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.

136. Girl on the Verge

Author's Note: due to allergy comas, this chapter is a couple weeks late. Sorry about that, guys!

Also, I got a very interesting message a few weeks back about this fic. And by interesting I mean full of factually erroneous, sexist, ableist garbage. And the person didn't give me a chance to respond, but that's okay. I think this chapter speaks for itself.

Hope you like it.

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Once Upon a Time

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Chapter One-Hundred-Thirty-Six

Girl on the Verge (But Not Really)

that is

A Short Tale of Clothes, Bind-Ups, Reading, Sexy Fun Times, Sisters, Princesses, Fruit Salad, Falling, Pain, Hands with Fangs, a Sneak, Worry, a Prince's Demand, Blood, a King's Acquiescence, Illness, Punishment, More Blood, Guards, a Confession, a Spell, Blood on Snow, a Sister's Pain, a Sister's Concern, Royal Judgment, and Room to Grow

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Nuada ignored the looks - some indulgent, some sly, some uncomfortable - when the camp settled for the night and he knocked diffidently at the door to Dylan's carriage. She opened the door and he entered, ignoring the way some of the wagon-folk nudged each other with their elbows and chuckled amongst themselves. He knew what they thought - that he sought his lady's favors. Dylan knew it, and so long as she didn't care what they thought, neither did he.

He hadn't come for carnal reasons, but for comfort. After seeing Naya earlier that day, after removing her from the king's dungeons, after everything, he wanted to be with someone who loved him, someone who didn't judge him in any way. Even his friends could not offer a lack of judgment. Could not offer some time away from the reminders of what he faced as crown prince of Bethmoora. But Dylan could. Somehow she managed to help him forget for a few precious hours all that burdened him. She often said he did the same for her; he had no idea how, but he was glad of it.

He set up his bedroll on the carriage floor. Dylan's was set up on the long seat. Eimh and Setanta lay in a puddle of massive puppy in front of the carriage's other door, and curled upon the milk-white and night-black backs were a pair of cougar cubs, each cub emitting tiny snores in counterpoint to the hounds' slumberous grumbles. Tsu's'di wasn't with them; as one of Dylan's guard, he had first watch this night, along with Uaithne and Ailbho.

Dylan lay on her side, head propped on one hand, a very large book open and her finger marking her place. But instead of reading from the massive tome, she watched him as he settled into his bedroll. He raised one eyebrow at her and she smiled.

"Francesca is probably freaking out about my 'grown up slumber party,'" she said.

Nuada snorted. "Hardly that. The children are here."

"I know that and you know that, but she's probably thinking it's all very steamy and full of smoldering, longing glances because we can't tear each other's clothes off like we must desperately long to do," she replied, grinning now.

He rolled onto his side and studied her for a moment. "I take it, then, my lady," he asked in the softest of whispers, "that you do not wish to tear off my clothes?"

"Of course not. They're like, silk and velvet and stuff. No way could I afford to replace them afterward."

Nuada nearly choked on a laugh. That was not what he'd expected her to say at all. He cleared his throat twice before saying, "I see. I appreciate your concern for my wardrobe."

"Plus I don't think the palace tailors would appreciate me ripping your clothes to rags every time one of us got hot and bothered," Dylan added musingly. "I mean, maybe they'd appreciate the extra business but they might also get annoyed that I kept wrecking their work, you know?"

He swallowed the tickle in his throat. "I am sure the palace tailors would appreciate such consideration, my lady."

Dylan narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you making fun of me?"

"I?" Nuada pressed a hand to his chest in mock-indignation. "You think I would ever make fun of my beloved? The lady who holds my highest regard? What must you think of me?"

The corner of her mouth twitched. She narrowed her eyes almost to slits. "I think you're teasing me because you think I can't tease you back from up here. That's what I think."

He offered a half-shrug. "Can you prove that?"

Dylan said nothing for a long moment. Then she simply flopped onto her stomach and wriggled so the blankets covered her shoulders; even with the warming spells on the carriage and the heat radiating from the furry bodies of hounds and cougar children, the winter cold still breathed frosty air into the coach. Without the blankets, both Elf and mortal would've been uncomfortably cool. Chin on her hands, she went back to reading.

"That book. It is not your Scriptures," he said.

"Already read them, before I took my meds," she murmured, turning a page. "It's a series John said I should read ages ago. He said I might like the fantasy bits." With a small smile, she added, "Just a bit of light reading."

He eyed the book, which was thrice as large as any royal chronicle. "Light?"

Dylan glanced up. "Oh, this isn't just one book. It's a bind-up. It's like, seven or eight books in one volume. Maybe ten? Each individual book is fairly short so sometimes a bind-up is cheaper than buying all the individual volumes." She laughed. "A single novel that's" she flipped to the last page to check, "seven-thousand-three-hundred-twelve pages? That's like two-million words. Only an idiot would look at something that big and assume it's a single book, especially when it's labeled as a bind-up." She flipped the book up so he could see the cover, and sure enough, it said The Silver Princess Omnibus: Books 1-9. "Not that you're an idiot but I've had people bother me about stuff like that with my reading since I was a kid and I just get fed up with stupid people who like to snark without even reading the label, you know? Mary and Pauline used to do that. Simone still does it. She makes assumptions but refuses to do research. Like, just read the label...anyway, I'm rereading the fluffy parts because I love them."

"I see." He considered. "Would I like these books?"

"I don't know," she said after a minute. "Some people just want fighting and intrigue, some people like slow burns, some people like self-indulgent stories, some people need everything to happen immediately-right-now. Some books were obviously written for the author's enjoyment and it's all self-indulgent fun. Different strokes for different folks, as my dad used to say. I'm not sure which one you are yet. The three books we read together were very different from each other, so-"

"I miss you reading to me," he confessed.

Her gaze went soft. Nuada knew that Dylan understood what it meant, that he would confess such a weakness to her, even now. She murmured, "I could read this to you. I don't mind starting over. I like rereading."

He was sorely tempted, but…

"Tomorrow night," he said. "It is late tonight already, and we have tasks to see to in the morning."

"Okay. But are you sure you want to hear this one specifically? I mean, it's a series, not a book you can read by itself. If that's not your thing, then I might have to send Becan for something else from the cottage-"

"It will do," Nuada said softly. "You love these books, so I will try them. Thank you, beloved."

She beamed at him and went back to her book. Nuada closed his eyes and forced his mind to calm. He would focus on his breathing, the rise and fall of his own chest, the way his muscles tightened and relaxed with each breath. The soft shush of each turning page marked time. But a thought poked at the back of his mind.

He opened his eyes. "The fluffy parts?"

"Hmmm?" Dylan replied absently. She blinked and shook herself back to the present. "Yeah, fluffy parts. You know, romantic bits. Some people like those parts," she added a little defensively.

"I thought you preferred not to read...romantic bits."

Her cheeks flushed. "I mean dates and stuff, not sexy fun times. Life is really bleak most of the time. I need the soft bits. Makes things...easier to handle."

"Romance and sweetness," he said, "not...not, as you say, 'sexy fun times' or tearing off clothes."

"Oh my gosh, go to sleep," she mumbled, marking her place and closing the book. "And don't say 'sexy fun times,' it makes me feel weird." Pulling the blankets up to her chin, she resolutely closed her eyes.

Not fooling me, little love, he thought. She had a question for him; he felt it brewing in her mind.

Suddenly she stretched out her hand to him from beneath the blankets. He reached up and brushed his fingers against the tips of hers; that was all the contact they needed to speak mind-to-mind.

So are you thinking about tearing my clothes off? Dylan demanded. Nuada nearly swallowed his tongue. Because I've seen what they're putting together for my trousseau and if you rip any of those satin nightgowns or the lace stuff, I'll be very unhappy.

Satin...lace...The images that flashed through his mind sent heat flushing golden through his face and fire along his spine. He swallowed and ruthlessly shoved the images aside. He would not think of her wearing such things until they were wed; he'd promised her. But Danu's mercy, she was making it difficult, with comments like that.

You did that on purpose, he accused.

Her smile was angelic. Why, Your Highness, do you really think I would do anything bad to you on purpose?

They locked gazes. Dylan's smile stretched into a mischievous grin. Nuada chuckled and kissed the very tips of her fingers. In her mind, he whispered, Impudent chit. I think you like to torment me sometimes.

Consider it payback for all the times you breathe in my ear and I'm suddenly drowning in butterflies. She brushed her fingertips over the royal scar etched across Nuada's cheeks, a caress as soft as shadow, before tucking her hand back into her bedroll. "We really should sleep. Long day tomorrow."

"I have one other thing I must do, now that I've meditated and calmed myself," Nuada said. At her frown, he said, "I must speak to Nuala."

"Urgh," Dylan muttered. "Why?"

"To find out what Naya knew," he replied, and Dylan's expression turned sober. They had discussed this - if Polunochnaya had conspired to see him executed because she'd known of his original plan to exterminate the humans with the Golden Army, it would change...many things. It would soften the hurt in his heart. It would alter what sentence he would push to the king. It would make speaking with Naya easier the next time it was necessary.

