Author's Note: hey, everyone. I'm back again. I'm on a new medication regiment and though my physical abilities have kind of tanked over the months, I've figured out some work-arounds. So the goal is back to posting a chapter on the first of every month (unless that's a Sunday). The chapters appear a week in advance on my Pat. Re-On. before being posted here, along with the chapter-specific playlist and sometimes some extra bonus material.
There is some new info about the various fics in the World of Once Upon a Time: Once Upon a Moonless Dark, Once Upon a Utopia, Once Upon the Bane of Midsummer, Once Upon a Winter's Night, etc. Check the author's note at the bottom of this chapter for posting information. There's also a new fanfic-contributor to the collection of "I didn't write that but you should go enjoy it" fics for Once. I'll talk more about that in the author's note at the end of the chapter.
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Last Time on Once Upon a Time: Tsu's'di was flogged for "murdering" two human bandits and Pauline had her head shaved and ended up in the stocks for half a day to stop Balor from flogging a fae child who'd thrown a rock at a bandit trying to kill her. King Balor had forced Nuada to flog Tsu's'di and forced Dylan to keep the count of the lash. After Tsu's'di was let down from the whipping post and taken inside, Dylan's monster friend Oblina offered to guard him while Dylan dealt with an unexpected problem – through a series of magical coincidences, Petra's son Russell and a new friend of his, the half-Elf Tiana, had gotten their hands on Dylan's lost traveling ring and shown up in Lallybroch. Dylan discovered that young Russell possessed the Sight, and Petra learned that her sister Simone, who'd been left in charge of the Myers children, had been verbally abusing him.
After meeting Prince Nuada and Prince Dastan and receiving a mark of protection to shield him from the dangers of possessing the Sight, Russell was sent back to the human world with Tiana, accompanied by Becan Brownie and the young monster, Maurice. Nuada at last went to his father and informed him that if the king ever made a move to harm anyone under the prince's protection again, Nuada would kill him and take the throne.
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Once Upon a Time
Chapter One-Hundred-Thirty-Three
Our Finest Gifts
that is
A Short Tale of the Love of Good Friends, the Love of a People, the Love of Vassals, the Words of Vassals, the Words of Princes, the Words of Trueloves, the Confessions of Mothers, the Commands of Ladies, the Happiness of Fathers, the Gifts of a Glory, the Sorrows of Children, the Love of Mothers, the Words of Kings, the Pasts of Princes, and the Love of Fathers
.
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It was more than he could do, to stand tall and straight and as implacable as stone when he walked out of his father's room and slammed the door. Nuada's knees threatened to buckle. Cold tingles spread through his legs and his belly churned. He recognized the side effects of a sort of nerve-killing shock, as his rage seeped from him like blood.
An ultimatum. He'd finally done it. Finally warned Balor, told him to his face what would happen if he ever again dared to harm Nuada's vassals, his family. Did he need to check his room for assassins this night? Would his regiment of guards turn on him, seek to slay him at the king's behest?
Would Balor finally decide to kill him at last?
"Silverlance."
At the sound of his name, he glanced up and met the worried gaze like obsidian that belonged to Princess Kamaria. He didn't know what had made her approach him at first, but now her gaze roved over his face and she narrowed her eyes. One brow slowly arched.
"About time," she said, and grabbed his wrist in a friendly grip. "Come drink with me. You probably need it. And I can't remember the name of that one dessert that you and I both like so much. The cake with the whiskey. Come help me remember. I want some."
"I—" He began.
"You have absolutely no choice," the princess sang with a laugh and a toss of her many braids. "I want cake and you need whiskey." Slinging an arm around his shoulder, she added more softly, "I know that look. I've seen it before. Finally drew the line. I'm proud of you, old friend. I know it must have been hard. Dastan and Zhenjin and the others are at the bar. You should have your friends with you at a time like this. No more of this sulking in dark rooms and brooding like a wet rooster."
The image startled a strained laugh out of him. By then, they'd reached the other royals. His old friends needed only a glance at his face to make the same connection Kamaria had. They welcomed him over, ordered him a drink, and fetched Wink to join them. Kamaria demanded cake, echoed by Taran.
They didn't comment on the conversation they had all realized had taken place between Nuada and his father. They offered him only companionship and the comfort of their presence.
But every so often, Prince Dastan would study him for a moment, and then look away.
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Evening fell early in Bethmoora in winter. The people of Lallybroch, going about their everyday chores and errands, flicked their gazes to the horizon stained with sunset fire and blood, and began to make their way indoors. It was safer inside, or felt so. Even though they sought no refuge in the village tavern while the king and his craven soldiers infested the place, just having sturdy walls and a solid door with a latch eased some of the fear. Those villagers who lived on the fringes or had lost their homes were given space by those closer to the village square.
As the people of the village put their children to bed and settled around their small hearth fires, they whispered. They spoke of kings with no hearts and princes whose hearts were still broken, of human beasts and mortals who came to offer aid. As the hour grew late, the fae discussed a boy tortured for a king's pride and a woman who offered herself for the sake of a little girl. They spoke in furtive Whispers of pretenders to the throne, and the true king and his queen.
It was nigh on midnight when the word went out. The people of Broch Toruch, of Lallybroch, had made their decision. Though some of the villagers chose to leave their knives in their kitchen drawers or the wooden chests at the foots of beds, none ran to the tavern to betray a neighbor to the Butcher Guard. Even those few who still possessed some sliver of faith in the Crown stayed silent and did not turn in friend or foe, neighbor or stranger. They were too busy thinking of Sáruit ingen Cabhan and the vicious blow she had nearly dealt Lady Pauline, a blow that could have killed the mortal woman.
It mattered that every villager who planned to participate intended to use their own blades. Widows, wives, and even those who only just plighted their troth took up courtship dirks. Men, women, both and neither, laid their hands and claws and talons on eating knives, whittling knives, hunting knives, paring knives, on dirks and daggers, on any blade they had to hand.
Even the fae in the tavern who were not of royal blood and offered Balor no fealty knew of the plan, thanks to Lorelei Von der Strom. The rhinemaiden would not risk Balor believing she backed any attempt for the Bethmooran by Prince Nuada…but she did not support Balor, either. Especially not after today.
When she brought Uilliam McBás and his three lieutenants to the room shared by young Iúile Uí Níall and her new husband and infant daughter, the Elven girl had already drawn her wedding knife.
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Dylan saw what Iúile had done the next morning when she came to check on the young mother and tiny baby. The mortal nearly dropped the leather messenger bag with her medical supplies in it.
"Holy crow," Dylan breathed. "Iúile…honey…what have you done to your hair?"
