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.

73. Book 9 Took Her by the Hand

Author's Note: hello, everyone. So, seems like the reception for last chapter wasn't as favorable as normal. I was a little concerned and confused by some of your reviews at first. So I talked it over with my beta, kinda like, "What'd I do wrong?" And she was like, "Well, have you ever actually explained what's wrong with Dylan? Mentally?" Sheepishly, I confessed, "Well, no, not in so many words. You never said anything!" (Because isn't that what betas are for? To tell you when you mess up stuff like that?) And she replied, "Well, I got it. Not everyone will. So wait until you post 73 and see what people say then." So let's see what you guys think. I hope you guys enjoy.

PS—there's a Legend of Zelda reference in this chapter. Who can find it?

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Book Nine

A Lady of the Faerie Court

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Chapter Seventy-Three
Took Her by the Hand
that is
A Short Tale of Refusal, a Clever Ploy, an Explanation, Conditions, a Phone Call, Conditions Met, a Question and a Promise, and a Realization

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"Our command is but this: to mollify the pro-human faction of the Court, you two will marry a year and a day from the winter solstice."

Several drastically different emotions flashed through Nuada: shock, that his father would actually command such a thing, and command it of them now; elation, absolute elation, because Dylan had said she would marry him if Balor commanded it, which meant she would agree to this, and he could at last make his truelove his wife. Then dismay and remorse flooded him as he caught a glimpse of Dylan's face.

He'd expected anger. Irritation, at the very least. Dylan didn't like his father (loathing would be a more apt description of her feelings; odd, as Dylan only hated very few, and the others who'd incurred her disfavor were vile monsters without heart or soul). Yet when Nuada glanced at her, there was no ire in her expression. No annoyance or even incredulity. There was only dull acceptance. Melancholy. As if she'd expected such a devious ploy for a long while and it had finally come when she'd decided to simply accept it, instead of fighting against the inevitable. It was almost a look of defeat. There was no joy in her expression. None.

Didn't she want to marry him? Didn't she want to be his wife? She'd said she did. Said she wanted to be with him. So why did she look so sad?

For the first time, he pondered the difference between his loyalty to the king of Bethmoora and her loyalty to her divine Master.

Nuada served his king and country faithfully and well out of duty. He'd been born to privilege and with that privilege came certain obligations. And he loved his father. His people. Loved Bethmoora—every forest, every river, every mountain and meadow, every village and town and city. He'd been all over his kingdom in his forty centuries and loved it all. Even when serving brought its own crushing weight of grief and pain.

Why did Dylan serve her King? Obligation? She hadn't been born into privilege as Nuada had. What influences forced her to obey the High King's edicts? Fear of damnation to the Christian Hell? That didn't seem likely. An emotionally battered and physically brutalized woman-child would not have latched onto a faith system of that kind. So what was it that compelled her to serve the Star Kindler so devoutly? He didn't know, but he did know that whatever it was would explain the sorrow on that exhausted, scarred face.

"What say you, Prince Nuada? Lady Dylan?"

Before Nuada could speak, Dylan opened her mouth. If she hadn't sounded so tired, the words would've been something akin to a snarl. "What do you think I have to say, Your Majesty? The same thing I've been saying. What part of 'goes against my religion' did you forget? I thought the fae had long memories."

Balor's thin brows rose. "And what part of 'I'll do anything if you have mercy on Nuada' did you forget, little mortal? I know humans have short memories, but surely they are not that short."

"You're mocking me, aren't you?" She asked wearily.

"You make it so easy. So, what say you?"

Dylan sighed. "I say this whole situation sucks, Your Majesty. But I'm pretty sure you knew that. I also have to ask…how much of this little war counsel was actually genuine?" Both men gave a start. "Did you actually believe Nuada and me about the spells? Or were you just pretending to make us think you were on our side?

"What took so long for the guard to reach you tonight, by the way? Uaithne told me the guard left after I'd been screaming for about a minute, yet no one came to help. What if Nuada had raped me? Did you actually plan to stop him, or were you going to let him hang himself, and to Hell with the annoying human slut? Were you just going to write me off as collateral damage? Did you actually take the spells off him, or just suppress them? How do we know you weren't the fae monarch who laid them in the first place?"

Nuada's hand came down on her knee. He squeezed lightly—a silent warning. He'd have thought she was angry…but he didn't sense anger from her, only tasted exhaustion so brutal it dragged at him.

"Do not test me, girl," the king said without inflection. "You have used up my patience already. Keep pushing, and you know what will happen. Don't you?"

"Just answer one question. Was this whole thing a trap to force us into this?"

"Dylan," Nuada hissed. "Enough." When Balor shifted, the prince added, "Forgive her, Majesty. She's exhausted and distraught by tonight's tribulations. I should take her back to her room so she may rest."

The king flicked his eyes to his son before focusing on the human girl once more. "What did he tell you that makes you despise and fear me so, little mortal? What lies has he been spilling into your ears?" Beside Dylan, Nuada stiffened. "What sweetly-poisoned half-truths has he been feeding you?"

She leaned back and arched one eyebrow. "He told me you were a wise king who did his best to take care of his kingdom and do right by his people. It's not what the prince told me that makes it obvious you're an enemy, Sire. I figured that out the moment I first set foot in your Great Hall. I realized you were dangerous when I walked in and saw my prince, your son, chained by iron shackles to cursed iron whipping posts, blood sheeting down his back and pooling on the floor at his feet, half-dead from shock and pain, and you weren't even looking at him. It's not what he's told me—it's what I've seen you do."

"Then you know that you play a very dangerous game, Lady Dylan. Push me too far, and you'll see what more I can do when given the right incentive. I know your weaknesses, my lady. Remember that. Now, what say you to my command? Will you obey, or break faith with the Daione Maithe?"

Dylan closed her eyes. Drew a deep breath. "I have sworn that I will obey this command, so I will marry Crown Prince Nuada of Bethmoora at the behest of his father the king. Under protest."

"Protest noted and dismissed. What say you, Nuada?"

"I refuse."

Nuada didn't know where the words came from. He only knew that while Dylan looked at his father as if Balor were the poisoned draught she was being forced to drain to the dregs, he couldn't obey his father's command.

Balor's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. Dylan's mouth dropped open in horror. "Nuada," his truelove began, voice hoarse, "Nuada, what are you doing?"

"That is a very good question," the king said. "If you mean to make a joke, Crown Prince, I don't find it at all amusing."

"I'm quite serious, my king."

Fear iced Dylan's heart as Balor's eyes flashed hot copper. She grabbed Nuada's hand and held out her free hand to the king. "Please, Your Majesty, um…just wait. Let me convince him. Please. Just…just give us a day or two to talk it over. I can make him see reason. Honestly. Please?"

"Dylan," Nuada began, "I will not—"

She jabbed him in the ribs with a bruised elbow. Winced. "Shut up! Before he orders us to do something worse! Like become lovers or something." Then, realizing she'd just let slip something the king could use against them, she added in a whisper before Balor could say anything, "Or worse, sleep in the same bed together. He's mean enough to do that just for spite."

"I can hear you, Lady Dylan," Balor said. Dylan made a face and dropped her gaze to the floor as if embarrassed. "Let me see if I understand you. Sleeping in the same bed with my son is worse than becoming his lover against the command of your divine King? Why is that?"

The mortal swallowed. "Well…I've heard that…that Prince Nuada is an accomplished lover. So there's that. A bonus, as it were." Nuada barely managed to refrain from choking. "However," oh, please, let this work, please don't let him see through this, she thought, "he's a sucky bed-sharer. He hogs the blankets. And the pillows. And I'm not actually supposed to sleep in the same bed as someone of the opposite sex except in an instance of medical emergency, also by order of my God. Which is how I found out Nuada hogs the pillows and blankets—medical emergency, I was suffering from hypothermia. And he drools, too."

"I most certainly do not," the prince retorted, though he noticed the corner of his father's mouth twitch. As soon as Dylan had started her tangent, Nuada had known she was going somewhere with it, even if he didn't know where. So he'd followed, knowing she had a plan. Sometimes her plans failed. Sometimes they worked when the odds said they shouldn't. "You snore. And kick in your sleep. And you steal the blankets. Little thief. A man would freeze his ba—"

"I do not! You snore like a congested bear. And you're a total grouch in the morning."

"And you—"

"Children," Balor said in a firm voice, breaking up the mock-argument. Dylan suppressed a flash of triumph. Balor had gone from furious king to mildly annoyed—and somewhat amused—father. One was easier to deal with than the other. "Enough. You have until Friday evening before the masquerade to make your decision, Prince Nuada. Clearly the late hour and the trials of the day have muddled your thoughts.

"And just so you are made aware of what you'll be missing if you reject my command a second time, Crown Prince, you will take the Lady Dylan to your bed for the next two nights." Both Elven prince and mortal woman stiffened. "Whether you do more than sleep chastely beside her is your decision. However, in this, I will be obeyed. Disobey, and I will command you to take her as your leman. Consider it the consequence of defying," with a look at Nuada, "and disrespecting," with a sharp look at Dylan, "your king after I have shown you mercy. Any more disobedience, any more defiance, and I'll show no leniency with either of you. Understand?"

One dark-shrouded topaz eye slanted a look at the mortal's pale, scarred face. Dylan nodded almost imperceptibly to her prince. Her face was very pale. Nuada inclined his head to the king. The prince's expression was icy. Dylan kept her gaze trained on the floor.

"You're both dismissed. I suggest you get to bed. Now begone."

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Once in the corridor, surrounded by guards, the grim expressions worn by prince and mortal dissolved. Nuada's anger was replaced by incredulity, Dylan's with smug satisfaction.

I cannot believe that actually worked, the prince said through their linked hands. That comment about lovers was an unfortunate slip, but you recovered very quickly. I can scarcely believe he actually thought you would prefer having me take you as my mistress to simply sleeping in my bed.

Well, you do have a reputation with women. And you really do hog the covers, Dylan replied, forcing down her smirk. So it is kind of a hardship. But our incredibly silly and pointless argument also momentarily distracted him from getting really mad at you about refusing. Her satisfied smirk faded. What the heck is wrong with you? What were you thinking? You already said you'd do it. D'you need your head examined or something?

No. It is a simple statement of fact. I refuse to be coerced.

If this is a pride thing, I swear I'll dent your head with the nearest blunt object. Twice. Then I'll strangle you with my bare hands, bake you into a pie, and feed you to Wink, whenever he gets back. Are you out of your Elven mind? You don't refuse a direct order from King Balor; he's a sadist.

That's stretching it a bit far, mo duinne, Nuada said as they made it to the stairs. He's merely doing what he thinks is best.

Right. Hence why he threatened to force you to have sex with me. That's totally what's best. Luckily, bizarre mortal antics actually work sometimes on obnoxious Elven kings. What does he think he's accomplishing, though, with a threat like that? Is he bluffing?

No, Nuada replied. Not bluffing. Punishing. Kings are like common men in that way—when they get angry, they Lash Out. They simply must be more circumspect about it. It cannot draw attention to the king's anger. But no one would believe my father would order me to take you to my bed as a punishment. If anything, they would doubt his involvement at all. I earned my reputation as a consummate lover; no woman has ever left me unsatisfied. The court knows this. Royalty is expected to take lovers. Only my father would know how distasteful I would find such a thing, and I would only find it so because you don't wish such a thing to occur. If you had no objections, I would have seduced you long ago.

She gave him a wry look. Uh-huh. How long is "long ago," exactly? A week? A month?

If I'd arrived at the cottage before Eamonn, and you hadn't been ill, and you hadn't objected, I would've asked you to my bed either that night or a night soon after. Rather, I would have asked if I might come to your bed.

Oh. Dylan looked positively stunned. I…didn't know that. I, um…but we hadn't even kissed. You didn't know I was in love with you. Why would you…I mean…why?

Once gone from your cottage after our argument, I found myself unable to rid myself of thoughts of you. I didn't know you loved me, but I knew after that first night gone that I cared for you. And I knew, after only a week gone from your presence, that I loved you. My pride would have tried to prevent me, and my sense of duty to my people, but eventually I would've been grateful to accept whatever scraps you might have thrown me.

I couldn't be your husband, for honor and my oaths and the cooler feelings of your own heart prevented it—or so I thought. He shrugged. If circumstances had been different, I would've attempted to be satisfied with the honor and privilege of being your lover. And knowing what I knew of your history, I would have made the first overture, so that you would be aware of my regard. I would not have simply demanded you allow me to have my way with you. I would've employed romance. Attempted to woo you. Tried to prove my sincerity.

Attempted? There would've been no attempting. There would've been wooing, and falling for said wooing like a ton of bricks, and then I'd be a puddle of happy mortal at your feet. I had no idea, though. She smiled, suddenly feeling inexplicably shy. I had no idea you felt…I didn't know you'd felt like that. Why did you keep your feelings to yourself for so long?

Many reasons, Nuada said as they approached the third floor and the royal suites. Too numerous and complicated to get into at the moment. A more pertinent question would be, whose bed are we sleeping in tonight? And why did you agree to such a thing?

For one thing, I don't think your dad would be too happy with my being smart twice in a row. And two refusals, one from each of us? He'd kill us. Possibly literally. Or at least hurt you. He was being nice up until I started ticking him off again; I didn't want to risk it. And if I refused, he might've upped the stakes. Instead of just sleeping, he might've ordered you to take me as your lover, and then we'd be screwed. In a lot of ways. Although still…ugh. I have to sleep in your bed. My bed. A bed. With you. This is not good. This is…meh. I don't want to.

I'm sorry to be such an inconvenience, the prince replied dryly.

