Chapter 28 - Almost a Proposal

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A Short Tale of Old Memories, Displays, Confessions Over Dinner, War Councils, and a Realization

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Night has a way of playing tricks on the mind. The intimacy of the dark can conjure up feelings of closeness, deep thoughtfulness... or a sense of being hunted. In the cottage amidst the icy woods, the night stalked a mortal woman and the child she once was. Memory howled in the darkness; memory of days and years gone-by. Memories that even the passage of more than a full decade had not managed to erode.

Nuada woke on Dylan's sofa to the sound of a choked scream. Instantly he was on his feet and stalking silently through the little cottage toward her room. Becan stood beside the half-open door, twisting his tiny hands in distress. At seeing the prince, the brownie said in a tremulous voice, "It is only an ill dream, Sire. She is not hurt." The Elven warrior moved to stride past the brownie, but the little faerie snagged the leg of his trousers and said, "No, Sire. She cannot be woken yet. This is a dream I know well - she has had it nearly every night since I came to this cottage. Milady cannot be woken until the nightmare releases her, and when she wakes she will want no one at her side."

From the dimly lit room - Nuada realized belatedly that night had fallen while he and the mortal slept - there came a voice. Dylan's, and yet... that terrified child's voice could not be Dylan. Everything in the prince rebelled at the idea.

"Mommy," she whimpered. Each word was ragged with tears and terror. "Please, Mommy... let me out. It's dark. I'm sorry, let me out. Please. I wanna go home. I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please let me come home. Don't let him hurt me. He's a bad man, Mommy! John! John, where are you? Help me, John. John..." She thrashed against the tangle of blankets and bedding, moaning the word "no" over and over. And then the mortal let out a scream that froze Nuada's blood.

Danu's mercy, he thought, and took a half-step nearer. He had heard such screams before, but from men and women being tortured. What kind of hell could she possibly be dreaming of?

With another tortured cry she bolted upright, one hand going reflexively to her throat as she dragged in shuddering lungfuls of air. Her hands shook as she pushed tangles of dark hair away from her face. A strangled, whimpering sound escaped her and she covered her mouth with both hands. Nuada expected her to break down, to cry as she had their last night in Findias. Instead she drew in a deeper, steadier breath. Blew it out slowly. Then she threw back the covers and got out of bed. The Elf prince cleared his throat to alert her to his presence. She froze. Shot him one wild-shy glance before staring at the floor. "How long have you been there?"

"A few moments only," he said. The easy companionship of the dawn had vanished. He could see that in her eyes. Or maybe it was the echoes of her dreams that shimmered in her haunted gaze. "Are you... all right?" A foolish question, but it was all he could think to ask when she looked at him as if he were a stranger.

Dylan mumbled, "I'm fine."

Uncertain, and despising that he felt so, his reply was a tersely muttered, "Good."

"If you give me a minute," the human said as Nuada moved to walk away, "I'll make breakfast. Erm... dinner, I guess." She stared up the clouded moonlight filtering through the curtains of her bedroom window. "What time is it?"

"An hour after sunset," Nuada said. Dylan moved toward what the prince knew to be a bathroom, but every movement was hesitant. Slow. As if pain burned in every step. Almost as if she were quietly bleeding to death. Unease trickled down the Elf prince's spine like meltwater from mountain snows. "Dylan... are you certain you are all right?"

"Yeah. Give me a few minutes, I'll be right out."

And she disappeared into the other room. There was the sound of water running in the sink as Nuada turned to go back to the room he had fallen asleep in a couple hours earlier. Becan trailed after him, a tiny bundle of nervous energy. Once in the place the brownie had called a "den," which the prince had converted into a training space before falling asleep, Nuada dropped to the sofa and sighed, rubbing his arm with one hand to ease the echo of old aches. The brownie scuttled up onto the mantel and sighed as well.

"Is she all right?" Nuada asked after a moment. "What was that dream?"

"She will be well in a few minutes, Sire. As for the dream, I believe it is a memory. Or many memories. From when she was a child in... in that place."

