. Bat eyed him warily. Sniffed at the hand that still stroked dark fur. Then a velvety tongue rasped against the underside of Nuada's wrist. A reassuring rumble began in the kitten's chest, this time for the stubborn snarly male who protected Bat's human.

Nuada chuckled. "Looking out for both of us, eh?"

The cat mewed and butted his head against Nuada's palm. Then he went back to purring at Dylan, lightly kneading her side through the blankets.

The Elven prince went back to studying the mortal woman. What had she meant by you don't want me? Why did that sorrowful confession tease at his memory? You don't want me. You don't trust me anymore.

He trusted her with his life. The knowledge that he even could trust a human that way should've shocked him. Would've shocked his father and sister. But perhaps not Mr. Wink. Lassling, the silver troll had called her. The prince's vassal had spoken of the mortal with affection and approval. Wink most likely knew Nuada trusted Dylan that far. But he would not, could not trust the impossible mortal with his heart. For both their sakes, he couldn't.

Was that what she was picking up on? She was quite perceptive. Mind-healers had to be. Or was it simply that he had no idea how to behave around her? If he'd meant to pursue her it would have been one thing. Firm footing there. As easy as stretching out his hand, with his experience (and Dylan's lack thereof). Yet instead the Elven prince had to pretend to pursue while also maintaining emotional distance. And how was he to do that when she always managed to slip beneath his defenses? How was he supposed to act with this woman who called to everything in him? Especially when his own nature fought him at every turn.

And now he was getting a headache. Massaging his temples, Nuada leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Tried to force himself to relax. It was the middle of the afternoon, but except for that stretch of sleep plagued by the memory-nightmare, the prince hadn't slept in two nights.

After only a few moments with his eyes closed, Nuada began to drift. Distantly he felt slim fingers brush the back of his hand. Instinctively Nuada turned his hand palm-up and Dylan's hand slid into his. Weary golden eyes flicked open. Blue eyes blinked sleepily at him before closing once more.

Sleep came quickly then, with that fragile mortal hand in his, her fingers curled around his own. But he didn't dream of her.

Once again he dreamed of battlefields and butchery, of blood-soaked killing fields and the screams of dying men. This time he fought in the battles as well. Felt the sting of smoke in his eyes, the burn of fatigue, the agony of wounds inflicted in the heat of battle. Scars now, Nuada tried to remind himself. Those wounds were scars now. But the memories had him by the throat and refused to relinquish their hold.

Nuada dreamed of the carnage of the Golden Army and the wall of ice that he'd forced around himself so that he could look on that carnage without flinching. What had come first in that final bloody conflict was necessary. He knew that. As a warrior and a prince he knew that. Necessary to protect his people, to protect Bethmoora and all the Fair Folk, from the humans and their mindless hunger for more and more and more. He dreamed of the day his father betrayed the fae by seducing the other fayre kings into agreeing to the truce. Centuries of war crowded into a single nightmare, only to be worsened by that treason, that betrayal, that stab in the back from his own father.

Then there was a brief moment when he thought the hell of memory was ended. Instead of slogging through slaughterhouse mud and carrion, he stood on a hill overlooking the city of Bethmoora, the abandoned capital now hidden beneath the Giants' Causeway. Cursed, the goblins said. Bethmoora, the Golden City, and the humans were putting it to the torch. The city, one of the two places he'd always called home, was burning. The flames turned the skies to pitch blackness edged with hellfire.

But this had never happened and he knew then with absolute certainty that he was dreaming. That made it possible to bear the crushing weight of pain this dream pressed upon him.

Nuala stood with him, her face a blank mask as their home was razed to the ground. Her voice was a blade of ice driving deep when she demanded, "What have you done, my brother?"

"You invade my dreams again?" His voice was tight with the effort it took not to turn to his twin, the other half of his heart, and beg her to hold him, comfort him. He never had to beg for Dylan's comfort. She offered it freely, without being asked. He'd fallen asleep holding Dylan's hand. Why was she not in this dream? And his mind had been shielded against his sister's invasion. How was Nuala here? And a better question was, "Why are you here, Sister?"

"Father is going to send the Butcher Guards to find you if you do not return by tonight, Nuada. Do you really want to be dragged back to Findias like an unruly child brought home to face his punishment?"

Feral eyes began melting towards furious bronze. "So I should tuck my tail between my legs and come home like a good dog? Why does Father insist I return when I've told you more pressing things currently hold my attention?"

Nuala said nothing for a long time. The blazing inferno below painted flickering light across her face. Then she sighed. "He told me to ask you something. For myself, I will tell you something that perhaps I shouldn't, because you are my twin and I love you. But first...Father wanted to know if the human still lives." Nuada stiffened. "Is that why you won't return, Brother? Because you've killed her to escape your forced courtship?"

"How dare you?" Hurt and grief and rage sliced through his veins like shards of glass.

Enough. Enough of this. No more. He took hold of the reins of this dream, pouring magic into his grip, and wrenched it away from those long ago memories. The nightmare bucked against his restraint and suddenly he and his sister stood in the middle of a forest of towering bamboo, blooming cherry trees, and camphor. Snow dusted the grass beneath his feet along with the pink and white sakura petals.

Nuada's anger staunched the flow of intangible blood from the gushing soul-wound in his chest. He snarled at his sister, "How dare you? I swore to protect her and you dare to ask me if I have..."

Flash of memory that stabbed nearly as deep as Nuala's accusation: his knife at Dylan's vulnerable throat and a tiny spill of scarlet blood. And that nightmare. The vicious nightmare of her trapped beneath him, broken and bleeding. Dying. Her body bruising under his hands and the light fading from her eyes. No. Danu's mercy, please no. He couldn't think about that here, Nuala would...

But the sick horror in his twin's eyes when she stared at him told Nuada his sister had already seen. He felt her revulsion through their link. Fought not to flinch from it.

"She's alive," the prince said softly. "Alive and unharmed. And against any who seek to hurt her, my honor demands I stand as her sword and shield."

I would never harm her. She knows that. Why don't you, Sister?

"I know you speak the truth because you cannot lie to me when we share dreams," the princess murmured. Her stomach churned from the brutal images she'd glimpsed via the mystical link between the royal twins. She could almost taste her brother's horror at the images, his sickened aversion to them. Were they fantasies Nuada fought against?

Not all those flashes of the human were violent, though. Some were merely edged with a dark passion that sent tremors of fear through the princess. She felt more than a shimmer of lust from her brother when Nuada's thoughts strayed to the human. How much of a nudge would her brother need to go from lusting for the human to taking what he lusted for, whether Dylan wanted him to have it or not? The fact that Nuala didn't know the answer chilled her.

"Know this as well, Nuada. Father is of two minds about the human. On the one hand, he worries you might try to do her harm." Was it her imagination, or had Nuada Silverlance actually flinched? Imagination, surely. "On the other, he's beginning to wonder if the human is a bad influence on you and is considering...removing her from your life."

For just a moment she felt it—shock, fury, instant denial. And beneath that, the faintest whisper of despair. That despair tasted too closely of the same dark emotion Nuala had once felt from her twin on very few other occasions: the day their mother had died; thrice during the wars with the humans, the worst of which had been during the final war before the Battle of Scarlet and Gold; the day of the truce between humans and fae; and but three instances more—eighty years ago, four hundred years ago, and more than fifteen hundred years before that. She had no idea what had caused his pain then, but the wars, the treaty, and their mother...

Only that was impossible. Her brother wouldn't feel such strong emotion for a human. True, Nuada was fond of the girl, any faerie with eyes could see that. And clearly he desired her. But fondness and desire didn't account for this awful heartbreaking thread of...of something coiling beneath the anger and disbelief that anyone would dare deny the Silverlance something he'd claimed for his own.

Then the mental walls came back up and without warning Nuala was thrust from her brother's mind.

Nuada found himself on his knees on Dylan's bedroom floor, braced against her bed. She still slept. No more tossing and turning. The flickering light of the crystal rai flowers cast dancing shadows across her face. She looked so peaceful.

Father is...considering removing her from your life. No. By the Fates...what did that even mean? That Balor would kill her? No. No, not his father, who had long ago become the pet of the humans. What, then? Ordering Nuada, who was bound by honor to obey his king, from ever seeing Dylan again? No, he couldn't do that. His father could not do that to him.

Familiar fingers brushed against his cheek, a soothing caress that pushed the rage and despair back until Nuada could at least breathe. Blue eyes dull with fever still showed concern.

"Cad atá cearr?" What's wrong? "Are you okay?"

No, he wanted to say. No, I'm not. But he couldn't afford to be weak. Couldn't afford to give into his emotions when those emotions did nothing but drag at him. Instead, Nuada clasped the hand that lingered against his cheek and pressed it more tightly there. A ghrá mo chroí, my heart's beloved. He was shaking. He knew it and couldn't stop the tremors shuddering through him in memory of his sister's message. His father was thinking of trying to take Dylan from him. Take his friend, one of only a rare few he possessed in the world. Wanted to take away this place of refuge and this woman who always comforted him.

He needed her. He couldn't lose her. But Nuada only said, "Go back to sleep, mo duinne."

Dylan gave him a sleepy-eyed look that still managed to convey so much: compassion, understanding, and a just a hint of exasperation. "I'm here if you need me. I can pretend to not be sick if I have to. Don't forget that. I'm here. Don't forget. Okay?"

"I know." Nuada didn't relinquish her hand when she fell back asleep. Only pressed a kiss to the back of it and whispered, "I know."

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Becan scowled at the great lummox of a troll that dared invade Lady Dylan's kitchen not once, but twice (although there was no real heat in the brownie's expression). Instead the wee fae obeyed the troll's orders when he asked for different herbs and, on one occasion, a pomegranate. Lady Dylan's own little tree currently bore fruit so that was no problem. Usually the mortal made her own salves and tisanes for injured or sickly fae who might have need, but lately she'd been neglecting her own store of personal medicines, relying instead on the human stuff her brother had brought her.

At least, Becan thought, her supplies are still fresh.

Wink kept his face carefully blank as he rumbled at the brownie, "Have a care with those leaves, Master Pipsqueak." Becan scowled more fiercely and handed the troll what he'd requested. Wink crushed the leaves in one fist and let them fall into the little pot on the stove. The pungent smell of broken eucalyptus leaves mingled with the sourness of lemon rind and the tartness of fresh pomegranate juice. "Thyme." The brownie handed over what for Wink would be a pinch of fresh thyme leaves. They too went into the steaming pot. "Willow bark. What is His Highness doing?"