The Elven girl couldn't seem to stop herself from raising a pale, thin hand to the shorn silver locks that stood up in wild tufts from her skull. None of the hair was longer than the last segment of Dylan's pinky finger. Iúile offered her a tremulous smile.
"For Lady Pauline," she said softly.
Dylan blinked. Lady Pauline? Iúile had cut her hair for Pauline? Short hair on any Bethmooran fae was a mark of shame. That was why Balor had inflicted it on Pauline in the first place. For Iúile to do this as a mark of sympathy and support…
"Liam did it," Iúile said. Another blink from the mortal. "We talked it over and agreed we would both do it—"
"Liam cut his hair, too?" Dylan gasped. Liam was a gancanaugh. It would look even worse in the eyes of Bethmooran society for him to have hair that short.
Iúile nodded. "For Lady Pauline," she said again.
What staggered Dylan most was that after checking on the baby and on Iúile to ensure she was healing well, when the human made her way downstairs to find Nuada and breakfast, she saw that nearly everyone had cut their hair as short as the Elven girl upstairs. The glaistig women waiting tables had shorn their long waterfalls of golden-green curls so short, the nubs of their goat horns poked through. Bob the basajuan had cut his beard. The beard had once fallen past his knees; now it was barely the span of Dylan's palm.
Many of the villagers were clearly ill at ease but putting a brave face on it. Sorcha, the half-gancanaugh tree girl, parked herself at Dylan's table and scratched at her scalp.
"This won't grow back in until spring," the girl grumbled.
After a moment, Dylan said, "But you did it anyway."
Sorcha brushed a loose bit of dark hair off the delicate point of one ear and said softly, "Aye, I did."
"Thank you, Sorcha," Dylan said. Sorcha shrugged.
"McBás deserves the most thanks. He can't hide his ears now, and he hates that…but, human or not, the four of us have decided."
"Decided what?"
Sorcha looked at her as if she'd just claimed the moon was made out of stinky blue cheese and treacle. For some reason, it made Dylan flush.
"Decided the Silverlance was right—you're not enemies. Lady Pauline and you, Lady Dylan. You helped protect one of our littles. We won't forget that."
She tried to offer to buy the girl breakfast, but the tree-girl waved the offer away and left, pausing only long enough to bob a perfunctory curtsy to Prince Nuada as he approached the table. The prince, Dylan noted, had not cut his hair. She hadn't expected him to, especially not for Pauline, even after yesterday. A royal fae—the Crown Prince of Bethmoora, the War Chieftain, greatest of the Fianna—cut his hair? But Nuada looked quite pleased (if a little surprised) by what the villagers appeared to have done.
What would King Balor think, though? What would he do?
"The king has been made aware that Iúile and Liam are wed now," Nuada said, breaking into her thoughts. Gheillis, one of the goat women, came over with two rough-hewn plates heaped with scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and sprinkles of bacon. Like the others, she'd practically shaved her head, but one thin braid like strands of woven peridot revealed the sacrifice she'd made, running from the tight, short curls behind a pointed ear to trail almost on the floor, a few scant inches above the hem of her gray-green dress.
Dylan and Nuada both thanked her softly. She knew it wasn't simply for the food. She left with a curtsy and a tired smile, and the mortal refocused on her prince.
"He knows?" Dylan asked. The prince nodded. "What will he do?"
"Nothing," Nuada said flatly. "Or he will die."
She blinked. He'd just…said it. Hadn't even looked to see who might be listening to their conversation. And he hadn't sounded angry or sad or bitter. Merely resigned. And now he was just forking eggs and potatoes into his mouth like a robot. He hardly seemed to taste them.
"Nuada?" She ventured.
He stopped eating and lifted an eyebrow.
"Did…did something happen last night?" Lowering her voice and leaning across the table, she added, "With the king?"
He swallowed. "It did." He drank from whatever was in his cup and said nothing more.
"Was it…bad?" He was acting so…not cold, exactly. Shut off? Masking his real thoughts and feelings, and not simply because they were in public. Still, she offered him her hand, palm up, an invitation to unburden his heart using the link they still somewhat shared. But he flicked only a glance at her hand and then kept eating.
Okay. Message received: he did not want to talk about…whatever had happened. Well, if she couldn't get him to open up, maybe she could distract him. The unicorn that had touched Nuada's heart in the forest had not only said they were always welcome in that sacred grove, but had told Dylan to bring "Rowan's mother" to them.
Rowan's mother. Petra. How had the unicorn known about Baby Rowan? And why did she want to see Petra of all people? Dylan had no way of knowing, of course, but she had a feeling you just didn't disobey a unicorn. They were already overdue by a day, thanks to the king and his so-called "justice." They needed to go as soon as possible, so as not to offer offense.
When she explained this, Nuada agreed, but said nothing more. When he'd finished his meal, he rose to his feet, absently kissed her temple, and left to saddle his horse and hers.
What is going on with him? Dylan wondered. What in the world could possibly have happened?
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"The prince is leaving the village," Sáruit informed Balor from her place at the window. "He has that mortal and her two eldest sisters with him, as well as the trollop and her baby and the bean sídhe criminal."
Balor didn't chastise Sáruit for calling the young bride a trollop. A girl that young, wed to a Love Talker, with a child by another man? Vassal - and leman or hopeful leman - to Prince Nuada? The girl was a harlot and her father was blessed to be rid of her. What sort of woman attached herself to something like a gancanaugh?
"Should I…stop him, Sire?" Sáruit asked.
The king shook his head. The prince hadn't taken Wink, or his cat vassals, or the harlot's new husband. Wherever they were headed, they would be back later today.
Balor had barely slept the previous night. Nuada's words—and worse, that shattered, enraged expression—refused to let the old Elf find any rest. What was happening to his son? There had been a tenor to the conversation Balor couldn't remember ever experiencing with Nuada before. It left him…unsettled, deep in his bones.
A knock came at the door. Before Sáruit could go see who it was, a familiar voice announced, "Your Majesty King Balor? I, Dastan, Crown Prince of Shahbaz, seek audience with you."
Dastan. Balor's thin lips curve into an involuntary smile. The crown prince of Shahbaz was a favorite of most of his peers and his royal mother's compatriots both. Level-headed, clever, with a wisdom belied by his young age, the heir to the Throne of the Star Lions, Lord of the Dreaming City, was someone Balor not only liked, but trusted. The only flaw in Dastan judgment, as far as the old king could see, was the man's friendship with Nuada. An odd friendship, as the two princes shared very few opinions in common regarding…well, anything. Religion, humans, military strategy, marriage, even the music and books and plays they enjoyed. And yet, they were friends.
How, Balor wondered suddenly, did his son have so many friends? How did none of them see what Nuada was?