That place. They electrocuted me. Words from a night long ago when hate and rage were the only things that stood between an Elf prince and a mortal woman. They beat me. They locked me away in the dark. They starved me. Just the briefest glimpse into her past. They drugged me. And suddenly the hate burned again, hot as hellfire when Nuada thought of a little girl's innocence - and possibly her sanity - shattered by those who should have protected her. A little girl cruelly punished for the sin of defending his people. That midnight-black hate seared his veins, simmered in his blood. Scorched his tongue when he spat, "Humans. Disgusting, hollow vermin they are, that they terrorize a child, and haunt a woman."

Yet his father insisted on maintaining that accursed truce. A truce with creatures more monstrous than any found in Faerie, a truce based on shame. King Balor thought it honorable to give way before the humans, even when they committed such atrocities against their own young ones. Against someone like Dylan.

Nuada suddenly wanted his lance in his hand, scarlet blood singing over Elven silver as he put an end to the demons from Dylan's childhood hell. He clenched his fists and throttled back the bloodlust and fury screaming for vengeance when he thought of a terrified, brutalized child crying in the dark. Mommy, please let me come home. An unsettling, albeit childlike, echo of his own long-abandoned sentiment so often ignored: Father, how I long for home. Wrenching himself away from such sentimentality, he sighed again. She will never have peace from the past. She will be haunted by it all her days, as I am. What a pair we are. May the stars curse her family, and all the other demons of her past.

"I'm all right, Nuada," a soft voice said from the entryway of the den.

Becan hurried out of sight while Nuada slowly lifted his head to find Dylan's eyes, clear and gentle as moonlit lakes. There was no trace of the horror from moments ago. She lounged against the doorframe in a baggy sweater of deep rose and stretchy white jeans with glittering green vines running up and down the legs. Oddly, he found the sight of her pale green sock-feet peeking out from under the hems of her pants reassuring - as if those tiny patches of green meant everything was well with her. Catching the direction of his gaze, she rocked back on her heels, careful of her injured foot, and wiggled her toes at him, and he could not help the wry chuckle that escaped him.

She added, "Don't worry about me. So... when are we going back to Findias? Are we ever? Because I happen to like living, so standing in front of those guards when they try to beat you up is going to put a serious crimp in my lifestyle choices, especially the ones I've made about breathing."

Nuada sighed. "If all I desired in this life could be accomplished without returning to that place, I would never go back," he said bitterly, "but I must." Once, his dearest wish for himself had been to return home. To be his father's joy again. To find happiness with his sister. To be the returned prince and hero. Now, though... now that he had found sanctuary (Of a sort, the prince thought, but Dylan's cottage was sanctuary nonetheless), that desire did not burn so fiercely any longer. As for Findias itself... after the humiliation he had endured before the royal court of Bethmoora, the thought of going back was like ashes in his mouth. Not to mention the dangers that lurked there. Mostly dangers to Dylan only, yes, but danger nonetheless.

"I must," he added with no little irritation, "though I would much rather stay here. And if I return without you, my father-"

"Forget your father for a minute. If you go back there without me, I'll follow after you."

The Elf prince glanced at the human when she said this. Saw the steely determination, and the undercurrent of fear, in her eyes. Recognized the words for the threat - and the promise - they were. I go when you go. Not just when, but where. Words of loyalty. Words of fealty, which wasn't the same thing. He recalled plucking a tulip, with petals red as human blood, from Yang's hand and tucking it into Dylan's dark curls. Tulips for trust. Recalled Dylan choosing a flower for honor and bravery without a moment's hesitation.

"I do not plan on leaving you behind," he said. "I would be a fool to walk onto a battlefield, even merely a political one, without my staunchest allies. However, I feel like being reckless for a change." Nuada smirked when Dylan's eyes went wide. With a half-mocking little bow, he added, "If the lady of this demesne does not complain, I would stay here for a few days more. My father will be angry no matter when we return, so I intend to, as you say, 'take a vacation.' I also mean to show the king that Prince Nuada Silverlance will not be kept a prisoner in Findias, nor will I allow you to be held there against your will."

And using me as a hostage against you counts as such, he thought, but did not say.

Dylan gave him a searching look. "I just have one question: is this going to get us killed or tortured? And when I say 'us,' I actually mean 'you,' because if your dad does something awful to you I'm going to have to try to kill him and then the guards will rip me into little pieces."