Dylan rolled back onto her stomach, settling her chin on her folded arms. Nuada sensed she had something she wanted to say, but wasn't quite sure how to put it to him. So he simply waited.

"If she hurts you," Dylan said at last, sounding out each word slowly, testing it to make sure it was the exact word she wanted, "if she tries to snipe at you or make you ashamed or hurt you...I want to talk to her. Is it possible to do that?"

Nuada blinked. "It is possible, but-"

"No buts," she said. "If she does anything but answer your questions, if she gets abusive toward you, I want to talk to her, Nuada. Okay?"

"...she is a Princess of the Blood, Dylan. She outranks you."

"I'll keep that in mind. If she becomes verbally abusive, I want you to let me talk to her. Okay? Please."

Unsure as to the wisdom of her proposition, still Nuada eventually nodded and said, "Very well, Dylan." And then he flattened his palms against his belly, closed his eyes, and reached for the link between him and his twin sister.

Nuala sensed him immediately and threw up walls that burned like cold iron - not between herself and her brother, but between Nuada and his ability to see or sense whatever she was doing at the moment. It wasn't unusual, per se; especially as children, they'd often reached out to each other when the desired twin was in the middle of something like bathing or sleeping or attending the call of nature. What was unusual this time was the bristling, iron-sharpness to the mental walls. Whatever she was doing, Nuala didn't want him to have even an inkling of what it was. Was she with Naya?

Sister. May I have a moment of your time? He could pierce those walls if he chose, but there was no reason to, and he didn't want to upset her.

Wariness. There was always wariness whenever he touched her thoughts now. Anger, but also...was that...hurt? Had he hurt her feelings somehow? What could he possibly have done since the last time they'd spoken? She'd commanded him to go, and he had left. She'd made it very clear he wasn't welcome and was distressing her, so he'd gone. So then why…?

What do you want? Nuala demanded.

I have a question I need answered, Sister. About Naya.

He felt her flinch. Felt the tears stinging her eyes as if they burned his own. How he ached to send a wave of comfort and love to her...but the last time he'd tried, she'd made it clear she wanted no such thing from him, and he would not press where he was not wanted unless forced to by honor and duty.

I have nothing to say to you about any of it, Nuala said coldly. Why do you care? What game do you seek to play by drawing out her torment? She has betrayed us and she will be punished as justice and the law demand; why do you play with her like some feral beast with its-

Nuala suddenly broke off as a third consciousness entered their conversation. Nuada, sunk so deep into his own mind, only now barely registered the feel of Dylan wiggling two fingers into the tunnel of his fist.

His fist? His hands had been flat, relaxed…

How do you think I knew she was upsetting you? Dylan asked, setting the thought delicately into his mind and his alone. When you clenched your fists, I knew she was saying something I would object to. One second.

Who is that? Nuala was demanding. Who dares intrude-

It's me, Princess, Dylan said softly. Nuada marveled at the perfect calm in his beloved's voice. A calm that masked a seething storm of fury and dislike that somehow, Nuala could not sense at all. Look, the question is more for me than him, but I can't contact anyone with my mind. May we ask our question?

Did Nuala realize, the prince wondered, that though Dylan spoke politely enough, she hadn't once said please? A sharp social cut, coming from his lady.

I...yes. What is your question?

Did Ledi Polunochnaya know that Prince Nuada meant to raise the Golden Army and what he was going to do with it?

Everybody knows my brother wants to massacre your people- Nuala began, the disgust dripping from her voice like acid. Dylan didn't interrupt so much as let a sense of her impatience slip the tight leash she kept around her emotions. To Nuala, it would look like a simple lapse in her politeness. Nuada knew Dylan had done it deliberately, to make the princess pause.

What "everybody knows" is usually what people think without any real proof, as women of intelligence well know, Dylan said. But only a few people knew exactly what Nuada meant to do - raise the Golden Army and commit genocide. Did she know? Or even suspect?

I...Nuala's confusion swirled like mist through the three-way link. The Elven prince remained silent. His sister, confronted now with someone who hadn't earned her disdain, a person she actually claimed to like and worry over, now had to think about what Dylan wanted to know. I think...she said that she tried to tell her master that Nuada had changed. That he no longer sought to shed innocent blood, but that her master wouldn't listen. I asked her...A muffled sob echoing through the link. I asked her to tell me her master's name, to prove she truly wanted to put an end to their schemes against Nuada, but she wouldn't tell me. I do not know what of her confession was clever half-truths and what was truly honest.

Okay, Dylan said. Cool. That was all we wanted to know. And Dylan pulled her fingers out of Nuada's grasp, breaking her connection to the conversation. Knowing his sister didn't want him linked to her, Nuada broke the mental connection without another word, giving his sister the peace from him she craved.

Weary topaz eyes met eyes of tired blue. "She has no idea you hate her," Nuada said softly.

"I don't hate her," she replied. "I just don't like her. She's bad at being a princess, her taste in men sucks, she's a hypocrite, and she abuses you. As you once told me, you can't ask me to look with favor on things that hurt you so much."

He remembered saying that to her. He'd been speaking of her own sisters. How far they had come, Nuada thought. Even a few moons ago, hearing Dylan speak of Nuala this way would have enraged him. Now it only made him sad and tired.

"Also," his lady added, "she's a snob and she always makes this face like she just bit into a lemon."

He should've been affronted, but he could only laugh. "That is not nice."

"I'm not nice," Dylan said primly. "Or sweet or...I can't think of synonyms, I'm too tired."

"Now that," Nuada said, catching her hand and bringing it to his mouth, "is the most blatant lie I have ever heard pass those lovely lips. You are," he kissed a knuckle between each word, "sweet as bee pollen on a summer day. Sweet as peach wine or summer apples, sweet as champagne grapes or December strawberries or cherries in fresh cream."

His lady raised an eyebrow. "Sooo...I'm a fruit salad."

The prince rolled his eyes and let her fingers slip out of his. "How dare you mock your prince and future husband? I wash my hands of you, wench. Go to sleep." But he was smiling; he couldn't seem to help it.

Dylan cupped his cheek. "You try to sleep. Okay? Try to think about happy things? Like weddings. And cake."

Another roll of his eyes, but he couldn't help but laugh again.

"You and cake, beloved! Who knew I was betrothed to such a tooth fairy?"

"Hey!" She leaned forward to poke him in the chest. "I am not a tiny, flesh-eating, half-spider...uh-oh." She blinked once. Her eyes widened. Her fingers hooked in the collar of his tunic. "Um."

"Dylan?"

"Slipping!" She yelped in a whisper.

He blinked as she leaned further forward. "What?"

"Falling!" She gasped, and tumbled off the carriage bench and straight onto him. She squeaked, he grunted as her weight drove the breath out of him, and her head smacked against his chin. "Ow!"

His chin throbbed. His lungs tried to expand. He cleared his throat and then blew a lock of her hair off of his mouth. He remembered belatedly to glamour them; it was a miracle the children hadn't woken up yet. Then again, cat fae or no, children usually slept like the dead. But just in case, he didn't want them to see his lady sprawled on top of him.

"Ouch," the prince muttered, flexing his jaw to make sure everything still worked properly.

"I said I was slipping," she said, and tried to move. "Ow, ow, ow. My butt. Ow. What did I hit?"

"My knee, I think." He hadn't been laid out flat when she fell, although he was now.

She let out an aggravated moan. "Why are you so bony? Ouch." Rolling back and forth, she managed to build up enough momentum to roll off of him - with a bit of a push - and onto the floor beside him. As soon as she was gone, his body felt cold where she had lain, even beneath his blankets.

His chin still hurt a little, though.

Dylan rubbed the back of her head and made a soft, kitten noise. "Mmew, my head. What did I hit?"

"My chin," he muttered, rubbing the injured body part.

Sapphire eyes widened in horror. "Oh, my gosh!" She squirmed and scrabbled until she was leaning over his face, examining his chin and stroking two gentle fingertips along his jaw in a slow caress that made his pulse race. "I'm so sorry! Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Any loose teeth? Did you bite your tongue? Should I-"

He leaned up and kissed her, warm and gentle, and the questions died away.

Eventually she climbed back onto the bench, and they slept at last.

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She woke choking on the scream her dream had smothered. Arms flailing, kicking frantically at her blankets, Dylan flung herself into a sitting position. She shoved at nothing, eyes still clouded by nightmares. Hands shackled her wrists, but gently. Still she tried to scream, but fear stuffed the sound back down her throat.

"Dylan! Beloved, you're safe! You were dreaming!" Nuada's voice cutting through the fog and panic. Nuada. He always listened to her. He wouldn't throw her to enemies like the people in her dream had, he would never. She gulped down the scream. Gulped down air as if she were drowning. Gently but firmly, Nuada said, "Look at me, Dylan. Look into my eyes. You're safe, my love. I am here, and you are safe. Shhh," and he slipped his arms around her shoulders. "Shhh. You're safe, Dylan."

She collapsed against his chest, shuddering as she forced her breathing to even out and slow. Nuada only stroked her hair and pressed gentle kisses to her forehead. It was all she needed to remember that he was here, and if he was with her, there would always be someone to listen to her warnings, her fears.