Sáruit let Dastan inside; the prince offered the king the shallowest of bows. It wasn't rudeness. Dastan did not owe his loyalty to any monarch but the Sultana of Shahbaz, his mother. But Balor was a king. The old Elf offered the prince a nod of acknowledgement and gestured him to a chair.
"To what do I owe this honor, Prince Dastan?"
The prince opened his mouth. Closed it again. Pursed his lips. He opened his mouth a second time, but hesitated, then ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. A slow tingle of unease began in the pit of Balor's stomach.
"Is this about Prince Nuada?" Balor asked softly. Anyone else - except Nuala, Balor's own chamberlain, or the emperor of Dilong (as they were old, old friends) - and the Bethmooran king might have been angry at even the idea that another royal might stick their nose into his family affairs. But Dastan was wise. He wouldn't offer counsel to a foreign king on any subject without good reason. So when Dastan nodded, Balor leashed his temper.
"I mean no offense, King Balor-"
"Thus far you have offered none, my boy," the king assured him. "What has Nuada done now, that even his comrades come to me?"
"Nothing, Your Majesty," Dastan said. Balor frowned. "To be quite honest, I'm surprised he hasn't done anything drastic. I…I would speak to you, King Balor, as I normally would speak to Nuada himself, if I may."
Utterly confused, the king nodded. "Of course."
Dastan drew a long, slow breath, then let it out just as slowly. Steepling his fingers, he propped his elbows on his knees.
"You must stop this, King Balor."
It took the old Elf a minute to find his tongue. "Stop what, pray?"
"This." The prince made a sweeping gesture with one arm. "Did you know that out of the thousand villagers in Lallybroch, as of this morning, all but perhaps thirty adults have shorn their hair in support of the mortal you punished yesterday?"
Balor choked.
"Do you know that when word of your coming arrived, more than half the village children began to cry?" Dastan pressed. The old king stared at him, more than a little stung. "Did you know Prince Nuada skips meals so the supplies will stretch farther? Did you know that the girl, Mistress Uí Níall, nearly slit her own wrists in despair before Prince Nuada and Lady Dylan saved her?"
"I—" Balor began. His son had said something about that, but he'd thought Nuada exaggerated, trying to press his point.
"The people of Lallybroch are sick. They're starving. They've been wounded. They're under attack and I understand you believe in the treaty, King Balor, as does my mother. But throwing a stone is not the same as drawing a blade."
The old king stared at him. "Of course it isn't, but the child tried to…she drew mortal blood."
"A few drops, mayhap. Not a capital offense. I'm not saying to throw the treaty away," Dastan hastened to add, and Balor relaxed a little. "I only wonder if you truly must be so hard on your own people when they've suffered so much. Surely some gentleness, some mercy would be the better path. I believe you love your people, Majesty, but they do not. They must be shown. No one remains loyal to a liege-lord they believe wishes them harm."
Only Dastan could have said this and not given offense, but still…
"If I show any softness, my subjects will rise up and butcher the humans and the half-breeds."
An odd flicker in Dastan's eyes, there and gone, and Balor wondered what had prompted it.
"I do not believe so," was all Dastan said. "As my royal mother says, give the people reason to love you and they will obey you with glad hearts."
"I am their king. They have no reason not to love me." Even as he said it, the Bethmooran king knew the words were foolish. Of course his people didn't love him. Why should they, when his son could use promises of bounty and bloodshed to earn their affections? Everyone knew the Silverlance would abolish the treaty in Bethmoora the moment he took the throne, and when he did he intended to let the streets run with innocent blood, to let the pure-blooded fae rip lives and livelihoods from anyone with even a drop of mortal blood in their veins because Nuada despised the human race, wanted all of them dead—
Dastan shifted in his chair, leaning back and laying his hands lightly upon the armrests. His impossibly dark eyes caught Balor's gaze.
"The people here are nearly broken, Your Majesty," the young prince said. "Broken people have nothing to lose but the lives they don't even want anymore. You fear they will rise against you but the only reason they would? Is because dying under the blades of royal soldiers is preferable to living as they do now. Surely that is not what you want for your people. You are a king who wishes what is best for his kingdom; I know it. Nuada wants to believe it. Will you not show mercy?"
Balor let out a long, heavy sigh. Dastan wasn't wrong—he wanted all that was good and right for the people of Bethmoora. For Nuada. He despised the grief, the rage always simmering in his son's gaze. Despised the shadows that literally painted his skin, the physical evidence of his darker emotions. He only wanted what was best for his kingdom and his family.
What if Balor's iron-fisted control of the prince—the strict punishments, the harsh words, the gimlet eye—were partly responsible for those shadows? For the unrest here in the village as well?
The flogging. He shouldn't have threatened to flog the bean sídhe. Now, looking back, Balor understood that. Nuada had been right, she was only a child. Dastan was absolutely correct—a stone thrown in panic was not a knife through the heart. Perhaps…perhaps he ought to have sent the child to the stocks for a brace of days instead, or a moon in a prison cell. Maybe…
And the mortal. Mistress Pauline. The ignorant woman hadn't known any better. What did humans know? They were practically children. He ought not to have shouted at her. He ought to have left her unshorn and merely put her in the stocks.
The cat boy…he deserved a flogging, there was no question of it, but doubling the number of lashes? Making Nuada punish the boy when the prince clearly loved him, making Lady Dylan keep the count? Balor groaned softly and dropped his face into his hands. Once he put aside his injured pride and frayed temper, once he thought things over calmly, the king realized his son's anger made sense. Nuada had no right to speak to him as he had, but Balor understood. Especially with the revelation that Sréng…
He shoved the thought aside. He would not think of his old friend just now. Not when there were so many unanswered questions. Not when he could scarcely untangle his own emotions.
"You are wise beyond your centuries, Prince Dastan," he said. "And have you any suggestion as to what I should do now?"
"With all due respect, Your Majesty…I think you should leave."
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How mighty, how powerful King Balor was, Nuada thought bitterly, that his hand stretched even so far as this grove. Dylan had suggested bringing Petra to the grove to meet the unicorns. Everything in him had rebelled at a human, any human except Dylan, laying eyes on the Twilight Realm's most precious ones…until his beloved had said that Petra was Rowan's mother, the one the unicorns had asked to see. What choice did he have then?
Petra had asked to bring Pauline. After all she had done, he couldn't say no (although it galled him to acquiesce). And Pauline, harpy though she yet was, had asked if they should perhaps bring little Siobhan as well as Iúile and her baby. The Elven girl and the bean sídhe child had been through so very much…and Nuada had found himself agreeing to that, as well. It had been remarkably kind of the woman to think of it.