Oh, don't even start. You know why I don't want to sleep in the same bed with you. At Nuada's raised eyebrow, she gave him a look of pure incredulity. You've got to be kidding. You mean you actually don't know? Because you're all cuddly.

He nearly tripped on the last stair. Because I'm what?

Cuddly. I remember from when I was hypothermic. You were all nice and warm and cuddly under the blanket and I just…kinda…wanted to, um, sort of crawl on top of you to get all nice and toasty. Which I kinda…did.

You were quite…what was the word you used? Ah, "toasty." You were quite toasty against my side, as well, mo duinne. He scowled at her when she giggled tiredly. Why is it you're allowed to use certain words and I am not?

Because you sound silly. I don't. Chalk it up to being mortal. At least you've got adorable Elf ears. But in all seriousness, Dylan added as they approached the doors to their suites, we're getting married next Midwinter. I don't care what you say. It's one thing when nothing's at stake, but your dad is going to seriously kick your butt if you refuse. Especially because of the politics involved, with the anti-human group and the pro-human group.

No, Dylan. He held the door to her sitting room open so she could follow Uaithne and the others inside. I'm not going to marry you simply because my father orders me to do so. It isn't fair to you.

Blue eyes widened. What? Not fair to me? She followed him into her room. The moment both prince and mortal were in the bedroom, the guards made themselves scarce. She snagged his hand. "What are you talking about?"

The crown prince met her gaze, and held it. "I'll not force an unwilling woman to my bed. I'll not have an unwilling wife. It is grossly unjust that you should sacrifice so much for me—your ideals, your dream of family, your hope for marriage within the Star Kindler's temple, your hope for a simple and peaceful life. You'll sacrifice all of that without a second thought. Why?"

"What do you mean, why? Because I love you! Because I don't want anything to happen to you! Because I don't want to lose you! Because if you refuse to obey your father's orders, he. Will. Hurt. You. And this time, he may not stop before you're dead.

"If I hadn't shown up that night, Nuada," Dylan hastened to say when he opened his mouth to argue, "you would've died. I'm a doctor. I know what I'm talking about. I don't think you've actually accepted this, but you would've died without intervention. You were in shock when I arrived. The flesh had been flayed from your back. Your clothes and your hair were soaked with your own blood. You were barely conscious. You'd received one-thousand lashes and you were going to get one-thousand more. You were dying under the lash and he didn't stop!

"Did you forget he was planning on punishing you for crimes you hadn't committed and you would've died and he didn't care? He never officially pardoned you. Did he even apologize in private? You almost died! Why do you think I'm so scared of him? He almost killed you! And for what? So you didn't defend yourself at that so-called trial. So what? He had no proof. He only had Eamonn's word. He didn't even try to have Nuala read your mind. He chained you with ensorcelled iron and whipped the flesh from your back. He may love you, he may be your father, but he's our enemy and I wouldn't put it past him to try and set you up to give him another excuse to kill you.

"If you tick him off, he'll hurt you. I mean, he will seriously hurt you. He's the king; push him too far, he'll have to, just to save face. And Nuada, I'm so, so afraid of how he'll do it. I'm so scared of what he might think up to do to you. He's ruthless and terrifying and he's dangerous. You can't refuse him. Please. Please, Nuada. Just say, 'Yes.' Please."

"My father didn't intend for me to die that night, Dylan."

"Maybe not, but he didn't seem too broken up about the fact that you almost did. If you take everything else off the table, get rid of all our suspicions about things we can't prove—the dullahan, the shandymen, the nocs, the attack on Wink, the compulsion spells—get rid of all that and we're still dealing with a man who doesn't seem to care if you live or die.

"And I asked a very good question, one he didn't answer: why did it take so long for him to deal with what the guard told him tonight? What if you had raped me? In some alternate universe where you're evil," she added when a shadow passed over his face, "where you have one of those Evil Twin goatees like Spock." At this, he gave her a bewildered look. "What if your Evil Universe Self had actually raped me? If your father had moved his butt and actually dealt with the situation, someone would've been in to deal with whatever was happening between us, instead of nobody showing up at all.

"I get that you're a prince, and the heir, but if your father's really that concerned about what you might do to me, wouldn't he have done something besides tell the guards to wait for us to leave the garden? I mean, cripes, what if you'd killed me? Not that you would, but he's such an idiot, he doesn't seem to know that. What was he going to say? 'Oops, should've moved a little faster. Sorry about that. Don't worry, Son, I'll buy you a new human.' I mean, why did he wait so long to investigate? What did he think was going to happen? What was he waiting for?"

"I don't know, Dylan," the prince confessed. "All right? I don't know. What does that have to do with—"

"Your father's ruthless, Nuada. If dishonoring or killing you will help him accomplish his goals, he'll do it. Moundshroud even warned me of that. And for some reason your father wants us to marry. He says it's to rob you of your anti-human supporters and appease the pro-human faction of court. Maybe it is. I don't know, I don't care. It doesn't matter. What matters is that he's willing to blackmail you into marrying me. And whatever he's going to use as leverage is going to be pretty nasty. We can't afford to get stupid right now. Says the woman who snarled at the king," she admitted, "but that doesn't mean I'm wrong."

Nuada ran a hand through his hair. "Mo duinne…it isn't fair to you—"

"Life's not fair!" Dylan cried. "But it doesn't matter. What matters is that we'll be okay if you just say, 'Yes.' I'll be fine."

"You're not fine," Nuada snapped. "You've been a step away from hysterics all night! And frankly, it is becoming…" He trailed off. Sighed. "I'm sorry, but—"

"No, you're right." She sighed and leaned against the wall. "You're absolutely right. I've been messed up all night. Worse than I have been in a long, long time. I'm sorry. I know it didn't help things." She raked a hand through her hair and sighed. "I know, but…I'm better now."

"Are you? I have never seen you so…so…"

"Weak? Whiny? Pathetic?"

He barely suppressed a wince. "I was going to say, 'emotional.'"

"Sure you were." She sighed. "It's okay, though. You're right. I've been…really emotional and weak and one might even say 'pathetic.'"

Eyes blazing, Nuada snapped, "I will not call someone who has lived through all that you've survived and made what you have of yourself 'pathetic.' Weak, perhaps. But as you say, we all have moments of weakness. Emotional? Well enough. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you are not fine, and I'm tired of you claiming to be so when a blind fool could see you are not."

Her sigh was half a laugh. "I'm surprised you haven't dumped me or…jeez, I don't know, slapped me by now."

"Do you think I'm the sort of man that would hit a woman? And what good would striking you do?"

She shrugged. "Isn't that what people do when someone supposedly gets hysterical? Slap them straight? Snap them out of it?"

Something about the way she said that made him hesitate. He frowned. "Supposedly hysterical? What do you mean?" She didn't answer. Merely chewed her bottom lip, heedless of any damage she might be doing. "Not hysterical," he realized suddenly. "Terrified. You were absolutely terrified. But why?"

There was a difference. Hysterics were a last-ditch reaction. A final flood of emotion before the mind shut down completely. While it had a cause, the cause and the reaction were often disproportionate. But terror…true and utter terror…the legitimate fear that someone's life was in immediate danger, and there was no help coming and no way out of the situation…

"You're not fine," Nuada murmured. "You are far from fine. How fragile are you?"

Exhausted blue eyes met his, and what he saw in their depths both reassured him…and chilled him.

.

"Well, you saw her," Crown Princess Kamaria of the Elven kingdom of Nyame said to her older and younger brothers. "Silverlance's human lady."

Farai, eldest prince of Nyame, made a revolted sound. "Sister, how can you call that…creature a lady?"

The crown princess shrugged one lean shoulder. Twining one of her countless midnight braids around her finger, she perched on the arm of her younger twin brother's chair and said, "Clearly he's besotted with her. You saw how they were tonight. And she's lovely. Did you see her face? No missing features, but she's still a fair rival for my own markings." Kamaria touched her braid-wrapped finger to the fleshy mound of scar tissue where her right eye had been.

"My sister, no one rivals your beauty," Kamaria's twin, Kagiso, insisted without looking away from the fire. "Scarred the mortal may be, but that's her only appeal, I should think. And for such a thing to intrigue the Silverlance? I don't believe that's what got him. Perhaps the rumors are true and she is a witch."

Kamaria raised an eyebrow and poked her brother in the side of the head, as she'd done since they were children whenever she considered him to be behaving in a particularly dense manner. "And what spell laid by a human could ensnare a faerie royal? There is no such spell. There's no such human who could enchant one of royal blood. No, if it's not the scars, it's something else."

"But what?" Farai demanded. He glanced at his sister. Kamaria didn't seem particularly distressed by the revolting display Silverlance had put on at the banquet. Then again, Kamaria was crown princess. Heir to their mother's throne. No princess lived as long as his little sister without developing the ability to hide her emotions. Perhaps she was just as sickened by what she'd seen in Nuada's eyes as Farai. Perhaps she was simply trying to ferret out the reasons for Nuada's sudden betrayal of everything they stood for.

"It doesn't matter. Let him dally with the human if he wishes," Kamaria said suddenly. "No doubt he's simply trying to learn something of use to the fae cause. Or he is a man after all," the princess added with a smirk. "Mayhap he is just as intrigued by her beauty as he once was with mine. Let Silverlance dally if he chooses. We have no proof he has turned against us."

Farai sputtered, "No proof? He's swiving with that…thing. A member of the race we swore to exterminate to save our peoples and our kingdoms. Not only that, but he's in love with it! Intrigued by her so-called beauty, he may be, just as he was with yours—but he never consorted with you, did he?"

"Our sister and Nuada Silverlance are both heirs to thrones, Elder Brother," Kagiso murmured. "They did not dare have that sort of relationship, even if they'd been madly in love, as opposed to the mutual attraction they both felt. Our Honorable Mother didn't mind a little casual flirting, but for Silverlance to take our sister as his lover? It would've caused an international incident, if nothing else."

Kamaria glanced at her twin before settling her one-eyed gaze on her elder brother once more. Unlike Farai—hot-tempered, hot-blooded, battle-minded Farai, whom their mother despaired of, since he had no inclination to join the Anansi, which was his destined role as the eldest prince who was not the Prince Royal—Kagiso was nearly always soft-spoken and even-tempered. He rarely raised his voice; he certainly never raised it to his twin sister and superior in rank, as Farai did. He was slow to act, but very clever. Once they got Farai out of the room, she would speak with her twin about what they'd seen tonight.

"Be that as it may, what more proof do you need of Nuada's treachery, Kamaria? Are you enamored of him still, that you refuse to stand for our people when—" A single, knife-edged glance from the crown princess silenced her elder brother's tirade immediately. Farai closed his mouth and bowed his head.

"How dare you? Never accuse me of having forgotten our people, Prince Farai," the crown princess hissed. The firelight made her onyx eye gleam. "Nuada Silverlance is my friend, and yours! If he has betrayed us, betrayed our cause, betrayed the Bakhna Rakhna…well then, on his own head be it. If such perfidy is in his heart, he will pay the full price for his trespasses. But he deserves better from us—from all of us—than to be dismissed so easily. Many of our own kin have done just such a thing to us. Will we turn on our fellows and do the same?"

"But Kamaria—"

"I am not finished, Brother!" The princess roared, surging to her feet. Farai was tall enough to tower over her, and was twice as broad as she was, but he could feel her power—the power of the heir—crackling through the room like the charge before a Lightning Storm in the savannah. "How then are we better than the kings and queens who turned against their children, against their people, if we turn against our own? We swore friendship and alliance with Silverlance! When there is proof of his misdeeds, actual proof, only then will I listen to your accusations. Let him play with his human. Let him love her if he's foolish enough to trust in the feelings of a mortal heart. One human does not necessarily change his allegiances. Now get out of my presence."

Farai's gold-flecked black eyes burned with humiliation as he lowered his head further and whispered, "As you wish, Your Highness." He stalked out without a backward glance. He didn't slam the door behind him, but Kamaria flinched when the door closed anyway.

"Do you think he'll write to Obi about this?" Kagiso asked, referring to one of their other brothers.

"I don't know and right at this moment, I don't care," she replied. With a sigh, she sank down onto the tawny leather sofa her brother had just vacated. "I truly hope Nuada hasn't forgotten the plight of the Bakhna Rakhna, Kagiso. I hope so, with all my heart. Because if he has betrayed the Good People…"

"If he has, it will mean he's betrayed us all. It will mean that Bethmoora will not stand with us in the final war, and may in fact stand against us. But does it mean we'll have to kill our friend, Kamaria? Does it have to mean that?"

She dropped her face into her hands. "I don't know that, either, Kagiso. I pray not, but I simply do not know."

.

Farai knew exactly where he was going, though he'd only been to Findias a few times before this. Rather, he knew who he was going to. Knew, because he was following a sound, and he knew exactly to whom it would lead.

It was true what his mother often said—he was brash, hot-headed. A soldier and a savage fighter, but not a warrior. He had no head for strategy and tactics. He certainly didn't envy his younger sister her role as heir to the throne. But he had one very valuable talent. A talent he'd honed over the centuries into an often-times lethal skill. One his mother was very, very proud of.

He could sense poison, and poisonous magic. It was little wonder, of course. His mother hadn't been the eldest princess, but the second eldest. She'd been destined for the role that the eldest child not intended for the throne was always given—leader of the Anansi. When her older twin sister, the then-current Cha Nanzi Nega, had been killed, his mother had become the new queen. Her ascent to the throne brought to the royal line an affinity for poisons and venoms that was normally found only in those who joined the Royal Guard. All of the Cha Nanzi Nega's children had some ability of that sort, but Farai's was the most unusual. He could actually hear poisonous magic when it was in use. He heard it now, and recognized the flavor of it.