"No." Eleven months ago, a human threatening his father would have ended in the shedding of mortal blood. Now, though... Nuada knew Dylan would stand between him and almost anything if he allowed it. That thought eased some of the chill that had come when she had mentioned returning to the capital of Bethmoora. "Publicly chastised, possibly, but killed? No."

"Tortured?"

"No."

"Flogged?"

"Possibly," he replied truthfully, "but doubtful."

"Then okay. Now I have another question - what did you do to my furniture?"

There was a long moment of tense silence. The Elf prince thought of nightmares and memories, scars as pale as death, and a woman terrified of the dark. All the things he wanted to ask her - about the girl, Lisa; the boy Dylan still had not allowed herself to truly mourn, Rafael; and the flash of memory he had seen on that icy roof when Dylan spoke of trying to end her own life. But there was a wall behind Dylan's eyes that begged him to leave be for now. So finally, Nuada forced his lips into a smirk and replied, "Your furniture? I moved it." He cocked his head. "As you see."

"Yes, I do see." She folded her arms. Her wry smile cooled some of the fresh hatred smoldering inside him. "My question is, why?" Dylan scanned the den. Her two chairs, coffee table, and sofa were pushed against the wall by the door. This room was the biggest in the cottage besides her room, and with the floor cleared, there was at least thirty square feet of free floor space. "What were you doing in here?"

He pushed to his feet. Assessed the stiffness in his arm. Asked her, "Would you like to see?"

Dylan scanned the moon-pale face, the raised eyebrow, and the challenging half-smile. Watched as eyes that had been blood-red slowly faded to familiar amber again. The icy knot of dread in her stomach loosened, faded. Dylan found her own smile, still edged with a trace of nightmares, softening and matching his. She shrugged. Sank into one of the chairs and tucked her feet beneath her. "Sure. Show me."

Intensely aware of the eyes on him (for the first time in a long while, someone other than Wink would witness what he could do in a non-combative setting), Nuada took up his lance and turned his wrist, letting the spear spin for a few rotations before slashing at an imaginary opponent. He slashed and spun, twisted and thrust and twirled the spear. Dodged an imaginary opponent. Somersaulted backwards, rolled forwards. Elven silver sang as it sliced through the air. His blood hummed as he fell into a familiar rhythm of acrobatics and razor-sharp strikes. The glow of the fireplace edged his lance with carnelian light.

And Dylan watched him with awe as he moved through the simple forms, hands clasped under her chin and eyes shining. He came to a sudden, sharp stop, the weapon held at arms' length in front of him, as if presenting the Silver Lance as an offering to her. He had not even broken a sweat.

"Nuada," she said softly, eyes wide. She'd seen him do very simple fighting forms during their time together in the sanctuary, but that was nothing compared to the lethal acrobatic grace the feral-eyed warrior had displayed just then. "You're absolutely incredible. Where did you learn to do that?"

He shrugged, oh-so-casually. He would not preen like a cocky youth because of her praise... but part of him wanted to. "I am an Elven warrior."

"Well, then you are the most amazing Elven warrior ever," she said, rising to her feet. "And for that splendid performance, I'm gonna make you dinner. Chicken alfredo, it's one of my favorite things to make. You'll like it, I promise."

She was walking towards the door when he asked nonchalantly, "Oh, will I?" Dylan turned back to him, a hand on her cocked hip and the sparkle of challenge in her eyes. Smiling, she asked, "What's the matter, Your Highness? Don't you trust me?"

Becan watched the prince, who was chuckling to himself, follow the human woman out of the den. The brownie smiled. The two of them were good for each other. He still thought his lady remained unaware of the Crown Prince's consideration, but surely the Silver Lance could see the wealth of affection that always shone in Dylan's eyes. Becan slipped from his perch and trailed after the pair.

.

It took Dylan merely fifty minutes to make dinner. It surprised Nuada to see that everything was fairly fresh - the meat, which Becan had purchased from the Floating Night Market in Manhattan; the pasta itself. Dylan even made the creamy, white sauce from scratch (constantly referring to the cook book on the counter). The herbs were from her garden's store. The Elf prince watched her from where he lounged against the doorway to the kitchen while she cooked, and listened to her sing along to a little radio perched on the counter not currently in use. For once she was actually (mostly) in key. Her voice was sweet in counterpoint to the too-modern guitars and drums, the only thing that made the music tolderable.