"I'm okay," she mumbled after a few minutes. She swiped at the clammy sweat on her cheeks and the back of her neck. "Just a nightmare. A little one, nothing major. I'll be okay in a couple of minutes. Just need to wake up fully."

Nuada peered into her bleery eyes, then reached behind him for a flask. He pulled the stopper and handed it to her.

"Hot cider," he explained. "It will help wake you completely."

"Thanks." The sweet, cinnamon-spiced cider did help. A few swallows of the hot drink and she was wide awake and aware of where she was, who she was. The tension slowly eased from her body. After another moment of breathing, Dylan glanced around and saw the carriage was empty. "Where are-"

"The children went for their breakfast before you woke," Nuada said. "I sent Eimh and Setanta with the children. I had hoped to bring you breakfast in bed, so to speak." He gestured to a pair of trays set on the opposite carriage bench. Both trays held bowls of steaming, honey-drizzled porridge, plates of sausages with the grease still lightly crackling, and heaps of dark red and purple winter berries. The tray farthest from her also held a flask identical to the one Nuada had given her.

"Awww," she said, and let her forehead rest on his shoulder. "You are so sweet. I love you."

"I am not sweet," he sniffed primly. "But I love you as well."

Calm now, she ate with her prince. Between spoonfuls of porridge and bites of beef sausage, she told Nuada about the strange nightmare. It hadn't been a memory, just a PTSD dream, which explained why it was so odd and why she'd had such a visceral reaction to it. Talking through it would help her shake off the last of that panicked reaction so she could truly start the day.

"It was so weird; it was a ball in Findias, but there were humans and fae there, and I was a kid. Ten, maybe? Maybe nine, not sure. And my entire body just hurt. Not like death-by-a-thousand-cuts hurt, but like...like I'd done a way too strenuous workout and then didn't stretch and cool down afterward, then woke up the next morning. Everything stiff and aching. You know?"

Oh, he knew, all right. It had been months since he'd felt hurt like that, and then it had been from the dipsa venom mingling with the effects of the iron sickness. It had felt as if Wink had beaten him with that bronze fist of his like one would tenderize a slab of meat.

"So I was hurting, but I wasn't hurt - at least I didn't feel like I was injured. I was so tired, though- hey! That's my raspberry! You have a whole pile!" She protested when Nuada popped one in his mouth. He smirked at her. Offering a sweet smile, she leaned forward, opened her mouth, and stuck out her tongue.

"You can't have it," he said around the tart berry in his mouth. "It is already mashed and chewed."

She gave him A Look. "I want one off your plate, you sneak."

A star-blond brow winged upward and he pressed a hand to his breast. "Sneak? Sneak? Do you speak to me so, my lady?"

"Yep. Gimme." She stuck out her tongue. Nuada huffed a laugh and set the ripest of the raspberries from his plate on her tongue; waggling her eyebrows at him, she carefully, delicately curled and folded her tongue around the berry and drew it into her mouth. Swallowed. Grinned at the look on his face. "I'm very flexible with my tongue," she said matter-of-factly. "I can tie a cherry stem in a knot and unwrap a Starburst."

"I…" He swallowed. Blinked eyes that were a little glassy. "A what?"

"Starburst. It's a human candy. You probably wouldn't like it, it's full of chemicals and stuff. But they're very tightly wrapped. Requires a lot of oral dexterity to strip off the paper."

Nuada swallowed audibly. Dylan smiled brightly at him and ate a spoonful of porridge. The bit of banter and the sweet, slightly flustered look on her prince's face had made her feel even better.

"Anyway, so I hurt and I was tired, and my dress was soaked and I was dripping wet? But it didn't seem weird to me at the time; just 'oh, this is how things are every day.' Except I was cold because my clothes were wet. And all the adults wanted me to dance with the boys. They kept insisting. But everyone they wanted me to dance with…" She trailed off, a clear picture of the available dance partners flashing through her mind. She'd known some of them, recognized them, but only some. A very small minority. "Everyone they told me to go dance with had mouths full of fangs on their palms, and if we danced, I knew they were going to bite me. And the fangs were super long and razor sharp. Almost like gancanaugh teeth, but they were white like human teeth."

Dylan gave herself time to settle, to acknowledge and push the image in her mind away, by finishing off her bowl of porridge. Nuada ate mechanically, his attention clearly fixed on her.

"I kept trying to tell people about the teeth, but none of the adults believed me. And then I realized the reason I was wet and cold was because I had this long, deep slash down the side of my neck, from my jaw all the way to the bottom of my ribs. I was wet from all the blood; that was why I was so sore and tired, but the cut itself didn't hurt.

"One of the boys with the fang-mouths caught me. He dug his fingers into the cut where it slashed my neck and I started screaming because now it hurt, everything hurt. Then I woke up."

Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and there was only the sounds of activity from outside the carriage and the scrape of her knife against the plate as she sliced a sausage in half.

Finally, infinitely gentle, Nuada asked, "You know what it means?"

Dylan sighed. "Yeah. I see danger, people I trust keep shoving me at it, I try to talk about the danger, no one believes me, I end up caught." Another sigh. "I hate those. I prefer them to the memory-dreams, but still."

Nuada touched her cheek. She met his eyes, felt a small measure of peace wash over her as his warm, golden gaze drifted over her face.

"I will always believe you, mo duinne," he swore softly. "I will never doubt you. If you tell me there is danger, I will protect you from it as best I may. Always. Do you believe that?"

Smiling, she nodded. It was still an unaccustomed relief, being believed always and utterly. "Thank you. And thanks for letting me tell you. I know you have places to be, so thank you. I feel a lot better now, just from talking it through. And I'm pretty sure it won't come back now."

The sleeping draught she'd been given by Healer Taebfada had prevented the truly brutal memory-nightmares that had often dragged her screaming hysterically from sleep. Dylan's mortal medicines dulled the sharp edges of her dark dreams, leaving her only these odd fragments to decipher when she woke. But both she and Nuada preferred the slivers of Morphean shadow to what she'd endured before. At least now she could get a full night's sleep most nights.

"Perhaps you should take an extra dose of the medicine for your fear?" He didn't like the human term anxiety. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps because he'd often seen mortal anxiety and anxiety attacks triviliazed as being all in the mind and of almost no concern. Humans, for the most part, still had no respect for the intricacies of how minds worked, even their own.

Dylan dropped her brow to his shoulder in a fond, familiar gesture. "Hmmm-mmmm. That's not how it works. Same dosage every day. That's what the therapist and Healer Taebfada said. If I start to feel shaky or upset, though, I promise I'll find a quiet place to curl up and take a nap."

"All right then. Shall I leave you to dress? I can take your tray if you prefer."

"That would be wonderful. Thanks, Nuada."

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "For you, my beloved? I would do anything to ease your burdens."

"Like run away to Scotland and elope?" She asked winsomely. "We can skip the whole dog-and-pony show."

"Except that."

"Darn."

.

Petra watched Dylan as she worked through the morning, helping the people of the village of Feld Skerry. She'd heard her baby sister talking with John about having had a nightmare. Was she all right? The youngest Myers sister was so bad about taking care of herself; how often had Dylan pushed herself too hard in college and just after? How often had that pushing shoved her headlong into a week-long bender or a series of screaming panic attacks?

So the eldest Myers kept an eye on the youngest while she treated sick children, villagers wounded by bandits, and the occasional simple farming accident victim. Petra made a point to ask Dylan every time she had the chance if her sister was sure she was okay. There was strain at the edges of Dylan's reassuring smile, her tired blue eyes.

And the prince was nowhere to be found as morning wound on into afternoon and Petra grew more and more concerned...

.

When Nuada returned to Findias that afternoon, Naya was deeply asleep. He loomed over her as Taebfada explained how they'd broken the fever during the night but that Naya was still very weak and would likely not wake for a day or so. The prince thanked the healer and went in search of the king.

Balor looked up from the stack of papers on his desk when his son and heir strode into his study. The shadows deepened and darkened around Nuada's scarlet-washed bronze eyes and his mouth. Balor even glimpsed some shadowing in the beds of his son's nails. Those shadows...they reminded Balor of certain poisons. But Nuada was as healthy as he'd ever been, at least in body. This was no poison, only the prince's own darkness.

The king pulled off his half-moon spectacles and set them carefully on the stack of paperwork. Mostly things ratified by the council and requiring the king's signature and seal, nothing more; normally a monarch of his centuries would have split the work with his heir, but...no.

"What can I do for you, my son? How is Ledi Polunochnaya?"

"She sleeps," Nuada said shortly. "The guards I held yesterday, I want them released into my custody."

Balor jerked back in surprise. "What for, by Danu? You still hold their voices; what more do you seek from them, Nuada?"