The Nyame prince found Cíaran macAengus in a secluded little curtained alcove. Crown Prince Bres, a friend of Farai's, had long ago explained that Cíaran had a bit of gancanaugh blood in him from several generations ago, and that he was a throwback to his Love Talker ancestor. Farai could see evidence of that now. Hear it, in the dull throbbing pulse of Cíaran's gancanaugh power—a pulse like a dying heartbeat.

Cíaran was just releasing a slender hob maid—one of the palace maids, by the look of her half-undone dress—when Farai rapped a sardonic knock against the edge of the alcove's entryway. The maid gasped and ducked her head. In the flickering torchlight, Farai saw a bruise on her cheek. He swallowed his disgust. Gancanaugh blood brought out a lot of twisted traits in a fae, but if the girl didn't complain about the way Cíaran handled her, who was the Nyame prince to judge?

"I'm a little busy, Prince Farai," Cíaran muttered, grabbing the maid again and pinning her to a velvet-covered bench before she could slither away.

He'd already had her thrice. Wanted her again. There was something so enchanting about all of that long, curly brown hair. After he'd touched her bare skin with his venom-slicked hands, she'd responded readily enough to his advances. The first time had left something to be desired, though he'd been unable to put his finger on it until, on a whim, he'd ordered her to glamour her sloe-black eyes a different color. Clever little thing had chosen blue. The results had been…interesting.

"Does Prince Bres know you're out here raping chambermaids instead of doing something productive for our cause?"

Cíaran bit back a wolfish smile. "It's hardly rape when the trull is willing." He caressed the hob girl's cheek with a poisonous touch. She shuddered against him. Cíaran nuzzled her cheek. Licked the corner of her mouth. The girl gasped. Her eyes began to glaze. "Isn't that right, poppet? Give us a kiss."

"My lord…" She whispered before his mouth came down on hers, his lips cold and damp with faerie poison.

Farai bit back a growl. "If you could possibly pull your tongue out of your new toy's mouth long enough to tell me where Bres is?"

"In his room," Cíaran mumbled. One hand went to the hob's skirts. "With King Anterion and two guests. Someone else who wonders if Silverlance has betrayed us and all we stand for. You're welcome to join them. I'm otherwise engaged at present." He shoved her skirts up, baring her thighs. "Now go away."

Rolling his eyes, the Nyame Elf strode away, letting the curtain fall back into place. As a courtesy to Cíaran, he added another layer of sensory glamour over top the one the Fomorian lord had already put into place, ensuring that no one except a royal heir or a monarch would be able to hear Cíaran's growls of pleasure or the chambermaid's soft cries.

Farai found the crown prince of the Fomori in his suite as promised, along with the king of Mytikas and two tall, golden-eyed fae. One was considerably taller than the other; the dark-eyed prince recognized him from the banquet earlier that night. The shorter fae was in no way familiar. Slender, amber-eyed like all Bethmooran Elves, he wore a simple dark green tunic and trews with plain black boots. His long, silvery blond hair was tied back in a loose horsetail.

"Ah, Farai. Good of you to come. Cíaran busy enjoying himself? Good. He needed a respite from all the politicking. Where are Kamaria and Kagiso?"

"They remain in their chambers," the prince replied to Bres. "Kamaria is tired. Kagiso stays by her side, as always." Bres was a friend, and a trusted ally, but instinct told the Nyame prince not to inform the Fomori that his sister and brother seemed uncertain as to their course regarding what Nuada may or may not have done. "Who are these men?"

"Two very useful potential allies," Bres replied with a grin. "Our large friend is here at the behest of his mistress's family. And this fine Bethmooran is merely a concerned citizen who works in the palace. I think they'll be very useful to our plans, indeed."

.

"You are not fine," Nuada murmured. "You're far from fine. How fragile are you?"

Exhausted blue eyes met his, and what he saw in their depths both reassured him…and chilled him. Dylan shook her head as if were a terrible burden on her shoulders. "Actually, I'm okay right now. I really am. Mostly."

The Elven prince scoffed. "I sincerely doubt that. Nearly all night it seemed you were on the verge of…of—"

"A mental breakdown?" Dylan supplied. After a moment, Nuada nodded. It was as good a phrase as any. "I wasn't on the verge of a mental breakdown."

"Indeed?"

She shot him a look. "No, I wasn't on the verge. I was having one. All night. If not for you, I don't know what would've happened. The last time I had flashbacks even close to that bad—I've never had them that bad before—I ended up back in a psychiatric hospital for three months. As an adult." Seeing his expression, she sighed. "My uncle Thaddeus convinced me. I wasn't taking care of John like I needed to; that's the only reason I agreed. Uncle Thad caught me during one of my rare lucid moments. He and my aunt took John. They were good to him; my cousin Renee has the Sight, and she's pretty gifted, so they're used to weird stuff."

He chewed that over for a moment. "Three months? What happened to you during that time? What did they do to you?"

Dylan closed her eyes. "Nothing. I was always waiting for it, though. I barely slept. Barely ate. Remind me to show you a picture sometime; I lost forty pounds. I looked pretty good, except my hip bones stuck out and you could count my ribs. When I got out, people wanted to know my dieting secret."

Laughter, Nuada reflected, chilled, shouldn't sound like broken glass scraping bone. "What did you do?"

"Spent most of my days staring out the window or crying." She hesitated, as if she might speak again, but closed her mouth. Nuada frowned.

"There's more to it than that."

"Yeah, well, I'm not telling you about it," she muttered. "Unless you wanna see what happens to a mortal with PTSD who won't take her meds and hasn't been to her weekly therapy in two months when you push too hard." Dylan sighed. Raked her hands through her hair. "You really want to know?"

He inclined his head, though he wasn't certain anymore. There was a quiet, poisonous bitterness underneath her words that was so unlike her. It almost tasted of…self-loathing. He'd never heard her sound this way before.

"You know there's not a lot of muscle in your fingers, right?" She wiggled all ten fingers at him, like a magician about to do a trick. "Most of the muscle and tendons that control movement are here." She flipped her hands around to show him the backs of her hands. Wiggled her fingers again. Tendons flexed beneath the skin. She turned her hands around so the palms faced him. "Hands don't usually scar easily once you reach adulthood," she added. "Especially if you have calluses or whatnot. Especially if you worked with your hands as a kid. Playing outside. Cleaning up the trash out in the woods and in creeks and such. Building rock forts for local garden gnomes. That sort of thing. Which is why," her voice turned almost wistful, "I'd imagine I don't have any scars left over from those three months."

Nuada didn't like the odd quality to her voice. It wasn't the hollow terror of a flashback, but it didn't sound like Dylan, either. "Where are you going with this?"

"Did you know that in a lot of mortal secondary schools, when they dissect earthworms and frogs, you're supposed to use a scalpel? But they rarely do. Usually they give kids Exact-O knives or double-sided razorblades, because they're sharper. All you have to do is put a razorblade in your palm and fold your hand around it. Like this." One by one, she folded the four fingers of her left hand and curled her thumb down, making a fist. "It doesn't even hurt at first."

He had to swallow twice before speaking. "At first?"

Her voice was dreamy when she held up her loose fist and whispered, "No. Not at first. There's just this strange warmth. The first time, I didn't know what it was. Then the blood welled up between my fingers and I realized, 'Oh. So that's what that is.' It scared me that it didn't hurt. But if you tighten your fist," her fingers clenched until her knuckles turned white, "then it hurts. It burns and you know there's something besides white walls and echoing corridors and bars on the windows. More than the voices in your head and the faces you see, no matter whether you're sleeping or awake or trapped in between.

"That's what I did all day while I was there, so I could focus on something, anything, besides memories. Besides how much I wanted a drink. Besides how much I needed my next dose of Valium and whatever else my doctors had prescribed me. I let the razor make me burn so I knew there was a difference between the past and the present. Human blood is so red, have you noticed?" She closed her eyes. Loosened her fist. Waggled her fingers, showing him her nail-marked palm. "And it never left any scars."

If he tried to hold her, would she push him away? For some reason, Nuada was fairly certain she would. Her face was strangely remote. He couldn't read her expression. Scarcely recognized the emptiness in her gaze. All he managed to say was, "You never told me."

"It's not something I'm proud of," Dylan replied. "I didn't…didn't want you to be ashamed of me."

"Ashamed?" He echoed. "Of you? How could I be?" She just looked at him before looking down to study her fingernails. "What is…Valium?"

She swallowed. "It's a sedative. I took it once I got out of the institution when I was eighteen for…tremors." She held up her hands again. "Drugs like thorazine, anti-psychotic medication—the stuff they made me take as a kid—sometimes has long-lasting effects. Hallucinations. Paranoia. Lowered seizure threshold. Intense nightmares. Insomnia. And tardive dyskinesia."

Seeing his incomprehension, she added, "Basically, muscle tics and tremors. When I'm freaked out, my hands shake. It used to be worse." Her smile was tired and bitter. "My sister Mary used to call me 'Ferret' because I twitched a lot until my early twenties. Now it's just my hands. So I took Valium and a few other things, for that and the nightmares." She met his eyes. "Valium's addictive. So's Ambien, Lithium, Rohypnol, and Amytal—the other poisons in my personal cocktail at the time."

"What is PTSD?"

"Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," she replied softly. "They used to call it 'shell-shock' or 'mental exhaustion.' I guess those are sort of accurate."

"Battle-haunts," Nuada said. After a moment, Dylan nodded. "Dylan…what happened tonight? I would like an explanation from your lips. What happened?"

There was something eerily adolescent in her shrug of dismissal. "I had a mental breakdown. It happens."

Nuada said her name. Quietly, but firmly. Against her will, she found her gaze dragged up to his impassive face, bathed by the cool winter moonlight through the window. The embers in the hearth added just a touch of warmth to him. "Dylan," he said again. "I. Want. An explanation."

She knew, suddenly, that nothing would be okay between them if she didn't give him one. And didn't he deserve it? Didn't he deserve to know what he was getting into? She should've told him weeks ago, the mortal realized. But there'd never been a good time. Not even when he'd been helping her deal with memories of Patrick and Xander and Westenra. She'd been too shaky then to tackle everything else. Well, she'd tackle it now. Or at least, deal with whatever Nuada wanted to know.

"Okay. Okay. Um…I just…it used to be, when my memories got to be too much for me, I'd just shove everything down, where I wouldn't feel it. If I couldn't just do it, then I would hurt myself, use pain to help. But then all of that fear and anger and…hatred would turn into this sort of…soul-poison. Then it would happen again, something worse would come or I'd flash back, and I'd have to shove it all down, and the poison just got thicker and thicker. It festered.

"You lanced that wound when you walked through my memories. You didn't get rid of the poison, but you made it so that I could without breaking. I just…haven't had time or known where to start. And tonight…I could feel all of that darkness rising up to drown me. Like this black ocean. Every time something triggered a flashback, I'd go under. The first couple times you were there to pull me out. I'd get calm enough that I could stay in the present if I focused hard enough, but I never actually had the time to anchor myself before something else happened, triggering another flashback, and I'd be back beneath the waves, drowning. Then, when your father…when your father was talking to me, I…"

"You didn't know where you were, did you?" Nuada asked. "Like in the garden. You thought you were somewhere else, with someone else. You weren't remembering; you were reliving the experience." She bit her lip and nodded. "Where did you think you were? And with who?"

"I thought I was back in the institution. I mean, I knew I wasn't, but there's knowing and there's knowing. Like, I know you'd never hurt me. I know that, in my heart and soul. But you remember when we were first together in the sanctuary? I didn't know it then. You told me, and the Spirit told me, and I knew because you'd sworn on the Darkness, but I didn't know it. I didn't believe it.

"Just like tonight. I knew I was safe in Findias, that you were right outside the door. That if I needed you, you'd come. But I didn't know that. I was suddenly just…just back there again. I was back in that place. I thought I was with Westenra and Ivan—" She bit off her words before she revealed the surname. "Everything got jumbled together. Sometimes I flash back and it's just memory. Other times, I'm living it all over again, and the real world is just…gone. And sometimes, like tonight, it mingles and I can't tell the difference between the past and the present and the monsters…I keep seeing faces. Monsters in the dark. If I'd been dealing with just your dad, I'd have been fine, or mostly, but suddenly I was twelve years old and I was back in that place and I didn't know what to do and I thought we were both going to die or…I was waiting for…"

When she didn't go on, he took a step nearer. "What were you waiting for?"

Dylan raked a trembling hand through her hair. "I was waiting, just waiting, for someone to grab me, to hurt me. I mean, I felt hands on me. I was convinced…even though I knew there was no way it would happen, a huge part of me was waiting for your father to attack me. Not just to order someone to attack or hurt us. I was waiting for him to…to try and…I just…he was going to…they always try to…"

"My father would never do such a thing, Dylan. He is capable of much, I freely admit, but not rape. Even if such evil were within his purview, he hasn't the strength to harm you that way. Surely you know that?" She flicked a glance at him before turning to stare at the floor. Nuada paused. Considered. "You weren't actually reacting to the present situation, were you? When you begged my father to spare me, who were you talking to?" Her mouth opened, closed. No sound emerged. She pressed her lips together. "Who were you seeing? Westenra? Or someone else?"

"Nuada, please—"

"Tell me. Who were you seeing in your mind? Who were you so afraid of? Afraid for?"