So now he found himself sitting with his back to a blossoming apple sapling while Dylan held her tiny, sleeping namesake; Pauline and Petra talked quietly by the babbling brook; and Iúile played a game halfway between Tag and Chase with the young bean sídhe through the field.
Nuada found no joy in any of it. No peace or pleasure. Oddly, it only served to make him feel tired. He didn't know if he had actually slept the night before or if he had merely drifted aimlessly through distant memory until dawn came. The world felt oddly far away. Everything was dull and gray and exhausting. Nuada found himself yearning to bury his face in the warm crook of Dylan's neck and try to block out everything else by breathing her in until he could sleep. Just to rest a while.
But he couldn't. He could not. He had responsibilities. People who depended on him. There could be no rest.
"Are you going to tell me what happened last night with the king?" Dylan asked suddenly, breaking into his thoughts like a stone shattering a pane of glass. The prince turned to her. She held the sleeping infant cradled in her arms, head bent to look at her, but the mortal must have felt his gaze because she lifted her head and met his eyes.
Nuada hadn't intended to speak of it, of any of it. It was too new, too raw, too painful. But one look from her, that look of love and sympathy and fierce determination to stand by him no matter what, and the words spilled from his lips like blood from a wound, a confession of all he had said to Balor.
He didn't know what he expected her to do or say, but he was still more than a little shocked when she nodded and said, "Good. I'm glad. Maybe he'll finally get the message and back the heck off."
He stared at her. "You are not…upset with me?"
"With you?" She shook her head, looking confused. "No, of course not. Not at all. You had every right to say that stuff. And you meant every word, which means saying it didn't put us in danger - extra danger - because if he comes after us again, you'll kick his butt."
"If he threatens us again, I mean to kill him, Dylan." Perhaps she didn't understand that if his father attempted to hurt anyone he loved again, it would not simply result in kicking his butt, as she put it. It would end in death. In taking the throne. In becoming king, and then she would be his queen. Did she understand that?
"I know," she said softly. "And I know it must be hard for you to…exist with that decision. I can't imagine how hard. But Nuada…you are a good man and a good prince. You will make a wonderful king one day. You're only doing what you have to do for your people. Our people. Did you think I'd be mad at you for that?"
"I…I do not know what I thought. Fates and shades, Dylan, I am just so tired and now with Naya and my father and your sisters, I…I am so tired. I have not felt so tired, tired in my bones, in nearly a century."
Eighty years. Eight decades or so since Hiroshima, and the mortals' poisonous white flames, and Yukihime.
And before that? Before that had been the raids on the ghettos of Poland and Germany and Austria, the systematic destruction of the Limberlost, the human assault on the supernatural town of Innsmouth, the havoc of the human plagues that had somehow infected the Fair Folk. There had been the slaughter of the firebirds by Russian czars, the massacre at Mwindo Bay, the suicide by sea of the Igbo and the fae that loved them to escape the bonds of slavery, the Trail of Tears that had rounded up indigenous mortal and immortal alike. There had been the war that split mortal Elphame in two over the rights of humans foully sold like cattle. There had been his brave Vassa and her brothers.
He'd survived the Crusades, all of them, and the Inquisition, and the witch hunts. He'd survived the loss of Shina'kin and Ma'ati, her young son with his laughing dark eyes. He'd survived the Battle of Scarlet and Gold.
Nuada shook the thoughts away. He would not think of those times, of all that hell and heartbreak, here and now. His mood was already foul enough.
"When do you plan to go and see Polunochnaya?" There was no bitterness and no anger in the question. Dylan sounded merely curious.
"Now that your ring has been found, I could go to Findias and return in but a day, using its magic. Perhaps I'll go tomorrow. I don't yet know what I will say to her. What there even is to say. She betrayed us, betrayed me, yet my father and Nuala seem to believe I did this to myself. I—"
"That's because they suck," she said matter-of-factly, "and have no idea what they're talking about. So you'll go tomorrow, probably. Okay. That's fine. We can manage here for one day, especially if you leave Wink with us. Here, my arms are tired, take the baby, please."
"What?"
Instead of answering the startled squawk, she thrust the slumbering baby into his arms. It took her mere seconds to arrange Nuada's limbs to her liking so that he held Baby Dylan the way he was apparently supposed to (she was a healer, so she ought to have known, surely). Then Dylan flopped onto her back on the soft grass and clover, arms behind her head. Nuada gazed down at the bundle of blankets and swaddling.
"Um."
"You don't have to do anything. Just let her sleep."
"I have never held a child quite this young before." In the army and after, his friends that had children didn't foist them into his arms until the babes had seen at least four or five moons and could hold up their own heads. Baby Dylan had barely seen four or five weeks and seemed about as animated as a loaf of bread most of the time.
"You're doing just fine. You're basically just furniture right now. Don't stress. If she wakes up and starts crying, Iúile will come and save you."
Nuada tried to scowl at her at the statement that he was simply furniture, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his shadowed mouth. "Is that what will happen, peata?" He asked the tiny baby in a soft croon that seemed wholly unconscious. "Your Mata will save me, aye? No, no need for that. We are friends, are we not? You are safe here with me, little maiden. So sleep and dream. Sleep and dream."
The baby was a warm, comforting weight in his arms and against his chest. Here was proof that good things still existed, were still protected. Because of Dylan, because of him, this child was safe. Alive. Thriving. It could be so for the rest of his people. It was possible, King Balor or no King Balor. Despite his father, things could turn out well enough.
Baby Dylan made a soft, cooing baby-noise and shifted in his arms. She didn't wake, but Nuada found his gaze drawn to the sheen of golden lashes against her plump cheeks, the wisps of copper-gold hair at her forehead, the tiny button nose, the impossibly small mouth. He'd never really looked at a half-Elven, half-human child before. The thought of them had…bothered him, for many reasons. Humans and fae…where would the halflings have fallen? In the war that he knew was to come, how would they fare? Which part of their blood would call them strongest? These were the things that had plagued him whenever he thought of them before this.
But now…
He looked at Dylan, then to Petra and Pauline by the brook. He thought of John, Francesca, Victoria. He thought of Uilliam McBás. A grin tugged at his lips when he remembered the boy, Russell. An odd warmth filled him when he thought of the strange halfling girl, Tiana.
Human and fae. His own children would be half-human. Once he might have rejected the idea, probably violently. But now, it seemed perfectly normal. Would his children look like the little one he held in his arms now? All gold and cream and blush roses instead of Dylan's healthy tan or his own moonbeam complexion, not shadow-dark curls or star-blond spidersilk but coppery-gold waves?
He wondered.