"My best friend gave me the best advice.
He said, 'Each day's a gift and not a given right.
Leave no stone unturned, leave your fears behind,
And try to take the path less traveled by...'"

Sitting down to dinner at a human's table, however, was awkward. Dylan said a brief blessing over the food. Then she set to eating as if she'd been starving for weeks and only just rediscovered the glory of food. He ate slowly, cataloguing the different tastes and textures. Considering this was made by a human, from a mortal recipe, the dish was oddly palatable. Nuada would have even gone so far as to say it tasted... good. And though he usually preferred wine or ale with his food, the sparkling grape juice Dylan had provided worked well enough. The prince got the impression she was trying very hard to make up something to him. He was simply unsure as to what. Well, whatever it was, it would have to wait until after they talked about the current situation.

"Dylan," he said, and she glanced up from her plate. "We have much to discuss."

"Uh-oh," the human replied, and took a sip of juice. "That sounds ominous. Did you figure out a way to break off our almost-engagement?"

"Unfortunately, no," the prince said. Sighed. "But there are now... complications." Quickly, he outlined what he had learned from Wink the night before about Eamonn, about Princess Ming Xian, and all that the information on both Elves meant regarding the human and the Crown Prince of Bethmoora (including the fact that if the Crown Prince ventured into Cíocal to drag Eamonn out - or simply to kill him - it would most likely spark a war, or at least serious trouble, between Cíocal and Bethmoora). Nuada realized suddenly that he was discussing what essentially boiled down to political strategies with a mortal woman over dinner that she had made, that was actually edible, in a human dwelling. Would wonders never cease?

"So this place, this Kingdom of Cíocal... they take anyone? Indifferent to status, moral values, anything - they take everyone?" Dylan mulled this over while wolfing down more pasta. "How does that affect their citizenship and their rights? I mean, does the refugee have the exact same rights as the serial rapist, and vice-versa?"

The Elf prince scowled. "Loath as I am to admit such a thing, yes. And by going in without the kings' leave - and I would need both King Elatha's, and my father's - and executing Eamonn, I would break the treaty between Cíocal and Bethmoora."

"Then don't worry about it, Your Highness," the human replied between bites. "As long as he stays in there, we don't have to worry about him. Not that I don't want you to rip him into little pieces and sprinkle him on your toast because I absolutely do, but if you're going to get in trouble then I don't want you to worry about it. The minute he comes into Bethmoora, you can kick his butt or lop off his head or whatever you have planned for the scumbag. On a different note, shouldn't your almost-engagement with this princess negate our almost-engagement?" Dylan asked, and took a sip of juice before wolfing down more pasta.

"If it came down to marrying an infant princess in two hundred years and finding myself bound to the Dragon of Dilong by ties of matrimony, or marrying you, I would choose-"

"Yeah, I know," she interrupted, trying to ignore the needle-sharp prick of pain behind her chest. Of course she knew what choice he would make. Nuada had always been perfectly clear on his preferences. "You'd pick the adorable Elf princess over the gross human-"

"Actually, I would choose you."

"Well of course you..." His words penetrated and she trailed off, her mouth dropping open as she stared at the amber-eyed prince seated across from her. It took her a minute to remember how to form words. "But you... but... wait... no, you wouldn't." Nuada arched an eyebrow, as if daring her to call him a liar. "But Nuada, you wouldn't. I'm human. You hate me. Er, severely dislike me."

"Dylan." He had been about to take a drink, but now he set his glass down and studied the woman across from him. When she caught him watching her, she looked away and took a hasty sip of juice. "You are a very clever and intelligent woman. Consider for a moment: I spent the day sleeping on your couch and training in your home. A human home. I'm eating food prepared by mortal hands. I do not have to stay here. If I did not wish to be here, I could return to any of the dwellings I have scattered throughout the city. Instead I choose to remain. With you. Would I choose such if I truly felt the way you seem to think?"

"But... but why?" Dylan demanded. This was so completely outside her experience - and her expectations - that her head was swimming and her pulse was overly loud in her ears. "Why would you ever choose me? Over an Elven princess? That makes no sense."