"Everyone," she confessed. "Everyone who's ever mattered to me and ever been threatened. You. John. My family. My patients. Everyone who matters. But especially you. And I kept seeing…everyone who'd ever threatened me. Westenra. Patrick and Xander. Their…I don't know why it was so bad. But no, I wasn't reacting as much to your father or the situation I was actually in. I was reacting to what my mind kept insisting was happening. Or going to happen."

Which meant, the Elven warrior thought, that she'd been reacting to the certainty that if she didn't beg for her life—and his—they would be…what?

He knew. After walking through Dylan's memories, after being forced to skim Westenra's twisted mind, Nuada knew what she'd been afraid would happen if she didn't beg. That he would be killed—probably tortured to death before her very eyes. Just as in her worst nightmares, in the brutal mind-rapes Eamonn had inflicted on her barely two months ago. That Dylan would then be raped, again and again, until her assailants either bored of the sick game and killed her, or she died beneath them. And no amount of reassurance from anyone, even herself, would have allayed those fears.

"My father said something that triggered another flashback," Nuada said softly. He wondered what it could've been. "That's why you were so upset before, when you stepped out of his receiving room and came to me. He triggered something." Dylan looked away. "What did he do?"

"If I tell you, you have to promise not to do anything about it. I mean it. I wouldn't ask if he'd done anything worth challenging him over, so you have to promise you won't confront him about this."

"I will make no such promise. What could he possibly have done to terrify you so badly?" When Dylan merely bit her lip again, Nuada commanded, "Remember our bargain, my lady."

She closed her eyes. Sighed. "Okay. He made me strip. Not strip naked," she hastened to add when a snarl ripped out of the Elven warrior and his hands convulsed into fists. "Relax! I had on shorts and a half-cami. But it…it scared me to death. Westenra used to…he would…and Ivan…they…it's just pretend," she whispered. Her eyes were glassy. "Just a game of pretend, they said. Have to make sure you're not hurt, sweetheart, have to make sure things didn't get too rough. Just close your eyes and let them see and it'll be over in a minute, it won't hurt, no one will hurt you, they always said that but it wasn't true—"

Nuada grabbed her wrists and squeezed hard enough to get her attention. She gasped. Stared at him. "Dylan, you're safe here with me. Do not go back down that road. I'm here now. No one will hurt you when I'm here. It's all right. It is only a memory. It isn't real. I am real. Feel me. Know that I'm real. Know it."

Trembling fingertips brushed his cheek. His temple. Traced the whorl-shaped scar there. "Nuada." She swallowed. "Nuada. Yes. I'm all right. That's all he did, Nuada, I promise. That's all your father did. He wanted to see how badly I was hurt. It just panicked me because…because they always—" She fell silent when the Elf released her wrists with a low snarl.

The warrior rose to his feet and began to pace to work off some of the temper burning through him like acid. Oh, he knew what Westenra used to do, to her and other girls. What other men and those sick, twisted human whelps did. Force an innocent girl to strip slowly on the pretense that she needed to be examined for damage in the aftermath of a brutal encounter with those vermin. It saved the monsters the effort of ripping the clothes out of their way when they would…and it aroused them to watch a trembling, terrified innocent forced to perform that way. Bastards.

Dylan's memories swam to the surface of his mind. Bile burned the back of his throat as his gorge rose. He would not think about such things. Not now. She needed him to focus. And he needed to figure out what had happened between her and his father so that it never happened again.

"He didn't know, Nuada," she said.

"The king should've called a healer to examine you," the prince snapped.

"He did. He called Táebfada."

Nuada paused in his pacing. "Táebfada? He doesn't trust Táebfada…" He frowned. "Because Táebfada is loyal to me. She is an ally. But you trust her, don't you? That's why my father chose her. He remained because he doesn't trust her to report to him accurately, knowing you would no doubt tell her I was the one to attack you. Yet he chose her to make things easier for you."

"Oh. I…oh." Dylan scrubbed at her face. "Your dad confuses me. Maybe just because I'm tired, but seriously—I'm confused now. Why would he even care if it was easy for me or not?"

The prince waved the confusion away. "Never mind that. Was this negligent cruelty on my father's part the reason you were so frightened?"

Dylan shook her head. "It was a combination of things. I was exhausted already—I've been up for almost twenty-four hours, and I haven't been sleeping, and my pain meds just make the exhaustion worse. The two flashbacks in the garden left me…unstable."

"May I ask you something?" She nodded. "When I suggested sending you away…why did that frighten you so badly?"

A single tear spilled down her cheek. "My parents sent me away," she reminded him. "That day…they didn't even warn me. One day I came home from school and there was a van in our driveway and when I went into the house, they sat me down on the couch and told me I had to be sent away. That sending me away was best. That it wasn't safe for me to live at home anymore. I'd be safer at Saint Vincent's. My siblings would be safer if I was gone. Everything would be better. Everyone would be happier. They'd be happier if I was locked away where they never had to see me again."

Even Nuada couldn't believe humans capable of that. Some humans, yes, but not humans who'd raised a child like Dylan, or even one like John. "Surely they at least visited…" He trailed off when she shook her head. "Not once?"

"John came. He threw tantrums and refused to eat and kept picking fights at school until my parents agreed to let him visit me once a month. He wrote every day. He was the only one. My sisters weren't allowed to visit at first, and then they didn't want to, once people at their schools found out where I was. And my parents never visited. Never called. It was too painful for them, I think."

Hatred burned when Nuada growled, "You are too forgiving of their sins—"

"Oh, shut up," she snapped. "They're dead, Nuada, what would staying angry do? That's not the point. The point is, the last time someone told me I was being sent away for my own good, for my safety, because it was better for me, I ran. I was seven years old, and I ran, trying to get to the back door so I could get to the creek at the edge of our backyard. I knew if I could get there, the fae there would protect me.

"And these two men…they chased me through my own house, trying to catch me, to hurt me. My mother was crying and my father just stood there and let them chase me. Another man had to pin John to the floor. He kept yelling for me to run. Kept fighting even though he was just a kid and that guy was huge. My sisters were all crying because they heard me screaming and John shouting and my mom sobbing. They'd all been told to stay in their rooms, but they could still hear what was happening.

"Petra didn't stay in her room," Dylan added. "Petra tried to stop them. I found out later from John that my parents grounded her for a year for that. No television, no movies, no phone calls, no magazines, no friends over, no extracurriculars at school, nothing. They made her quit cheerleading, even though she was the best on her squad. They made her quit babysitting. She had to sit at the kitchen table and copy out of the dictionary. John, my parents forgave. He was a little kid. Petra was thirteen. They didn't forgive her, and I doubt she's forgiven me.

"The last time someone told me they were sending me away…I ended up with sliced to ribbons from trying to squeeze under the back fence, beaten for trying to resist, sedated to keep me from struggling anymore, tied up in the back of a van, crying and bleeding. And it's at least a two-hour drive from where we lived in Jersey to New York.

"Once we got to Saint Vincent's, they processed me, which took hours. I had to strip in front of strangers. They gave me shots—sedatives, inoculations, tests to make sure I wasn't sick already. They cut my hair. I had the longest hair when I was little, I loved it, because my mom loved it, and they just cut it off. They took my clothes. My shoes. My doll that my mom had sent with me; they took that, too. Even the twin-locket that had a picture of me and John in it. I…"

She trailed off, shaking her head. "That's why I panicked. The first flashback was so bad, I hadn't recovered yet. The present wasn't real to me yet. Then you said 'send you home' and all I heard was 'send you back.' I thought I would have to face all of that again. And part of me thought, 'They're going to leave me in that place.'"

I'll be good, she'd said. A child's voice. The terrified plea of a Little Girl to her parents. She'd used his name, but had she really been speaking to him? I didn't do anything this time. Memory spilling into the real world, until she couldn't tell the difference. Until she was no longer the Dylan he knew, but a frightened seven-year-old child who knew what being sent away meant for bad girls. In her mind, he'd been about to send her away to another eleven years of vicious physical and sexual abuse from which there was no escape but death.

After a long and brittle silence, Nuada knelt at her feet. "Listen to me and listen well. I'm so sorry, mo duinne. I didn't know. I would never have said such a thing if I'd known. And I will never, ever abandon you as they did. Never. I didn't know you would take it that way—"

A gentle fingertip touched his lips. "It's okay. You're right, you didn't know. I didn't tell you. I've been trying to pretend I wasn't so messed up. It's okay. Anyway, I was starting to be okay when we came back in here and talked. I had to be okay—you needed me. But then you said you were going to tell your father what happened and…I remembered Gunter and…"

"Your friend who died?" Nuada ventured. "When you were younger?"

She nodded. "Cut his own throat with a shard from a coffee mug, actually." The words were toneless, dull. "He talked us into going to the adults about what happened in the basement and they wouldn't listen. They said that obviously there was some hostility between the four of us and Patrick and Xander. Said we should talk it out. Have some counseling sessions together.

"Alison and Ruby had hysterics. I started yelling because they just wouldn't listen. They made me stay in the room with Gunter while they dragged Ruby and Alison out into the hall to try and calm them down. I was so angry, thinking about just marching out there and screaming at them, attacking them, just so long as I was doing something to make them listen. Then I heard this crashing sound and I turned around and he just…he gave me this look. Like he was sorry, because he was leaving me, too. And then he…

"You never tell." She shook her head slowly, voice distant. "You never ever tell the monsters what happened to you. It just gives them a reason to say you're bad. Just gives them something to feed on. Just gives them one more way to hurt you. There was so much blood…that day…all over me. And when you…you were dying, there was blood everywhere, I…you were going to tell him and he was going to hurt you, just like before, and—"

"But I'm all right now," Nuada said firmly. "I am all right, Dylan. I'm not hurt. You needn't fear for me now. I'm all right."

Slowly, Dylan nodded. "Yes. Yes, you are. But that's why I panicked. My exhaustion and my fragility were worse because I know what your father's capable of, and Moundshroud warned me that Balor might try to kill you if you push him too far. I was shaky to begin with; I've been shaky since…" She trailed off. Gave a weak, self-deprecating laugh. "For years, actually. It's just that I had ways to cope, and when I stopped using them, I always—almost always—avoided situations that would trigger this sort of response.

"I'm not…I'm not mentally stable," she confessed. "I don't how long it's been since I was. My…fragility is why I became an addict. It helped mellow me out. Helped me function. But that's why I ended up back in a mental hospital for three months when I was in my early twenties—I'm not stable. The only reason I didn't try to kill myself then was because I just barely managed to hold onto my faith. And that's why I used to see a therapist. But once things went crazy in October, I stopped. I wanted to make sure my schedule didn't negatively impact anything you needed.

"And because of everything we've been doing, I've had to take my pain medication more than norml. I usually get by on one-third or half-doses, because Vicodin is addictive and I can't function without at least a little but I can't risk…but now I can't do that and that's left me messed up, too." Dylan sighed. "I'm a few short steps from losing my mind. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Nuada guided her to the bed and forced her to sit down. He knelt before her. "Why do you apologize? I already knew you were fragile. Don't apologize for this."

He'd felt that strain on her mind since that night in the sanctuary when she'd screamed at him and he'd raged at her. When he'd first learned just what her life had been like. The soul-purging had helped, but it hadn't erased the strain. Merely eased it a little. And now Nuala's spell protecting Dylan's mind from the memories of Eamonn's psychic assaults was fading…how much more strain was her mind under? Had the spells laid on them tonight done anything to her ability to remain locked in the present? How close was she to breaking?

But he didn't ask. He only said, "Humans even have a name for such a thing, do they not? You said it earlier."

"Yeah—Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," she whispered. She wouldn't look at him. "I was diagnosed when I was twenty-four, almost out of med school. It's a mental illness. They usually medicate people who have it this severely. Give them anti-anxiety medication or anti-depressants or…or something. I have meds at home, my therapist says I need them, but I…I just…"

"Yet you don't take such things, though your own mind-healer bids you do so."

"I can't." She covered her mouth with one hand and shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "Not ever again. They pumped that poison through my veins for years. For years. And it kept me their little whore-zombie all that time. I won't live like that. I can't be some mindless shell again. I'd rather be dead than live like that. I will not take that poison—"

"All right," he said softly. This wasn't begging again. Wasn't a flashback. This was merely twenty-two years' worth of quiet desperation. He'd seen what five years of desperation had done to her. Saw it still in the ice-white scars at the bends of her elbows and her inner thighs, over her heart. He remembered that terrible brittleness she'd had the night Westenra had called and Nuada had forced her to tell him everything. He'd felt it was unsafe to leave her alone that night. Hadn't let himself think about why that would have been. Now he knew. Desperation had driven her to do terrible things before. It didn't even hurt at first. Why not now? "All right. I understand. But Dylan, you must calm down. You must be calm if you want me to help you—"

Dylan jerked away from him, scrabbling back across the bed to press against a bedpost. "I don't want your help," she snapped. "Leave me alone. I don't need anybody's help. There's nothing wrong with me."

"Dylan," he said. Just her name. Not in a voice meant to soothe. The Elven prince couldn't be sure that wouldn't trigger something else. No, this was the voice he used whenever it was just the two of them, and he needed some way to show her what she meant to him. To show her how much he loved and needed her. Even if needing her made him just as weak and pathetic as she feared she was. Better to be weak than not have her at all. "Dylan."

She covered her mouth with her hand again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Just…just don't say that. I'm sorry. They used to say stuff like that all the time right before…That's why I freaked out when your father kept saying he wasn't going to hurt me, that all I had to do was tell the truth. Westenra always said that. He always promised I wouldn't get hurt if I was honest and I'd tell and then there was always pain. Always…okay." She closed her eyes. "I'm not there anymore. I'm here. I'm with you. I'm all right." The breath escaped her in a shuddering sigh. Her eyes flicked open. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" He held out his hand. She crept back across the bed, eyes downcast. "Truly?"