The brownie blinked, then cast his senses through the cottage to locate the prince.

Nuada was staring out Dylan's bedroom window at the nocturnal snow drifting down. Every so often when the mortal made a small sound of distress, feral eyes sliced to where she lay huddled on the bed. Then the prince returned to looking out the window. Sometimes frail moonbeams slipped between the cloud-cover and illuminated the human woman's bedroom, and Bethmoora's crown prince sighed or clenched his jaw.

Becan related all that to Wink. The troll frowned and stirred the tisane slowly. He'd learned as a boy at his father's side to brew healing tonics. Not the potent magical sort that true healers could create, those that could cure even the sickest faerie in a handful of days. Just simple home remedies. He'd even taught the young Elven prince a bit of the herb lore Wink's father had taught him. But Nuada didn't have a head for remembering all the different herbs and plants and their various uses. A scholar, the warrior prince had never been, even as a child.

Still...out of nearly everyone but (perhaps) the so-called princess, Wink was certain he knew Nuada best. And yet his prince's behavior puzzled the troll.

It was obvious the prince was worried about his mortal lady. That wasn't odd in and of itself; Wink knew the Elven warrior felt some sort of fondness for the human. But the strength of that fondness...that was what the troll pondered now as he sweetened the healing brew with honey. Why did Nuada care so much?

Wink approved of and liked the lassling well enough, in spite of the iron in her blood. But this seemed to be more somehow. More than just a distant fondness. More even than sweet affection. The cave troll had seen the Elven warrior this concerned about a woman that wasn't his twin sister on perhaps a handful of occasions over the last thirty or so centuries. Save for twice, always they had been one of the prince's various mistresses or (when he was much, much younger) a girl of the court the prince hoped to catch for a sweetheart. And then there had been the girl from Iara, and the girl from Zwezda. But Nuada had never allowed Wink to speak of them since their deaths. And never had Nuada Silverlance shown such non-honor-bound interest in a human woman.

"Tell me about your mistress, Master Pipsqueak," Wink commanded suddenly as he added dried hyssop leaves and cherry bark.

Becan had been thinking that he needed to make sure his lady's elder trees and rosemary bushes at her garden gate were still free of snowdrifts—how else would they do their jobs?—when Wink spoke, shattering the brownie's thoughts. If looks had ever possessed the power to kill (which, in the Wee Folk, thankfully they did not) the brownie's sloe-black glare would've sent Wink straight to Valhalla.

But when the massive troll only offered him a raised eyebrow, Becan sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

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Nuada watched the snow falling and listened to Dylan's breathing as she tossed and turned. He didn't want to be in this room. Didn't really even want to be in this cottage where the scent of her saturated everything and the feel of her soaked into every stone and wooden beam, every scrap of fabric and every piece of furniture. Too many forbidden thoughts stalked him here. Too many empty hopes taunted him. But Nuada wasn't leaving his mortal lady again, no matter what anyone demanded of him. Not until...when? When would the chains that bound him to her finally break? When one or both of them died, most likely, and wasn't that a joyous thought?

He couldn't afford this kind of weakness, Fates curse it! Every time he'd allowed himself to be weak, people had died. People he'd loved. He couldn't afford to be...to be simply Nuada. Couldn't afford to be anything less than Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora. Especially not now. Not when he'd already lost so much and still had so much to lose. Molten bronze eyes slid over Dylan's sleeping face before cutting back to the snowy night. Too much to lose.

His father was not to be trusted. His sister was not to be trusted. As much as those cold truths hurt, Nuada was warrior enough to acknowledge and accept them. Only two days ago, both she and his father had threatened one of the things most dear to him. He didn't dare reveal this weakness to them, just as he had never been able to share his weaknesses before. Not since those first weeks after his mother's death.

But not even Wink could be trusted with this secret because it meant Nuada wasn't the honorable warrior prince who stood for his people and would do anything to save them from the long, slow death of fading into the twilight. He could no longer hold to that so completely because he wouldn't do anything. There was one thing he could never do again: he could never hurt Dylan.

Oh, he could ask her to sacrifice for him, for Bethmoora, for his people. He could ask and hope she would acquiesce. Yet if she denied him, the Elf could not break her spirit by forcing her compliance. A month or two ago he wouldn't just have considered it, he'd have done it, without a qualm or second thought.

But not now.

The Elven prince wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to turn him into this...weakling. Even his sister had never managed to wrap him around her little finger the way Dylan had somehow done. Neither had the others once so dear to him. Shina'kin. Vassa. Yukihime. Perhaps Gwynlia, but she had been so very, very young...

No. He couldn't think about them now. Not any of them. He'd been laid low enough just by thoughts of Dylan. The only thing that had saved him thus far was, his mortal lady didn't know how much power she possessed over one of the most powerful men in all of Faerie. Would never abuse that power even if she did find out.

Not that he would ever allow her to learn of such a thing.

Unbidden came the memory of her body pressed to his as she slept curled around him. He'd woken to her warmth. Her softness. Her embrace. The comfort of her. That memory sent a whisper of heat beneath his skin and a shiver up his spine. He wanted to do that again. Wake beside Dylan again. Just hold her and know that here, at least, there was sanctuary. Even if it was only for the space of a single breath, there was sanctuary. Now that he'd tasted that for the first time in over eight long decades, he couldn't let it go.

They couldn't take this from him. He didn't know why he thought these things now—perhaps because of Wink's presence? Or the dream of that bloody battlefield and his twin relaying his father's threat? He didn't know, didn't care. All he knew was that no one could be allowed to take this from him. He wouldn't allow it. They'd taken nearly everything else, but they would not take this, would not take this place or her away from him. Not Eamonn, whose corpse already fed the worms; not his enemies scattered throughout Faerie; not the humans who'd already robbed him and his people of so much. Not Oisin, not the chamberlain, not Nuala, and not Balor.

Not his father who was also his enemy. Not the father who refused to see Nuada Silverlance, and saw only a monster. Not the father he loved…the father who hated him.

Nuada heard the rustle of blankets and the creak of the bed behind him, but didn't turn. There was no telltale sound of footsteps. Only the excruciatingly gentle warmth of Dylan's palm against his shoulder. A shudder ripped through him. Tension whipped across his shoulders at the touch. But she didn't draw her hand away.

"Cad atá cearr?" Her voice sounded so tired. He should...he should get her back to bed. Make her rest. She was sick, she needed to rest. Her hand burned through his shirt. "What's wrong?" She repeated in English. How he wanted to tell her, the human whose touch tormented and soothed him, everything in his heart. Could not. Could never. "It's all right," Dylan whispered, drawing her hand away. Nuada felt the absence of that touch like an iron knife in the back.

But then...oh, then...slender arms carefully wrapped around his waist. Dylan pressed softly against him. Her arms tightened a little in embrace. She laid her cheek against his shoulder. Slowly, so very slowly, the tension eased. The edge of panic—he hadn't even realized that razored emotion was riding him until those comforting arms slid around him—faded.

"It's all right. Whatever it is, Nuada, it will be all right."

My father will try to take you from me, he thought, but didn't say. I need you, I love you, and he may try to take you from me, mo duinne, a ghrá mo chroí. That will never be all right. Don't leave me.

But her hands were slowly sliding upward to rest over the heart that seemed to hammer in his chest hard enough to bruise. So he said nothing. Only soaked up the warmth of her and tried to calm himself enough that his voice wouldn't tremble at all when he told her she needed to return to bed and rest.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Dylan asked after a few minutes. The soft weight of her cheek against his shoulder warmed him through his shirt even as it comforted him. He could feel her gentle heartbeat against his spine.

The words, when they rasped out of him, were not what either of them expected. "My sister hates me. My father hates me. They both hate—"

"No." Sharp, firm, with just a hint of anger. She let him go then, and it left him aching and cold. But then she put a hand on his upper arm and pulled him to face her. Those fey-like eyes were dull with fever and exhaustion but they glimmered with something else Nuada couldn't name.

"No," she said again. Slender hands reached up and framed his face. Nuada swallowed hard. "Don't say that. Don't think that. They hate what they think you are but that's not who you are. Listen to me," she snapped when the prince began to turn away. Feral eyes flicked to that scarred face. Moonlit blue locked with sunlit topaz, refusing to release him. "You listen to me. If you never listen to another word I say, you listen to this. You wanna be mad about this, you can be mad later when I don't feel like I'm about to pass out. They don't hate you, Nuada, because they can't. They don't know you. They. Don't. Know. Do you understand me? They don't see you. They don't know you. They don't know who you are."

"And you do?" Stars curse it, there was a tremor in his voice he couldn't seem to banish. "You know me? You see me?"

Such compassion in her eyes. Such understanding. Unwavering acceptance. Did she know she had the power to bring him to his knees? With one word she brought down every defense, every wall. Just one word.

"Yes."

Damning the consequences, damning the questions that could come from this, Nuada pulled Dylan's hands from his face (did he imagine that flicker of hurt and disappointment in those eyes?) and then gently tugged her so that if she chose, she could clasp those hands behind his neck…which she did. Her scarred mouth curved into a soft smile. Then Nuada enfolded Dylan in his arms and held that impossible mortal as tightly as he dared. Slowly stroked her hair with one hand.

You know me? You see me? And her answer. That impossible, heartbreaking answer. Yes.

"Listen to this, too. If all the world turned against you," Dylan murmured against his shoulder, "I would still be here, Nuada." She leaned back enough to look him in the eye. "I see you. I know you. I will always be there for you if you want me. I promise."

"If I want you." He thought of how cold he'd been to her. How vicious. Shame churned in his belly. "You would stand by me, even after all I've done? After I hurt you so deeply?"

She laid a gentle hand against his cheek. "It hurt, what you said. I won't deny that. But I hurt you, too, and I'm sorry. I should've told you sooner. I know how you feel about humans. I know your trust isn't easily gained. And I know you didn't mean...what you said. We're both sorry. So it's okay."

"No," Nuada said softly. "No, it isn't. I will never say such a vicious thing again. I promise."

"And we'll be honest with each other from now on," she added. "I promise." She smiled and murmured, "Don't forget—I'm your friend, Nuada. I would do almost anything for you. I know who you are. I see you. Don't ever forget that."