"Because the Emperor of Dilong is a madman, and his daughter is a mere infant. She would be but a child when it finally came time to marry her, and I would be nearly as old as my father when that marriage would be consummated. It would be unfair to both of us, and the odds of siring a child to take my place as monarch at that age would be... unlikely. And again, the Dragon of Dilong is a madman. The political tangles and the headache wrapped up in having him for a father-in-law would be enough even without all the rest.

"As for you, Dylan," he added, and moonlit blue eyes met sunlit gold. "I would choose you particularly over Dilong because... I am..." Honor demanded he say this. Honor forbade him from allowing her to believe he held any sentiment other than his true one. Curse it, he would say this. Forcing his teeth to unclench, he confessed as tonelessly as possible, "I am fond of you."

The way her mouth dropped open would have been almost comical if it hadn't stung so much. She blinked at him in absolute shock for several seconds. He raised an eyebrow, and she snapped her mouth shut with an audible click of teeth. Finally Dylan managed to speak.

"You..." You are? was the question sitting on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't ask it. Couldn't. This was something she had never, ever expected to hear from him, of all people. There was a weight on her chest so heavy it almost hurt. Fond of her. Nuada was fond of her. That meant he liked her. Even though she was human, he was fond of her. How could Nuada, who despised humanity with a heat that rivaled a wildfire, feel anything for her except dislike and, if she were lucky, reluctant tolerance?

Dylan wanted to think about that. Wanted to hold onto the words for a few minutes, just turning them over in her mind until they made sense. Later, she thought. Time for that later. Until then, she had something else to point out.

"But you don't love me."

"Of course I don't." His matter-of-fact tone somehow turned the simple words into a slap, but he didn't know it. And would he even care if he did know? For some reason, she suddenly doubted it. "Dylan," Nuada added, "I am a prince. I never expected to marry for love. My father was lucky in his choice, but I did not expect to be so. If I must marry, if I must make the choice between a mortal woman who has sacrificed so much for my people and a child I do not know - one that comes with inconvenient and most likely highly dangerous ties to the Court of Dilong and the Jade Throne - I choose a mortal woman. Specifically, you."

It would be a hard and bitter choice, Nuada knew. He did not wish to marry anyone. And it would be embarrassing for him, and dangerous for both of them. Yet Dylan was mortal. It would only be for a relatively short time. Once her life was spent, he would be free of matrimonial bonds again - as he preferred. With Ming Xian... even if he lived to be older than his father, she would most likely outlive him. Then the Dragon of Dilong would have direct control over the court of Bethmoora through his daughter.

I will never allow anyone but members of my family to rule Bethmoora, the prince thought. Never.

"What happened to all that 'I will not sully myself by joining with a human' stuff?"

"I would not have to," he replied with an easy shrug. "Unless I needed heirs quickly, which I do not, there would be no need. When I'm king, yes, but as I said to Nuala, your life will be long since spent by then. We would be wed in name only."

He doesn't get it, Dylan realized as dread coiled like a snake in the pit of her stomach. If I marry him - I can't believe I'm even thinking those words - but if I marry him, that's it for me. Royals don't divorce in Faerie. I'm with him until I die. Condemned to a loveless marriage, without hope of romantic affection or children. A stranger among the ethereal Fayre. Would she even be able to see John again? Her sisters? Her friends? What about her patients, and her Sight kids?

Dylan knew that Nuada wasn't really thinking about all that from her point of view. He was too focused on what was best for the people of Bethmoora and what was best for him. For the first time, there was a tiny sliver of resentment pricking at her heart.

She realized then that this was probably part of Balor's trap in the whole courtship-engagement thing. If the One-Armed King of Elfland did manage to force the two of them into wedlock - all he had to do, after all, was threaten Nuada's life, which Dylan would not put past him - the king was banking on a wedge being driven between her and Nuada over it. Over the conditions Nuada would insist upon if they ever married. And there was a wedge there. Dylan could feel it slowly sliding between them with every word, though she was pretty sure she was the only one to sense such a thing. If she didn't stop it now, what would happen to them? What were the consequences of breaking away from Nuada even a little bit? Dylan didn't know... but when she thought about it for even a few seconds, a heavy sense of dread bore down on her.

