Chapter 0 - I Do, I Promise I Do

Soft golden rays of sunshine melt through the tall overhanging branches of the trees above and light the forest floor aflame. Birdsong floats on the summer breeze like the sound of wind chimes, the only other sound to disturb the silence, save for a child's footsteps.

"It's such a beautiful day outside," Dylan's mother had said as she ushered all her children out the door. "Why don't you all go and play?" Her siblings had scattered almost instantly, fading into their hollowness.

They're in town now, or with the neighbor boys, all heedless of their sister melting into the forest like sunshine. All except for John, that is, who never really takes his eyes off his twin, but he's caught up in an unwilling encounter with one of the neighbor girls, and his personal sense of honor demands that he remain until he can politely excuse himself.

So Dylan pads almost silently into the forest alone and wonders if she's really the only one who can hear the weeping.

Perhaps she's merely the only one who recognizes it as weeping, since really it sounds almost like the wind rustling through the trees or the water trickling through the creek. But the sound is saturated with mourning and pain, so deeply forlorn that it seems impossible that any could be oblivious to the tears.

A twig snaps beneath her foot and for the length of a heartbeat the forest grows utterly still in the wake of the disturbance. Then a bird calls from somewhere far away, and the music of the forest begins again. Dylan smiles and inhales deeply, breathing in the taste of the earth. Her father has always marveled over the advances in technology that humans have made. "A thousand years ago, we thought we were the center of the universe," he would always say. "And now we're walking on the moon. It's almost magical, if you think about it." Amazing technology nowadays, certainly, Dylan thinks, but as she gazes at the beautiful forest around her and the cigarette butts dotting the bottom of the creek, she concludes two things: one, humans would be hard-pressed to create anything truly magical, and two, they still believe they're the center of the universe.

"Now," she muses, searching for whatever distressed creature there was here. "Where are you?"

She follows the sound of tears, down the creek, following long the bank as it winds further and further away from her home. Her parents would be angry if they knew she wandered so far, but for some reason the thought gives her no pause as she continues her search, growing more certain with each step that it is no mortal creature who weeps so.

At last, she sees it. Lying slumped across the bank of the creek, there sits the small fey creature. Dylan stops short, heart pounding in her chest as she takes in the sight. It's rather like a mermaid, she thinks. In fact, she almost looks like a very small human, save for the fish tail sprouting from her torso. Long, delicate tendrils of hair poke out from beneath a small red cap. Cohuleen druith, Dylan realizes with a smile. A demi-merrow!

Her smile fades as the diminutive faery continues to weep, looking up at her with wide eyes. "Don't cry anymore," she whispers. "I won't hurt you."

"Dylan." She starts and spins around at the sound of her name, then relaxes when she sees it is only John.

"John, you have to help me," she exclaims, turning back towards the water faery. "There's a demi-merrow in the water. I think she's sick!" John remains silent, eerily so, and Dylan turns back to him slowly.

"John?" she repeats. "We have to help her. She might be dying." He shakes his head.

"There's nothing there, Dylan," he says, his eyes troubled. He holds out his hand. "Come, take my hand and let's go. It's time to go home." Dylan backs away from him, shaking her head.

"John, we don't have time for this," she protests. What does he mean, 'There's nothing there'? He's always supposed to believe her. But he is still shaking his head and still walking towards her and this isn't how it happened, not like this.

"There's no fairy there, Dylan," John says again. "There's no such thing." Dylan flinches and shakes her head desperately, turning back to the creek to find… the fairy is gone.

"No," she whispers brokenly, trying in vain to blink back the tears. "No, it was there, I saw it." John's words are still pounding in her head, 'There's no such thing.' Again and again, negating the creature she was sure had been there. Why did he say that? This isn't how it happened, she wants to scream.

This isn't what happened.

"John, we saved her!" she screams, smacking away his outstretched hand. "Don't you remember? We cleaned up the creek. We fed her and gave her baths." The tears are falling freely now, streaking down her face like scars.

This isn't what happened.

"You thought she was beautiful," she cries, drowning in the doubt and pity she sees in John's eyes and struggling for dry ground. "We saved her, John? Why don't you remember?" John sighs heavily and the grief in his eyes has to mirror her own, because it aches to the very core.

"You need help, Dylan," he whispers and the words land like a knife to her heart. He closes his eyes and twists the blade. "There's no such thing as fairies."

I do believe in fairies. I do. I do. A mantra and a promise.

With every repetition, it hurts a little more.

I do believe in fairies. I do. I do.

There's the sharp prick of a needle and then the muscles relax as the succinylcholine flows through the IV. It's like the calm before a storm.