Nuada watched Dylan relax into a light doze while he cradled the baby, and the bairn sniffled and gurgled in her sleep. Things were not hopeless. He needed to remember that. It was easier, with his beloved at his side and this child in his arms. Suddenly, he did not feel quite so exhausted.
It was then that the unicorns came.
.
Petra stared at the creature that melted out of the snowbound trees while it stalked closer, every step practically vibrating with a dark intent she knew could likely kill her. Maybe she should let it. Maybe it was finally time. After all, if not this, what other form might death take? Probably something far less beautiful.
Pauline clutched at her sleeve as the nearly bone-white fae beast came closer and closer, but Petra barely felt her sister's grip. Her entire focus had been swallowed up by the impossibly dark malachite eyes of the unicorn.
*Is death truly what you seek, mortal child?*
The voice was soft and sad and so beautiful, Petra felt tears sting her eyes. And she had to answer, but she couldn't find words or voice. Death? She didn't have to seek it. It was everywhere, all around them. Wars like Iraq and Afghanistan, wars pretending not to be wars like New York and the border and this one that Prince Nuada fought now, murders like those two victims screaming in the flames, and murders like…like…
Her daughter's laugh echoed like a ghost in her ears.
*Do you truly seek death, Rowan's mother? Or do you seek something else?*
There was fire in her chest and smoke in her throat, pain in her heart and memory clawing at the inside of her skull. She could still hear those poor people screaming in the fire, and she could still hear the echo of gunshots over crackling flames, even now, after all this time.
*What is it you truly wish, mortal mother with the shadows in her broken heart?*
The confession tour from her throat even as she fell to her knees. "I just want my baby back!"
Petra clapped both hands over her mouth because she didn't want to have said that, confessed it, shown the world that Rowan's loss still tore at her heart. And Dylan, her poor baby sister, still felt so hideously guilty about it all, but it wasn't her fault, it wasn't. There was no way she could have known what those monsters had intended to do…
The small meadow was still and silent now except for the babbling stream and Petra's dry, aching sobs, muffled behind her hands. She felt Dylan staring at her back from yards away. What was her sister thinking? What was Pauline thinking? Or Prince Nuada, or the girl Siobhan, or the young mother Iúile? What must they be thinking now, while she struggled to swallow the sounds of her grief?
No one moved or spoke…until a warm, sweet-smelling weight settled on the grass beside her and a silky nose pushed at her damp cheek.
*Dear child,* the unicorn crooned, nuzzling her. *Sweet, sorrowing child. I know. I know. Weep out your grief, mortal child, and find peace here.*
And Petra cried as she had not done since the day of Rowan's funeral, without thought for what other people might say or do or think. As reckless as a child, she threw her arms around the unicorn's strong, sleek neck and cried into its mane.
She didn't notice Pauline move away from her, unable to bear her sister's pain or the nearness of the impossibly beautiful creatures. Petra didn't see the bean sídhe child or Iúile go to Pauline and try to speak to her in soft, worried voices, only to be thwarted by the language barrier. And she didn't pay any attention to the other unicorn that broke away from its glory-mates and slowly walk to where Dylan and Nuada sat, the halfling baby in the prince's arms and the mortal wide awake now.
She only wept, and wept, and wept. And the unicorn with its eyes of deepest green laid its muzzle over her shoulder and comforted her.
.
*Do not rise, mortal child, Elven child.* It was the same unicorn that had pierced Nuada's heart with her horn but two days ago, the one of amethyst and violet crystal and lilac and lavender colors, like a shadow across the moon. She studied the infant Nuada held with eyes like liquid amethyst for a long moment before lifting her head to regard the prince.
*Conceived in darkness and grief, born in pain and strength, danger and love,* the unicorn said. *Halfling child, daughter of the Earth, daughter-in-soul to the Moon and its darkness, I offer you a gift.*Looking directly into eyes like honey gold surrounded by shadows, she said, *To you, halfling child, named for the mortal that thrice saved you, I give this gift: the future king of the Tuatha de Danann as your godsfather. His love, loyalty, and protection shall be yours until the end of his life. This,* she added with an almost sardonic toss of her head and swish of her tail, *I command.*
She stamped one crystal hoof three times into the grass.
Nuada swallowed hard. Godsfather? Some rare mortals and halflings had fairy god- or godsparents, but…but had they ever been royalty?
"I will obey, Lady," he said. No one, not even a crown prince or even a king, would dare disobey an order - a command - from a unicorn.
*Prince Nuada, your shadows begin to return already. I am sorry for it.*The lilac mare stepped closer and lowered her head to him. *I offer you three things, to hold back the dark for a little space. One is a second child to take under your wing, though this is counsel only, not a command. The halfling child that holds part of your mortal beloved's heart will never be truly safe in the mortal realm, guarded though she is by human knights and demon warriors.* Nuada stared at the unicorn. Dylan's eyebrows shot toward her hairline. *If you offer this girl your protection, as you have for the three descended from the Cougar, she will be an honor and a credit to you, and bring both you and your lady some happiness. Do you understand?*
"Do…do you mean Tiana?" Dylan asked softly. The unicorn nodded, and Nuada saw Dylan mouth the words demon warriors, brow furrowed.
*My second gift is a promise: if you go to the king your father and embrace him, you will receive seven gifts. This I swear on my magic and my life. The final offering is the gift of peaceful dreams and true rest for a moon and a day.* And she breathed a long, slow breath in his face, one that smelled of lavender, night-blooming jasmine, and dreams.
When Nuada could speak again, he said, "Thank you, gracious Lady. I will do as you say." Although he didn't know if Balor would allow Nuada to embrace him. And seven gifts? Seven was a portentous number…
*I must go to the three there,* the unicorn said, gesturing with her horn to where Pauline, Iúile, and Siobhan stood huddled together. *Protect your vassals, Elven child. As for you, daughter of the Star Kindler…*She trailed off, studying Dylan, then sighed. *My gift to you will come not now, but when it is truly needed. Twice you will want me. Once, after you have trusted the enemy to draw his sword at your back in your defense, and the second time, when a serpent the color of blood reveals his honor in death. Come to this meadow both times, when the moon begins to rise, and I will come bearing your gifts. Do you understand?*
Dylan quickly about her head. "Yes, my lady. Thank you."
*Fair you both well, mortal and Elf.*
Dylan didn't let out her breath until the unicorn had gone to speak to the bean sídhe, the Elf girl, and the other mortal woman. Then all the air escaped her in one big rush.
"What…even…the heck?" She breathed.
Nuada shook his head and mumbled, "I have no idea." He looked down at the sleeping baby in his arms. A godschild, as commanded by one of the Ladies of Glory. Was the unicorn going to tell Iúile that? It seemed…not quite right for him to simply declare himself the babe's godsfather, especially since Iúile and Liam Uí Níall were in service to him.