I see you. Eyes that saw so very much. Eyes that showed him so very much: trust, affection, respect, concern. I see you. I know you. Some of the crushing weight on his shoulders eased a little. It was suddenly easier to breathe when he could just take in the scent of lilies and roses that whispered over Dylan's skin and threaded through those riotous, sleep-mussed curls. It took him too long, though, to be certain he could speak without his voice trembling or, worse, without falling to his knees and confessing just what forbidden sentiment smoldered deep in his chest. Without revealing just how much those firm but gentle words meant to him. But eventually Nuada could step back and look down at her with expressionless eyes and a blank face.

"You should be in bed," the prince told the mortal in his arms. He felt more than heard Dylan sigh. Knew her eyes were sorrowful, that his emotional retreat had saddened her. "You need to rest, mo duinne."

Dylan gave him a look of complete and very feminine exasperation. Instead of retreating from the Elven prince, she carefully brushed back a lock of silvery star-blond hair. Her fingertips ghosted over the whorl at his temple. Nuada stiffened. She'd never touched him this way before. At least not in the waking world. Only in dreams, when his own desire managed to escape his rigid control for a few reckless moments.

"I don't want to rest or sleep or whatever." She tucked that lock of hair behind his ear. The tips of her fingers whispered over the delicate, Elven point and he had to fight a shiver. "If I fall asleep I'll have another nightmare. Can I stay with you instead?"

He wanted to say yes. Wanted to put her to bed and then slide in bed beside her and soothe away any nightmares. Instead Nuada replied, "You can stay on the couch if you promise to stay on the couch and rest. All right?"

"Nuada, I don't—"

"We will make a trade of it," he murmured, capturing the hand that hovered so close to his face. "Allow me to—"

"Fuss," Dylan said dryly.

The topaz-eyed Elven warrior arched one knife-thin eyebrow and said in a voice as cool and dry as a desert night, "I am an Elven warrior. I am also male. I do not fuss." When the mortal smiled indulgently, he bit back a growl. Insolent chit. "Anyway. Allow me to...not fuss...and when you are well, I will...acquiesce to your demands next time you insist I sleep or eat or whatever you may ask of me."

Now her eyebrows rose. "My demands."

"Yes."

Dylan bit her lip to keep from laughing at his sour expression. Instead, feeling more comfortable with him than she had in a while, Dylan stepped closer. He was so warm. The heat of him pushed away the chill clinging to her because of the fever. He still held her hand against his chest. "Don't I owe you an act of service, though? Why not just use that?"

That soft smile of hers sent warmth curling in his belly. Those lovely eyes held just a hint of mischief, which only fired that warmth into a smoldering heat. An act of service? She had so much trust in him, to agree to such a thing. He could've misused that trust. It would have been so easy; she knew that. After the life she'd lived, she had to know that. The fact that Dylan knew he wouldn't do such a thing just proved what she'd been saying about knowing him. I see you. I know you.

"I consider it prudent to hold that service in reserve."

"I'm really worried that you're going to use that whole thing later, when we get back to Findias. That you'll try and stop me when I go after some bimbo that won't keep her hands off you." Dylan paused. Frowned. "Is that in my job description?"

He couldn't help it. He laughed. Just thinking about Dylan defending his virtue, as it were, from the lust-minded harpies of the court forced the laughter out of him. "No," Nuada replied, still chuckling. "I think the court ladies would be at a distinct disadvantage against you. You can be quite fierce, you know."

"Fierce," she repeated.

"Mmm."

Making what he supposed was meant to be a "fierce" face, Dylan said in a little-girl voice, "Rawr."

He tucked her hair behind her ears, fighting the foolish grin that wanted to spread across his face. How did she make that change from wise and compassionate woman to fun-loving and often silly girl-child so quickly? But all he said was, "Very scary. Now. You need to lie down. Do you feel well enough to walk to the den?"

In the end, he carried her. Because she needed him to, and because he did.

.

"I really did love the letter," Dylan mumbled sleepily from the couch. Her eyes were closed, so she didn't see Nuada look up from the book he'd been perusing to study her. They'd been in the den while Becan and Wink eyed each other in the kitchen for the last hour or so. The almost-silence had been very near the companionable quiet the Elf and human had once enjoyed. Until now, Dylan had been lying on the futon, listening to music playing softly from her cell phone while Nuada searched the book he'd given Dylan for his favorite childhood tales. But now she added, "It was so beautiful. It...it meant a lot to me, the things you said." She cuddled beneath the blankets and sighed in contentment. "I love this song, too. Who cares if I'm sick? I'm happy right now."

Nuada closed the book and listened for a minute to the young woman's voice that came from Dylan's phone. Found himself almost mesmerized by the words.

"Child and a fool in one.
So sure I could need no one.
My heart always on the run to nowhere.
Now as you're holding me,
Your heart is reminding me,
Now I could never be without you."

"But how can our love succeed? A miracle is what we need." Dylan sang along in a whisper, a somewhat melancholic peace spreading across her face. "Keep me suspended in time with you; don't let this moment die. I've got a feeling when I'm with you, none of the rules apply."

None of the rules apply. Oh, if only. If only. Then this place wouldn't be forbidden him. Neither would the woman who called it home.

Home. This was his home now, as well. When had it become so? When had this cottage and this woman become his safe haven? Conflicting loyalties burned in his belly whenever he remembered that simple fact and why it was so very wrong. A duty to Dylan? Is that greater now than your duty to Father?Nuala's sharp words, a reminder that he was not just a son, but a prince whose loyalty belonged to his king. A reminder he hadn't needed. He had other things to concern himself with just now.

"Dylan," Nuada said, and her eyes flickered open to focus on his face. "I want to talk to you." She immediately turned off the music and gave him her full attention. Suddenly oddly nervous, the Elven prince reached into his shirt and withdrew the gold chain around his neck. Slipping it over his head, he held it out to the mortal watching him with tired curiosity.

She took the chain. It held two gold rings, each set with a red stone. She wasn't quite sure what they were—they looked like rubies, and since they'd been around Nuada's neck, they very well might have been. A faint shadow shifted and shimmered behind each stone. An image that looked vaguely familiar, but too blurred by the facets of the jewels for her to be sure. The stones were cut differently; the one set in a slender, elegant golden band was small, and the red jewel in the golden man's ring was a little smaller than the diameter of a dime. The man's ring was plain gold, unadorned except for the stone. But the other...

Dylan wasn't sure if the band was made of different pieces of gold or if the pattern of intertwining vines and flower buds had simply been etched deeply into the metal. None of the golden buds were open, though some showed the faintest hint of petal. Only one flower actually bloomed. Nestled in the heart of a fully opened rose was the small ruby. The metal was still warm from resting against Nuada's skin. On the inside of the slim band were words in Old Gaelic. Dylan managed to translate them as, So we might always find each other.

Wide-eyed and more than a little stunned, Dylan looked up from the spectacular ring to meet Nuada's eyes. "This is beautiful. Where did you get it? Them?"

"I made them," he said softly. Then, as if the words were being dragged from him, he added, "The flowered ring is for you."

Nuada had to admit, he enjoyed seeing that completely dumbfounded look in Dylan's eyes. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened and closed again. Then she stared at the ring again. After a moment where she clearly struggled for something coherent to say, the mortal whispered, "But I don't deserve...I mean, why? It's so...so beautiful. I...you didn't have to...it's lovely. I've never had...Nuada, I'm..."

"Clearly at a loss for words," he supplied, not even bothering to suppress his smile. She liked it, then. Good. That was the one thing he'd wondered about because she seemed so...disinterested in jewels and other fripperies that women usually adored. Wink had told him more than once that all women, as the troll put it, "loved glitter." Apparently they did. Even this one.

"Give it here a moment." When she'd returned the chain with its rings to him, Nuada murmured a short word of release in the Old Tongue and slipped the slender band off the golden chain before dropping the chain back around his neck. "Give me your hand."

Slipping the ring on the fourth finger of her right hand was one of the hardest things the Elven prince had ever done. He suddenly wanted to slide the golden band onto the slender heart-finger on her left hand. A declaration. A blatant disregard for propriety, for politics, for the loyalties that commanded him and the vows that bound him.

The force of that desire hit him with all the power of the bronze hammer Wink called a fist. Nuada took a mental step back, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the ring he'd made for the woman he loved glittering against her skin like an impossible promise. Love was one thing (a forbidden thing, but still only sentiment, with no real action to condemn him). But the sudden sharp impulse that had lanced him had also put a glimmer of a whisper of a thought in his head. One he could ill afford at this moment—or any other moment. Ever. No. He wouldn't think of that. Wouldn't let that shadow of a half-thought unfurl into even a murmur of an idea. No.

Then he opened his eyes and found himself drowning in a gaze of impossible and fey-like blue. His common sense cried, No, no, no. Every part of him echoed that sentiment. Except his heart, and the exhaustion there. He was so tired of saying no all the time. Couldn't he say yes to her? Just once?

Maybe. But not with that. He could never say yes to that unless his father commanded it of him, and even then it would still be no in all the ways that counted.

"That ring," Nuada murmured, feeling as if he were slowly strangling. "It has a...you might call it a spell, locked in the stone. It's connected to this one." He tapped the gold band on its chain that hung against his chest. "Turn it sinistral thrice around your finger and repeat the words engraved on the inside of the band. That will take you to Faerie, to me. This way you can still fulfill your duties as a mind-healer and be with me in Findias when your work day ends."

Those eyes filled with soft wonder. "You made this for me so I could—"

"If you're still willing to go with me," the prince added, releasing her suddenly and shifting back against the chair to put a little distance between them. Blast it, he couldn't breathe when she looked at him like that, much less think. "I'll not force you to return with me. If you do agree, I will do everything in my power to make sure you feel safe and—"

"Nuada." The command in her tone was soft, but it was there, firm enough to stop him. He clenched his teeth. Fought not to clench his fists. He hadn't meant to give her the option of not going back with him. Hadn't meant to just come out and say it, at any rate. But he didn't want to chain her to his side with force of any kind. He wanted it to be her decision. Wanted to know she was with him because she chose to be with him and not because...

Somehow she'd managed to lever herself off the couch and onto the floor beside him without the Elven prince taking note of it. Now Dylan dropped her head onto his shoulder and murmured, "As long as you're with me, I know I'm safe. Okay? And I'm going back with you. Even if you hadn't done this, I'd still go back. I go when you go, remember? So what are you so nervous about?"

The Elven warrior shot her a frosty look. "I'm not nervous about anything."

Somehow the mortal woman managed to unman him with a single gentle look. "Okay." Agreement in word but not in tone. A deaf man would've detected that. Even a month ago that would have infuriated him. Now it didn't bother him. When had that happened? Dylan added, "But you're...concerned about something. Something you think I'm not gonna like. What is it?"