There's no such thing as fairies, Dylan.

Something hard and square is shoved into the mouth, which is then covered by a mask.

I do believe in fairies.

They rub something on the temples before they attach the electrodes.

I do. I do.

After the pain, there is only darkness. Darkness and trembling. A grand mal seizure, they call it, but it's really just punishment.

I do believe in fairies. I do. I do.

"Dylan?" She blinks slowly and looks up at the nurse above her. "Can you hear me, Dylan?" She nods, taking in the whitewashed walls and flickering fluorescents above her. No fairies here.

She closes her eyes and plunges back into darkness where John waits with a message.

There's no such thing as fairies.

Chapter 3 - First Night

that is

A Short Tale of Pain, Terror, Healing, and Insight

.

.

Red-washed molten bronze eyes snapped open. Dylan would've screamed, but the only sound that managed to escape her mouth was a breathless squeak of fear. She jerked away from him. Black lips pulled back in a snarl. Her eyes went wide. A pale hand shot out, wrapped around her throat, and began to squeeze.

The air exploded from her in a wheeze. Desperately trying to suck in air, she gasped and choked, but nothing would come. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Breathlessly, she managed to choke out, "Wait... wait. I'm trying to help you. Remember?"

"You are a human," he snarled. His voice wavered. She could see exhaustion and fever clouding his eyes. See the pain in him. "Why would... would... you help me?"

She could only make a gurgling sound in her throat as his fingers bit into her neck. Nuada watched the human through somewhat blurry eyes as her mouth gawped like a fish, as her hands scrabbled weakly at his own wrapped around the slender mortal throat. Her lips slowly began to turn blue.

"Answer me," he demanded. She made a choked noise, and the Elf relaxed his grip by a fraction, to allow her to speak.

"I helped... you escape... remember? I'm not the enemy," the human wheezed.

"Why help me?" Nuada growled, and tried to shake her. It did not work, but she closed her eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks. His sharp ears could hear the pounding of her heart. The blond fey could practically taste her nauseating fear. "Tell me!" He growled, and she flinched. Filthy human coward.

"You saved me from the wolves," Dylan gasped. Opened her mouth to say more, snapped it shut.

"And?"

"It's... it's the decent... thing to do... please... please let go..."

The Elf prince suddenly released her as a wave of dizziness washed over him and the strength left his limbs. A strange burning was spreading across the back of his thigh and through his right side. Nausea rose up sharp and swift in his belly - a reminder of the poison and iron-sickness in his body.

The terrified human scuttled backwards like lightning, gasping for breath as she huddled as far away from him as possible. Her eyes were glassy with terror. Even with his vision blurred and her hands cradling her throat, he could see the brilliant scarlet marks his grip had left against her skin. He had not meant to do quite so much damage. Illness and pain had stolen a measure of his control.

"Very well," he muttered, looking away from the blood-red fingerprints at her throat. "See to my wounds, then."

A soft whimper came to him from the corner in which she cowered, but that was all. She did not move, or speak, but only stared at him, eyes wide, unblinking, panting with fear. The Elf tried to gentle his tone.

"I thought you were my enemy," he said by way of explanation. It galled him to have to explain to a disgusting human, but it was the only way. He could feel the blood seeping from his body with every beat of his heart. Ignoring the vile taste in his mouth, he added, "I mean you no harm, human, if you mean none to me." Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth. "Now continue with what you were doing."

Trembling, Dylan shook her head.

"You were... quite... keen on aiding me a few moments ago," he replied to her silent negation. He tried to keep his voice calm. Frightening the wretched girl further would not aid him in any way.

If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can, ease its pain, a voice in Dylan's mind whispered, a breath of memory. She could only blink once, the lone reaction to her brain's promptings, and continue to struggle to breathe. The brunette shuddered, feeling like a wild animal caught in a trap. Her body refused to stop shaking, and her teeth chattered as if she were cold. Doubtless, if she'd attempted to speak, she'd have bitten her tongue.

"Can you not speak, human?" Nuada was losing patience now. His voice, usually cold as arctic winds, took on a searing bite that lashed his unwilling companion to her bones. Body aching, wounds burning, feverish, muscles cramping mercilessly head pounding, and limbs weak, he snarled at her, "Speak!"

Ease its pain... holy crap. Someone, help me... someone. Anyone.

"You just tried to strangle me," Dylan reminded him in a quivering voice. At least she hadn't stuttered.

"Ah. It speaks." The ice-cold voice was laced with venomous sarcasm.