She curled up on her side upon the bed, her hair falling in front of her face like a dark curtain. "For now. I don't know if I will be later. I'm sorry, Nuada. I know you don't need this now. I'm technically mentally ill." She nearly choked on a self-deprecating laugh. "Jeez, I hate that phrase. 'Insane' or 'crazy' doesn't sound much better, though, does it? My sisters used to say that. That I was crazy. That they hated me and I was ruining their lives. My parents used to say I had to go away because I was sick and it was the only way for me to get better." She swallowed. "I'm sorry. I should've told you sooner, I guess. I promise I'll do better. I'll be stronger."

He touched her shoulder. "I already knew, Dylan. I was merely missing a few details." Such as the severity of it. Nuada knew warriors who, from soul-scars incurred during war, could sometimes be dangerous even to those they loved if a flashback was triggered. He hadn't realized Dylan's flashbacks could be that severe. Hadn't known there were times when she didn't know where she was or when. He hadn't known she was supposed to take medication for her condition. Hadn't known she skimped on taking painkillers for her bad knee, either. Getting angry with her for such self-abuse would serve no purpose, however. He'd have to think about what to do about such things later.

"As for being stronger…" Nuada trailed off, considering. "Warriors who've seen terrible battle often suffer from similar haunts. Sometimes battle-haunts are the least of the wounds left on their hearts."

He thought of one time as a young boy when he'd tried to scare his father, thinking it amusing. He'd hidden behind a tree along a garden path. Quieted his breathing and heartbeat as the weapons' masters had taught him. Sensing his father's approach, the Elven princeling had leapt out from behind the tree. Nuada couldn't remember, but he thought he might've cried, "Boo!" Just to be silly. He'd thought his father would laugh after recovering from his startlement.

Instead, the warrior-king had lashed out before he'd realized his assailant was his own child. Luckily the king hadn't been armed. The blow of Balor's fist had laid Nuada out flat on the ground and left his ears ringing. It had taken the prince a moment to realize he couldn't breathe. Then he'd gasped, choked. That first breath of frigid air after the blow had burned his suddenly-tight chest. Then he'd begun to cry.

Ashamed and shaken, his father had lifted him out of the dust and comforted him. Once the young prince was calm, Balor had taken him back to the royal nursery for his governess and nurse to fuss over while the king had gone to the queen to tell Cethlenn what had happened. Later, Balor and Cethlenn both had come to apologize and to explain to a still-uncertain prince why his father had struck him so very hard for such an innocent game.

"At least you've not hurt someone you love while trapped in the past," Nuada said. "There's that, yes? And such shadows haunt many, including those who've been imprisoned and tortured—as you were. There is no shame in it. I'm not angry with you. Forgive me for raising my voice. I am merely concerned."

"I'll be better," Dylan promised. "I won't screw things up for you—"

"That is not what I'm concerned over," Nuada said. Sucking in a breath, he rose upright on his knees and leaned forward, cupping the back of Dylan's head. She touched her forehead to his. "I'm concerned about you. I love you, Dylan." He saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes and whispered, "I love you, mo duinne. Broken or not," he forced himself to smile a little, though his face felt as if it might crack in half, "mad or not, I love you. I will always love you. Nothing you do and nothing you are can change that."

"Nuada, I might be losing my mind, you can't say—"

"We will find a way to mend anything that is broken or breaking," he whispered. "I promise you. My word, as the crown prince of Bethmoora. We will mend whatever needs to be mended. We'll do what needs to be done. All right? Go back to your mind-healer if that's what you need. I'll not stand in your way. I shall even ensure that whatever time you need won't interfere with what needs doing in Findias. All right?"

"What if…what if I can't do it?"

He raised his eyebrows. "What if you can't? What is there that you cannot do, my love?"

"I can't fly," she replied promptly. He shot her a look. To his surprise and pleasure, a smile curved her mouth. "Sorry. Just had to throw that out there."

"You know very well what I meant. Insolent chit." Her smile widened into a tired grin. "There's nothing you cannot do. Nothing. And I will help you. Just as you've sworn to be what I need, I swear to be what you need. We will do it together. Whatever it takes."

"Thank you. I…I never thought…thank you. And I really will be okay. For now, at least. I finally managed to take the time to properly anchor myself. It's the first time I've done it so thoroughly—in a healthy way—in a long time. I actually feel a lot better. More…more in the present. I'm still a little unsteady, but I'll be okay."

"Will you? With all that has happened tonight? With my father's command looming over our heads? Or is that pushing you too far?"

"I'll be okay. I don't mind the wedding thing, honestly. I'm a little uncomfortable but…" She shurgged. "I get to marry you. Without breaking my oaths. I'll be fine. You don't have to worry about my sanity holding because of that. I think it was mostly that I'm exhausted, on top of the spell, and not being able to anchor myself properly until now. I'll be all right. And you don't have to worry about what's best or fair to me. Just…what can I do to make this easier for you?"

Allowing her to change the subject, Nuada said, "Ask me for something. I want you to get something out of all of this. Something to make this worth it. Do that, and I will acquiesce to my father's command. Ask me for something."

"Ask for something."

"Yes."

"Anything?"

"Anything. If it's within my power to grant it, I will."

Dylan sank onto the edge of her bed. "And this will make you happy? This will make things fair? Or more fair, at least. If you make sacrifices for me, to compensate for the sacrifice I'm making for you." He nodded. "Okay. Um…anything? More than one thing? Or just one thing?"

"Preferably more than one thing. And yes, anything."

"Okay. Um…you have to wear hot pink spandex every Friday for the rest of your life."

"Done. Wait…" He paused. Blinked. "What?"

She couldn't help but laugh. "You weren't even listening! You seriously just agreed to wear hot pink spandex every Friday for the rest of your life! Cripes, Nuada. This is ridiculous. I don't want anything from you except an affirmative answer to your father's order."

"I know there are things you desire of me."

"Yes," Dylan admitted, "but those are things I can never have, so why hurt you by asking for them?"

He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. "Such as?"

The mortal sighed. "Such as, you won't convert just because I ask you. I wouldn't even want that, because it would be wrong of me, it would be a lie, and it would break something between us, and within you, to dishonor yourself that way. So you being a Latter-Day Saint is out. And such as…" She stared at her feet. At the chubby little penguins gazing back, wide-eyed, from her socks. Her voice was barely there when she whispered, "A baby. I know that's not an option for us. Why would I ask for that, knowing it would only hurt you that you can't give me the one thing I want the most?"

Nuada closed his eyes. Longing was a hollow ache in his chest. "I would give you a child, mo duinne, if I could." Oh, to see her with their child in her arms. To know she carried a life inside her that they had made together…He swallowed back yearning.

"I know," she murmured. "But Nuada…I really can't think of anything else. There's nothing I want that you can give me, that you haven't given me already. You're good to me. You understand me—most of the time, anyway. You accept me. You let me be who I need to be. You respect me. You love me. You never try to change me. The only things you ask me to do are usually for my own good. You let me be. No one else but John has ever done that. "

The Elven warrior came to her and looked down at her hands. Seamlessly changing the subject himself, he cupped her lacerated hands and murmured, "Why do you do this to yourself, Dylan?"

Remembering their bargain of honestly, she replied, "Like I said, I had a really bad flashback while I was talking to your father. I couldn't afford to let it affect me. I had no idea how he'd take it. If I started panicking like I did in the garden, and you were with me, you could've done something, but you weren't there and it was just him and me. I was scared of doing something that would make him hurt you. I had to stay grounded. There was no time to anchor myself the right way, so I had to do it with pain. Then he pushed me too far and I freaked, so it didn't really work."

"Why me?" He asked. "Why is it that I could've done something to help you? Why am I what anchors you? Because of my gift of mind-touch?"

Dylan shook her head. "Almost from the moment I met you, you've represented safety. That's why. You're safe. You've always meant safety to me and you'll always be a person and place of safety for me."

Without another word, Nuada brought her to her feet and led her to the master bathroom. At a gesture from him, she hopped up on the counter while he fetched a dark washcloth. There was no sound for a time except when Nuada turned on the water to let it fill up the silver-veined white marble sink. He wet the cloth. For the second time that night, he gently cleaned blood from her skin.

He said nothing. She didn't feel the need to press him into speaking, either. The silence wasn't strained or uncomfortable. It wasn't companionable by any stretch, but it wasn't a heavy or painful silence. They were both simply exhausted, and trying not to think of what would happen once the new wounds were seen to.

"Eventually," he said once he was finished, "if you keep doing this, you'll get scars."

She shrugged. "Maybe. What's a few more?"

Nuada merely raised her hand to his mouth. He breathed against her palm, as he'd done after that fateful dance lesson with Cíaran. Soft, subtle power slid over her palm. He'd seen his sister practicing this trick and decided to give it a try that day when Cíaran had threatened her. It had worked then, and it worked now, caressing the shallow crescents in Dylan's palm with magic, sealing the wounds. Nuada did the same to her other hand. He met fey-like blue eyes.

Dylan swallowed. She was so tired, and there were no more reasons to prevent her from going to bed. If she and Nuada didn't obey the king…she didn't know how Balor would find out they hadn't slept in the same bed. Send a maid as a spy while they slept? Scry them with magic? Whatever. The human knew the fae king would know if he was disobeyed. She didn't dare risk that. Who knew what he'd try to force on them if they didn't obey? Who knew what he would do to Nuada? Especially with Nuada's refusal to marry her still looming over them all.

"Are you nervous? About…about what happens next?" She asked her prince. He skimmed his knuckles along the scar slashing her cheek and said nothing. "Silly question, huh? You're an Elf. Of course you're not nervous."

He smiled. "You are learning."

She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. "Okay. Um…let me change my shirt, say my prayers, and read my scriptures, and then…then we can…um…excuse me." She practically fled to her closet. Inside, she stripped off the flannel overshirt, her thin black sleep-top, and the half-cami. Dragged on a thick, black sleep-cami instead. She wanted layers between her and the prince. So many layers that if his hands ended up…anywhere…for any reason—evil spells, sleepy accident, the Sudden Disappearance of anything resembling good judgment—she'd be able to keep her brains from liquefying in her skull and spilling out her ears.

Yanking on a thin, long-sleeved top, she covered that with an extra-extra-large black t-shirt John had bought her with Lord of the Rings scrollwork written across the chest in elegant fiery letters. The shirt hung nearly to her knees. She had to lose the spandex shorts because they just weren't comfortable to sleep in, but she traded them and her thin plaid PJ bottoms for her thickest, baggiest flannel pajama pants. The penguin socks stayed; her feet were a little cold.

Dropping to her knees, Dylan folded her arms and bowed her head. Heavenly Father, she prayed, I'm in huge trouble. Help me, please.

.

Nuada settled onto the window seat and stared out through the glass, painted with glittering hoarfrost, at the cold white moon. So much had happened tonight. Only now did he have time to let it all sink in.

He'd been placed under house-arrest once more. The Silverlance had been taken from him again. Anterion and Farai had made it clear at the banquet that they were furious with him for taking Dylan as his lady. He couldn't be too sure of the rest of his allies and friends. Dierdre had made a—very subtle and rather timid—play for his attentions, and he'd gently rebuffed her. When she'd pressed the prince, he'd been sharp with her. He disliked needing to do so, but it had been necessary. Though he was oddly fond of the Fomorian woman, she needed to remember to whom she spoke.

Someone had managed to lay a spell upon him. Managed to touch him with Branwen's Tears. The only people powerful enough to lay the compulsion spells were fae kings. Only two kings had any reason to do so: Anterion, for what he considered Nuada's betrayal, and Balor. Yet Balor had helped Nuada. Broken the spells. Granted him mercy. Forgiven him. Promised further aid in finding whoever might've dared to try and bewitch the crown prince.

Yet what if Dylan was right in her suspicions of the king? From what he understood, she didn't specifically suspect Balor and only Balor. She only mistrusted him because of his behavior regarding the entire situation. What had taken so long for the king to respond to Siothrún's report? Why hadn't he or Nuala come to open the garden gate for the guards? It wasn't as if Dylan had been particularly quiet. Her terrified cries had been heard by the Butchers; that was why Siothrún had gone to report to the king in the first place. So what had taken so long? Why hadn't his father answered Dylan's questions?

And what had Balor meant, "I know your weaknesses?" What weaknesses of Dylan's could he possibly know, and use against her? Unless the king simply meant Nuada himself. For just as Dylan was his greatest weakness, so too was the prince hers.

Siothrún was his father's spy among the Butchers, it seemed. How much of what went on between Nuada and his truelove did the guard report to Balor? The idea of someone detailing any of the tender moments between himself and Dylan to the king sent a hot wash of anger through the Elven warrior. Was he allowed no stars-cursed peace? What happened between him and his lady was private. Special. Someone daring to violate or desecrate that privacy infuriated him.

The fact that someone, anyone, had invaded the sanctity of their time together with these spells infuriated him, as well. They, whoever they were, had twisted how he felt for his lady and turned it into something sickening. Had taken the gift of Dylan's trust and what Nuada meant to offer her with tenderness, gentleness, patience…and ripped it from their grasp.

He thought of the passionate kisses they'd shared in the garden. He could still taste her. Still feel every soft curve of her body when she'd arched against him. Those memories beckoned him…and enraged him. Every clean moment of intimacy a person was normally blessed with in their life had been defiled in Dylan's. Her first kiss was bestowed by a monster against her will. That first intimate touch taken without consent by beasts. Her innocence ripped away by two putrid human animals. No vengeance, no royal authority, and no magic could restore what had been stolen from her. The truth of that was bitter as wormwood in his belly.