"What happened last night...with Eamonn...that was my fault, Dylan."

She sat up abruptly. "No, Nuada, no—"

"Hush," the prince commanded. Dylan subsided, but her silent glare spoke volumes. "Blame is not under discussion here. I mention it only because it applies to something else. I swore to protect you. I was derelict in that duty and as a result you nearly...you were hurt." The mortal's glare softened. When she dropped her head back onto his shoulder, Nuada allowed himself to relax a little. "I want you to know that what prompted this decision was first and foremost your safety and the vow I made to protect you. Do you remember when you stayed in my chambers in Findias? There was a locked door opposite the entrance to my bedroom. Do you remember it?"

"Yes," Dylan said slowly. Why was the Elven warrior so tense? It felt almost as if he were bracing for a blow…or another betrayal. "I tried it the morning after...after you comforted me. But it was locked so I figured it didn't matter." Now she let her mind focus for a moment on that locked door. There had been three doors in Nuada's bedroom—the locked one, the door to the rest of the prince's suite, and the door to the bathroom. Three doors. Only one of them kept locked. Why? Because the rooms on the other side weren't in use, she'd realized. And now..."That door leads to a consort's suite or something, doesn't it?"

"Yes. If you return to Findias with me, my lady…that is where you would stay."

They sat in silence while Dylan chewed that over. Her own rooms—not just a room but rooms—with a bedroom attached to Nuada's bedchamber. Did both sides of that door have locks? She dismissed the question as soon as it popped into her mind. What did she need a lock on the door for? It wasn't like Nuada would come in without permission. Unless she was under attack and screaming her head off. Which was probably the point.

The longer the silence stretched, the tenser Nuada became. Dylan wasn't sure what to say to ease that tension. When the prince was tense enough to snap, she finally said, "I just have one question." He managed to stiffen further. "Actually, it's a two-parter. First part: do I get my own bathroom?"

Nuada blinked. "Of course."

"Does it come with a shower?"

The Elf realized he'd been holding his breath. What had he expected her to think about the arrangement? The nightmare of Nuala had twisted him up more than he'd thought. But Dylan hadn't worried about anything save whether she had her own shower chamber. She wasn't worried about the door joining his bedroom and hers. Not in the least. She trusted him. He should have remembered that. "Yes, it comes with a shower."

"Okay then." She snuggled against him. Sighed. Nuada closed his eyes and relaxed into the knowledge that she, at least, still trusted him. Still believed he possessed some shred of honor. "I'm completely okay with those sleeping arrangements. Anything else you (falsely) think I'm going to freak out about?"

"There is one other thing," Nuada said. Dylan shifted a little to look up at him. He looked...worried. Worried and exhausted. Every time she saw him, he looked more and more worn down. "My father has sent the Butcher Guards to search for me. He means to drag me back to Findias whether I will or—"

"No." She jerked away from him and used the futon to haul herself to her feet. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me. I'll kick his butt. You just watch. Nobody's taking you anywhere you don't want to go." She took a step. Swayed. "Whoa. Room's spinning. Got up too fast again. Anyway...um...right. Becan!" At her call, the brownie dashed into the den. He skidded to a halt in front of his mistress and stared up into the familiar face he'd rarely seen angry.

Lady Dylan was infuriated now.

"M-Milady?"

"I need my stationary—my official-looking stuff Peri got me for Christmas. And my black gel pen. And..." Dizziness swamped her. She hastily sat down on the futon. "And my lap desk. Quickly, please." Becan raced away and Dylan dropped her head into her hands. "I hate your dad so much right now. Okay, not really, but I'm so not happy with him. Ugh."

Nuada eyed her warily. The Elven prince wasn't one-hundred-percent certain, but he couldn't recall off the top of his head Dylan ever being this angry before. "What are you going to do?"

"Write the king a frigidly polite letter informing him that you're currently indisposed and that anyone attempting to remove you from my presence by force will have to face my wrath. Your father might not find a human's wrath that impressive, but I've got several friends who could give him a run for his money if I was a vindictive kind of person—which I'm not, but he doesn't know that." Becan came back in with the stationary, pen and lap desk. His mistress gave him a fond smile in place of thanks (since offering thanks to a brownie was considered a grave insult and would usually drive them away from the home they cared for) and set to writing.

Nuada said nothing; only watched as Dylan swiftly penned several elegant lines on a piece of somewhat stiff, formal writing paper and then signed it before folding it into thirds. Her brownie perched on the arm of the futon and waited until she was finished before sealing it with magic, since his mistress possessed no official seal.

"Am I to take this to His Majesty?"

"If you please, Becan," Dylan said. The Elven prince didn't say a word. Did not try to stop her. He'd seen most of what she'd written as she'd been writing it. His father was in for a surprise. The thought brought a brief smirk to Nuada's mouth. "And Becan," Dylan added as the brownie began to walk away. "This is a command from your mistress. Do not under any circumstances tell the king or anyone else where Prince Nuada Silverlance is, what he is doing, where he's been, or anything about him. The same goes regarding me as well. And make sure no one and nothing follows you home. Understand?" The brownie nodded, bowed, and left quickly. The human settled back against the futon and sighed. "Okay, done being gung-ho, now. My brain feels like it's being chewed on by a monster with glass teeth." She pressed the heels of her palms to her temples.

"Where did you learn to write a letter like that?" Nuada asked. "It was very diplomatic."

She smiled. "Pride and Prejudice." At his puzzled look Dylan added, "It's a book about the Regency period in England, back in the early nineteenth century. There's a letter similar in tone to mine in the book. I've read it probably two-hundred times in my life. It's one of my favorites. And I may have gotten some help from a few friends in polite letter-writing to the fae over the years. Anyway, I don't feel good, so I'm gonna lie down now." Which she promptly did. Scrunching beneath the discarded blanket, Dylan added, "Ugh. I hate being sick. So, okay, we've discussed your dad's impatience and our sleeping arrangements. Anything else I need to know?"

"You know you'll need your own retinue."

"My own what?"

The Elven prince didn't smirk, but he wanted to. She actually sounded a bit panicked. "Servants, mo duinne. If we're going back to Findias, and we're going to play along with the courtship charade to convince my father of our obedience, I must treat you as I would if we intended to wed. That includes procuring servants for you. A lady of your status would have at least two bodyguards, a lady's maid—"

"Okay, you know I'm sick, right? This is not a nice thing to do to a sick person." Shoving a hand through her hair, she gave him a stricken look. "I don't want servants."

"Why not? You have one already."

"Becan is not a servant," she cried. "He's family. I only have him do the housework and stuff because he's a brownie and I know he'd be unhappy if I said he couldn't. But I don't want people taking care of me when I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don't want a maid or anything. And I can almost guarantee you there aren't any fae interested in domestic service who'd want to work for a human like me."

Nuada frowned. "Dylan, not all the Bright Ones hate humans." He knew that irritating fact from experience. Just look at his father, his sister. Then there were human sympathizers like Lady Jocasta, and those who were ambivalent toward the children of men, like Erik.

"True, but look at me for a second, Nuada. Really look." She rolled onto her stomach and cupped her chin in her hands, even though lifting her head made her temples pound. "I don't know what you see when you look at me, but I know what most fae think of disfigurement, or anything else that reminds them of mortality and death in some way. I know Ravus the Apothecary—he's a testament to that, and he's pure-blooded fae. Any fae who doesn't care about my mortality is going to care about my face—or the rest of my scars. Which is why I don't want a maid. I'll take bodyguards if you need me to because I know you're worried about my safety, but that's all."

The Elven warrior shifted closer to the couch. Studied the face under discussion. Dylan was not a vain woman. She'd never mentioned her scars to him, really, or indicated one way or the other how she felt about them. So why this sudden self-consciousness?

"What's wrong, Dylan?"

She shrugged. Wouldn't look at him. "Nothing. Look, I'm pretty enough for a human, but that's underneath the scars. I know how the Fair Folk see me: to some I'm an oddity; to some I'm an eyesore; but to many of them, I'm a reminder of something they don't want to think about—their own vulnerability. And I know you care about how they see you. I totally understand that. You're a prince; you're the heir. When people look at you, they don't just see Nuada. They see Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of King Balor, future king of Bethmoora. And what I don't want is for the...the discrepancy between what you should have and what you're stuck with to be emphasized anymore than it has to be in their eyes. I don't want to make you look bad if I can help it. So I'd rather not give the court the opportunity to compare my faerie handmaiden's no-doubt gorgeous face to this." She indicated her scarred countenance with a circular motion of one finger. "You've got enough problems."

"What I am stuck with?" He echoed, incredulous. "I'm stuck with nothing I do not want."

Blue eyes finally met his, and they were surprisingly sad. "You're stuck with me—a human with iron-laced blood that your father is most likely going to try forcing you to marry. I know you don't want that."

You don't want me. Where had this come from? Without thinking, Nuada reached out and gently brushed his fingertips over the scar on Dylan's cheek that was his favorite to touch. Her skin was still a little too warm. She looked so very sad.

Slowly, deliberately, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. Saw her eyes go soft and misty when he brushed his mouth over her knuckles. Then the crown prince of Bethmoora said softly, "Mo duinne, you fear the judgment of my father's court. Why should it matter to you whether they find you lovely or not? It matters nothing to me what they think of you. I already know what I think."

"And what's that?" Her voice was resigned and tired.

"I think you are beautiful," Nuada confessed. The corners of his mouth quirked up when her mouth fell open. "And before you attempt to tell me I don't think this, let me assure you, my fair and gentle lady, I most certainly do."

Beautiful. He thinks I'm beautiful. The pleasure from that simple statement shimmered through her like liquid gold. But what about..."But the scars on my face—"

"Are also lovely," Nuada said in a voice that brooked no argument. "And they are a testament to your courage and your strength."

"I just don't want to make trouble for you," she said softly. "You told me once that one of the things you hate about court life is that the women are always after you to screw around with them. If they see me as...as less, they're less likely to respect my...I guess my claim on you, and more likely to bother you despite our 'relationship.' And the men are more likely to think less of you because of the scars on my face." When Nuada raised an eyebrow, Dylan sighed in exasperation. "Don't look at me like that. I know you could have almost any woman you wanted, for one reason or another. You're the prince and you're despicably handsome. Nuala said you were a...what did she say?" She frowned, trying to remember. "Oh, yeah! A consummate lover."

Nuada nearly choked on his tongue. "You and my sister were discussing my virtues as a lover?"