But when he looked up to see a delighted Siobhan and dazed-looking Pauline walking back toward where he sat with Dylan and the child, his gaze was drawn past them to Iúile. The Elven girl walked slowly beside the unicorn, one hand resting on the lavender neck. The maiden and the unicorn. It was like a vision from one of Queen Cethlenn's tales. And Iúile looked different. Lighter, with more of her natural Elven grace. There was warm color in her cheeks and a smile upon her lips. When the unicorn nuzzled her, she slipped her arms about the magical creature's neck and kissed the silky nose.
When Iúile began walking back toward the group, Nuada saw when she met his eyes that the unicorn had indeed told her Nuada would be godsfather to her baby, and the girl was both grateful and most glad of it.
Only Petra was left. She still sat on the grass with her arms around the unicorn with the celadon mane and tail, her face pressed into the strong neck. But then, as if his thoughts had galvanized her, Petra lifted her head and wiped her face on her dark sleeve. She stood slowly and the unicorn rose with her. It gently butted her shoulder, then turned and walked out of the clearing, followed by its glory-mates.
No one spoke until Petra rejoined them. Then Dylan asked, "Are you going to be okay, Pet?"
Petra smiled. Nuada had never seen her smile quite that way before.
"Yeah," she said, and there was something beatific in her voice and face. "Yeah, I'm okay."
Somehow, Nuada knew it was nothing but the absolute truth.
.
Seven gifts, Nuada thought when they returned it to the village. Embrace Áthair and receive seven gifts. The unicorn had promised this, and so Nuada had no choice but to believe…and yet…
Dylan helped him unsaddle and curry Lomán, so he helped her with the arion mare, Maeve. By the time they were through, Dylan's sisters had gone inside, taking Iúile, Siobhan, and Baby Dylan with them. Just as the prince turned to leave the tavern stables, Dylan touched his arm.
"Are you okay?"
No idle question, this. Dylan did not waste time asking idle questions. Nuada opened his mouth. Closed it. Considered every possible answer.
"I don't know," he confessed. "Last night with my father was…" He hadn't told her anything but the most basic details, but that was still a great deal. He'd threatened to the king. Laid his protection on the village, Siobhan, Iúile, and Tsu's'di. It had been a greater risk and a bigger threat than he'd ever dared make against his father before…but the unicorn had promised seven gifts.
He had to wonder if his definition of a gift was the same as hers.
"I don't know," he whispered, and sighed in gratitude when Dylan slid her arms around him. "I simply do not know."
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Pauline Myers wasn't used to a lot of things: getting along with her youngest sister, feeling like she could actually breathe, or having a virtual strangers nodding to her and respect when she walked by. Dylan had said that the act of taking Siobhan's punishment had earned Pauline a great deal of respect from the people of Lallybroch, to the point that most of the adults had cut their hair in solidarity—apparently a huge deal. Now, as she walked through the village holding the little bean sídhe's hand, the people did more than nod. They smiled. They waved. A few even bowed. It was nice, but it was also weird. She hadn't really done anything to deserve that level of respect from these people.
Siobhan had apparently decided Pauline was a hybrid of her new best friend and stalwart protector, and refused to let the mortal woman out of her sight for longer than it took to use the bathroom. The night before, after Pauline had been released from the stocks and been allowed to warm up and eat something, Dylan had knocked on her door and asked if they could put a cot in her room because Siobhan insisted "the king would get her" if Pauline wasn't there.
Understanding the little girl's terror completely, she had agreed.
Now, after a quick stop in the tavern to hug Petra and let all the Myers siblings (except Dylan, who hadn't come in yet) know where she was going, Pauline walked through the village, Siobhan sticking to her side like a burr. She'd wanted some air, and to get away from Petra. Both of them had been touched by the unicorn that morning, and they both needed time to process. Petra had been the one to break down and cry, but…
Pauline had been grateful to the unicorn for easing the chronic aching tightness in her chest. Grateful, but also very, very confused by the unicorn's silent words, which had dropped into her mind like the brush of butterfly wings.
*In serving, you could rule. In helping, you could become a haven. One of your sisters has found her place. Another seeks it without knowing, and it is very close. Your place is whatever you will, but you could find it and rule it if you choose to serve with honor and humility, confidence and courage.*
What had the unicorn meant by any of that?
How could a person be confident and humble at the same time? They seemed like personality opposites. To be honest, it sounded sort of like a religious question or riddle, so she wondered if Dylan knew the answer—or thought she did. Simone or Gardenia might know, too…
No. No, not Simone. Not after what she'd said to Russell. Pauline had used Dylan's phone to text their niece, Arianna—the only one of the next-generation Myers with a cell phone - asking her to make sure to keep an eye on Remy and Colette, Wendy and Maggie, and to text her Aunt Dylan immediately if they showed any signs of distress or if Simone said anything unkind to them. She had chosen Dylan and not herself because Dylan was the only one in Faerie who had a working cell phone.
It wasn't fair to Arianna, but they couldn't just stick the children somewhere else. They had to stay with Simone because no one else could take care of them. Dylan's friend Peri could fit one or two extra kids in her little apartment, but an extra eight children? Pauline was pretty sure that broke some zoning laws or something.
When this was over and they all made it back to the human world, though, they were calling a family meeting. What else had Simone been doing when they weren't around to say anything or stop her?
Siobhan suddenly jerked to a halt beside her. Pauline stopped and looked down at the little faery girl, who stared with huge eyes like pools of dark water at something across the street. Pauline followed her gaze, wondering if the royal antler douchebag had come out to kick innocent puppies or something.
It was a cemetery.
Even though she had a major thing about graveyards, Pauline let the child lead her across the snowy village road and past the wooden gate into the cemetery. Dylan had said something about bean sídhe being death fae, and that disturbingly beautiful man with the black hair and eyes that had saved her from being murdered by the king that first night had called the kid his "little morgue crier." Maybe graveyards were like parks for her? Fun times with phantoms or something?
Or not, Pauline thought as the little girl threw herself down on a fresh grave and began to sob silently. It wasn't right, that a child so young and already learned to cry the way an adult would—in silence, shaking with the force of her own pain, rocking back and forth, the tears running unheeded down her pale, thin cheeks.
Pauline didn't read Gaelic, but she recognized a couple words on the temporary wooden gravemarker. One was "bean sídhe." The other was the word "mathair." Mother.