Yet he'd hoped that, with time and patience, with love, he could give her back at least a little of what she'd lost. He'd had plans for the two of them, if he was ever blessed to take her as his lover or his wife. Plans that included sweet kisses, gentle touches, romance. He'd vowed to be careful of her memories. Careful to ensure that no shadow marred whatever physical intimacy she graced him with.

And these bastards, whoever they were, had not only violated all of that, but had ensorcelled him so that, regardless of potential plans for sweet willing seduction, he'd gone too far. Yet another private moment in Dylan's life ruined by those who cared nothing for what they took from her. Damn them.

Nuada touched his forehead to the icy glass and forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly. Anger served no purpose now. The black rage seething within him like hot poison certainly would do no good and might in fact do harm, with Dylan still somewhat fragile. He would be calm. He would think, and plan, and wait for their enemies to misstep. To make a mistake. And when they did, he would be on them like wolves on wounded prey, and he would taste their blood.

But for now, he needed to focus. To think on everything that had happened. Including the two most important things.

He had to think of something to do about Dylan. Perhaps have an Elven mind-healer speak with her. Humans were fools; perhaps this mind-healer she'd been seeing was wrong about his lady needing medicine to keep the past at bay. Maybe there was another way for her to cope, one that wasn't like a knife in her half-broken heart. One that didn't require her to pay in blood. Nuada would have to think of something.

And the most important thing was that the king of Bethmoora had commanded his heir to take the mortal lady as his wife. A longed-for and yet dreaded order. The only thing that would make Dylan accept Nuada's proposal. The only thing that allowed them to be together that way.

Nuada closed his eyes and imagined it for a moment. Waking up beside her every morning. Having her, if not constantly at his side, at least hovering somewhere near the center of his life. Simply being with Dylan. Basking in the comfort of her. Finding solace with her. And then, as night deepened, they could lie together and he could fall asleep with her head resting on his chest, his arms around her. Simply to fall asleep holding her would be…there were no words.

Of course, his people would be disgusted. Furious with him. Taking a mortal as his wife? Making her their new princess? After all his campaigning against the truce, against the human world? It would be viewed as a betrayal. It was a betrayal. His honor still pricked him like an iron needle whenever he let himself think of it, but he was too weak-willed to refuse himself that joy and peace any longer. And of course his people would wonder, if the prince had gone mad enough to take a human as his bride, was he also mad enough to beget children with her? He'd sired no bastards, so the position of heir to the crown prince had been given to no one. If he and Dylan made a child, that child would be the next in line for the throne after Nuada himself. The fae of Bethmoora would wonder, was their prince insane enough to weaken the royal line with mortal blood?

To be married to Dylan…bane and blessing, that. Yet he would've accepted all of that. Accepted all of the rat's nest of problems that were bound to come with taking a mortal wife. He'd have made her his without hesitation…if not for the look of defeat on her face when Balor had given his order. He couldn't do that to her.

"You're thinking about it too much," Dylan said as she moved from the closet to the open bathroom doorway. She darted into the bathroom and snagged something off the counter. Came back into the bedroom with her hairbrush. "You're making this too complicated. Your oath to your king means you have to do what he says, so long as his orders aren't dishonorable. That means when the king says, 'Jump,' you ask, 'How high?' Right?"

She perched on the edge of her bed and attacked the tangles in her hair with a vengeance. The mortal might've sounded calm, but Nuada knew better. Without a word, he went to her. Plucked the brush out of her hand. "You'll damage your hair that way," he murmured. Deft fingers separated a length of Dylan's hair from the rest. Starting at the bottom, Nuada began to work the brush through it. The tension slowly drained out of her. Nuada said, "I would be ashamed to take you as my wife when the thought is so abhorrent to you."

"What do you want me to say, Nuada? That I wish I could marry you without the king having to order it? I do. I want to be your wife. I want to marry you. Even with all the crazy stuff going on, the politics and the responsibilities of being a princess—not to mention everyone hating me for being human—I still want to marry you. I don't know what else you need from me. I mean, what, do you not believe me?"

"Feeling better?" He asks instead of answering her. "Did saying your prayers help at all?"

"Yeah. It helped a lot, actually. So did reading my scriptures. I feel a lot better. Almost entirely back to normal. A little weepy, maybe, but- hey!" She cried, glaring. "Don't change the subject!"

"I—" He began. A chiming sound cut him off. Nuada frowned. The chiming came again. "What is that irritating noise?"

Dylan jumped. "Oh, my gosh! That's my phone!" Extricating her hair from the brush the prince held, she scrambled across the bed and reached down to scoop her purse off the floor. "Who could be trying to contact me right now?" Fumbling the purse open took a minute. Rooting around in it for the jingling contraption took two more. Finally Dylan yanked the phone out of her purse. "Ha! Gotcha!" Her fingers flew across the touch-screen. She frowned. "What? Who's this?"

It wasn't a call or text, but an IM. She'd left the internet open on her Smartphone after using it to look up a Michelle Phan tutorial before the banquet. Now the IM icon on her phone flashed brightly, informing her with every blink and ding sound that someone was trying to contact her. That someone was apparently drachegoldFCTavern-at-fae-dot-com. And they had something very interesting to say.

Drachegold: Is his royal highness with you? I need you to relay something to him for me, right away.

Dylan stared at the IM for a long moment in stunned silence. Who was this person? How had they gotten her number? And how did they know about Nuada? She hastily texted back, What are you talking about? Who are you?

Drachegold: You and I met one cold Winter's Night in a dragon's cave.

A dragon's cave? Wait…drachegold. German for "dragon's gold." One cold Winter's Night, Nuada had taken her to a dragon's cave, and she'd met a woman with lips red as fresh-spilt blood, hair black as darkest midnight, skin white as new-fallen snow, and eyes cold as dragon's gold.

Lorelei? The mortal asked, and relaxed when the IM came back with, Brava! =) I need you to let his highness know that his best friend is safe and well. Just in case our previous message went awry.

"Nuada!" Dylan scrambled back across the bed to flop next to him so she could show him the screen. "Look. It's a message from Lorelei about Wink." The Elven warrior scanned the words on the screen. A brief smile curved the prince's mouth. Wink might say he was all right and be wounded yet. But if the rhinemaiden said Wink was safe and well…there was no need to worry for the moment.

"Have Lorelei inform Wink that he's long overdue in returning," the prince said. Dylan gave him an exasperated look and shook her head.

DMyers: Where the heck has he BEEN? Have you been with him? Is he alright? Are YOU alright? You realize he's been missing for going on three weeks now, right? Thinking of Nuada's anger and the worry and stress over Wink's disappearance, which had only fueled that anger and transformed it into fury, she added, Prince LIONRAGE over here has been near out of his mind for him.

Drachegold: We…had a bit of misadventure when some trouble started at the Midnight Fest that we went to. Ja, I've been with him. Would you mind if I called your phone? I have something that will keep the line secure.

When Dylan didn't respond right away, the phone chimed with a new message.

Drachegold: Bitte?

As Dylan texted her number to the rhinemaiden, Nuada peered over her shoulder to see what she was doing. He quirked a brow. "'Prince Lionrage?'" He asked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Shush," the mortal replied as her phone rang. Clicking TALK, she held it to her ear. "Hello? Lorelei?" Recognizing the melodious voice that answered her, she relaxed further. "How can you call my phone? Do you have a phone?"

"Ja. Piece of gnome-work. Goblins have the monopoly on clockworks and mechanics, but the gnomes seem to have done more thriving in the technological boom. Na gut…Butchers showed up at the Midnight Fest."

Cold so bitter it was almost toxic spilled down Dylan's back. Her gaze slashed to Nuada. She knew he'd heard the river maiden's words. He didn't seem surprised. His pale face was carefully blank.

"We got out with our lives, barely, but Wink was in bad form for a few days," Lorelei said. Dylan winced. Bad form? Wink was huge. It would take…she didn't know what it would take, to bring down a warrior the size and strength of Wink. Which meant "bad" was incredibly, nearly fatally bad, then. She saw Nuada had closed his eyes. "I had to put out the word to a few of my more subtle contacts to get proper help for him, but he's been as good as new for some time now." The mortal thought she might've heard a smile in the rhinemaiden's voice when she added, "Though, for some reason he seems to want the two of us to stay isolated and lay low for a few more days. I wonder why."

Nuada huffed a laugh. "I can certainly imagine several reasons," the prince said dryly. "Tell her I need him back by the solstice, and no later."

The mortal raised her eyebrows. "You know, you could talk to her." She held out the phone. Nuada actually leaned back a little, as if afraid the thing would contaminate him. "What's the matter, Your Highness? Scared of a wittle bitty phone?" Dylan wiggled it in his general direction. He offered a mock-snarl. She laughed and put the phone back to her ear. "Nuada says he needs Wink back by the solstice."

"As he commands, so shall we endeavor to do. Does he know or suspect the Butchers of attacking Wink?"

"Uh, yeah. We had a few eyewitnesses give us the head's up. Did they…I don't know, say anything? Anything at all, to indicate whether…" She trailed off, wondering how to word this without it possibly coming back to bite her. "Whether they'd been sent by anyone? Or come on their own?"

There was a long silence. Then, "A few of them attempted to take me out, to prevent me from going to Wink's aid. Some others were attacking those attending Midnight Fest who'd decided to protect the right arm of the Silverlance. Another Butcher called to those attacking, saying that their orders had not included hurting civilians."

The breath left Nuada in a long, slow hiss. Orders. The Butchers had been under orders. And who did they take their orders from, if not the king? Perhaps if there had been only one or two of the guards, but more than two dozen? That sort of treason…there was no hiding it. And no reason for it. The Butcher Guards were loyal, first and foremost, to King Balor. They took their orders from the One-Armed King of Elfland and no other authority could surmount those orders.

Pale fingers fisted in the blue velvet coverlet on Dylan's bed. So. So! It was true, then. Dylan had been right. His father had tried to have Wink murdered. Gods, but why? After all Wink had done for the Bethmooran royal family, why? It made no sense! And did this mean that Balor had been behind the other attacks?

He swallowed back the bitter grief, fury boiling in his blood. When he met Dylan's worried eyes, his expression was a blank mask and his eyes were empty. He got up from the edge of the bed and went back to the window to stare out into the darkness.

"Are you okay?" Dylan asked the rhinemaiden, watching Nuada as he gazed out at the wintry night. His spine was too straight, his shoulders too firm. He held himself too carefully. Whatever emotions churned beneath the surface of that thin veneer of calm, they were hurting him. But she wanted to be sure the river faerie had escaped her run-in with the Butchers without harm. Nuada seemed to care for Lorelei very much. Her being hurt would've hurt him even more.

"Ja, I am, actually…My dress was destroyed and I got tossed around pretty hard, but I heal quite fast. No one will even be able to tell there was ever a mark on me to begin with. I decided to contact you instead of Nuada because I didn't trust the possibility of anyone keeping eyes and ears on him—but the Elven courts are generally out of their element with human electronic technology. And I got your IM address from a very interesting source."

Dylan frowned. "Who?"

"A waitress at a diner called Yvaine's. I believe her name is…Francesca."

The mortal's mouth fell open. "I…what? You talked to my sister?"

"I did not. A friend of mine did. He's human, but…unique. They seem to have taken a liking to each other. When he mentioned that I knew a 'Dylan Myers,' and needed to get in contact with you, she volunteered that she was your sister. Davio got the IM address from her, since it was such an innocuous piece of information."

She tried to wrap her mind around that. "She doesn't know you're a faerie, though…right?"

"No, she doesn't. As for what she thinks of Davio…I take it your sister reads a great many comic books?"

Dylan laughed. It sounded just a bit hysterical. "Um…more like trashy romance novels about snake-shifters and were-ducks and naked gargoyle hotties." At that, the rhinemaiden chuckled. "Lemme guess. He's weird looking by human standards, but it only took her all of five seconds to realize that underneath that, he was a guy, and therefore worth chasing."

"Something like that. Has she not told you? It happened a couple weeks ago, their meeting."

"We don't talk much. But she's all right? She's not in any trouble because of this, right?"

After receiving Lorelei's assurances, the conversation wound down and Dylan and the rhinemaiden hung up. Laying her phone on the nightstand, Dylan got to her feet and, moving slowly to give him time to protest, went to stand about a foot away from Nuada. He didn't look away from the waxing moon, only a couple days shy of being full. Snow drifted down to blanket the kingdom. Somehow the glowing moon managed to beam through the thick clouds. The soft, silver light usually seemed to caress the prince's face, but now it only washed him out.

Dylan reached out, holding her breath, uncertain. She could feel the warmth of him through his wool shirt. Her fingers were a scant breath away from his shoulder when the prince finally spoke.

"Don't," Nuada whispered. Her hand froze just shy of touching him.

"What are you thinking?"

He drew a sharp breath and, in a voice that sounded as if he were swallowing glass, demanded, "How much more? That's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking that I don't know how much more you can take. How much more I can take. I'm thinking I don't know what I'll do if all of this becomes too much and breaks you. There's so much uncertainty. So many shadows gathering 'round about us, intent on our blood. And now my father…my father…

"I don't want to go to war, Dylan. I don't want to tear my kingdom apart, don't want to waste innocent lives. I don't want to challenge my father for the throne. But if Lorelei is correct…if the Butchers were at Midnight Fest on my father's order…For a moment tonight, I thought I had my father back. I dared to hope the breech could be mended." The Elven warrior sighed. "I was a fool. I should've learned better than to trust so easily, after everything I've seen and done in this life." He looked so cold and distant in the pool of snowy moonlight, she thought. So alone. "I'll have to send my most trusted agents to investigate this more thoroughly than I can myself. And if proof is found…if we prove he's done all that we suspect…Dylan, I'll have to kill him. I'll have no other choice."