Dylan's eyes widened. "Oh, snaps. I wasn't supposed to tell you that. Crud." She dropped her face into the pillow she'd been using on the futon and covered her head with her arms. "I'm never coming out of here," she said, her words muffled by the pillow. "Never, never, never. I'm going to die of embarrassment. Please bury me in a nice, sunny spot near a tree, okay?"

He simply waited. Eventually one blue eye peeked over her arm. Dylan sighed when she saw him. He just smiled. Wise and compassionate woman to silly, fun-loving girl-child in a single eye-blink. But Nuada only said, "You have to come out to take your medicine."

She scowled at him. "Oh, my gosh, you're so literal." But the scowl wouldn't stay in place because the same words kept replaying over and over in her mind. He thinks I'm beautiful. Nuada thinks I'm beautiful. Laying her head on her folded arms, she added casually, "Okay, so I need bodyguards. I'll think about the maid thing. Anything else?"

"You'll need decent court clothes."

Her eyes widened. "Please tell me I get to go shopping with you and not, like, your sister or someone. Can I shop for clothes with you, please?" Then she was pressing her face into the pillow to smother her laughter because of the horrified look on Nuada's face. "Oh, come on. What's the big deal?" Dylan demanded when her giggles were finally contained.

"I am not going shopping with you for clothes."

"Why not?"

Various reasons. Various good reasons. Because if anyone found out, he would be publicly humiliated. Because no male ever wanted to take a female shopping for anything, much less clothes. Much less dresses, of which a man would be asked his opinion (he'd made the mistake as a youth of going shopping with Nuala and—Fates help him—some of her friends, and found that out the hard way). Any opinion offered would, of course, be the wrong opinion based solely on his gender.

And most importantly, he didn't want to have to sit there and study the way silk or satin, velvet or lace, molded to the shape of Dylan's body. The Elven warrior knew his eyes would devour her every time she stepped out to show off a new gown. So he growled, "There will be no shopping. The palace tailors will see to you."

"But you'll come with me when I have to go see them, right?"

No, because there would still come a time when she would have to try on whatever the tailors and seamstresses had put together and he would have the same problem: keeping his eyes—and his thoughts and, most likely, his hands—to himself. But now she was looking at him with wide, beseeching eyes. She'd used the exact same look when she'd asked him if he would come to church with her back in Findias. He hadn't been able to say no, then, either. It had felt too much like kicking a puppy.

"I will...consider it."

"Thank you, Nuada," Dylan murmured. "I appreciate that."

Silence. Then, "You're welcome. And that's enough discussion of all things relevant to our return, at least for tonight. Wink should be finished with...ah."

The troll lumbered in holding a steaming mug between his large hands. He handed it to the prince's mortal lady. She blew on it. Took a cautious sip. She'd been barely conscious before when she'd taken the first several doses of troll potion and most likely didn't recollect the taste. But now her eyes widened as she rolled the healing tonic around on her tongue before swallowing.

"This is absolutely delicious," she cried, and took another sip. Winced. "Ow. Burned my tongue. (sip) Wink, this stuff is amazing! (sip) What's in it? (sip) Or is it a secret?" Dylan smiled at the burly cave troll as she put the mug to her lips and took another glorious sip. It tasted like stardust and spring breezes, summer sunshine and the crispness of fresh autumn apples. Did she detect a hint of pomegranate? She adored pomegranates. And the more she drank of the troll potion, the better she felt.

When it was all gone, Wink bowed and rumbled goodbye before leaving the room. Nuada reluctantly agreed to let Dylan sleep on the couch so long as she went to sleep right this minute (which made her feel about five years old, but it was worth having the Elven prince tuck her into bed. Erm, couch). Then the Elf got to his feet and walked to the door to bid Wink farewell.

"Another day or two and she'll be well again," Wink told his prince. "But my prince...the two of you need to return to Findias soon. Your father's patience grows thin. The game you play with him is dangerous."

"It is no game, Wink." Nuada turned to gaze back toward the entryway to the den. "It's dangerous enough to take her back with me. I want to be as prepared as possible, in all things large and small. We mean to try and trick my father into thinking we've capitulated to his desire for this courtship, but—"

"He won't buy it," the silver troll said flatly. Nuada stiffened. "Not after being gone this long. He won't believe that, after such a blatant disregard for his authority, you intend to give into that sort of demand. You'll have to play it another way." At the Elven prince's incredulous expression, Wink sighed. "Pretending to capitulate to the king won't be enough to stay his anger this time. The two of you will have to do something else."

Voice dripping with suspicion, Nuada demanded, "Such as?" Clearly his vassal had a suggestion as to the "something else."

Wink sighed again. "You're not going to like this."

The Elven prince folded his arms across his chest and regarded his oldest friend with cool expectation. "Speak."

One shovel-like claw scratched absently at the spur of his broken tusk. "Well. There is one thing I've thought of. Your father wishes you to soften toward the humans, is that not so?" When the prince nodded, the troll added, "Then instead of trying to convince your father you mean to obey him, work to convince him that you've softened as he desires." Nuada frowned, not quite following his vassal. "Don't bother trying to convince the court, my prince. Convince the king you've fallen in love with her."

Nuada jerked back from Wink. His back slammed against the wall as he stared up at his oldest friend in shock. Did...did the troll know? How could he know? But could he have guessed at the sentiment smoldering in Nuada's heart? All he could manage to say was, "Wink...how would that even help?"

It would kill him. It would break him to pieces to have to pretend well enough to convince his father; his father, who always doubted. Because unlike the charade the two of them had been planning, this charade would never end. They would have no peace from the chains of courtship. Even in their own rooms, the pretense would have to continue in some way because the king's spies were very good and Balor would know if the façade slipped even a little. They'd have no time just to themselves. Could his resolve to maintain some emotional distance stand under that kind of pressure?

Nuada knew his father well enough to know the One-Armed King of Elfland would test the verity of this "relationship" in all ways possible. In order to convince him, the two of them would have to play the courtship game more carefully and more skillfully than ever before. And that could prove torturous—even disastrous—to both of them.

"If you can convince the king you behaved recklessly out of love for your lady and a desire to...ahem, be alone with her, he might be more forgiving of your absence. The king will be so happy with your 'change of heart' that he'll forgive your disobedience. Well, perhaps. There are no guarantees. Still, it would give you a better chance than simply trying to make the king believe you've suddenly decided to play the obedient son."

The problem was that Nuada could see Wink's idea had merit. It would work better than simply going with the old plan of playing along with the king's ploy. Nuada had to admit as much to himself. But how could he...how could they do such a thing? How would he survive it? And what would being forced to submit to such a thing do to Dylan? It would take a deeper commitment to him than he had the right to ask of her. Would she see such a plan as a betrayal?

"I will...think on what you have said," the prince said softly. "Where do you go now, my friend?"

"I need to see Lorelei," the troll replied. "If we're to return to Findias soon, I need to make arrangements with her."

Nuada nodded. "Give her my regards. I shall contact you when our date of departure is determined. Goodbye, Wink."

The troll left and Nuada went back to the den, where Dylan lay curled on the futon beneath the blanket. He studied her for a long moment. His life had been simple once. Well, perhaps not simple. Politics were never simple. But surely it had never been this complicated before meeting the human. Now he had to balance his duty to his father and to his people with his duty to this woman who'd given him her fealty. Ah, sweetheart. What are we going to do?

"What did Wink say?" Dylan mumbled sleepily. Nuada blinked. He hadn't realized she wasn't asleep. He was growing lax in maintaining awareness of his surroundings, including the woman in front of him. Silver-washed blue eyes flicked open. "You're worried. What is it?"

He considered saying nothing. Considered it, and discarded it immediately. She deserved the truth from him. But not tonight. He wouldn't burden her with Wink's plan tonight.

"In the morning, mo duinne. Go to sleep."

Those blue eyes considered him for a very long time. Then she whispered in soft Gaelic, "Ná fág mé. Tabhair, fan liom." Don't leave me. Please, stay with me. When Nuada took a step back from her, she reached out and grasped his hand. "I've been having bad dreams the last couple nights. Don't go. Stay here, just 'til I fall asleep. Please?"

That softly spoken please echoed through the mental link between their joined hands. The Elf sighed and sat in the chair beside the futon, allowing Dylan to retain her grasp on his hand.

"Close your eyes and go to sleep," he said. She obeyed the first order and, after only a few minutes, the second. Nuada stared at the slender fingers loosely curled around his own. At the golden ring glinting in the firelight. Wished that this woman wasn't human. Wished that he was not a prince. Wished Balor and Nuala would leave him be to enjoy being at ease with his lady while he could. That peace would end soon. Then it would be back into the lethal game again.

I will keep you safe, a ghrá mo chroí. No matter what happens, I'll protect you. I swear it.

.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he knew he must have because when next he opened his eyes, he wasn't in Dylan's cottage. There was no battlefield, thank the stars. Instead he was back in the meadow ringed by towering trees. The bright sun blazed down from overhead. Birdsong and the babble of the river were the music of midsummer. A gentle breeze rustled the pink and white wildflowers sprinkled across the lush grass.

But there was no Dylan.

Then he heard familiar laughter. Instinctively turned toward it, began to walk. He followed the little river to the edge of the meadow and into the woods. After only a few moments in the forest, Nuada came upon the river's source—a little waterfall thundering down into a large spring ringed with pink azaleas and red poppies, with the sweet scent of honeysuckle in the air. Dylan sat on a moss-covered rock beside the spring, a vibrantly scarlet poppy in one hand. She held it out to a hummingbird that hovered just above the bloom. The mortal was clearly trying to coax the little bird into feeding from the blossom.

For just a minute, Nuada simply watched her. Watched the way the breeze tugged at her summer dress that was an impossibly rich shade of twilight blue; the way that same breeze tugged at her long dark ponytale as if inviting her to come and play; the loveliness of her delighted smile when the hummingbird dropped down to sip at the crimson flower. Then the bird zipped away and Dylan turned to see him standing at the edge of the woods. Her eyes lit up like stars.

He came toward her then because he couldn't stay away. Who could resist that welcoming smile? "Is this my dream?" Nuada called to her. "Or yours?" But he knew. He knew they were sharing a dream. Wasn't sure how he knew with such certainty, but the Elven warrior was sure.

"I don't know," she said, drawing her knees up to her chest. Her thin cotton dress, he realized, was just short enough to give him a perfectly modest view of her ankles and slender calves. Dylan cocked her head. Wiggled her toes at him. "Is this a good dream?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. He climbed onto the rock beside her and, before he even thought to stop himself, slipped his arm around her shoulders and laid his cheek against the top of her head. A thrill went through him when she leaned against him. Dylan draped an arm across his chest and half-hugged him. Nuada sighed. "Yes, this is a good dream." So simple. So easy. Just the two of them in this place.