"Oh, sweet baby," Pauline breathed, dropping down beside the child and gathering her close. "Oh, sweetie. Shhh, shhh. It'll be okay. I'm here, it'll be okay. Shhh." She knew Siobhan couldn't understand the words, but the little girl seemed to understand the gentle, soothing tone. She slipped thin arms around Pauline's middle and wept into her chest while the mortal stroked her slightly damp hair and rocked and shushed her.
While Siobhan cried, Pauline stared at the wooden gravemarker. The little girl's mother's name had been Seanan.
Ms. Seanan, Pauline thought, hugging the little girl, barely processing the words forming in her own brain. I'll take care of her. Don't worry. She won't be alone anymore.
The dead woman said nothing, unsurprisingly. But for just a moment, the wind picked up, a low blowing keen that ruffled Siobhan's hair. It felt oddly warm against Pauline's skin. Almost humid. Like the air over a swamp. But not quite unpleasant. And the mortal thought again, I'll take care of Siobhan.
I promise.
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Things were quiet in the tavern. Things had been much quieter since the king had come, Nuada realized. It was unsettling, and wrong, how hushed and timid his people had grown since Balor's coming. Even the smallest of the children were timid in their play, having noticed the tension of their parents. It wasn't right.
Balor's presence, the simple fact that he was in the village at all, was hurting these people. The truth of that was like an iron blade between Nuada's ribs. But then Balor himself stuck his head into the main room. When he saw the prince, he offered a small smile.
"Ah. Prince Nuada. I was told you had returned. Would you attend upon me, please?"
He had no immediate reason to refuse and the unicorn's promise echoed in his skull, so he kissed Dylan's cheek and followed his father out of the common room, down the corridor, and into the well-appointed, spacious room the king had taken for himself.
"Have a seat, my son," Balor said.
My son? The king was in a good mood. But why? Especially after their conversation the night before?
Nuada took the proffered seat.
"How can I be of service, Father?" No point in antagonizing him yet. After acknowledging the bond of family, calling Balor "Your Majesty" would have made the wrong statement. But the legendary Silverlance still set tense, ready, and watchful, in case Balor decided to spring some sort of trap.
"I want to…" The King hesitated. Sighed. "To the thirteen hells with it. Nuada, I'm sorry."
Nuada blinked. "What?"
"I'm sorry. I… When I arrived here, I expected things to be…quite different than they were. I'd prepared myself for the worst. I…" Balor sighed again. "A good king does not allow temper or fear to direct his course, but I did. I was suspicious and angry about the bean sídhe child, the gancanaugh, the Elf girl and her baby, all of it, and I…I overreacted."
Don't blink again, Nuada commanded himself. Don't react at all. Keep your temper and see if he keeps his.
"Overreacted," the prince said softly. It wasn't exactly a question.
"Yes." Balor turned his gaze to the crackling, spicy pine-scented flames in the hearth and let out a long breath. "My son, I…the bandit leader. Sréng."
Nuada went very still. Said nothing, for fear of bringing his father's words to a half.
"When you were a boy, after your mother…her ring had been lost. I yearned to have it back. It meant—means—a great deal to me. I offered whoever found it a reward, any boon within my power to give. Perhaps two decades after…after it was lost, a man came to the Golden City beneath the Giant's Causeway. A human. Maybe thirty or so in years, wearing a vicious scar across his face and missing two fingers on one hand, with only a single eye the color of cold iron."
He didn't want to say the wretch's name, but it spilled from his lips like cold poison against his will.
"Sréng mac Umhor."
Balor squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tight. "Yes. He brought me Cethlenn's ring, told me wild and wonderful tales of how he thought his father might have found it. I didn't know which tale was the truth. I didn't want to know. But his stories…I cannot say they amused me. I had not the heart for amusements then. But they diverted me. Gave me something to think about besides wanting to die."
The prince jerked in shock. "Die?" He'd known Balor longed for Cethlenn, that he ached to be with her once more, but…but had he truly yearned for death, truly craved it all that time? "Father—"
"I missed her," Balor said simply, "and I was tired and lonely and just wanted the pain to end. Sréng…he helped me, Nuada. Because the boon he asked then was not immortality in exchange for the ring. He asked to join my court. He did not want lands, he said, or money or jewels. He wanted to stay in Bethmoora beyond the fortnight I had already spent feasting him out of gratitude. For love of me, he said. Because he wanted the honor of calling me friend."
Don't react. The command was a litany he repeated again and again in his mind, all while bile surged up into his throat and his fingers ache with the effort to keep from gripping the chair arms until they splintered. Don't speak. Do nothing. Be still. Show nothing.
"I did not make him immortal until he had saved the lives of my children—"
Nuada was on his feet and hastening to the window. He wrenched open the shutters, threw up the sash, and stuck his head into the biting cold, winter-thin air. He gasped and gulped frigid night until his pounding heart began to slow and the ringing in his ears began to fade.
Saved the lives of my children…
How did he remember none of this? How could he have forgotten?
Because in the decades after Cethlenn's murder, Nuada had still been reeling from everything: his mother's absence, his father's silence, Nuala's withdrawal. He remembered those years had been the first in his life where he struggled with his book lessons, straining to concentrate on mathematics and history, alchemy and astronomy, even strategy and tactics. He'd rarely eaten meals with the court except on his birthdays and the increasingly rare occasions when royal visitors came. He had spent most of his time in the practice yard or in the royal nursery or camping in the woods with Wink and, occasionally, friends like Bres or Dastan or Zhenjin.
The enemy had lived under his own roof for years and he'd never known…
"Saved us, how?" Nuada demanded in a rasp. Surely if there had been an assassination attempt on the royal pair, by that age he would recall it.
"Do you remember that winter when you caught pneumonia? Nuala was sick, too, but you nearly died. Do you remember?"
Baffled, Nuada turned to stare at him. "I…yes, a little." He'd been too weak to get out of bed on his own for nearly two months, though they'd only feared losing him for a few days around midwinter. Every time he'd started to recover a little, some symptom had worsened—a cough, wheezing, aches, fever—and they'd kept him in bed, nursing him through the misery.
Most of that time was a blur of sleepiness, fever dreams, and nightmares interspersed with Nuala reading or singing to him, one of the few times after their mother's death when she had drawn as close as they once had been.
"I do not understand. What does that—"
"Do you remember why you fell ill in the first place?"
A slow blink. Pale fingers twitched. Nuada said slowly, "I was ice skating on the pond in the gardens with Naya. The ice cracked. I fell in."