She laid her hand on his shoulder. "We have a few immediate obstacles to tackle right now," she said, "none of which will usher in the Apocalypse if we mess them up. So we won't have to deal with political intrigue before tomorrow. Okay? First…would you mind if…" Dylan had no idea why she thought to ask him this, but it felt like her next request would make him feel better. "Would you mind too much if you finished brushing my hair?"

Strangely, the tension slipped out of his body as if it had been washed away by spring rain. The corner of his mouth quirked. "I would like that very much, in fact. It would give me something more pleasant to think about for a while. And then what?"

"Then…" Her stomach knotted further. She swallowed. "Then…come to bed?" It came out soft and timid against her will. Nuada finally looked down at her. A gentle expression spread across his face.

"You look like a Little Girl in those clothes."

The mortal didn't confess that that had been the idea—to make herself as asexual as possible, to help them avoid temptation. She knew she looked rather adolescent in her penguin socks, baggy Hello Kitty pajama pants, long-sleeved black UnderArmor shirt and large t-shirt. "I'd put my hair up in pigtails, but you might be tempted to give them a good yank," she said dryly, surprising a wry chuckle out of the Elf. "Come on. I can't go to bed with knots in my hair and you need to sleep."

"I am well enough."

She gently tugged him toward the bed. "You're exhausted and you know it. You never sleep enough. No arguing," she added. "That's one of my conditions for marrying you. You have to do everything I say."

Nuada laughed aloud; surprised he could actually do so. "Oh? Everything you say, is it?" He was still chuckling when he began working on the tangles again. "What if you order me to do something ridiculous?" The soft bristles of the brush made a shushing sound as they moved through the thick, dark curls. "Am I hopelessly at your mercy, then?"

Dylan laughed tiredly. "I hope not, for your sake. I'm a pretty stern task-mistress. I'll wrap you around my little finger and make you my slave."

"You haven't done that already?" Nuada let half his thoughts follow the conversation, trying to enjoy the simple pleasure of Dylan's undemanding talk. The other half focused on not hurting her as he ran the brush through her hair. He didn't dare let his mind wander back to thoughts of his father. And he didn't dare speculate about what would happen once he and Dylan went to bed. Would she let him hold her? Or was that pushing things too far, especially after everything that had occurred tonight? "What other orders do you have for me?"

"Actually…I do have a few real conditions," she murmured. "They came to me while I was saying my prayers. If you really want to hear them."

"Tell me," he commanded softly. "Tell me what you wish, and I will do my best to make it so."

She tried not to fidget. "Well…that is, I'd like it if…would you…I'd like it if you would come to church with me." The brush stilled for a moment. "You don't have to," she hastened to say. "It would just make me really happy if you did. You don't have to do anything else—no church activities or scripture reading or being baptized or anything like that. But it would make me so happy if you would attend church with me. When you have time." When he said nothing, she added softly, "Please?"

"It means that much to you?"

"Yes."

The Elven warrior sighed. "All right, mo duinne. As you wish, so it shall be." He was halfway finished with her hair by now. "Is there anything else? You did say 'conditions.' Plural."

"I've got a couple that I don't think you'll like." He made an inquiring noise. "Well, if I marry you, I'm going to be a princess, right?" He nodded. "So I'll be a noble of the court, right? Well…I was wondering if…well, John…I want him to have a place in Bethmoora, too. So I won't be…lonely. Would it be possible to make him a noble? Or something?"

Nuada choked. "What?"

"Could you make John a noble of Bethmoora? So he'd have a place here, and he'd be protected at least a little by his title?" Quietly, she added, "He's my twin. I miss him. We don't like being apart for very long. But it's not safe for him here. Even if we got married, it wouldn't be as safe as it could be. It would be safer if he had a title."

The prince was silent for a long while. Only after he'd finished with her hair and set the brush on the bedside table did he answer. "I don't have the power to elevate your brother to peerage. However," he added, feeling the sharpness of her disappointment, though she said nothing, "I can speak to my father about it. What else?"

"I want my sisters at the wedding."

He closed his eyes and leaned back against a bedpost. "Your sisters." He sighed when she answered in the affirmative. With just a touch of sarcasm, the Elf asked, "And just how do you suggest we go about introducing your more mundane kin to the wonderful world of Faerie?" He felt like a callow boy when her expression fell and she looked away.

"You're right. It was stupid. I don't even know why I—"

"No," Nuada said firmly. She looked up, uncertain. "That was unkind of me. I'll think on it, and see if I may come up with a way for your wish to be granted. There's no law or tradition against it, at any rate." Though he didn't want those harpy-shrews at his wedding. They would only grieve Dylan. Still, it was what she wanted.

"There's another thing." For some reason, Dylan blushed when Nuada raised his eyebrows. "I mean one really important thing. So…the thing is…for our wedding night." He stiffened. Surely she knew he expected nothing from her. Being wed didn't automatically give him the right to have her whenever he wanted, or even at all. But Nuada only waited as she continued, "I don't…I don't want to have our wedding night in Findias."

His father would no doubt attempt to fight him on that, but if that was what she wanted, he would give it to her. In this, more than anything else, the Elven warrior was determined to let her have her way. "The cottage, then?"

Dylan shook her head. "Actually, I was thinking maybe…we could have our wedding night in the sanctuary." Nuada blinked. "I've never felt safer than when I'm with you. And the sanctuary is…it's a haven. Our haven. I love it there. It's safe. It's the place we spent the first three months we knew each other. I'm really comfortable there. Not to mention," she added with a shy smile, "I love the bathtub. You could swim in that thing. So…is that okay? I think it would be easier for me, too. To have it there. I'd be less likely to…ruin everything."

Nuada frowned. "Ruin? What do you mean?"

"Just…I know that I'll probably…flashback or panic. Probably at the worst possible moment. I'll try my best not to, but I don't know if I'll be able to help it. But the sanctuary is such a peaceful place. Maybe whatever freak-outs I have won't be as bad. So then it won't be…I won't be…" She drew a shuddering breath. "I know I'm not experienced. And you are. And I know I'm going to be awkward and won't know what I'm doing, and it'll be annoying for you, and—"

"Annoying?" He took her hands in his. They were cold. "Is that what you're so worried over? My patience wearing thin? Dylan, I expect nothing from you that you're not willing to give. You should know this by now."

"But it'll be your wedding night, and I'll do something wrong, and it's supposed to be perfect, that's what people always say, but what if I can't do it?" Her voice broke. She swallowed hard. "It wouldn't be fair to you if you went through with everything, and you've waited so long and been so patient, and then when it came down to it, I wasn't strong enough or brave enough to let you—"

"Stop." Gently spoken, but with a hint of steel beneath the word. "Listen to me, Dylan. Truly listen. I expect nothing from you that you're not willing to give me. If I'm not enough of a man that I can soothe your fears, gain your trust in that way, and make such a night everything that it should be for you, then that isn't your fault. It will be mine. My only wish for that night is that it be everything you desire.

"I know what has been done to you. I walked your memories. Do you think I expect you simply to 'get over it?' I know better. I know I must take care. Bravery or strength has nothing to do with this. You are strong, Dylan. You lived through a nightmare. It left you with scars, yes, but I bear soul-wounds of my own. I would never hold such against you.

"As for 'letting' me do anything, as you put it…courting or not, betrothed or not, wed or not, I've no right to demand anything from you. It's my task to earn the privilege. Every touch, every embrace, every kiss: that is your gift to me. I do not take such things for granted. I would be deeply honored if you wed me. I would be thusly honored if you entrusted me with your body as you've entrusted me with your heart. But that's what it is—an honor, a privilege, not a right. I make no demands, milady.

"And as for your supposed lack of courage…you're strong, and you're brave, and I love you. I love you." He gently dried the two tears that slipped down her cheeks with the edge of his shirtsleeve. "Our wedding night will take place in the sanctuary. That is your wish, and I'll see it done. Was there aught else you would ask me?"

Dylan sniffled. Laughed a little, wiping at the last traces of tears on her cheeks. "Thank you, Nuada. I don't know why I'm crying. Actually, yeah I do. I'm tired, and emotional, and no one's ever said anything so…so gallant to me, ever. You're…amazing." She drew a deep breath. "Okay. I'm calm. I'm not crying anymore." A yawn popped out. "Wow. Where'd that come from?"

"You're tired. You've been awake nearly twenty-four hours."

"Yeah. Jeez. Anyway, there are three more things I want. Nothing crazy. The first one is, I want as much control over what happens at our wedding as possible. I mean, I know it's a royal wedding and there'll be lots of things going on, but I want as much control as I can have without messing things up. I wanna know what the plans are and everything. And the second thing is especially important: I want my dress to be modest, and I want it to be white. Can I do that?"

"As you wish, on both counts. And the third thing?"

She ducked her head. Stared at the coverlet between them. "I, uh…um…it's not so much a condition as a question. Do Elves do engagement rings?"

"We do," he murmured. "I would have had one the night I asked for your hand, but the one I wanted…" Nuada actually looked sheepish. "I couldn't find it. My sister had it sent to me a few days past. She'd heard I was looking for the trinket-chest it was in and went looking for it as a way to make up for Saturday."

Dylan's eyes widened. "It's not, like…something from the royal treasury? It's not part of the crown jewels, right?"

"Not exactly." The prince slid off the bed. "Come with me."

"Wait, where are we going?" She scootched off the bed to follow him through the door that joined her bedchamber to his. "Nuada, it's like, five in the morning. What are we doing?"

The mortal followed the Elven warrior into his study. He didn't go to his desk, but to one of the bookcases behind it. On the shelf rested a box of white rosewood, polished so that it gleamed like well-oiled ivory. The image of a blooming rose, inlaid with a hard, opalescent material, graced the lid. The latch was of shining white gold. Nuada reverently lifted the box and set it on his desk with utmost care.

"This was my mother's," he murmured. Dylan's heart thumped hard against her ribs. "She had two made—one for my sister and one for me. The contents of my sister's box would be for her. The contents of this one," the prince added, meeting his truelove's eyes, "my mother intended for the woman I would one day marry."

Pale fingers lovingly traced the iridescent inlay on the lid. "This came from Cíocal. White Fomorian rosewood and abalone shell from the coast, where my mother grew up." He lifted the latch and raised the lid. Reached in and withdrew something that gleamed in the dim lamplight. Very gently he shut the jewelry box once more. "My father had this ring made for my mother, for when he intended to ask for her hand. He thought she would be impressed that it had been made by a great Iaran jeweler, Lady Ruto of Zora."

"Was she?"

Nuada smiled. "She was more impressed with the six moons' labor my father performed in order to win the ring's forging in the first place. Winning three Iaran sapphires from a quetzalcoatl dragon is no easy feat, even for an Elven king. She told him that if he'd simply showered her with treasures and jewels, she would've likely refused him. The quetzalcoatl, however, had judged my father's intentions to be sincere, so my mother accepted."

Firegold eyes lifted from the ring he held in his lightly-clenched fist to Dylan's face. "Come here." He held out his hand, palm-up. "Come to me, mo duinne."

Dylan moved around the large desk to where Nuada stood. He grasped her right hand and brushed his thumb across the gold-and-ruby ring, carved with flowering rose vines, glinting on her finger.

"When I gave you this ring…as I slipped it onto your finger…even then, I wanted so badly to ask for your hand. It was such a temptation. I don't know how I managed to resist it. It almost seemed as if my good intentions in giving you this ring served only to mock me. I'd made it for you so that we might be together, yet I was denied the union I truly wanted. The union I still want.

"You're certain you wish this, Dylan? I'll fight the king for you. Only a selfish coward would demand you give up so much. I can stand by my refusal. I doubt my father will attempt to kill me for this, and whatever other harm he might seek to inflict upon me is of little enough consequence to me that I—"

She touched a finger to his lips, and he fell silent.

"I've made my decision," she said softly. "My loyalty isn't challenged. My love isn't divided. My oaths aren't broken. I've fulfilled the conditions you set by laying down my own." She smiled. "So just shut up and ask me one more time, Prince Emo-Bear."

"Those are mutually exclusive options, my lady. I cannot 'shut up,' as you say, and ask you a question. And I'm not an emo-bear," he added with tremendous dignity. Dylan laughed. She would never be able to hear the legendary Elven warrior use the phrase "emo-bear" without laughing.

Honey-amber eyes caressed her face. Her laughter faded. Then the crown prince of Bethmoora knelt before her and gently grasped her hands.

"I asked you for this, one of the greatest blessings you could ever bestow upon me, once before. Asked, and my heart was broken," Nuada whispered. "I dare to ask once more, with this promise: I'll never give up on you, Dylan. On us. No matter what stands in our way. No matter what stands between us. I will do all in my power to protect you. To love you as you deserve. To be whatever you need me to be. To be a good husband and," unsure why he felt he should say this, unsure what madness had possessed him, but knowing somehow that it needed to be said, "and if the Fates somehow deem it possible, a good father to any children we might be blessed with. I promise you all of this. And so I ask you, Dylan…my Dylan, my lady and my love…will you marry me?"

She closed her eyes. He couldn't read her expression. For one moment of heart-stopping dread, despite everything, he thought she would refuse him. But then…oh, but then…she smiled. Such a smile. She had never smiled quite like that before, not even for him. Nuada knew that no matter what happened, he would carry the memory of that smile for the rest of his long life. A gaze of soft, misty blue met his.

"Yes."