One trembling hand swiped at the tears on Dylan's face, while the other gently explored the flesh of her throat, which was already beginning to swell. She had to get control, had to pull herself together. Biting her lip, she acknowledged that she couldn't afford to lose it here. Not right now. Fighting for calm, blue eyes fought to meet a glacial bronze gaze as she drew in a ragged breath and said, "You can't move anymore."

"What?" That one word was suffused with such hatred.

"Not like that," she whispered, voice trying to fail. Swallowing, she went on, "One more move like that, and I'm outta here, okay?"

"Cowardly human wretch."

"Look, you scare me to death, okay? That doesn't make me a coward, that just proves I know you could kill me with your pinkie toe if you wanted to." She was babbling, but somehow, she couldn't force herself to stop. "And I don't want to die trying to help someone who's just going to kill me for no reason other than I don't have pointy ears, green skin, or butterfly wings. Sorry. I'm trying to help you. But you can't go choking the life out of me and dismembering my dead carcass just because I poke you where it hurts. Now, promise me you won't do stuff like that anymore, okay?"

"I will make no promise."

Dylan almost screamed in frustration, but clamped it back behind her teeth. She couldn't force herself to go near him while he looked at her with such glittering menace. What if he did something awful to her? What if he tried to rape her? Rape wasn't always about control. Sometimes, it was merely about breaking someone in the worst way possible because you hated them more than anything else in the world. That was how the Elf was looking at her now. Even as she realized this, a minute trembling began in her body, and she shivered again.

"Please?" She whispered desperately, staring at him with fearful eyes. "I... I can't... please?"

"Very well!" Nuada tried to shout, but it came out as more of a hoarse croak. His head felt thick and throbbed mercilessly. "I vow that I shall not attack you so long as you are attempting to heal the damage done to my body. I will offer no harm to your person while you do this. Satisfied?"

"Swear it on the Darkness That Eats All Things," she commanded. The oath of an Elf was enough for her... under normal circumstances. These were not normal circumstances.

"I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, that I shall not attack you so long as you are attempting to heal the damage done to my body. I will offer no harm to your person while you do this. Now are you satisfied, human?"

Yeah. Yeah, she could be satisfied with that. She hadn't been sure that the Darkness was actually a real thing, since so many things were distorted in myth, but Dylan knew what it was supposed to be, and no fey creature would swear by it and lie. Never, ever, in a million years, for to swear such an oath and be lying about it was to condemn yourself to death. A really bloody, horrible death being consumed by eternal and everlasting, living darkness.

The thought terrified her. She closed her eyes, and prayed silently, Heavenly Father, I don't think I can do this. I'm freaking out here. Help me. Just... anything. Anything you can give me would be good. Help me be calm. Help me be strong. Please. I can't do this on my own.

Where you see only a single set of footprints, a voice whispered in her mind, it is then that I carried you.

I will carry you...

Dylan swallowed a half-sob as a strange, sweet pain hit her chest. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel comforted, almost safe. Then, turning back to the supernatural warrior that had saved her life, the doctor's professionalism settled over her like a well-worn, favorite coat or child's security blanket.

"Um... hey," she murmured, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of one wrist, attempting to avoid getting blood in her eyes. It sort of worked. Instead, it smeared across her eyebrows and down one cheek. Darn it, she was tired, but she had to do this. He needed help. If he died... she couldn't let him die. So many of them had already died...

If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can, ease its pain...

He was ignoring her now. Slowly, she crawled back to his side. "Hey." Dylan touched his shoulder lightly to bring his attention to her. His copper eyes slashed to her face, and she jumped, trembling anew. "I-I need you to roll over, really slow. I gotta get the bullet in your thi-"

"It went through," he mumbled, and grabbed her hand, brought her fingertips to the bloody, ragged hole a few inches above his knee. He hissed when her fingers made contact. She gasped and jerked her hand away. "It will heal," he added, and sat up slowly. She swallowed hard when his eyes fell on her again. "You are injured."

"Just... let me stitch you up." Please, she added silently. You're freaking me out. "I'm worried about you." When you're not, you know, trying to strangle me or tear gaping, bloody chunks out of my body with your eyes.

"You... are worried for me?" He repeated woodenly. He blinked, confused. Growled, "Why?"

"You have a bunch of gaping holes and some bullets in you, not to mention a stab wound and a slashed ankle - possibly a nicked Achilles tendon - that are both still bleeding, and you want to know why I'm worried? Look, I can't wait for you to pass out from blood loss before I treat you because I don't know how long I can stay conscious, and you might forget your promise and try to kill me again, so please just let me do this and I'm babbling again. Ignore the babbling and do what I say, okay? Please?"