"I'm glad," she whispered. She'd wondered before falling asleep if she would dream of Nuada. If their joined hands would perhaps let him into her sleeping mind. Dylan wasn't sure if that's what had happened or not, but she was almost positive it had. Strange. Only now did she remember that he'd done this before. He'd come into her dreams at least twice before: once by accident, that very first night spent in the cottage ("...it is better than dreaming alone," Nuada had told her then); and after the psych-eval, when drugged slumber had kept her trapped in memory. She didn't remember all of either dream, but she knew the Elven warrior had truly been with her.

But wait...why hadn't she remembered that before? Okay, the first dream, who knew. But the second dream. The nightmare. A dark hallway, brutal pain, monsters in the shadows, Elven arms lifting her up and carrying her somewhere safe at last. She should've remembered that dream at least. Remembered, because Nuada had already left the cottage when she'd had that nightmare and yet his presence in the dream meant he'd been in her room that night.

Her head shot up and a cussword popped out before she could stop it. Nuada pulled back to regard her with surprise. "Problem?"

"He didn't tell me," Dylan breathed. Stormy anger brewed in the depths of her eyes. "I don't believe it. You were in my dreams before. In that nightmare. You saved me. When I woke up I thought it was just a dream but you were really there that night." She saw the instant he knew what night she was referring to. "When I woke up you were gone, so I thought I'd just dreamed it. And John didn't tell me you'd come to see me. He didn't tell me!" She smacked the rock with the side of one clenched fist. "Oh, if I remember any of this when I wake up, I'm gonna pound him into the dirt, just you watch me."

"Why are you so angry about this?" Not that he minded her being angry with the feckless human whelp who could claim ties of kinship with her. For all his lady was so wise and compassionate, her affection for her twin was entirely misplaced.

"Because he didn't tell me!" Now she wrapped both arms around Nuada and thunked her head on his shoulder. "That jerk. If he'd told me you'd come to see me, I'd have gone looking for you. If I'd known...I thought it was just my own wishful thinking. I didn't know you were really there. I'd have gone to see you, tried to talk to you. Ugh! John, I'm going to murder you." Dylan paused. "Becan didn't tell me, either. Why wouldn't he tell me? Unless John told him not to. John Thaddeus Myers, you are going to die a horrible and bloody death. I'm gonna...I'm gonna...I'm gonna drown him in nail polish."

Nuada choked on a laugh, which helped to calm some of the hurt and anger suddenly sizzling through Dylan's blood. The roar of the waterfall—a sound she'd always been fond of—helped, too.

"Why does this matter?"

She huffed. "Because if he'd told me like a sensible man we might've hashed out our problems that day instead of almost two weeks later! I could;ve had you back that much sooner!" The undercurrent of pain in her voice surprised him. His amusement at her creative threats faded.

"Mo duinne, I wasn't ready to come back."

Not that day. Not when he'd only discovered that morning just how deep a place she'd carved into his heart. But they needed to change the subject. Things were sliding too close to that revelation he could ill afford to share with her, or even think about. Especially not here, where the dreamscape disallowed secrets.

Nuada cast about for something else to say. "This place holds a special place in my heart. I used to swim here as a boy."

Recognizing a rather obvious change of subject, Dylan smiled and shifted so she was back to sitting with her knees against her chest, her arms around her knees. "Really? So this is one of your memories?" The prince nodded. "I've never gone swimming in a natural body of water. I was always stuck with public swimming pools."

Thinking of such water nearly toxic with burning chemicals, Nuada shuddered.

"Yeah, didn't go very often. I was never very fond of swimming. Wasn't very good at it. I can't even float. At least not well. Are you a good swimmer?"

"I am." A considering pause. "I could teach you."

She laughed. "I know how to swim. I'm just bad at it."

"I could teach you to be good." Now he shrugged, though his heart was suddenly, inexplicably pounding. "Or not. As you prefer."

Dylan pursed her lips and considered the feral-eyed Elven warrior who watched her with equal interest. There was no real expression on his face or in his eyes to tell her whether he'd be disappointed if she said no. Funny, she thought, how it was so easy to know when he was upset or hurting, but little things like this were so hard for her to read.

"Are you one of those guys who believe in shoving the person trying to learn how to swim right into deep water and letting them flail around? Because I'm not okay with that. You're not going to shove me into the water, are you?"

The smile curving those dark lips was not at all reassuring. "I might," the prince replied mildly. "If the water wasn't too deep or shallow."

His smile widened when she drew back and eyed his suspiciously. Instead of offering her reassurance, Nuada drew off his tunic and shirt and laid them on the rock to make sure they stayed dry. Then he removed his boots and socks. It was a dream, but who knew how long it might last?

"What are you doing?"

So suspicious, mo duinne, Nuada thought with amusement. And quite right to be. "Making sure I can rescue you from drowning, if it comes to that."

"Rescue me from— hey!" He pushed her off the rock into the water. She came up sputtering. "Oh! Oh, you...ugh! Get down here! You are so dead, buster." She continued to snarl at him while wiping water out of her eyes. Nuada ignored her. Instead, he made his way across the rocks to one large boulder jutting over deeper water. Was he showing off? Perhaps. Would it make Dylan less annoyed with him? Probably not. But it would give him one advantage. So he executed a graceful dive into the deep end of the spring and swam quickly to the bottom.

He expects me to be impressed, Dylan thought waspishly as the Elven prince knifed cleanly through the water. Well, I'm not. A beat of mental silence. Two. Okay, yes I am. Darn it. She waited for a few moments for the prince to surface. A little sliver of worry niggled at her when he didn't. How long can he hold his breath? Dylan took a few steps away from the relative safety of their rock. Scanned the water. Nothing.

A hand closed around her ankle and yanked her under again. When she shot back to the surface, it was to find Nuada sopping wet and grinning at her like a mischievous boy.

"You're dog meat!" She shook the wet hair out of her eyes and glared at him. "I will have my vengeance, Your Highness. And you will not like it. At all."

Nuada didn't answer. He only gazed down at her for a moment, a startled look flickering in his eyes before vanishing like smoke. He swallowed hard for a moment before asking, "What are you wearing?"

"Hmmm?" Dylan looked down, then squeaked and ducked until everything but her head was beneath the surface of the water. "Um...a swimsuit."

And dang it, she never wore swimsuits anymore! The clingy fabric always showed too much of her scarred body. Even this one, a one-piece with a modestly-adjusted neckline and swim shorts for bottoms, still showed most of her legs and a great deal of her back. The legs and back, she thought with no little bitterness, that had been ripped to shreds more than once in her life.

"Humans wear them to swim in," she added defensively. "It's a dream; blame my subconscious. Oh, my gosh, why is this a halter-top? I hate halter-tops. And stop looking at me like that."

The Elven prince wasn't entirely sure in what way he was looking at her, but he couldn't have stopped himself if he'd tried. He'd never, he was fairly certain, seen this much of Dylan while she still wore a stitch of clothing. Dark blue material patterned with pale lilies covered her from about three inches below her delicate collarbones to a few inches below her hips.

Ripples in the water sent shimmers across her almost-bare shoulders. Shades of Annwn, if she turned around he would be able to see her bare back. See the pale expanse of soft skin gently ridged by delicate spine and shoulders. Surely the rules of modesty in her faith ought to prevent her from wearing such a thing. Ought to prevent her from being able to torment him this way. Tempting him to reach out and lightly stroke...

"Stop looking at me like that," she repeated, covering her chest with her scarred arms. Nuada saw the various marks left by claws and talons, teeth and blades. Dylan's body looked as if it had survived a brutal war. The prince knew it had. Yet she was still so lovely.

"How is it I am looking at you?" He asked with just a hint of amusement. "You must admit, it would be a rare thing for me to see such attire."

Dylan, flushing with embarrassment at being seen so scantily clad, wanted to go back to the rock, but the Elf was between it and her. She didn't want to risk going around him. He might try to duck her again. So she turned and began half-bouncing, half-wading through the water away from the man who'd dared to soak her. Twice.

A tangle of male appreciation and a savage thirst for vengeance knotted in Nuada's belly when he saw both familiar and never-before-seen scars practically cascading down her back—the vicious bite mark, a broken circle of pale pink scar tissue gracing a spot to the left of her backbone at the base of her slender neck; the smudged marks from being shot, high on her left shoulder; the burn-scar in the shape of a handprint on her right, like a rose-pale angel's wing; thin, raised, tendril-like white scars like melted wax near the middle of the delicate column of her spine; seven evenly spaced slash marks the color of old bones, ripped from just under the shoulder blade diagonally across her back, clipping the bottom of the white seemingly-melted scar; another bullet scar peeked at him from the left of the small of her back, just barely visible; a divet from being stabbed hovered just to the left of Dylan's kidney; and there were various tiny white dashes and nicks from little injuries too numerous to count. How many more scars did Dylan carry on that fragile mortal shell?

Yet at the same time he was gifted with a view of the soft skin of her back, the elegant arch of shoulder blade and the shadows of damp curls clinging to her skin. He ached to catch up to her, his fingers itching to trace each of those marks in her flesh. Memorize the pattern of her sorrows with his fingertips. Feel the warmth of her under his hands. If he allowed his touch to ghost along her spine, tracing the ridges of fragile bones like glass, would she shiver? Would anticipation of the next stroke set the blood humming under her skin? How would Dylan's skin feel pressed against his bare chest while he cradled her in his arms and let his mouth trail along the silken line of her neck, tasting her fluttering pulse?

"My swimming clothes aren't important," Dylan called over her shoulder, breaking his studious concentration and helping him shove the sudden desire aside. Not here; not in the dreamscape, where he had no control. The mortal added, "My vengeance is. It will come when you least expect it, Your Highness, and it will be brutal. Now stop smirking at me," she added. "I'm scary and fierce, remember?"

"I remember," Nuada said. She'd been moving while he'd been mesmerized by the old, healed wounds on her back. Now he managed to catch up with her by doing a lazy backstroke. When she shot him a frosty look, he grinned. "You're quite terrifying."

"You think you're so cute."