Nuada drew a deep breath. Despite the shadows lingering at the fringes of his thoughts, despite the exhaustion plaguing him, golden warmth bloomed in his chest, blanketing every dark thing in him. Not so those dark things were gone, no, but so that for just a moment, they didn't matter.

She had said, "Yes."

Without looking away from those dreamy blue eyes, he slipped his mother's ring on the heart-finger of Dylan's left hand. The three Iaran sapphires glittered beside the intricately woven triple-band of white gold. A tear slipped down Dylan's cheek, glittering like a diamond in the lamplight. She laughed softly and wiped the tear away.

Then Nuada was on his feet, cradling that beloved face. A moment of hesitation, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, and then he kissed her. Gently. Slowly. Sweetly. A careful brush of his lips across hers like a touch of gossamer wings. There was none of the hot need from the garden. Not even a whisper of compulsion spell. Only a kiss so tender and soft it made Dylan's heart pound and turned Nuada's blood to molten gold. He sighed against her mouth. Allowed himself to simply revel in the joy burgeoning within him.

She'd said, "Yes."

Despite his tiredness, he hoisted Dylan up and spun her around, careful of the desk. She squeaked in surprise. Laughed. "Yes, I will marry you! Yes! Yes!" He set her on her feet, still laughing. He wanted to laugh, too, but he sufficed himself with grinning, leaning in, and kissing the tip of her crooked nose. Dylan grinned. "I will absolutely marry you, my prince. On one more condition."

He arched a brow. "Changing the bargain, mo duinne? Bad form."

"It's a simple condition. You won't have a problem with it. I'll marry you on the condition that we go to bed. I'm tired! And you need to sleep."

Nuada wasn't certain he could sleep. Not now. And surely…

His thoughts trailed away when Dylan yawned and rubbed her eyes with her fists. She looked positively…adorable. The word slipped into his mind and would not be denied. His lady looked simply adorable, rubbing her eyes like a sleepy child. She pushed her hair out of her face. Dropped her head against his chest. "Sleepy, Nuada," his truelove mumbled. "Bed, good. Staying awake, bad."

A smile curved his mouth. "I suppose you want me to carry you?"

Her arms twined around his neck. "Yes, please." So he carried his betrothed back to her bed, enjoying the innocent warmth of her curled against his chest. Only as he tucked her in did he remember the king's second order.

"Dylan—"

"S'okay," she mumbled, cuddling her face into her pillow. One hand lay against the smooth linen pillowcase. The sapphire ring gleamed like a promise. "Jus' get in. An' don' hog the blankets."

The velvet blankets and silk sheets carried faint traces of her perfume and the scent of mortality. So did the pillows. Nuada closed his eyes for a moment to bask in the scents that were Dylan's alone. Then he opened his eyes to find her blinking sleepily at him from across the bed. A good four feet separated them. Dylan's bed was quite large. And quite comfortable. More comfortable than his, actually, the prince realized. There was none of the restlessness he felt when sleeping in his own bed. Only a welcoming warmth and softness that reminded him of Dylan herself.

"If you snore," she said, fighting another yawn, "an' you wake me up, I get to kick you. Okay?"

"As you say. And if you snore?"

She gave him a flat look. "I don't snore. I'm a girl."

"Mmm. I see."

Despite herself, she grinned. "Oh, you be quiet. Go to sleep."

"And if I do not?"

"I'll take my socks off," she mumbled. "And my feet will get really, really cold. And then I will put them somewhere you won't like. So there."

The legendary Elven warrior winced inwardly at the thought of anyone's ice-cold feet—even Dylan's—anywhere near "somewhere he wouldn't like." Aloud, however, all he said was, "It is against Bethmooran law to lay hands—or feet—on the royal person."

"Guess what? I'm your fiancée. That makes me a princess. Kinda. So that rule doesn't apply." She stuck her tongue out.

He hid his smile. "Oh, is that how it works? I'll have to keep that in mind, Princess."

Muffling her laughter, she smacked him in the chest with a pillow. He snatched it out of her hands and tucked it behind his head. "Hey!" She cried, propping herself up on an elbow. "No fair! Give that back!"

"Come and take it."

Dylan held out an imperious hand. "Gimme. By order of the future princess."

"Denied," he replied with a smirk. "By order of the current crown prince."

"You know, I'm gonna get revenge for this."

"Indeed?"

She settled back against the pillows. "Yep. I don't know what it'll be, exactly, but it will involve small furry children and calling you my love muffin in public. And snowballs."

Nuada grinned. "Yes, we saw how well that worked for you last time you challenged me in such a way."

"This time I'll win, though," Dylan replied. He made an inquiring noise. "I'll get help from Lord Bear. Who better to kick your butt at a snowball fight than a giant shapeshifting polar bear? Now go to sleep. Don't make me come over there."

"Darling, I fail to see how that particular threat would induce me to obey your orders. Come over here if you wish. I'll not stop you."

She slanted him a look. "I'll just bet."

"What is an Evil Twin goatee?"

Dylan choked. After managing to smother her giggles, she croaked, "What's a what?"

"What's an Evil Twin goatee?" The Elven prince repeated. "You mentioned it earlier. And who is Spock? And what is spandex?"

The mortal gave up trying to stop giggling. She blamed it on exhaustion. However, she managed to calm down enough to say, "I adore you to distraction. I really do. But that conversation's gonna have to wait, because I need to sleep. And since you won't shut up and let me sleep, I've gotta put you to work. Sing to me, Nuada. Please?"

Nuada reached out and brushed back a lock of hair from her face. "Close your eyes, then, mo mhuire, and I will sing to you."

"Bhí sé go leor cosán cam
Go bhfuil mé anseo dar críoch -
Tuirseach, ceirteacha briste agus caitheamh,
Fiáin leathshúile le heagla.

"Níl i bhfad níos mó leis an fear seo fánaíocht
Ná mar is féidir an tsúil a fheiceáil.
Is féidir leat a fheiceáil dom trí shúile éagsúla.
Déan phrionsa de dom.

"Doras go doras lena mo croí,
Bain triail as a shealbhú as an fuar;
I an t-achar a cart giofógach,
Líonadh le gadaithe agus bheatha.

"Níl i bhfad níos mó leis an fear seo fánaíocht
Ná mar is féidir an tsúil a fheiceáil.
Is féidir leat a fheiceáil dom trí shúile éagsúla.
Déan phrionsa de dom.

"Can do suipéar agus do chanadh phingin;
Tá amhrán ar fad caithfidh mé a thabhairt,
Le fidil agus nach bhfuil aon chuid eile,
Amhránaíocht ach amháin i do chónaí.

"Níl i bhfad níos mó leis an fear seo fánaíocht
Ná mar is féidir an tsúil a fheiceáil.
Is féidir leat a fheiceáil dom trí shúile éagsúla.
Déan phrionsa de dom.

"Tríd an fhuinneog luisne órga;
Teaghlaigh a bhailiú bhabhta.
Anseo lasmuigh tosaíonn sé le sneachta,
Tosta an fhuaim amháin.

"Níl i bhfad níos mó leis an fear seo fánaíocht
Ná mar is féidir an tsúil a fheiceáil.
Is féidir leat a fheiceáil dom trí shúile éagsúla.
Déan phrionsa de dom.

"Is féidir le gach a fheiceáil dom trí shúile éagsúla;
A dhéanamh de mo phrionsa."

He allowed the last note to trail away, smiling to himself, watching the even rise and fall of Dylan's chest. She was asleep. If the Fates were kind, she wouldn't dream tonight. He prayed it was so. After everything that had happened—the darkness in the garden, the brutality of her flashbacks, the trial of his father's questioning—he knew her memories waited, teeth bared and claws unsheathed. Nuada could only hope that what light and warmth he'd provided would keep the nightmares at bay.

His smile slipped away as a thought, cold and cruel and bitter, oozed into his mind. That thought shattered the joy that had seemed to glow in Nuada's chest since Dylan had agreed to wed him. Shattered the hope that things might turn out all right, if only he was vigilant.

If their suspicions about Balor proved correct…if the old king was responsible for all that they suspected…Nuada would have to challenge him for the throne, as Balor would no longer be worthy of the crown. Nuada would have to fight him, either with war or in single combat. His father would die. Nuada would become the new king.

And there would be no king's order ensuring he and Dylan married. No sovereign forcing her to acquiesce. Their engagement, so very new, would be broken. With the threat of civil war in Bethmoora, he would have to send her back to the mortal realm. Bar her from returning to Faerie until such a war ended. If Nuada were defeated and his father victorious, no doubt the king would execute him—if the crown prince hadn't been killed already in combat. And if Balor were defeated, and the prince made king…he would never see Dylan again.

The pain that struck him then held all the strength of the chains of duty and honor that bound him to such a fate. It drove the breath from his lungs. He clenched his teeth and simply strained to breathe past the crushing weight that seemed to engulf him.

If the king was truly his enemy, honor and duty would shatter Nuada's heart and rob him of nearly everyone he held dear. His father, who would have to die for such a transgression; the law was clear. His twin, who would never understand the merciless weight of honor. And Dylan. Never to see Dylan again…never to hear her laughter, see her face, never to hold her again…

Without conscious thought, he moved to where his truelove lay slumbering. Fitted himself against her back. When he curved his arm around her waist and pressed his face against her shoulder, she stirred.

"Wassa matter?"

He opened his mouth to say nothing. Closed it. The cotton t-shirt she wore smelled of lavender, chamomile, and vanilla. It was incredibly soft against his forehead. Her hair was soft against his cheek, scented with the delicate fragrance of lilacs. Nuada breathed deep of those scents before replying, "Nearly everything. May I hold you?"

Dylan yawned before mumbling, "Can't. M'sorry. Not s'posed to."

Honor forced him to release her, though he ached to have her close. Instead, he moved back to his side of the bed. "Forgive me. I meant no disrespect."

She turned to him, rubbing one eye with a loose fist. "S'okay. You didn' know." She stifled a yawn. "Don' worry, Nuada. It'll be okay." She reached across the distance between them. Laid her hand, palm up, on the velvet coverlet. "Don' worry. Just sleep. S'okay."

Nuada laid his hand atop hers. She curled her fingers around his hand, clasping gently, and sighed before sinking back into sleep.

Her warmth seeped into him from their clasped hands, pushing back the chill that had taken him when he'd realized he might never see her again. Her scent and the steady rhythm of her breathing lulled him. Slowly, he relaxed again. By the time dawn broke, the legendary Elven warrior prince had fallen asleep holding hands with a mortal commoner.

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Author's Note: and we are now at the end. I'm curious as to your thoughts. I would truly like to know everyone's thoughts and opinions on this chapter and on my questions posted below. Loves to you all.

Important Announcement: for a better look at the negative impact and life-altering effects of PTSD in soldiers, I suggest everyone look up a movement begun by a military spouse, I believe it's called Battling BARE. It's big on Facebook and you can probably find a link or pictures on Google. A woman whose husband had severe PTSD after returning from Iraq lashed out during a flashback and struck her without meaning to. When they took it to their counselor to help deal with the problem, instead of giving the guy help, he was court-martialed and either dishonorably discharged from the military, or was threatened with such action. His wife, in protest, began the Battling BARE program, which is a pledge by spouses and significant others to help members of the military with PTSD. Some of the pictures are very moving. The pledge itself made both me and my beta cry.

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Concerning the Chapter Title: the title comes from a line in the song "My Love Is on the High Seas" by Julie Fowlis. Originally sung in Scottish Gaelic, this song is in the trailer for Disney Pixar's Brave. Although sung by a woman, the narrator is a man.

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References Made in This Chapter:

- The line "You're mocking me, aren't you?" is eerily similar to Buzz's dialogue in Toy Story. =)

- Dylan's threat to bake Nuada into a pie is inspired by Disney's Lilo and Stitch.

- "Are you out of your Elven mind?" is LA's rehash of the line from Star Trek 2009. "Are you out of your Vulcan mind!?"

- Dylan's reference to "Evil Twin Goatees" refers to a phenomenon also known as "Spock's Beard." In Star Trek: the Original Series, when Evil Spock from an alternate universe made an appearance, the only difference between him and Good Spock was that Evil Spock sported a sinister black goatee. This has since been adopted by many other fandoms.

- The title of Prince or Princess (usually Princess) Royal is usually given to the eldest living princess. In Nyame, Farai was the Prince Royal until Kagiso and Kamaria were born. Due to Kagiso being Kamaria's twin, he now claims the title Prince Royal because his twin sister is the Crown Princess.

- In Nyame (and in Alfheim), scars are considered a mark of beauty.

- Bakhna Rakhna is Ashanti, I believe, for "Good People"—similar to how in Ireland, England, and Scotland, the fae are known as the Good Neighbors.

- Dylan's Uncle Thaddeus is her mother's older twin brother, and the guy John gets his middle name for. Had a big hand in raising John before his disappearance and any time Dylan was "indisposed."

- Dylan mentions Gunter, Allison, and Ruby in chapter 30.

- Gunter's death was inspired by One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

- Nuada's memory of his father is based on a real memory of someone I know whose father suffered PTSD after a tour in Vietnam.

- The conversation with Lorelei was written almost entirely by OceanFire9. I only tweaked it a little and wrote the part about Francesca. Davio is Ocean's character. I love him a lot.

- Quetzalcoatl is an Aztec god, apparently, but in some modern fandoms, it's a South American dragon.

- The song Nuada sings to Dylan is a modified version of a song by Blackmore's Night. The song is called "Vagabond." I modified the gender-specific words into Gaelic. The original song is in English and both sung and narrated by a woman. You guys should look it up on Youtube, it's amazing.