He stared at her for a long moment, puzzled by the earnestness in her mutilated face, which conflicted with the fear in her eyes. Then the Elf prince had to take a moment to process her long, rapid stream of words and make sure he actually understood what she wanted before he carefully rolled over onto his stomach, stifling the groan of pain that wanted to escape from behind his clenched teeth. She heated the tweezers over her lighter again, wishing she had the means or even the strength to do this properly. When the metal was starting to singe her fingers, she sucked in a breath between clenched teeth and plunged the instrument into the wound, where she saw the gleam of the bullet. He grunted in pain, and she felt tears pricking her eyes.

She hated this. She hated it.

Dylan got the bullet out of his arm, as well as the one in his side. She had to fight not to be ill. This only worked because she didn't have enough energy to vomit. It didn't help that she also pulled a sliver of bone out of the wound, too. Apparently the bullet had chipped a rib.

"Okay... um... got it!" She cried, and dropped that bullet beside the others lying in a small splash of residual blood on the floor. "Okay, lemme just stitch you up. Hang on." Reheating the needle, she bit her tongue as the silvery needle bit into his flesh and went through. When the sight of the open wound and the threaded needle grew blurry, she would pause for a moment, blinking to clear her vision. Her head was nearly nodding over her work, and everything burned and ached, but luckily she never jabbed him, only herself, jolting herself back to full wakefulness every time. She had to sew up all three holes in the back, as well as the stab wound.

"How are we doing?" Dylan murmured softly as she wiped some of the blood from his skin.

Nuada turned his head to regard the mortal woman over his shoulder. He had been sliced, stabbed, and shot. Iron and lead oozed added toxicity into his blood with every beat of his heart. Instead of being taken to an Elven healer like his sister undoubtedly had been, he had to make do with this stupid, inane human who babbled like a half-wit and resorted to primitive surgery to heal wounds inflicted on her behalf. And she wanted to know how he was doing? While she stabbed, poked, and prodded him with metal implements and burned his wounds with fire?

"Are you mad?" He demanded. And what was this "we" business?

"I gotta get your ankle," the mortal whispered, voice gentle, ignoring his question of her sanity. Her hands were trembling. She didn't know how she was going to do this when she was on the edge of exhaustion, but it needed to be done, and it was going to hurt him more than anything else had so far. The idea made her shake. She didn't want to hurt him. Dylan hated hurting people.

What if he hurt her?

Oh God, I can't... oh God, help me, please, I can't, oh God, oh God, I can't...

Footprints in the sand...

"I would rather reserve my strength at the present moment, so if you would be so obliging as to move towards my feet..." She could have seen his sarcasm if she'd been blind. Her hands began to shake.

Dylan obligingly crawled to his foot and lifted it carefully, ignoring the muttering noises her patient was making under his breath, though she heard the words "mad" and "lunatic" a couple times. His foot jerked out of her hold when she touched near the wound. The Elf clenched his fists and sucked air through his teeth with a hiss, forcing his limb to stillness. Dylan bit her lip as she lifted his foot and positioned it between her legs, her bruised thighs tensing to hold the foot in place as she carefully pulled back the skin on either side of the slash wound to reveal the tendon. His toes curled and clenched tightly, and she knew she was hurting him. When her searching gaze saw that the tendon was not severed, or even scratched, she gave a shuddering sigh of relief. For a moment, she forgot her mind-numbing terror as the full implications of the wound set in her brain. Their situation could have been so much worse, but his ankle was fine, which meant nothing here wasn't fixable by primitive field medicine.

Thank You, Heavenly Father, thank You, she breathed silently in prayer, head bowed, before she hastily checked the muscles for any serious damage and then began to stitch the wound closed. As she worked, she told him, more to keep herself calm than to inform him of anything, "I was scared that they'd damaged your Achilles tendon. I wouldn't have known how to repair that kind of damage," she added. "Not with what I have on me. But they didn't. It's just the position of the wound that's making it hard to walk."

"That is well, then," her patient said faintly. He sounded exhausted. The fear began to melt again, just a little.

Finally, she was finished stitching. She cut the thread, shoved her tools aside, and flopped down on the floor as far away from him as her tired body could manage, sighing. Her entire body ached. Dylan only wanted to lie down and sleep for a year, or maybe forever. But more than that, she wanted a shower. How she was going to manage that in a mystical hideaway beneath the subway, she had no idea. How she was even going to get up to move, she didn't know either.

Dylan noticed the Elf looking at her scrutinizingly. She would've flushed, but didn't think she could, what with the blood loss she'd suffered. Her head and face hurt, and her heart began to pound. "What?"