He stopped swimming and stood. The water came to a few inches beneath his breastbone. On Dylan, it rose until only the tops of her shoulders showed above the water. "You might not want to keep going that way," the Elven prince said. Her look was half inquiry, half aggravation. He offered a negligent shrug. "It was merely a suggestion. Snapping turtles, you know. Not very friendly—" He broke off when she squeaked and threw her arms around his neck. The material of her swimsuit slid slick and cool against his bare skin. "Afraid of a few little turtles, Dylan?"

She scowled at him. "Oh, bite me."

Oh, he'd like to. Especially because the way her hair curled so darkly against the paleness of her throat added to the allure of that smooth, soft skin. He thought again of brushing his lips over the softness, allowing himself a taste of her skin.

Nuada wrenched his mind away from such thoughts.

"I was only teasing," he assured her. Keeping his face perfectly straight, the Elven prince added, "As far as I know, the only thing you need worry over in this spring are leeches—" This time she screamed and clung to him even more tightly. Nuada obligingly lifted her into his arms so her feet were nowhere near the bottom of the spring. "I thought you were a healer."

She thumped him on the chest. "Keep up with the times. Healers don't use leeches anymore, you barbarian. Erm, well...okay, they do, but not usually."

His look was one of Elven superiority mixed with masculine pride as he carried her to some of the rocks jutting out of the water in the sandy part of the spring. "I would have you know I am not a barbarian, my lady. And if you stay away from the mud and keep to the sand, you needn't worry about leeches." When she gave him a pitiful look, he sighed. "There are none on you, if that is what you're worried about."

"Why do boys like shoving girls into water?" She murmured plaintively. "It's mean."

Boys? He didn't snarl. Didn't growl. But he didn't appreciate her referring to him as a boy, either. Retribution had to follow. "You're asking why boys and men alike enjoy seeing a beautiful woman soaking wet?" When silver-swept eyes met his, color swirled across Dylan's cheeks and she ducked her head again. The prince smiled. Her blushes were always amusing.

Nuada set her down on the smooth surface of one of the stones. Dylan shifted to get comfortable and then hastily dropped her gaze, embarrassed anew now that her legs were no longer concealed even a little bit by the water. Now the Elven prince could see nearly all of the silver and pink marks on her legs.

Some he'd seen before; others were often hidden by socks or trousers or skirts or leggings. He recognized several wire-thin silver lines looping around the flesh right above her right knee, but he'd never seen the claw marks that slashed along the lower outside of one thigh. Ripped and ragged marks of death-white spattered her upper calves and a part of her left thigh. A small burn-scar marred part of her lower left calf. Tiny silvery circles peppered part of the inside of her calf, right above where the major vein ran beneath the flesh. There were several thin, silver-white marks from old knife wounds and very small, pale pink circular burn scars at the tops of her thighs, disappearing beneath the material of her swimsuit. On the back of her right calf, barely visible due to the way she sat, was a mark almost identical to the one at her neck, save this was bigger and the mark was a faded purple.

When Dylan finally met his eyes again, her limbs relaxed and Nuada saw the ice-white spill of scars that ran along the inside of both thighs before disappearing beneath the material of her swimsuit. She caught the direction of his gaze. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the thick, wide scars Dylan had inflicted on herself in her efforts to escape the hell of her young life.

His lady made a small sound and hastily looked down, pressing her knees together to hide the scars. "I hate swimsuits," she mumbled. Nuada brought his gaze back to her troubled face. "They show too much."

"Dylan," he said gently, and tilted her chin up. Crystalline droplets of water clung to the delicate line of her jaw and glittered against her cheekbones like jewels, glistened along the slender column of her throat. Even more gently, he placed his hands on her knees and pressed, sliding Dylan's legs apart just enough that he could stand between them. Then, careful not to actually touch her skin, he let his hands ghost higher. One hand became a warm weight against her hip. Nuada reached up with a hand that shook slightly and cupped her cheek. "You needn't feel shame when I look at you."

"It's just...I don't let people look. Ever. I'm covered in...and everyone would stare and I just...you shouldn't have to see this when you look at me. That's all. I'm just...I should..." Her mouth was trembling now and he heard tears thickening her voice. "I should probably go or...or something. I don't...I don't know."

"No." He allowed his thumb to brush her cheek in a gentle sweep that sent her eyelids drifting down. She drew a shuddering breath. Nuada whispered, "No. I want to see you. Come here." She inched forward a bit. "Closer, mo duinne." As if moving through a fog, Dylan shifted forward until she was a hair's breadth away from the solid wall of Nuada's bare chest. "Look at me."

It took her a long moment, almost as if she were afraid of what she would see. Finally she met his eyes. Nuada lowered his forehead to hers. Rested it there, and just stood with her for a moment. Such a hard life, but such a brave and beautiful woman. How did Dylan not see what she did to him? How she fired his blood and left him so aware of her? Of being so close to her?

Whatever she saw in his eyes was enough to relax her. She slipped just a breath closer. Whispered his name like a plea. "Nuada." Each syllable slid over him like silk.

In that instant of awareness, for the first time there was no whisper of heat, no simmer in his blood. Instead there was desire, hot and swift, burning in his belly. His thumb brushed away one of the diamond droplets gilding her cheekbone. He moved just a little closer.

Usually the urge to kiss the mortal in his arms came whenever that enticing mouth came too close or he could no longer resist the urge to touch her lips with the pads of his fingers. But now it wasn't either of those things. Just the softness of her skin beneath his stroking thumb; the sunlight on her hair; her eyes like stardust, shining with trust and an impossible emotion he dared not name because to name it was to break himself against it.

His settled his hands at the small of her back because he didn't know where else it would've been safe to place them. Dylan felt the heat of that touch burning through her. Her arms twined hesitantly around Nuada's neck. She slid a little closer. The blood was humming under her skin and she knew she was about to do something very, very stupid. Very, very dangerous. And very, very right.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, "so beautiful," almost as if the confession hurt, and Dylan knew he hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to say anything; knew that every instinct clamored at him to step back from her, to shove her away. Instead Nuada pulled her even closer. Let his forehead rest against hers again; carefully untied the ribbon that held her hair in a ponytail, so that those dark curls tumbled into his hand. He tangled his fingers in the wealth of them before letting them cascade down around her shoulders and back. He tossed the ribbon aside.

Nuada could feel her every soft curve against his body. Feel every beat of her heart, every shallow breath she took through slightly parted lips. Honey-gold eyes shifted to palest sun-kissed ivory. He wanted...he wanted so much...no. No, not wanted. He needed to kiss her. Lay his mouth on hers here in the sanctuary of this dream and his own memory. No one would see. No one would know. Not even Nuala, because the Elven prince had stayed heavily shielded against his twin since that brutal nightmare and his sister couldn't break through such shields.

No, no one would ever have to know about this. Except Dylan. Dylan would know. Unless she forgot because this was a dream. He didn't want her to forget. Would she push him away? Gods, he hoped not. Didn't know if he could bear that. The thought was almost enough to stay him. But his hand moved of its own accord, sliding up her back, whispering along her spine, over the rigid silk of scars and the delicate ridges of shoulder blades, to the nape of her neck. His fingers tangled in her soft, thick hair. His fingertips just barely grazed the side of her neck, small tickling caresses he was almost certain were causing the little shivers down her spine.

Her own fingers, the ones not playing with his damp hair, brushed against his neck. Right above where the pulse beat hard. His heart was suddenly pounding. Did she know it was for her? That her softest touch made his pulse race? Nuada felt each of her touches down to his very bones. There was no fear in those incredible eyes now. Only a welcoming softness. An unfathomable something in the depths of those oh so very lovely blue eyes like moonlit lakes. Nuada could drown in her gaze. Drown in her. He wanted to drown. Wanted nothing more in that moment than to sink into her and lose himself, just for a little while.

"Nuada," she whispered. "It's...I...it's okay if...if you want to..." Dylan nervously licked her bottom lip. Saw when eyes like gold-dusted ivory sharpened and focused on her mouth. The delicious heat of his body embraced her. His feral eyes caressed her face, her mouth. The fingers of one hand threaded through her hair, exerting the tiniest amount of pressure. Surprisingly, that pressure didn't scare her. She was safe with him. He would never hurt her. His other hand at the small of her back held her against the hard sheltering strength of his body. It left Dylan lightheaded and tongue-tied. "If you want me to..." A slightly embarrassed laugh escaped. "I don't even know what I'm trying to say, I just—"

"Hush," he commanded, but in the gentlest voice he'd ever used with her, a voice like velvet. Nuada tightened his hold just a little, reveling in the softness of her. She was so very soft compared against him. So small and fragile. The prince studied her face for a moment. He had to make sure there was no fear in her. Not in this moment. Nuada leaned in to breathe softly in her ear, "Dylan. Mo duinne. Don't be afraid." Her breathing hitched. When he pulled back to look at that beautiful face again, those lovely lips had parted. "It's all right. Do not be afraid, a chumann."

"I'm never afraid with you," Dylan said. Sweetheart. He'd called her sweetheart. And he was so very close. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her mouth, his heart pounding against her own chest. His hand against her back trembled slightly. "I trust you."

"I know," Nuada whispered just before his lips brushed against the soft silk of hers. Just the barest touch. A hint of taste. Eamonn had been right, Nuada realized with a jolt of utter shock. She tasted of strawberries and honey. So sweet. Dylan offered him a soft sigh as his lips caressed hers again. Once. Twice. She didn't push him away. She pulled him closer, making a little kitten sound low in her throat. He loved that sound. Loved that she'd made it for him.

Then he couldn't hold back anymore and his mouth came down fully on hers with a generous hunger that shook him. Nearly undid him. Her mouth was like hot silk beneath his. So perfect. Was he drowning yet? Nuada didn't know. Couldn't find it in himself to care one way or the other.

But careful, he had to be careful of her. Gentle. He didn't want to scare her. Didn't want to bring back dark memories. Wanted this moment to be for her. For them. Even if they never had another moment like this again.

Weakness flooded Dylan's knees and her stomach somersaulted. Absently she reminded herself to breathe. She was only still semi-upright because she clung to Nuada with a desperation she'd never known before. His mouth on hers was everything Dylan could have ever imagined. There was no hollow ache inside her at the touch of his lips. No chill icing the blood in her veins. No bruising hands or cruelty. Only a sweet joy that shimmered through her like sunlight. Easy heat that warmed her from the inside out. Gentle touches at her back with all the strength of steel and all the softness of butterfly wings. Tenderness. Sweetness. A sense of being cherished. Rightness.

He made her feel all of that. All with a smoldering kiss he managed to keep chaste and undemanding while still turning her blood to molten gold. Nuada held her as if she were something precious. As if he never meant to let her go. She had never been kissed like this before. Never been held like this. Never.