I care about him, she thought. He's as dear a friend as John is a brother; just that close, that important. That dear to me. But how dear is that, exactly? What is such love worth? She'd thought herself wholly dedicated to the Elf prince. Despite his disdain for humans and (she'd thought) for her. In the face of this new possibility, could she still be so unequivocably loyal to him?

Well, Dylan thought as all this new information swirled in her brain. My two main concerns - lack of love, and no children. The question is, would I have ever had children? I have the Sight. They probably would too. Any child I had would be at risk. The average life expectancy of someone with the Sight isn't even eighteen; the only reason I've lived this long is because I was locked up safe. I've always held out hope, but... now it's down to the wire. But how can I commit to this nebulous idea when it's still just a far-off possibility? She took a long, slow sip of grape juice to buy herself a little more time to think.

Heavenly Father... what do I do? She never asked that question except under severe duress, but now... now, Dylan found herself at a loss. Inexplicably, there was no flicker of soothing warmth in her chest. The Spirit was there - Dylan could feel that much - but she suddenly knew that this decision would have to be made almost entirely on her own. That means I know everything I need to know in order to make it. So... what do I know?

I know that Nuada is dearer to me than anyone or anything except John. I know that Balor is trying to split us up emotionally with this, trying to weaken my loyalty to him. I know that the odds of me marrying anyone else are slim to none, because most people with the Sight die before they hit eighteen, twenty at the most, and I could never marry someone who wasn't part of that world. Which means I'd never have children anyway.

And if, by some absolute miracle, I found someone better than Nuada - yeah, like that would ever happen - who had the Sight, who was a member of the Church, who I could fall in love with, would I be willing to bring forth a child into such a dangerous life? Could I do that to my children? And if not... then what am I risking, or losing, by giving Nuada my support in this choice? Nothing. So why not agree to this? Especially since it's just a far-fetched possibility? Can I... can I do that? I don't think I can do that.

"Dylan," Nuada said softly. Though she still held the glass to her lips, her gaze had turned inward, as if she wandered some far-off mental road. What was she thinking? He caught just a brief glimpse of some sort of struggle behind her eyes. Remembered the hollow torment from when she had awoken from the nightmare. "Dylan, are you well?"

After a moment, she nodded and put her glass down. "Yes. I'm fine. Sorry, I was just... anyway. So, the plan is, if it comes down to it and we have no choice, we marry, but in name only? You're okay with that?" She wasn't. The idea filled her with a hollow sense of panic, like electricity sizzling through her blood, making her feel skittish as a wild horse. She couldn't marry Nuada. She couldn't!

Dylan remembered the stroke of callused knuckles against her cheek and along her jaw, the way her stomach had lurched. The momentary flicker of awareness that yes, Nuada was a man, a handsome and sometimes very charming one. She knew herself well enough to know that just that tiny sizzle, that frisson of awareness, could morph into something very dangerous. Was already morphing into attraction. But that attraction could be quashed if she had enough time and could put enough space between them. Not so if they went through with what the prince was proposing.

Marry Nuada. Marry him, and have to go to court functions with him, have to dance and dine and ride with him. Probably have to sleep beside him every night, knowing that this powerful warrior was so very physical, and could easily grow tired of charade. Grow tired of pretense and cold, empty nights and finally one night trap her beneath unconquerable Elven strength and take...

No, she snapped at herself. No, don't be stupid. He would never do that. Never. But the fear had suddenly taken root. Spread tiny, icy tendrils of dread through her chest and into her stomach. He wouldn't, she told herself again. Her hand was shaking, so she hid it under the table. Nuada would never. It's the too-likely possibility of getting a crush on him that's the problem, not that.

Still... so many reasons to say no. So many reasons to refuse him. The fear, and the dread, and the hurt that she was his choice because she was the least wrong, not the most right. Balor had built this trap very well. She would have to choose whether to walk away, or throw herself headlong into it.

And what was at stake? Only her heart. Only her loyalty. Only the person she loved more than anyone or anything else except God and her brother.

"No," Nuada said slowly, bringing her back to the conversation. "I am not, as you say, 'okay' with that... but you are the safer, more acceptable choice. The only choice, unfortunately."