"You are injured," he reminded her as he slowly sat up. Did the human not feel her own pain? Did she not feel her body crying out to her for peace, for numbness? "The wounds on your face need to be tended and-"

"I'm fine," she muttered, looking away. Don't remind him of weakness, she moaned to herself. Fake being fine. Lie. Do something! Don't give him a reason to attack! "You needed more help than I do."

"You are still bleeding."

"So are you," she whispered, aching to her bones. Her flesh itched, desperate for soap and hot water. Her eyes itched, desperate for sleep. But he promised, she reminded herself tiredly. He swore...

He glanced at the infuriating mortal as he got to his feet. His body throbbed, but already the wounds were healing. This place, saturated with healing magic, accelerated his already sped up healing abilities. Far off and away amidst the hills of Bethmoora, in the hidden city of Findias, he could feel the palace Healers working on his sister's wounds. Now that the bullets had been removed, they would both heal quickly. He could limp. The flesh of his shoulder wound was slowly knitting back together, though he knew the stitching had been necessary. His ankle... well, he was not one hundred percent certain about how much damage there would be. So he walked very carefully to one of his trunks and pulled out several articles of clothing. He tossed her three, which she barely caught. One of them landed on top of her face. His mouth twitched at how absurd she looked. Idiot humans; it was as if they were made to be mocked.

She pulled the garment - a pale blue silk shift that he kept for the occasional lover to wear - off her head and looked at him. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore.

"I need to wash. You probably don't have running water in this place, but I..." She trailed off and looked at her hands. They were caked with drying blood the color of antique gold. "I have to get this off, I gotta-"

"Very well," he said only.

His muscles burned with fatigue and his wounds throbbed. The magic in the room, passive rather than active, did not numb the pain. But he knew from the accounts of some of the fey he knew that women and men who had been ravished were always desperate to cleanse themselves of their attackers. In this, it seemed, humans were no different than Elf-kind (though the idea of mortals and fae sharing any similarities beyond the need to breathe air and consume food disgusted him).

So he found a pitcher, filled it with water from the bucket by the well, and found a basin and a wash cloth. "I have no women's soap," he said coldly. "Nothing perfumed or soft."

The Elf despised the fact that he felt he ought to make excuses for the Spartan way in which he lived. He was a warrior, a soldier, and had no need for luxuries. The two he allowed himself were for homesickness's sake. The portrait of his sister, his other half, and the quilt from his dead mother's own hands, were the only pieces of home he had brought with him into exile besides his weapons. He need not apologize to her! She was nothing but a filthy human!

Nuada brought the basin down with an audible thunk, and the human jumped with a startled gasp. Her reaction made him feel like a monster terrorizing a little girl, but he shoved the feeling down and away, ignoring it with all his strength. He poured the water into the pewter basin and tossed in a wash cloth. For a moment, he just looked at the water. Then muttering something under his breath, he glanced at the well, and steam began wafting upwards from the surface of the water in the basin.

Dylan blinked in surprise. How did he do that?

"I will turn my back. Wash yourself and dress in fresh garments. I promise," he added, every word coated with frost, "that I will not look." His words dripped with scorn. And so saying, the blond fae lord turned his back on her and began to slowly peel off the black silk trousers that were now slick with his blood. She saw he had his own basin full of water, a pitcher, and a cloth. Even as she watched, he peeled off the thin, black linen half-trousers that she realized belatedly were his underthings. Suddenly, there he stood, an Elf, naked in front of her, covered in drying blood.

This night is stranger than any dream I've ever had, she thought vaguely as her mouth dropped open and her heart began to pound. The part of her that generated sheer terror squealed, He's naked, he's naked, he's naked, he's naked-

I know! Dylan yelled at herself, rage at her own pathetic weakness surging through her with every slamming beat of her heart against her sternum. I know he's naked! I got the concept, okay? Jeez. Shut up, brain.

Oblivious to Dylan's inner arguments, Nuada wrung the cloth out and began scrubbing almost viciously at his thigh, which was crusted with dark golden blood.

"Stop! You'll reopen your wounds!" She cried. The doctor in her was pushing into the foreground.

"Do not dare even think to command me, human," the Elf growled.

Dylan could feel the blood draining rapidly from her face, leaving her dizzy. She protested softly, "But... your wounds-"

"See to your own needs." His voice was like ice, and her heartbeat thundered like the drums of war. She heard the blood suddenly come rushing back through her head, and struggled to her feet. Fear or no, he was going to undo everything she'd just done if she didn't stop him.