Until now. Until Nuada.

He was shaking now. Could scarcely draw breath. He had to stop, or take this too far. Had to pull away from the silken fire of her mouth. Dylan made a soft sound of protest as he moved back. Blue eyes lit with sweet moonglow met his gaze. Nuada swallowed. Tried not to lick his lips to catch the taste of her on his mouth. Dylan murmured in a breathy voice like pure temptation, "Tabhair ná cuir cosc, Nuada." Her voice was soft as a dream when it slid over him.

Please don't stop, Nuada.

A ragged breath shuddered out of him. The hand tangled in her hair slid around to cup her face. Callused fingertips rasped like rough velvet over her skin. He suddenly remembered Dylan murmuring only a couple weeks ago, Do with me what you will.Nuada shuddered again. Tried to push back the sudden desperate need searing him. He had to be careful with her. Had to resist the urge to coax those petal-soft lips apart and deepen the next kiss until he could finally sate the hunger for her.

"Please," she whispered, trembling, and the Elven warrior knew then that his hunger would never be sated. "If it's a dream don't let it be over yet."

Then his mouth was on hers again, so hungry, and once more he tasted honey and summer strawberries. Exquisite. When he pulled her even closer, desperate to feel her, tentative hands slid over his shoulders, his chest—not to push away or to stay him. Just to touch him. Just to touch. Could she feel his heart pounding under those caressing fingertips?

He had to remind himself to go slowly. Remind himself that in the most important ways, Dylan was still an innocent and although this was not her first kiss, it was close enough. But the ember of lust nearly always smoldering in his belly was catching fire and it was so hard to maintain control. He trembled with the effort.

Don't stop, she'd pleaded. Please don't stop. Ah, never, he would never stop, so long as she kept making those little kitten sounds and pressing against him. Nuada nipped gently at her bottom lip and shivered when she sighed into the kiss. He nipped again. Those lips parted for him and he groaned against that perfect mouth. At last, at last he could—

No. Too fast, he was taking her too fast. Things would go too far here in the dreamscape. So he gripped her fragile shoulders and pulled back, struggling to keep his breathing even. Her eyes were slightly glazed with desire, her lips kiss-swollen and so very tempting. Nuada closed his eyes. Tried to calm his galloping heart. Tried to reclaim his breath. Tried to remember his honor. "Gods, mo duinne..."

"I didn't...I mean..." she whispered. He felt the inward retreat before she pulled her hands away. "I shouldn't have—"

"No," Nuada said softly, and framed her face so she was forced to look at him. "No. Do not withdraw from me. Do not pull away. Not here. Please." He leaned in. Feathered gentle kisses at the corner of her mouth, along her cheekbone, the line of her jaw. Tasted the drops of water clinging to her skin. Careful, had to be careful. He brushed his lips over hers once more. Breathed in Dylan's soft sigh. "Do not regret this, Dylan. Do not be sorry for it."

Nuada couldn't find it in himself to regret this, either, though it was reckless and cruel of him to do this. Unfair of him. She wouldn't remember this when she woke. Was it honorable to allow himself to give into temptation, knowing he wouldn't have to face the consequences?

Her fingertips ghosted over his chest, lightly tracing the muscles honed by countless hours of combat training and centuries of war. She followed the short, ridged knife scar that sliced across the top of his abdomen. Brushed against his sternum, felt his heartbeat under her touch. Her fingers trembled. Was she even breathing? Dylan met eyes like palest ivory edged with molten gold. Then she leaned in. Nuada watched with bated breath as those soft, scarred lips laid a tender kiss right over his heart.

Swiftly indrawn breath. A shudder. Hunger flared, heating his blood. But he didn't recapture her tempting mouth. Just let her slide her hands over his chest. His eyes slid closed. Her voice was a mere thread of sound when she whispered, "I can feel your heart beating. It's so fast."

Dylan tried to keep her own heart from racing. Tried to keep from hyperventilating. He was so close, so warm, so incredibly solid. And he'd kissed her as if...as if...

Was she sharing a dream with the real Nuada? Or was this her own little fantasy dream? She didn't know what she was doing. Didn't know what to do in this kind of situation. Had never been in this kind of situation. Dylan just wanted to touch him, feel him and know he was really there with her, but she wasn't sure how to explain that, how to show him. So she laid her cheek against where his heart pounded so hard and asked softly, "What do you want me to do?"

The reckless freedom of the dreamscape dragged the words from him. "Be with me," Nuada whispered. He stroked the side of her face and knew his eyes were soft in a way he rarely let her see. "Let me hold you. Just for now, let me hold you."

"Then hold me," she said, and melted into the warmth and fiercely protective strength of his arms. A tremor shivered through him. Slight, but they both felt it. "It's okay," she murmured. "We're okay. We'll be okay."

"This can't happen, Dylan."

An eternity of silence. Then, "I know." She reached up to caress the royal scar carved across his face. "I know. It's okay."

So many things unspoken, yet understood. Nuada knew Dylan understood she might not remember this. Probably wouldn't remember any of it. He might not, either. He wasn't sure if he wanted to or not. To remember those sweet kisses and everything else would be torture. To forget would give him a moment's peace but he didn't want to forget the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms. Did Dylan know how he felt? Could she feel it? How could anything be all right between them again if she did? And how could he bear remembering this moment if she didn't?

Dylan had no illusions. There was something here between them that threatened to break her heart. She wasn't stupid enough to think it was love. At least not on Nuada's part. That was just hoping for too much. But he felt something for her and that was more than Dylan could have ever hoped for.

So she wouldn't question this. Wouldn't demand anything from him. She would just enjoy this moment. Just pretend that it would go on forever. Pretend that, if she did remember, it wouldn't break her heart to pieces because her prince was absolutely right—this couldn't happen.

Nuada caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Dylan." A gentle murmur. Almost a prayer.

"Kiss me again, Nuada," his impossible mortal lady whispered. So he laid his mouth against hers and tasted the sweetness of her again. A lingering kiss, this time, full of simmering promise and regret, an unspoken wish and an intangible dream. Nuada swallowed back the salt of sorrow and regret rising in his throat. He loved her. Gods, how he loved her, which should've been impossible, yet was all too true. Why couldn't he have this? Why couldn't he simply be with her?

Then it was over. Her lips no longer caressed his, her hands no longer tangled in his hair. But she smiled at him, and the sudden weight on his chest eased a little.

"So," she said. "You gonna teach me how to swim?"

Nuada huffed a laugh. She always knew what to say to him. "Aren't you worried about leeches?"

Dylan's smile widened, bright as a sunrise. She lifted one shoulder in that elegant half-shrug. "You'll protect me."

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Author's Note: I KNOW! I KNOW! I'm so evil words can't even describe me! Ah-hahahahahahaha! I'm SO evil. I know. So they finally kiss (are you happy now, Ecnelis? Ja Reedus?) but they're probably not even gonna remember! Because that would mess up the dynamic and the plotlines I've got mapped out right now. Hehehehe. But did it at least give you kiss-cravers enough of a fix that you can wait until the real, physical, fully conscious kiss coming up...soon? If so, yay! Now the action can commence (and we got some great, awesome, deliriously sensual but still closed-mouthed kissing in this chapter)! So hope you guys liked chapter forty-four and hope you enjoy 45, which will hopefully be up sometime in the next few days.

Now our lovely review prompt! Wootness!

1) Nuada taking care of Dylan while sick. It was sort of glossed over, but how did we feel about this gentler, more tender side of our angsty panda of an Elven prince? We never see him really being anything other than the savage warrior prince in the film (except that rare and creepily incestuous moment with Nuala in the library and when he's being all techno-geeky with the golden egg thing) so I'm trying to explore his many facets.

2) Oh, Nuala and her messenger services. Messengers in general, actually. What do we think of the message from the king (relayed by Nuala) for Nuada? And what do we think of Nuala catching glimpses of Nuada's darker memories?

3) Wink's plan. What are our thoughts on Wink's despicable and genius plan for tricking the king?

4) Oh, the dream. What do we think of the dream? Hehehehehe. I want a long response for this one because I put a lot of work into it for you guys. Yay!

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About the Chapter Title: "Twas But a Dream of Thee" are the last six words of the first stanza of John Donne's poem, "The Good Morrow." Although not strictly faerie tale related exactly, I first came across this poem in the novelization of "Once Upon a Time in New York," the pilot for the television show,Beauty and the Beast(starring our very own Ron Perlman and Roy Dotrice, both of whom were inHellboy 2).

Memories of Kisses Challenge: Who wants to write a challenge entry where instead of waking up not remembering the kiss, they both wake up and remember? Or only one of them remembers? Someone should totally do that! *pokes Jasper, Nightmare, Jokerfest, and Ocean, as well as anyone else who might be interested*

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References Made in This Chapter:

- I don't actually know if there's a real island off the coast of Ireland called Roan Inish (Island of the Seals). Roan Inish is an island in a movie (which I think is based off of a book) called The Secret of Roan Inish, which is a lovely movie that draws heavily on Irish history and myth.

- A bakeneko is a cat shifter in Japanese mythology.

- Most of the herbs used in the potion Wink was making are for sore throat, except for hyssop, cherry bark, and willow bark (which are for fever).

- I got the idea of Wink as potion-brewer from Valiant by Holly Black, where Ravus the Troll brews potions. Also, because trolls in general are Nordic in mythology, I made Wink's people of Nordic descent (hence the reference to Valhalla).

- The idea of "I see you" is from James Cameron's Avatar. There's this really great concept of "I see you" meaning not just "I see you in front of me" but also that "I see into you, I see who you are, etc." I love it so much. The plot of Avatar isn't that original, but it's a good movie for a lot of reasons.

- The song Dylan is listening to/singing along with is "Suspended in Time" by Olivia Newton-John (famous for playing Sandy in Grease) from the film Xanadu.

- "A duty to Dylan? Is that greater now than your duty to Father?" is a quote from WhenNightmaresWalked's amazingly splendiferous chapter 27 challenge entry, "Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams."

- I got the idea for the rings from the original "Beauty and the Beast"—at least, I think it's the original. In a lot of the versions I've read or seen, Beauty gets a magical ring that, when she turns it on her finger and says "I want to see my Beast again" or words to that effect, it takes her back to the Beast's castle.

- Azaleas, among other things, stand for passion. Red poppies stand for pleasure, and honeysuckle represents the bonds of love. I pick my flowers very carefully, lol.