Her laugh was strained to her own ears, but Nuada didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn't care that she was upset. No, she admonished herself. Don't think like that. He's my friend. Remember, he said he was fond of me. He cares for me, at least a little. For some reason remembering the prince's words made something warm fizz in her stomach, and something icy slide around her heart. But aloud all Dylan said, in a self-deprecating and forcedly cheerful voice, was, "You make me sound like a car. Safe, acceptable - add reliable and maybe resilient to that and you've got a stationwagon."

"As a mortal, you're hardly what I would call resilient."

Dylan knew he meant it to tease. Knew that Nuada would never say something to her with the intent to hurt. Yet the conversation about marriage and politics - and the thought of what could happen, any of what could happen, even if it never would - had left her unsettled, ill-at-ease. Overly sensitive, she told herself. Get a grip. Still, something cold in the pit of her stomach made her say very softly, "You'd be surprised how resilient I am, Your Highness. If you'll excuse me." Dylan got to her feet, gave a brief bow, and walked to the corridor that led to her room.

"A moment... my lady," Nuada said softly, bringing her to an unwilling halt. He'd said those words just to make her stop. Known that without 'my lady' tacked onto the end, she would most likely have kept walking until she escaped to her room. Had he used that odd sprinkling of tenderness in his voice for the same reason? Or was it, as she'd thought the night before, just practice? Practice for the charade. How long before she couldn't tell the difference between true sentiment and that stupid, cruel court facade he was busy perfecting?

It hurts to breathe, Dylan realized in shock. Am I having a panic attack? Why does it hurt to... doesn't matter. I have to get out of here. Just for a minute. But amber eyes held her pinned at the entrance to the hallway. Nuada rose slowly from his chair and strode toward her. She wanted to back up, but the wall pressed hard and icy against her back, preventing escape. But why did she even want to get away from him? He wouldn't hurt her. And if he did, I'd survive it, she thought, because I'm "resilient."

Surprised by the bitterness in that thought, she frowned. Struggled to assess herself while watching him come closer. My feelings are hurt, Dylan realized. Well, okay, of course they are. He basically said if it came down to a choice between marrying me or having burning hot splinters shoved under his fingernails, he'd marry me then. And he made me sound like a car commercial. But why does that upset me so much? Is that my feminine pride? Gag me if it is; I'm almost thirty - even Nuada's dismissal shouldn't hurt me like this. It shouldn't feel like the room is choking me, like I can't breathe. It's something else but... no. No, I...

"What is your decision in this, Dylan?" Golden eyes scanned her face. Why did she look so pale? Why did she refuse to meet his eyes? "Do you stand with me, or no? What will you do?"

If she said no... if she refused him this... what would happen? He would probably take it as a betrayal. She would definitely feel as if she had betrayed him. Hadn't she promised, sworn that she would stand by him no matter what? I go when you go. Whatever you say, I'll do. In Faerie, those words were the equivalent of a sworn oath. If she'd given an oath of service as his vassal, Dylan couldn't have been bound more tightly to the crown prince.

"I will do what I have always done, Your Highness," Dylan said softly. Fighting the strange nervous tension sizzling in her blood, the tendrils of cold dread, she added even more softly, "Whatever you command me. Do with me what you will." She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see the concern - or maybe it was just irritation - in his face. The gentle warmth of the Spirit confirming the rightness of her choice helped the nervousness, but didn't erase it completely. I... I think I know what's wrong, but... oh, but it can't be that. It can't be. "Now if you'll excuse me, please."

Dylan slipped away from him and walked swiftly down the hall, folding her arms protectively over her belly as she moved toward her bedroom. It felt like someone had planted a gauntlet-armored fist right in her solar plexus. Nuada's gaze on her back felt like something dragged at her shoulders. As if he could pull her back with sheer will. But she had to get away from him. Away from everyone, everything. Just for a minute.

Once in her room, she shut the door and sank to the floor. Drew a ragged breath and let it out slowly. Beyond her window, the wind howled and falling snow smothered the night. The cold had already crept into the room. The cuts on her palm and heel throbbed with it; her bad knee ached from it; her bones shivered with it. But her hands shook for an entirely different reason altogether.