"Sit down," she snapped, and grabbed the cloth out of his hand. "Let me." He growled at her and moved to grab the wash cloth, but she snatched it back from him and snarled, "Let me, you jerk. You could undo everything I spent the last several hours trying to repair. So hold still!" Her eyes were fear-bright, but she held onto her rage with all her strength, using it as a shield.

In that moment, this human reminded him so strongly of Nuala as a child, when they had both suffered injury and his twin had been insistent on seeing to him before herself. He surprised himself by barking a hoarse laugh and sank into a chair, muttering, "Very well. As you wish, little human healer."

"And don't move," Dylan added, and draped her cloth over his lap as best she could without touching him. The terrified woman simply could not see to him with his... his... with that staring her right in the face. Huffing in irritation, she allowed her thoughts to sink back into numbness induced by routine. How many times had she sponged and wiped blood off of someone who could not be taken to the hospital for various reasons? Gang kids, young street walkers, runaways - and those were just the humans. Then there were the ekeks, the fauns, the Wee Winks, and all the other fae that came to her for healing. The familiar motions almost made her calm. Never mind that this all-too-male Elf was eyeing her with a cold gaze like copper shards of ice. Dipping the cloth into the water, she began gently wiping off the blood from his leg wound. Her hands shook a little, but she was still careful. He hissed when she touched the stitched bullet hole.

"Sorry," Dylan murmured. Her hair hung in her face, tacky strings greased by sweat and blood and things she didn't want to think about. "I'm trying not to hurt you, I promise you I am. Just hold still. I'm nearly done." She was breathing shallowly when she moved between his blood-streaked thighs to clean the still-oozing wound in his belly, and he could hear every time she swallowed.

"I can do this myself," he informed her caustically. He noticed her face paling, her lips taking on a grayish-blue tinge. She seemed to be holding her breath. He wished he could do the same - the stench of her blood and mortality made the iron-induced nausea in the pit of his stomach almost vicious.

"I don't trust you not to hurt yourself," she informed him with no little acid. Rage, she thought. I am rage. Just rage. Oh, God, please help me... "I can't tell if you're doing what you're doing to piss me off and make me act like the humans you seem to know, or if you just want to die, or what. I don't care. Until you either kill me or I'm able to walk out of here on my own, or until you're healed enough that you can carry me to the nearest hospital, I will not let you do yourself harm. You're already too thin," she added, glancing at the whipcord muscle clinging to his frame. "You're what, zero percent body fat? I don't think you eat right." She was babbling again, she knew it, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. It was like word vomit or something.

"You don't even know me," he said incredulously.

"I went to med school. Technically, I'm a doctor. Trust me, I know some stuff," Dylan replied, focusing intently on the wound in his shoulder and the one on his arm. She saw the powder-whiteness of his skin; the faint amber lines of infection leading from the wounds; the tracery of blue veins beneath the flesh. She wondered how he had managed to avoid bruising, especially around his wounds.

As for Dylan, her entire right side, cracked ribs and all, was a mass of black and purple, and so was her face beneath the slashing cuts. "You are not healthy," she informed him in a clear, firm voice. Her doctor voice. It only quavered a little, which was great, because she needed it to hide behind. "I bet you don't sleep enough, either."

"I am a strong warrior-"

"Even an Elf's body must wear out eventually. You're speeding up the clock. You should rest more. You're working yourself too hard."

"You know nothing of what you speak," he snapped. How dare she imply that she, a mere mortal, could possibly understand the need for constant vigilance, agonizing preparation? What did she know of the Fae and their struggle to survive in the world of the disgusting, vile humans? The unofficial war between the fae and mankind made no allowances for personal weaknesses such as sickness or exhaustion, and neither could he.

She looked up at him for a moment, and said, "Back, please." When he was in position, she said softly, "I know a lot more than most people give me credit for." She began to clean the wounds on his back and the back of his thigh. "I know that the thirteen Elven royal families have princesses who are often powerful sorceresses. Their princes are great warriors... like you," she added, intent on her work. Her voice was slurring, but she did not seem to notice. "Valorous, courageous, strong, swift. Great tacticians and all that. And I know that the Fae fear a war with humans."

"How do you know this?" He demanded. How could she possibly?

"I hear things."

"But how do you hear them?"

"I know how to listen. I also know that the greatest warriors of the Fae will prepare for war because they fear it draws all too close. Remind you of anyone? All these things, I know. I also know that even the bravest, strongest, best warriors need time to rest. Constant vigilance," she added softly, "can lay you low more effectively sometimes than all of the enemies' tricks." And she put the cloth back in the bloody water and went back to where the garments he had thrown at her lay upon the cold stone floor. "If you'd be so kind as to turn your back?"