He'd hit his head on the thick, sharp edge of the ice but that pain had been swiftly swallowed by the agony of the frigid, dark water surrounding him, burning his skin, freezing his eyes shut. Nuada remembered opening his mouth, trying to scream for Balor—even though the king loathed him for letting Cethlenn die, even though he despised Nuada as a coward and a miserable wretch, his father still wouldn't let him drown—and that hideously cold water had flooded his mouth and he'd flailed and tried to swim, but the ice was so thick and he was so cold and so tired, and maybe his father would be happy again if he died…
Nuala had been screaming in his head at first but she'd slowly fallen into silence and it had just been him, Prince Nuada, Nuada the Coward, Nuada the Weak, Nuada Kinslayer (or as good as, anyway), all alone, drifting in the numb dark, waiting to die as he should have when he'd gotten his mother killed.
"I…" Nuada swallowed. "I fell in," he said again.
Balor nodded. An odd look was in his eyes. "You and Nuala both nearly drowned. Your link was still so powerful, even then. Do you remember who pulled you out?"
"No," he said instantly, because he didn't…but he knew, now. When it had happened, he'd been barely conscious, and then he'd been too ill to care. Later, the king had told him when asked that the man who'd pulled him from the pond had already left Bethmoora.
"Sréng," Nuada said.
Balor canted his head. "Sréng. For that—for your life, the life of my," and here the old king's voice cracked, "the life of my little boy, I would have granted any wish. For your sake, and Nuala's. And so when he asked for true immortality, and would not be dissuaded, I gave it to him—because he had saved my little boy. Can you blame me for that?"
No. No, stars curse it, he couldn't, and now it made so much sickening sense. Damn Sréng mac Umhor. Damn him to the most desolate, bone-littered plains of Annwn.
Of course Balor hadn't wanted to believe the man who'd given him back Cethlenn's ring and saved his children now spent his days butchering the people of Bethmoora. Stars curse it, anyway.
"I did not want to believe it," Balor murmured, echoing Nuada's thoughts. "And so I punished you. Again and again, and for that I am so very sorry. I was cruel without cause, blinded by anger and suspicion. To make amends, I have decided this: the mortal, Mistress Pauline, and the bean sídhe child are granted a full pardon by the Crown. The Elven girl will not be made to return to her father and I uphold your decision regarding his paternal rights. Lastly, the cat-boy, your lady's young guardsman, has had his wounds tended by a royal healer."
Nuada could only stare.
Seven gifts, the prince thought, and here are five. How had the unicorn known of his father's change of heart?
"I have already said I will offer no judgment on Naya until you can speak to her. Until then, she is under arrest but safe. I'll not force you to quit this journey through your lands early; you've done good work here, my son. Better than I could ever hope to accomplish, I think."
Was…was his father enchanted?
"I'll be leaving Broch Toruch tomorrow," Balor added. Nuada jolted. "I am doing no good here, merely inhibiting your efforts. You have done little to warrant me nursemaiding you on your own lands. You've work to be doing, and so I will go, Nuada."
King Balor rose to his feet and moved to the prince, placing both hands lightly on Nuada's shoulders and looking into his eyes.
"I thought I was going to lose you when I came here," Balor said very softly. "I thought I would lose my boy when I came through those gates, and I was sore afraid. You have no idea how glad I am that you yet live, my son. Please never doubt that I love you, no matter what happens. I love you, Nuada."
His father kissed his forehead, then embraced him. Still half-stunned, trembling more than a little, Nuada returned to the embrace.
Seven gifts, the unicorn had said, and seven gifts it was.
.
.
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Author's Note: so what did you guys think? We're sort of gearing up for Sréng's big, super-dick move to get revenge on Nuada and punish Dylan for her "treachery." Let me know what you think! For those who want to leave a review but don't know what to say, if you wanna (no pressure), how about answering some or all of these questions:
1) Do you think Balor's softening of the heart is all his own doing, or did someone do some magical finagling?
2) Who was your favorite character in this chapter? You can pick more than one if you want. =)
3) How do you think the meeting between Nuada and Polunochnaya is going to go?
4) Did you have a specific part you enjoyed most?
5) What would you like to see happen next? Is there anything you don't want to happen but you're scared it will?
6) What gift(s) do you think Nuada should give the baby since he's her godfather now? (We've all seen Sleeping Beauty, right? We know how faerie godparents work)
7) Anyone notice the reference to our favorite Babe Ruth-loving red boy?
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Important Scheduling Information: Just an FYI, the next chapter of Once Upon a Moonless Dark will go up on the 7th of this month. I'm going to be trying to update that story once a month, a week after Once Upon a Time's chapter goes up.
I've recently updated Once Upon a Utopia, the variation-fic where Dylan has gone insane in the wake of the rise of the Golden Army and the war against the humans. Going forward, that fic will likely be updated once a month, with the next chapter likely being posted in March. Those chapters are shorter than my other fics and more character-driven, but there's also less political drama because Nuada's king now and stuff.
I'll be posting a drabble collection entitled Once Upon the Love of the Silverlance, about the seven great loves of Nuada's life, on Valentine's Day on my Pat. Re-On., which will pop up here on the 21st, barring accidents as long as that's not a Sunday.
I will also be posting another set of flash-fiction pieces to Once Upon the Bane of Midsummer on my Pat. Re-On. on March 21st, to appear here on the 28th. I've decided to do those flash-fiction pieces quarterly, on the equinoxes and solstices. Those flash-fic shorts are about major events affecting Nuada on or around his birthday. He's over four-thousand years old, so that's a lot of birthdays.
I've been rereading Once Upon a Winter's Night, another Once variation (where Dylan and Nuada confess their feelings for each other after actually kissing in chapter 31 instead of almost kissing), and depending on if I can maintain the posting schedule with Once, Moonless, and Utopia until about June, I'll begin updating that once a month as well. As with my other fics, chapters go up a week in advance on my Pat. Re-On. along with bonus content including original music, playlists, wallpapers, and other nifty bits.
Anyone who wants to pop over to my Pat. Re-On., I post all fic chapters a week in advance of their posting on this site, as well as monthly updates for two of my original novels, two original short stories a month, and about 6-8 book reviews a month, sometimes with art, as well as the occasional literary essay. And that's for a $1 monthly subscription. Just saying…
Lastly, there's a new fanfic contributor featured in the FF community, The World of Once Upon a Time, which you can reach through my profile. Their name is Silverlance's Blue-Eyed Mortal, and apparently they write the smut for this fic and its variations that I don't: the sex that happens off-page, the sex that's glossed over, and some alternate endings to chapters that could have ended in sex but canonically didn't for reasons. I've teamed up with them at their suggestion, and their fics – which I've heard are pretty good; also I skimmed a few they sent me as well as the one they've posted so far – will be available 2 weeks in advance as a fancy-schmancy artistic download on my Pat. Re-On. before they post the chapters here on FF. They said they'd probably do 1-3 a month. So that's something to look into if you're interested.