I'm in so much trouble. I'm in so much trouble, Dylan repeated over and over again. Each shuddering breath felt as if it would choke her. How did this happen? How could this have happened? I'm so screwed. Pushing to her feet, she tried to pace the length of her bedroom. Her legs gave out after only two turns around the room and she sank down onto her bed. With one trembling hand she reached out to the crimson tulip on the nightstand beside her bed. Caressed the cool, silken petals with a fingertip. Remembered against her will the way Nuada had tucked it into her hair. How he'd held her against the cold. Dylan felt her bottom lip trembling, and sank her teeth into it until she tasted blood. Ow.

She suddenly had the urge to call Francesca. Or better yet, Petra. When things were truly tough, when she honest-to-goodness needed help, Petra would always help her. They almost always fought like wet rabid cats whenever they were together, true. But Petra was her big sister. When Dylan needed help, the oldest Myers girl would always answer. After all, what did Dylan know about this kind of thing? About the shivery, fluttery feelings that were scaring her to death? Making her feel like she couldn't breathe?

And what would I tell her? Dylan realized. That I'm almost-engaged to an Elf prince that I... that I might... what would I tell her? Same with Francesca, or Pauline, or Mary. Same with Simone, Gardenia, or Victoria. All of them were so much more experienced with this kind of thing, and they'd give advice and even give her a shoulder to cry on if she really needed one. And for a while, at least, the eight sisters wouldn't fight. The older ones would just offer to beat the stuffing out of whatever douche bag had brought her to tears (which Nuada could do with alarming frequency) while the younger ones offered her hot chocolate and miniature cream puffs because they were her favorite comfort food. For a long moment, Dylan wished with all her heart that she could call her sisters. Ask their advice. Go over to Francesca's, have a sister-slumber party. Sometimes (albeit very, very rarely) the eight of them did that.

But what would she tell them? What could she say that would erase the suspicion and the worry they always felt toward and for her? Nothing I can say, she told herself. Crud.

Oh, Heavenly Father, this can't happen. With everything else going on, this can't happen. It's just too much. Too much all at once. I can't deal with this. If anyone finds out about this, we're going to be in even more danger than we are already. I'll be a liability, to myself and to him... and he's going to be so angry if he finds out. The thought of Nuada being mad at her - truly angry, as he hadn't been since before she'd left his Underground sanctuary - made her eyes sting.

Dylan covered her face with shaking hands. Focused on the wall that her hands made against the rest of the world - an old trick from her childhood. She ignored the panic clawing at her throat. Pretended there was nothing beyond her wall of flesh. Nothing. No job, no suspension from that job, no gang kids probably hungering for her blood, no silver-eyed Elven madmen wanting to rape, maim, and/or kill her just because they were deluded into thinking Nuada cared about her. Not even an Elf prince out of a fairy tale who made her feel safer than she had since early childhood; an Elf prince with eyes like molten gold and a voice that sang lullabies. No potential future marriage that was more like a prison sentence. No political intrigue. Nothing. Not a single bad or scary or confusing thing.

Just herself, and the warmth of her breath curling against her palms. The sound of her slowing heartbeat. Darkness that wasn't real darkness behind her eyelids. I'm okay, she thought. Everything's okay. This is not a big deal. I can deal with this. I can handle this. We can... But no, not this time. This time, there was no "we." She would have to handle this, this... this mistake that she had somehow made, on her own. She couldn't tell Nuada about this. Not ever. Not and keep him as he was: her friend, fond of her, willing to put up with her even though she was human. Dylan knew she'd have to handle this on her own. And she could. She would. She had to.

She dropped her hands from in front of her face and opened her eyes. Ignored the tulip. Shoving a shaking hand through her hair, Dylan finally admitted to herself why thoughts of marrying Nuada, of his "fondness" and his casual disdain at the idea of more than fondness, thoughts of him angry (or even furious) at her, turning his back on her, made her feel as if she was going to be sick.

I... I think I love him. The words sent a shimmering, liquid-silver thrill through her body. Made her heart jump, just a little. Squeezing her eyes shut, Dylan groaned silently, Of all the impossible, stupid things to do, I went and fell for him. I'm in love with Nuada. How could I be so stupid? I'm totally sunk. And if he ever finds out, he'll kill me.

It was then that her bedroom door swung slowly open. She glanced up and met unfathomable golden eyes.