He did.

Dylan watched him warily the entire time as she pulled off her once-new red dress, now ruined, and her stockings, her ripped camisole, her bra. Her panties had been lost by the train tracks what seemed like eons ago. She washed the scarlet and gold from her hands as best she could, then scrubbed the dried blood from the rest of her skin. She was only careful patting at the scabbing cuts on her face. Her flesh was raw and painful by the time she was finished, but she was clean, blessedly clean. Using the rest of the water, she rinsed the slime of cruelty and vicious lust from her hair.

Still eyeing the Elf's back doubtfully, she pulled on the pale blue shift and black dress he had provided for her, and tied it loosely with the white sash-like girdle before sinking to the floor, hunched against the leg of the wooden table. It was a good hiding place; in the light, still, but shadowed enough that if she remained still, he might forget her. And it had the added benefit of also being several feet away from the Elf himself.

She watched him dress, nothing else on hand to do. Even sick and wounded, shot full of holes and stitched up, he was still powerful enough, strong enough, inhuman enough to move with savage, primal grace. He was also stupid enough that he was probably bleeding again. He wasn't acting hurt, when he should have been favoring his injured bits. He was acting as if he were in the peak of health.

Elves make no sense, she thought, irritated. Pure tiredness was beginning to drown the icy ball of fear in her chest. He's being stupid.

The Elf pulled on loose black trousers and a loose, blood red tunic, and sank heavily into the chair by the table. He sighed and allowed his head to fall back. For a long time, there was silence. Dylan could hear the rushing of midnight subway trains, the velvet buzz of fluorescent lights flickering, the thumping drum of her own heart against her ribs. She also heard the musical softness of his breathing, steady and even for the most part, but hitching every few moments, as if pain was sneaking up and attacking him from behind. The mortal woman watched him, drinking in the sight of him.

Proof, here was proof. She'd known, she'd always known, but ever since she'd come back from the institutions, the greater Fae had avoided her. Only the lesser of the faeries had sought her out. She'd been eighteen. An adult. And she no longer lived in the still half-wild woods of Jersey, but in New York City. There was no reason she ought to have been able to see them any longer.

But she did. Dylan had always been able to See. She saw now, especially. There was an Elven warrior - maybe a lord or a prince - sitting in front of her.

"We seem to find ourselves at an impasse," he said suddenly. She jumped, startled from her reverie. The act hurt. "You, a human, have saved my life more than once. I owe you a debt of honor. And at the same time, mortals are my sworn enemies and I loathe them and their depraved ways. Add to that that you have discovered one of my sanctuaries. Any other human, I would kill. But you... I cannot."

Cannot? She thought, surprised. Why not?

It wasn't as if she could stop him. With the way he had handled those brilliantly silver war axes, she knew he could kill her in seconds, even in his current condition. Even as she watched, the wound at his ankle was slowly scabbing over, as if hours of healing were only taking moments. She wondered if it was him, or something else. Since she felt better with every second - though nowhere close to a stone's throw away from halfway to semi-okay - she had to figure it was the room, or maybe the air. Something that affected them both.

"It pains me to say these things," he continued, almost as if talking to himself. "Mortals are prideful, greedy, hollow creatures and yet I owe my life to one, a terrible thought. And yet you are no ordinary mortal, are you? I know of no other who would risk life and limb for someone you do not even know, much less one of my people; someone who looks as I do is obviously fae. You knew me for a faerie, yet you still sought to aid me. I cannot kill you. The mystery of it would drive me mad. What kind of human saves a faery?"

"I do," she mumbled bitterly. He didn't hear her words, only her voice's soft whisper.

"Silence. I'm not finished. Yes, it's certain that I cannot kill you. Yet you are a mortal. It is what you call a conundrum. I ought to kill you. My duty as a prince of my people requires it." He saw her eyes becoming bigger and bigger in her face. She looked like a frightened cat. If she'd had fur, it would have been standing on end. The terror in her eyes should have gratified him. Instead, it sent a shaft of discomfort through the Elf prince. The human had saved him. More than once. "Yet my own honor requires I do not. What would you do in my situation?" He asked too-casually.

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Her? He was asking her?

"Me?" She squeaked. Her head hurt. Her brain was squealing like a frightened pig that this was a trap, that she was going to die, that he was setting her up. She remembered suddenly that his promise not to harm her had only extended until she was done tending his injuries.

"Yes," the Elf said too softly. "I wish to hear your thoughts."