His son had never looked colder, more shadowed, more feral and vicious than when he said, "I seek their deaths, Majesty." When Balor opened his mouth to protest, Nuada added, "You gave express orders regarding Naya's treatment, did you not? They did not obey. Not only did they not obey, they flouted your orders and abused her, tortured her, poisoned her with iron. Taebfada said if I had not come when I did, she might have died. They would have murdered her in that cell and none of you thought once to check on her, to see if she was all right?" The final words were delivered in a snarl of rage. "Nuala should be ashamed of herself and so should you, Father."

The king spluttered, "I...I? You! You did not-"

"Aye," Nuada spat, and his father fell silent. "Aye, I did not. I let her rot here, as well." As if to himself, he added, "It appears I've left quite a few things here to rot. Too many things."

Those hot coppery eyes turned inward for a moment before the prince shook himself and focused on the king again.

"It is my right, Majesty," he said tonelessly. "They sought to hurt, perhaps to kill a member of the royal household. Nuala has not denounced her publicly yet," he added sharply when his father tried to interject. "I want their blood and I want their lives and you will give them to me."

Not just for Naya, the prince thought. Not just for torturing her, but for the tortures he'd learned those specific guards had inflicted on other prisoners in their care, including young Guardsman Loen before Dylan's elevation ceremony.

The king said nothing for a long moment, staring intently at Nuada with aged amber eyes. Finally Balor sighed and nodded once.

"They are yours, Crown Prince."

He did not flinch at the use of his title. This was a court matter, a matter of law and rank and power, not family. So Nuada pressed his fist to his heart and bowed his head to his king.

"Thank you, Majesty. I shall return tomorrow to check on Naya."

He turned on his heel and strode toward the door. His hand was on the knob when the king said, "You will try to make their deaths gentle but just...will you not, my son?"

Nuada thought of the half-starved, sick prisoners in the dungeon. Thought of the cuts on Naya's too-thin arms that burned with the poison of iron blades. Thought of what guards like that would have done to innocent people imprisoned because of the king's asinine and unjust laws.

"No," he said conversationally. "I won't."

.

It took three days for Naya to wake for more than a few minutes at a stretch. Nuada would teleport to Findias, check on her, speak to Taebfada, and then go to the dungeons.

In the icy cell beside the one where Naya had been kept huddled the four guards that had tormented her. Stripped of armor and weapons, hair shorn to black stubble, they huddled together for warmth; their thin cotton shirts and trews did little to keep them warm.

The first of those three days, when Nuada had gone to see that they'd been settled to his liking, one of them had spat at him. Another had called Naya a treacherous whore - looking more than a little comical, shouting silently and exaggerating the movements of his lips since Nuada still held his voice tucked away inside his magic. Then the Butcher Guard had managed to convey several vicious, uncomplimentary things about Dylan with pantomime, simply to vent his ire at the prince.

Nuada waited until the man had fallen silent. Then the prince had slowly approached the frigid iron bars, going so far as to lean into them, rest his brow against them. He was royal; the iron barely made him itch. And he waited. Waited while the rage bubbled up in the imprisoned guards. Waited while they silently fumed and snarled and hated him.

Let them soak in their fury. Let them fume and snarl. What care had he for their hatred? It could never compare to the dark well of loathing he carried for them, for what they had done, would have done, to his people. To his friend.

Finally the guard who'd insulted Dylan ran for the cell bars, hands outstretched, grasping for Nuada's throat. Nuada simply twisted aside and the guard's skull slammed into the bars. Before he could recover, Nuada had him by the throat. Bone-white fingers dug into the Butcher's thick neck; the fae choked and gurgled. The other three huddled against the far wall, fear replacing the rage in their eyes.

"Listen to me and listen well," he said coldly. "You four are going to die. Before you die you will know fear and you will know pain; the same fear and pain you inflicted on the prisoners under your care. And when I have wrung every drop of both I can from you, I will gut you like the spineless beasts you are."

Nuada yanked on the Butcher Guard, ramming the guard's face into the bars. There was a simultaneous muffled crack and crunch, followed by the guard screaming as he clutched at his face and Nuada let him drop to the scummy floor. Once these beasts were dead, he'd have the servants down to clean this place.

Sneering at the screaming guard - no doubt Nuada had broken his nose and possibly his eye socket - the crown prince strode away down the corridor and vanished.

That was the first time. The second, two of them had tried to rush him. There had been more broken bones. The third day, one of the guards had lost several teeth. Finally they seemed cowed, huddling away from him when he came on the fourth day, the day Naya woke. Good. Let the scum fear him. Nuada Silverlance had very little mercy for those who preyed on the innocent.

.

Dylan had run out of sick and injured to tend, and that was a wonderful feeling. Now she helped the village children pound autumn-dried herbs and plants into powders for medicines. A'du and 'Sa'ti helped, too. The mortal woman listened to the children chattering to each other while she ground dried goldenseal into a powder that would then be mixed with rendered and purified tallow to make a salve. She'd made her own salves before and knew the process.

When the noon meal was served in the tavern, Dylan wasn't quite ready for it yet, so she sent her helpers off to get something to eat while she kept on grinding herbs. The stone workroom was a soothing place; the sharp spice of rosemary and clove and garlic and pine filled her nose and reminded her of trips to the Goblin Market with Becan to barter. Behind her, Eimh and Setanta curled up against each other, looking like a furry yinyang.

She worried for Nuada, and wondered when they'd reach the end of his lands. So far, the bandits' viciousness seemed to taper the farther north they went. Would they perhaps reach a village that hadn't been touched by their depravity? Would she get to see one of Nuada's villages happy and healthy and undisturbed?

Distracted by the thought, Dylan reached into the burlap bag that held the dried goldenseal flowers and closed her fingers around the stems.

A sharp pain stabbed deep into her palm. She yelped and yanked her hand out of the bag. A long, green, whippy stem came with the hand; when the stem snagged on the edges of the bag, pain slashed through Dylan's palm. Eimh and Setanta both cried, *Mistress?*

Dylan didn't recognize the still-green, still-sticky plant that had somehow gotten mixed in with the dried goldenseal. She absolutely recognized the inch-long, wicked sharp thorn half-embedded in the middle of her palm. Wincing, she got a firm grip on the base and gave a sharp yank. The thorn slid free. Blood welled up from the center of her palm, scarlet against her pale skin. A single drop splashed onto her gray-green skirt.

There was blood on her dress. Blood. So much blood, and her back was screaming. Her shoulders were screaming. She was screaming. Blood dripped over her fingers. The copper-salt stink flooded her nose, clogged her throat. The whip cracked in her ear. Pain screamed through her back.

Help, someone, please help me, he's going to kill me, Nuada-

A sloppy, dripping wet length of warm flesh dragged from her chin to her forehead. Dylan jerked. Shuddered. She opened her eyes - when had she closed them? - and met an ice-blue gaze full of pure adoration and concern.

*Mistress? You are safe. Do not cry.* Setanta licked her cheek, a small lick this time. *You are safe with us. We will protect you. It is all right.*

On her other side, Eimh nosed Dylan's wounded hand, but didn't lick at the puncture. She'd been trained not to try. Instead she pawed at Dylan's good knee and wagged her tail. *It is all right. You need bandages? You need your bag?*

It was only a little blood. Only a little pain. She wasn't hurt that badly. It was okay. She wasn't in the bandit camp, but in the village of Feld Skerry near the Bethmoora-Eirc border. This wasn't a tent, but a stone workroom. Everything was all right.

"Yes," Dylan whispered. She cleared her throat, swallowed the lump in her throat that had been left by her sudden panic. "Yes, I need my bag. Can you go get it, Eimh? And," she added on an impulse, "can you send Tsu's'di, Ailbho, and Uaithne in here?" Her guards had been stationed outside the room's only door, so the room wouldn't feel cramped. Well, better cramped but safe than roomy and without guards in sight. Having them near would help her settle, help prevent another flashback.

Her guards didn't question her as to why they were wanted, nor what she'd done to her hand. They simply took up their posts while Setanta rolled onto his back and kicked his paws in the air to make her laugh and Eimh returned with her leather messenger satchel and its supply of antiseptic and bandages.

Petra noticed the bandage on Dylan's hand later that afternoon, but said nothing about it. Only frowned, and worried.

.

Upstairs in the royal wing of Findias after inspecting his prisoners, Nuada knocked gently at the door to Naya's bedroom, expecting to hear Healer Taebfada bid him enter. Instead, a weak voice murmured, "Come in?"

It took him a moment to force his fingers to close around the knob, to turn it, to push the door open. When he did, when he stepped in the room and shut the door behind him...there she was.

She'd lost too much weight and she was so gray with illness that her skin held blue tints. Someone had propped her up on a mound of pillows. Her raggedly chopped black hair had been trimmed evenly and now haloed her head against a large blue pillow. But he could see, despite the healers' efforts, how frail she was. How dark the bruises, how prominent the bones beneath her fragile skin.

Nuada didn't know what to say to her, whether to shout at her or beg forgiveness for not coming sooner or call her something vicious or demand to know if she really wanted him dead. The words crammed together in his throat until he could barely breathe.

It was Naya who spoke first.

"You...you're alive," she whispered. The words sounded like a sob, like a prayer of gratitude. "The guards and...and my master, they told me you were dead, they said you were dead," she was crying now, breathless creaking sobs that rattled in her thin chest. "I thought you were dead."

And somehow that was all it took to release the spell of wordless tangled emotions and stillness. He was at her side, sitting on the edge of the bed. Carefully he embraced her and she buried her face in his shoulder and wept. After a while he realized between gulping, wheezing sobs she kept croaking, "I'm sorry, Nuada. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The words came to his lips without thought. "I forgive you. Shhh, it's all right. I forgive you."

"I thought...I thought it was the only way," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I was wrong, I'm so sorry." Suddenly Naya jerked back from him, fear clouding her silver eyes. "Dylan! Is she all right? Was she hurt? The guards said…"

A muscle flexed in Nuada's jaw and he looked away. "We should not speak of Dylan just now." He had not, he realized, forgiven her for everything.

"She...she is not dead?" Naya whispered. "Tell me-"

"No," he said. "She is alive and well...now. And that is all I will say on the matter, save that she has asked me to extend her forgiveness to you as well." Naya's shock almost made him smile. But his lady had said it plainly enough - likely as not, Naya had learned of his former plans for genocide, and how could Dylan blame her for trying to stop such a thing?

And if it turned out that his old friend had had another reason…

Nuada hesitated, but finally ventured, "It was the Golden Army, wasn't it? What I meant to do with it. That was why you...did all that you did."

After a moment, she nodded. Dropped her forehead to his shoulder and let out a shuddering, wheezing breath. He realized the dark Elf was trembling and he carefully laid her back against the pillows. It took her a few minutes to catch her breath, to work up enough energy to speak again. When she did, her voice came thready and weak.

"I loved you. I still love you. You are one of my dearest friends. And it broke my heart, you must believe me...but I thought of the innocents who would die by your hand or your order. The children whose blood you would carry, mortal or not. I...I couldn't let you…"

Nuada nodded without looking at her. "I thought I could bear those sins, carry that blood without drowning in it. Now I don't believe I can. My lady has shown me my own...truth." He had been about to say weakness, but that was a confession, a baring of his soul that he didn't think he could bring himself to do in Naya's presence. Not anymore. "I am sorry I ever forced you to make such a choice," he added. "And sorry now for what I must tell you."

The dark Elf sighed softly. "What is it?"

"The king holds to the law, Naya, which says you should be executed." His father hadn't said it in so many words, but while Balor had agreed to wait for Nuada to speak to Naya, he also maintained that the law was quite clear as to her punishment. "Nuala holds to it, as well."

Rather, Nuala had foisted all responsibility for the judgment on their father and refused to voice any opinion, or even speak to him at all. She wouldn't even acknowledge his attempts at mental contact.

"Yet you saved me. Gave me to the healers," Naya murmured. "Why, if you seek to kill me?"

He sighed. "I don't want your death, my snow poppy. I would just as soon thrust all this to the past and forget it, but we cannot. You conspired against the Crown. You tried to manipulate the king and ensure...ensure my death."

Naya shut her eyes. A single tear spilled down her thin, gray cheek and she let out a broken sigh.

"My crimes are great; I know it. And so I must die." Wearily she opened her eyes and let her silver gaze fall on his face. Then, to his surprise, she smiled wanly. "I don't care. You are safe, Dylan is safe, Nuala is safe. Or as safe as I could make you. You know my master is here in the court, though I cannot speak the name. You are safe now. If I must die to achieve that, I will consider my death well spent."

Perhaps. But he would not. He had lost so many that he loved to sickness and war and famine and death. He didn't want to lose her, as well.

"Perhaps…" Nuada trailed off, staring at a particularly vicious bruise on the thin, white wrist. He cleared his throat. "You say you cannot speak your master's name. A spell?" Naya nodded. "Perhaps I can break the enchantment. If not I, perhaps my father could. If we could learn the traitor's name, it might be enough to convince my father and Nuala to pardon you."

She bit her lip, then nodded. Held out a hand that trembled with weakness.

"If you think you can find the spell…"

He was as gentle as the kiss of butterfly wings when he took her shaking hand in both of his. Palm to palm, he could slip into the glittering, elegant labyrinth of Naya's mind. When they'd been lovers, he'd still been learning to use his gifts of mind-touch and thought-sensing, and Naya's own abilities were very, very limited. Yet he had always been able to slip into her mind when they made love, their hands clasped and fingers laced together as their thoughts entwined. It was still a familiar path, centuries later.

Naya's thoughts weren't like Dylan's; she carried more shadows, and there was nothing of that outside presence, soft as starlight and brimming with impossible and unconditional love, that always seemed to glow in the depths of Dylan's thoughts. But he saw the truth of Naya's words - she did still love him. It had broken her heart to think the realms would be better off with him dead. Shattered that heart when she thought him lost.

Dylan's mind had been like a vast sea of stars, each star a memory or thought. Naya's mind was like snow falling on the white plains of Zwezda; no violent, swirling blizzard, but the softest of snowflakes drifting in tiny flurries. He caught one in the outstretched grip of his magic, and the memory washed over him…

A young Elf boy, Nuada himself, glancing up from a book in the royal library as someone came slamming through the library door. Bemused, the prince closed his book as someone - Naya - cried, "Your Highness! Nuada, please! Hide me!"

The prince jumped to his feet. Grabbed the desperate Elf girl by the hand and dragged Naya over to the table where he'd been sitting. He shoved her underneath and smoothed the burgundy velvet tablecloth just as the library door slammed open and the Lord Chamberlain stormed in.

"What are you doing, Prince Nuada?"

Lifting one eyebrow in cool challenge, the young prince held up a somewhat dusty swan feather. "Picking up my pen. I had not realized this was a crime, Chamberlain."

The irate fear darrig muttered something uncomplimentary and asked, "Where is Ledi Polunochnaya?"

Nuada said, "I'm not certain why you think I would know." Not a lie, and so he hadn't tasted iron in the back of his throat strong enough to choke him.

Those beady black eyes narrowed. "She is supposed to be at lessons. If you are hiding her-"

"Then you shall tell my father and he'll send me to bed without supper?" The crown prince asked flatly. "I doubt that very much. And if the Lord Chamberlain is reduced to threatening children in order to find one noble girl...I fail to see how that is my problem. Now if you'll excuse me, I have things to do."

"What things?"

The prince, who was known to spend hours a day reading, gave the lord a bland look. "I'm sure I shall find something to do in a room filled with books."

"Prince Nuada!"

"Lord Chamberlain," the prince said in the exact same scandalized tone. Outraged, the fae lord turned on his heel and stomped out of the library. Naya, muffling giggles behind her hands, fell out from beneath the table to sprawl at Nuada's feet, laughing, silver eyes sparkling at him, and for the first time in weeks the prince's pale lips curved into a grin…

Smiling, Nuada let the unmelted snowflake-memory slip from his grasp to whisk away on the gentle wind. He had no time for reminiscing. He had a spell to find.

And find it, he did - a large circle of jagged ice thrusting up from the snow to encircle a flurry of snowflakes trapped within. When Nuada touched one of the bits of ice, it sliced against his magic. Pain carved across his mind and he felt Naya flinch. In Naya's mindscape, golden blood beaded on the razor edge of the ice. Well, if he could not climb over the ice so that he could catch at the memory-snowflakes, he would shatter the ice.

Gathring up the heat and power of his magic, Nuada held out mental hands toward that circle of ice. In the real world, he gritted his teeth. Naya tensed in his hold. And then he unleashed the full brunt of his power on the ice.

When the first hard fist of magic slammed into the spell, the frost coating the sharp shards disintegrated into the tiniest ice chips and cracks splintered the ice.

In the real world, Naya screamed. Twin trickles of silver blood dripped from her nose.

Naya, Nuada began.

Keep going! She commanded, voice radiating with pain. I can bear it. Break the spell. Keep going.

But when he slammed his magic into the ice again, splintering it just the smallest bit more, Naya wrenched her hand out of his grasp to grab her head. Nuada opened his eyes as she doubled over. Blood dripped from her nose and, to his horror, her ears.

She sagged into his embrace, whimpering in pain, and Nuada shouted for a healer.

.

When he spoke to Nuala after the healer had put Naya to rights again, his sister stared at him for a long moment, then scoffed and turned back to stare out her bedrom window.

"I do not understand you," she muttered.

"I do not understand you," Nuada replied. "Why are you so angry? Why are you being so cruel?"

"I am not the cruel one," Nuala said flatly. "You are. You always have been. And now you try to dangle hope in front of me that Polunochnaya can be spared the sentence her crime demands, try to tempt me with ifs. Why are you even in my room?"

Nuada stared at her. If she didn't want him here, why had she bade him enter in the first place? Striving to keep his voice even, he said, "I'm beginning to wonder that myself." He hesitated, then added, "She would give us the name if she could, Sister-"

"But she cannot. So your presence in my chambers is unnecessary. Leave me be."

A low pulse of fury flooded Nuada's veins. Nuala just stood there in her black and white mourning gown, as if Naya was already dead. Refusing to look at him, refusing to let him speak to her mind to mind. Blaming him for all of this. He was tired of this. Tired of her anger, tired of her coldness.

"She deserves better from you. Go and speak to her, Nuala. Naya has been your friend for over three-thousand years, go-"

"I cannot abide her," she said softly. "Or you. Leave me alone."

It shouldn't have hurt. He understood why she was so very angry at him this time, so heartbroken and full of fury. It should not have hurt...but it did. It seemed always, always to hurt, no matter how hard he tried. So he left without another word.

.

That night as they settled into their rooms in the inn at the heart of the village of Feld Skerry, Petra knocked on Dylan's bedroom door. Her baby sister had said she was okay, but she wasn't stable. The entire Myers family knew that. So they needed to keep an eye on her. All of this had to be stressing her out, pushing her beyond her very fragile limits.

A garbled "come in" came through the door. When Petra opened it and walked in, Dylan waved her cupped hand, then popped something into her mouth - her medication? - and took a long swallow of amber liquid in a cup made of thick, wavy glass. Petra blinked.

"You've been taking your meds?" How had she managed to keep up with it all this time? They'd been on the road for almost a month.

"Of course," Dylan said brightly, though her smile held an edge of puzzlement. "The whole cocktail: Vicodin, both antidepressants, my anti-anxiety pill, my sleep aid, and my dream suppressant. How else do you think I've been handling all of this? I've missed four therapy sessions while on this trip so I have to be careful to take my meds every day. Nuada's been great about reminding me."

Petra opened her mouth. Closed it again. A little sheepishly, she confessed, "Honestly, honey, I...didn't really think it through. You've had a few flashbacks, and you had that nightmare a few days ago, so I thought...I just assumed you were on the verge of a breakdown or something. That's why I've kept asking you if you were okay. That nightmare-"

"It was just a nightmare," Dylan protested, baffled. "I told you, I woke up, Nuada helped me talk through it, and that was it. It was fine. And I'm pretty sure I told you that I was on a medication regimen to help with everything," she added coolly. "Unless you think I'm too out of touch to self-monitor, even with three other people wired into my brain-"

"You're right." Petra held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. Dylan blinked owlishly at her. "You're absolutely right, I was being ridiculous. It's just…" She bit her lip, eyeing her little sister. "Can I sit down?"

"If you want," Dylan said, voice still cold. There was something in her eyes. Annoyance? Anger? Resignation? The urge to yank Petra's hair like a little kid?

Petra sank down on the edge of Dylan's bed and folded her hands between her knees. "Look, Dylan. This is...a crazy situation. We can both agree on that, right? I mean, you're surrounded by all these sick and hurt people-"

"I used to work in a hospital," Dylan reminded her flatly. "In New York City. I've seen way worse. I've lost patients. I've done ER rotations. I've seen goodness knows how many randos come into the clinic with things like MP3 players and magnets shoved up their rectums-"

"Wait, really?"

Dylan huffed a laugh. "It's New York. None of this is new for me."

"Okay. That's true, you're right. But it's not just that. There's all the traveling…" Petra trailed off when her sister gave her a Seriously? Gimme a break look. "Well, it's a lot of change-"

"Which I can handle thanks to my meds and Nuada being a darling and planning this trip with me instead of dragging me hither and yon. Next reason why you're treating me like I'm made of glass? And not the sharp, stabby, useful kind?"

"Don't be like that," Petra protested. She wasn't fazed by the concept of sharp, stabby, useful glass. She'd been a New York cop once, for a while. "Just because we know you were telling the truth about all the Tinkerbell people doesn't mean I'm suddenly going to stop worrying about you. People in this place want to hurt you. Want to kill you-"

"Those kinds of threats aren't new, either," Dylan said, turning back to the vanity mirror. She picked up the glass she'd set on the smooth, wooden surface and drained the amber liquid. Then she burped. Blinked in surprise.

"Apple juice?" Petra asked.

"Cider," Dylan said. "Helps me sleep. 'Scuse me. Sorry about that." Then she began undoing the crown of braids she'd used to keep her hair out of her face all day. "I've been threatened before, Petra. You don't need to worry about that-"

"Not like this, you haven't!"

Each word carved from ice, she said, "Yes. I have. People have targeted me for most of my life. I have the Sight; you either get used to that or you die. Being a target isn't the problem. Being a child, asking for help from the adults who were supposed to help me, and being hurt again, and being punished - that's the problem."

Petra flinched at the words, but after a long day, being so tired and trying to get ready for bed, with her leg aching dully while the Vicodin slowly worked through her system, Dylan didn't care at this point. She let some of her annoyance show through.

"Here's the deal, Pet. I don't get my feelings hurt when monsters act like monsters; some people do, and there's nothing wrong with that, but I don't. I've known the world was a giant steaming bowl of poop-soup-"

"Poop-soup?"

A small smile tugged at Dylan's mouth. "I said what I said. I've known that since I was a kid. My trauma comes from specific events, specific assaults, continued harassment and torture, followed by the fact that I was punished for being hurt and punished again for trying to get help. I'm traumatized by monsters who tricked me into thinking they were good people. Monsters like Balor and Dr. Westenra. Monsters who promise to save you, protect you, but instead they just hurt you, too."

Something hot and a little bitter sharpened each word to a razor's edge. The eldest Myers sister drew back from that sharpness, staring at her baby sister.

"I'm just...I'm just worried about you. This whole situation...it's a lot to handle, and you're…"

"Fragile?" Dylan asked brightly. The glint in her eyes could've sliced to the bone. Petra looked down at her knees. Dylan sighed. "You're worrying for the wrong reasons. I have PTSD, yeah, but so do you. So does Nuada, and John, and Wink, and Pauline. But I trusted all of you to do what I asked because you said you could. Having PTSD doesn't make any of us incapable of getting anything done ever, and only a complete asshole would think so." Seeing her sister's eyes widen, she added, "Excuse my language. You have apparently pressed one of my buttons. Also you laughed when I said 'poop-soup.'"

Petra snickered, but quickly turned it into a cough when Dylan gave her an exasperated look. "Sorry," her sister said between fake-coughs. "Choked on my own spit. Continue. I pressed the button for nuclear armageddon."

"I'm not being that harsh."

"For a normal person? No. For my sweet baby sister who's smile lights a stairway to Heaven paved with angel food cake and lined with gumdrops-"

"What." It was less a question, more a statement of incredulity.

"For you, this is kinda...you're really mad. And all I'm saying is, you're mentally ill. You're fragile. Things scare you-"

"I have triggers, just like any other mentally ill person. I also am taking meds for anxiety and depression; I'm back in therapy for the most part; I have a very supportive fiance who knows how to help me when I have nightmares; I have supportive friends who can help if and when I have a panic attack or a flashback, so we can cut it off before it gets bad."

She thought of that night in the Queen's Garden, how poison and magic had exacerbated her scarred mind. How she'd been tricked into decisions because she'd been terrified and exhausted. She was not letting that happen again.

"I have all those things, and I have my faith. Maybe one or two of those things by themselves wouldn't be enough to cut it, but I'm doing what works for me and I'm functioning. I'm living. I'm finally able to do the things I used to do back when…"

Back when she'd coped by hurting herself. Forcing herself to ignore her own hurt. Poisoning her mind and soul with the rot of her grief. If not for Nuada, the soul purging, her meds, her therapy, she'd still be doing that. But this was better, healthier. She felt better. Felt strong, strong in truth, the way normal people felt. Most of the time, anyway.

"I'm not...not trying to say you're doing anything wrong, Dylan-"

"I shouldn't have to explain myself to you when I haven't done anything to make you question me," she said. "I've had a couple flashbacks in your presence. I've had a few others where you couldn't see, and a few nightmares, but they're not debilitating, Petra. They slow me down until I kick their sorry butts and then I'm back on schedule. I can handle them now that I've got the right kind of help. Like I did this morning when I had another nightmare - which you didn't notice, which just proves my point - and yesterday, and a few days ago. And I've told you, more than once, that I do have help. So can you please stop acting like if you cough too hard, I'll expire from fright?"

The entire time she'd been speaking, Dylan hadn't once looked at her. Instead she'd focused on letting her hair down from its work-braids so she could brush it out and rebraid it before bed. Petra didn't quite know what to say, and her sister's expression in the vanity mirror gave no clue. Finally, clearing her throat twice in order to speak, she ventured, "Are you...are you actually mad at me? Or are you just being stern?"

"I'm kind of mad!" Dylan shook out her hair and picked up her brush. "I'm annoyed that you brought it up. I told you I had myself under control, even with the semi-new stressors, but then you act surprised when I take steps to maintain my control?

"I'm doing everything I'm supposed to. Everything you always wanted me to do? I'm doing that. You wanted me to take meds? I'm on them, for the nightmares, the depression, the anxiety, everything. You wanted me to see a therapist? I have two, that I see twice a month each whenever possible and one of them, I consult via phone or text if I can't meet with him in person.

"I go to church when I can get to it, I pray every day, I read my Scriptures. I don't drink anymore; I've been sober for nine years. I have Nuada, someone I can be completely open and honest with whenever I need to, someone I can trust to protect me as best he can. I'm learning self-defense; Nuada's teaching me. I just...I don't know what else you want from me. I'm doing the work and getting results. What else are you expecting?"

"Honey…" Petra bit her lip. "Honey, you know you're not mentally stable-"

"And I never will be," Dylan said flatly. "You can't cure PTSD. You can't cure depression. You treat it and you manage it. That's what I'm doing. I know how to repair the cracks when they form. And! And, just because certain things trigger me doesn't mean everything does. Just because I have a nightmare or two or even five doesn't mean I'm suddenly as bad as I was back in the rehab center when I wanted to die every day."

Dylan suddenly spun on her stool and pointed at Petra. "I mean, look at you, you have nightmares! You went to Afghanistan; you have PTSD from combat. But are you triggered by handgun fire?"

"I...no." Some veterans were. A lot of veterans were. But not her. Maybe because before she'd been in the army, she'd been a cop - for a few years. Maybe because after she'd gotten out of the army, she'd worked security. Maybe because the horror stories Dylan had managed to tell her when they were kids - monsters who looked like monsters and monsters who looked like men - had sparked a need to learn to shoot. Whatever the reason, she didn't associate guns with war. Fighting, but not the wars overseas.

"What about sand?" Dylan asked.

Petra rolled her eyes. "No, Dylan."

"People speaking Farsi?"

"Obviously not," Petra replied, thinking of her many conversations with Dastan in that language.

"Okay, you said no to handguns. What about gunfire, period? Does it trigger you? Cause panic attacks?"

"No," Petra said waspishly. She rolled her eyes; Dylan already knew the answer to this. "Okay, so my PTSD isn't triggered by 'typical' things, but-"

"What about breaking glass?"

Petra froze. Swallowed hard. "You know it does."

"Creaking timbers? The crackle of a big fire? Crying k-"

"All right, stop it," Petra snapped. "Just stop. Okay? I get your point. I get it. You're right, I'm sorry. It's not fair of me to assume you can't handle one big problem because you're triggered by something else that may or may not be related. Okay? I get it. It was unfair-"

"It was stupid," Dylan said succinctly.

Petra canted her head. "Fine, it was stupid. Sorry. I'm not a psychiatrist, I don't have the right to nag you to death. I need to trust that you know your own...limits." Petra blinked suddenly. Stared at her. "That's why you're not so shaky anymore, isn't it? You're paying attention to your limits."

"Of course." It was why she kept the dogs near during the day. Why she'd called some of her guards into the workroom. Pushing through and ignoring the fear didn't help anyone. "Nuada and I made a deal - neither one of us pushes ourselves too hard. So far it's working out."

"He trusts you, doesn't he?"

Dylan's slightly irritated expression melted into a soft, fond smile. "More than he trusts anyone except Wink. The troll," she added at Petra's baffled look. "You know, really tall, built like a boulder, one eye, broken tusk, metal arm?"

"Right, right. Him." She remembered...him. How he'd just appeared, poof! Right out of thin air the night Dylan had revealed that all of her stories about faeries and seeing things were true.

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't think he's very fond of you, either."

Petra blinked at her younger sister. "He's built like a small mountain; how would that make me feel better? He could snap me in half like snapping a twig." After a moment, she sighed. "But okay. I just...I just want to make sure...don't be mad, okay?"

"Oh my gosh, Petra, just let it go! It's laaate. Shut uuup. I wanna sleep. Don't make me turn into a zombie, I'll absolutely slurp up your brains with a straw. I'm engaged to the crown prince, nobody will stop me."

"I'm not going to shut up. You almost died, remember? That bandit guy snatched you out of the middle of a village and tortured and almost killed you. That has to affect you. That has to scare you. I'd be worried if it didn't."

"Oh, for pity's sake. Of course it scares me! Lots of things scare me. Sreng could snatch me up again and torture me to death. A dragon could eat me - yes, they have dragons here, close your mouth. I could get shot in a drive-by or raped by a dirty cop or crushed in a car accident or killed by a flaming toilet seat slamming into me from orbit. Someone might kill Nuada, or John, or Renee, or any of you. The Blackwoods might show up again. Anything bad could happen!

"Losing people I love scares me. Pain scares me. Dying...scares me less, but it still kind of scares me a little. But I'm not going to shrug off my responsibilities because I'm scared. I'm not going to hide in my cottage and miss out on all the things I want because I'm scared. I have a chance most people never have - I get to marry the love of my life, someone who knows me completely, loves every part of me with every part of himself. I can't do that if I don't take care of myself, respect my limitations, and work with them. I have to be here," she lifted a flattened hand to eye-level, "at least half the time, and that means working with and around the fear. Yes, I'm afraid. All the time. I'm also guarded, I'm on alert, I'm armed, and now we know what we're up against. Mostly. What else do you want me to say? What do you want me to do? I have no laser vision and I'm not an alien from Krypton, so super powers are a no-go."

Her older sister only shook her head. Could Dylan really be that cavalier about what had happened to her? In every book and movie Petra had seen, trauma like Dylan's ruined lives forever. And the danger they were all in - how could she be so calm about it?

"Nothing anyone does to me will ever be as bad as the institution, Petra," Dylan said softly. Petra's spine went ramrod-straight. "Sreng...hurt me. Badly. It was...I don't have words for it. He threatened the cubs. He threatened John. He threatened Nuada multiple times. He murdered innocent people in front of me, just to show me how powerless I was. It was hell. But nothing, nothing will ever be worse than what Patrick and Xander did to me for years. I was a kid. I had no idea how horrible human malice could be. And nobody would help me, nobody was on my side.

"Now? I'm not a kid anymore. I've seen the worst humanity has to offer. And I know - I know - that if I'm in trouble and I tell Nuada, he will always believe me and he will always try to protect me. And he'll always give me tools so I can protect myself. I'm learning to fight. I have guards. I have guard dogs. Add that to everything else I'm doing? Therapy, meds, just using common sense and being self-aware? I'm not healed. I'm not sane. But I'm managing my problems so I can get things done. Okay? So please, please can we stop talking about this now? Will you stop worrying?"

Folding her arms over her chest, Petra said, "You're my baby sister. I'm always going to worry about you."

Finally the chill left Dylan's blue eyes and she laughed. "Okay, that's fair. But for real, Pet? Don't act like I can't do things just because of what I've been through, what I'm going through. Okay? Being mentally ill - even severely mentally ill - doesn't make me inherently useless, especially when I have good support. And if you keep it up, I'm going to have to do something drastic."

"As long as you're not naked, nothing you could do would scare me. So there." There was a long silence. At last, Petra nodded. "Okay. I'll back off and try to...worry less." A pause, and then, "I thought you didn't like the idea of medication, though. We always had to fight you about it. What made you change your mind?"

Turning back to the mirror, Dylan began to run a brush through her hair. She offered a negligent half-shrug.

"Nuada and I discussed it and agreed I should try again. He promised to help me if I couldn't bear it on my own."

"Help you, how? Like...pop the pills in his mouth and then make out with you so they get shoved down your throat by his tongue?"

Dylan's mouth fell open. "I...what? No!" Scandalized, Dylan shoved all thoughts of Nuada's tongue out of her head before her cheeks went from pink to tomato-red. "We don't do that."

"What, tongue pills down each other's gullets-"

"We don't do anything with tongues, ohmigawd Petra," Dylan cried, covering her flaming face. "Mormon, remember? Law of Chastity. Holy crap."

Petra raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me that you've never even thought about what it would be like to make out with the guy you're engaged to marry? Much less anything else?"

"We sit five feet apart on the sofa and pray for our immortal souls every night, so there," Dylan said primly.

"Oh, is that what they're calling it now?" Petra laughed when Dylan grumbled something under her breath and took a swig of cider. "He really is good to you?" Petra asked after a minute. "About...all this mental health stuff?"

Dylan's smile was soft and unshadowed as she set down the brush and began to braid. "We take care of each other," was all she said.

"Okay," said Petra. "Then that's good enough for me." There was a moment of silence, then she asked, "He doesn't have like, a Venom-tongue, does he? Because on the one hand, yikes, but on the other hand, that might come in handy on your wedding night-"

"Oh, for crying out loud, he has a normal tongue! Just because he's going to grow antlers eventually-"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh," Dylan said, blinking. "You didn't know that. Well...crap."

This was going to take a while.

.

When Nuada returned from Findias, he told Dylan what had transpired with Naya, with his sister, and his brief conversation with the king. She was surprised Nuala would insist on punishing her lady-in-waiting to the full extent of the law, but less surprised the king had agreed.

"I'll not let them execute her," Nuada muttered, settling back against the bedpost and crossing his arms over his chest. "I cannot imagine what my sister is thinking-"

"She's hurt," Dylan replied. "She's upset about Naya's betrayal, she blames you even though she shouldn't, she wants to hurt you, she's mad at herself for wanting it, mad at herself for letting Naya get close enough to her that she could then hurt you. It's a whole tangled thing. But you said the king said he wouldn't execute her if you could come up with a fitting punishment-"

"Like what?" Nuada asked. "I'll not flog a sick woman. After what happened in Lallybroch, I do not know if I have the stomach to flog anyone ever again. My father will not accept a public shaming, and we cannot risk it, anyway. The citizens of Bethmoora might kill her themselves, for aiding humans and trying to hurt me. My sister will not tolerate Naya living in Findias much longer, she says, so we cannot place her under house arrest-"

"We could move her," Dylan said. Nuada blinked. He'd been glaring at the fire, but now he turned to his lady. Dylan sat on the bed, her legs stretched out in front of her. Even with pain meds and the effects of Shaohao's healing, her knee ached after a long day on her feet tending the sick. The prince watched her massage the slightly swollen joint as she continued, "Nuala doesn't want her around, so we can send her someplace Nuala doesn't want to be. Why not Renvyle? We can exile her to the island."

Nuada blinked. "I...that isn't exactly an exile, mo duinne. Renvyle is the summer home of the royal family."

But Dylan snorted and rolled her eyes. "Sure it's not an exile. Being banished from the place you grew up to a tiny island you can never leave, unless you want to be killed? Sounds like a prison to me. And this way she's out of Nuala's hair and you can still go see her if you ever want to."

"Nuala is very angry, Dylan-"

"Oh, my gosh, she's always angry," Dylan grumbled, pressing her thumbs into her knee. "How about this? Nuala can publicly dismiss Naya from her service, which will count as a court humiliation, right? No one in the Golden Court would ever be friends with her again, true?" Nuada canted his head. "Then we take her to Renvyle where she's stuck for forever and ever and ever and Nuala can shut up and forget all of this happened."

Growling under her breath, Dylan added, "I'm really tired of sisters getting in my way right now so just for spite, because my feet hurt, because my leg hurts, because I have a headache, and because I've got moontime cramps and I hate everything except your gorgeous face right now, I don't want Nuala to have anything she wants. So even if I didn't want to protect Naya for her own sake and yours, I'd still say let's exile her to Renvyle. Can we do that?"

A little taken aback by her admission of anger and spite, still he couldn't help but smile when he canted his head again. "I will present the idea to my father in writing and see if he approves. If he does, it will not matter what Nuala wants. You, my father, and I together hold enough power to force her to comply."

"Great." Dylan flexed her leg. Stifled a groan. "Oh, this is gonna hurt tomorrow. I'll have to remember to take it easy."

One star-blond brow quirked. "I will be happy to remind you."

Dylan smiled. "I'll just bet." She hesitated, then said, "Can I ask you a question? Not about Naya."

"All right."

Nibbling on her bottom lip, Dylan let herself flop back onto the bed. She didn't look at him, only stared up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, when she asked, "Am I...different?"

The prince frowned. "How do you mean?"

"I kind of...ripped off Petra's face earlier," she confessed softly. "She kept pestering me about if I was okay or not, treating me like I might shatter if she breathed on me too hard. I finally lost my temper a bit." Briefly she told him everything she and Petra had said to each other. "But it made me think...Petra was worried because I wasn't reacting the way she thought I should. What if she was right? Maybe I'm not reacting to things normally and I just haven't noticed-"

"You are different," Nuada said gently. Dylan's head snapped around to look at him. Her eyes were wide and worried. "I have noticed it for the last month or so, but especially after...after what Sreng did to you. You're stronger."

Blinking, frowning, Dylan rolled onto her side. She propped her head on one hand. "What do you mean?"

"What you went through...I have been tortured, my love. You know this. You have been tortured as well. We have both been hurt, abused, broken. We have both endured. I think every time a person endures a hardship, they learn something about themselves."

He watched her gaze turn inward. Could practically see the thoughts running through her mind as she considered his words and her sister's words and everything she knew as a mind healer.

Finally, she said, "I did learn some things about myself. I'm tougher than I thought I was, and I always knew I was pretty tough after everything when I was a kid. Sight kids are strong anyway; you have to be, or you get killed. Growing up knowing that...It makes some of the things normal kids deal with seem like not such a big deal. I think...I think I couldn't have survived the institution if I hadn't had those years on the outside, dealing with the fae."

Nuada reached out and clasped her free hand. He needed to be careful about how he said this.

"You always tell me things happen for a reason. Maybe they do, I do not know. I am not a man of faith, not the sort of faith you have. Whether your griefs were destined or happenstance, I believe you used them. They happened, and that can never be changed, but it taught you that you could survive those things, because you did.

"Perhaps you would have learned that lesson some other way if those horrors had not come into your life; I'm no philosopher, mo duinne. But always I have seen you - when an enemy strikes at you, after the pain and the fear comes, then comes your defiance. It is something you've always done."

A small smile tugged at the corner of her scarred mouth. "'My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.' And you think that's what I'm doing now?"

"I do. When our enemies challenged your worthiness to be with me, you proved your worthiness. When they challenged your loyalty to our people, you proved it over and over again. Now they believe you would not dare fight for our people with the ruthlessness and courage you need. So you have."

Dylan considered this. She remembered giving Nuada permission to execute the kelpie bandit that had tried to kill Iuile. The promise she'd made, that if Nuada had to kill his father, she would back him one-hundred-percent. Dylan thought of Tsu's'di and Siobhan, of Iuile and Liam, of every person she'd seen hurt. Yes, she had grown more ruthless. The same pragmatic ruthlessness she'd had in the institution, but without the rage, the hatred that had made it so toxic when she was young.

"You fell in love with me because of my gentleness," Dylan murmured. "If I lose that-"

"You haven't lost it, Dylan." Nuada shifted forward, stretching out so that he lay on her bed, face to face with her. Their eyes locked, sunlit topaz and moonlit sapphire. "You are still gentle, still full of love and faith and hope and compassion. It is the heart of who you are. But you're healthier now, stronger now. Your mind is less shadowed, which has allowed you to handle more challenges. You have people who love you, people that you love, people you would do many things to protect. That is no bad thing."

A tear rolled down her cheek. Another. "But what if I'm not the same woman you fell in love with?"

Nuada laughed softly, but he cupped her cheek and thumbed away the two teardrops before kissing the tip of her nose.

"You're not the same woman, mo cridh. Nor am I the man you fell in love with. Not entirely. We've both changed, at least a little. It's been a year, beloved. We certainly should have changed. Do you think there is no room in my heart for my love for you to grow and change as you do?"

Sheepish now, she ducked her head. Wiped at the tear. "I'm being silly, I guess. I just...I've missed things before, with my mental health. Doctors make the worst patients and all that. So when Petra kept pestering and I got so upset...I worried."

"You needn't fear," he said, and kissed the tip of her nose again. He adored the way she would sometimes scrunch her face up like a rabbit. "You were right in what you told Petra - you are doing better because you're healing, and you're healing because we are working on healing your heart, your mind. And I am so proud of you for that, my beloved. So very proud."

Dylan laughed, a little wetly. "Okay, okay. I know, you think I'm the best thing since they put the pocket in pita. Thanks," she added, and gave him a quick kiss. "For talking with me."

"If you ever need to speak with me," he said, "about anything, I am here for you. You are the joy of my heart. I want you to be happy, to be well. If I can help you in that, I will. Now, have you taken your medicines?"

"Yes," she said, pushing up to reach for the flask on the wooden table beside the bed. She began trickling the dose into the bottle's cap. "Except my sleeping draught because I was waiting for you to get back. Bottoms up!" Dylan knocked back the sleeping potion. "Ugh, that stuff is so...viscous." She made a face as she slipped under the covers. "Kiss me goodnight and get out of here. You need sleep, too."

He kissed her, gentle and warm. Then he whistled for Eimh and Setanta, who bounded into the bedchamber and leapt onto the bed. Circling twice and bouncing a little, the hound pups eventually settled on either side of Dylan's legs. Pats for the dogs and one last kiss for Dylan, and then Nuada bid her good night and left. She was already drifting off as he shut the door behind him.

Walking down the hall, the legendary Elven warrior considered what his lady had said - and not said. She was becoming not only a warrior in her heart, but a ruler. Not only that, but she was refusing to abuse or neglect her own health because if she did, she would fail at the task before her.

Nuada thought of a few months ago, when Lord Galen of Oic Bethra had drunkenly propositioned Dylan and tried to lay hands on her. She'd been in favor of simply ignoring the whole fiasco and pretending it never happened, trying to be kind and understanding. But after everything that had happened since...she was understanding, yes, and kind still. But she had relearned to draw the line in the dirt and refuse to move back from it when challenged.

Around the same time, they'd begun working on healing her mind. It had seemed to pull at least some of the weight from her shoulders as she'd begun to heal again, but...how much of that weight had been shed simply because Dylan had allowed herself to tell someone to enjoy an extended vacation in the deepest pit of the thirteen hells when they crossed her boundaries?

She had once been too kind, too gentle with those who did not deserve that gentleness. How much pressure had she put on herself to simply allow those cruelties and not take offense at them?

Something for them to discuss when they had more leisure. On the way to the next village perhaps. Until then, he had a very welcoming bed to fall into.

And tomorrow he would offer the king his judgment of Naya and execute the guards who had dared to torment her.

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