Nuada had to admit, he was baiting her. But... he hurt. His body ached, his wounds burned, his head throbbed, and he stank of human blood, both human-wolf and "innocent" blood. It sickened him, angered him. And, even though it was indirectly, it was still her fault. He was taking it out on her unfairly, but he did not care. And another part of him wanted to see how tricky she could be. What kind of viper had he invited into his little nest, he wondered? How cleverly could she twist her words, and his? He did not trust her. He could not. She was human.

"Um..." Dylan sucked in her cheek, biting it in thought, trying to quell her panic. Pain lanced through her face at the action. Her face betrayed her pain. "Ow. Um..." She suddenly felt like the storyteller from the Arabian Nights, walking on eggshells with her words. "Well... a king - or a prince," she amended hastily, "without personal honor... cannot hope to be an honorable... um... ruler to his people... and a dishonorable one..." Blue eyes watched him warily, looking for a reaction. He was only watching her, his chin on his fist. Where was I? She wondered, and remembered, Oh, yeah! A dishonorable ruler "brings shame to his nation."

His mouth twitched with somewhat wry amusement. It was a very diplomatic answer. Where had she learned such... skill?

Nuada suddenly narrowed his eyes in suspicion. When she shrank away from him, he felt like a monster again. Cursing silently, he tried to put a gentler expression on his face - or at least a more neutral one. He was treating her like a prisoner, when she had done nothing to deserve his enmity and everything to earn his gratitude. She made him feel as if he were torturing a fae child, instead of manipulating an adult human.

The blond Elf shook his head to clear it and wished he had not when his skull began to pound viciously. He put a hand to his forehead, trying to make sure all the pieces of his skull were still in their proper places. The nausea worsened until he was almost sure he'd be violently sick. Fortunately he managed to suppress the urge to retch. Showing weakness to a mortal would have been insupportable.

Dylan felt the tension drain out of her. The situation still had her scared, no doubt about that. But blood loss, trauma, and the late hour were finally taking a toll. She looked at him, and saw his intense scrutiny was no longer fixed on her.

"So now what?" She whispered, letting her head fall backward. Her voice was a worn thread of sound, on the verge of emotional and physical exhaustion. He glanced at her sharply, saw her head lolling on her neck. She was tired. So was he - so very tired.

Gently, though he did not know where such gentility came from, he said, "We will discuss it in the morning. You should sleep."

"I'd rather not," she said simply. Nuada might have snarled at her - how dare she argue with him? - but he heard something behind her voice that made him nod once to her. She was like no other human he had ever met. What human would not relish the chance to sleep, to indulge in sloth?

Apparently, this one. Perhaps she feared dreams.

Or perhaps she feared him.

Chapter 29.5 - Night Hunter

Author's Note: This is an answer to the Bat Challenge posted in chapter 29 of LA Knight's amazing story "Once Upon a Time". If you don't understand what's going on… well, maybe you should go read it! In fact, you should definitely go read it. Disclaimer: Bat is not mine, Nuada is not mine, and Dylan is not mine!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As silently as the snow falling outside, I stole through the dark cottage. With languid strides, I cautiously approached my sleeping prey. The two-legger was certainly much bigger than me, but I was not afraid; only a fool judged his opponent by his size. This particular two-legger was no fool, but neither was I. Closer I crept until I had reached the couch where my target was sleeping. One light bound put me on the back of the couch.

My claws scraped slightly against the fabric of the sofa, and the sound made the two-legger twitch in his sleep. My slit-pupil eyes focused on him with single-minded intensity, and I froze, not even breathing, until the male relaxed into deep sleep again. Then I stalked down the ridge of the couch until I'd gained the optimal position for a swift strike.

I crouched, my muscles coiling. There, so stark-white against the darkness of the night. So very tempting. The perfect prey. The male-human-shaped-but-not-human slumbered on – so peaceful in his ignorance of what was to come. I couldn't resist. My shoulders rolled in preparation for the lunge. It was time.

Heart racing, dagger-like claws extended, I flung myself forward and attacked his unprotected toes.

Not even half a second after I'd fixed my claws in his feet, the white male woke with a roar and exploded into movement. Yowling and jumping in surprise, I dove off the couch and tried to run. Something snatched me out of the air by my middle and swung me around. Automatically, I hissed and swiped at the hand with my claws, but the male was already shifting me so that I was held suspended by the scruff of my neck, far away from his body. No part of him was close enough to scratch or bite – but now that I thought about it, he wasn't hurting me; his grasp was just a little uncomfortable and a lot embarrassing.

His incredulous copper eyes locked with my sullen amber ones. "Bat," he snarled. A string of other words followed, and though I didn't understand them, I knew that they were not compliments.

Put me down! I howled, wriggling to get free. Where's your sense of humor? It was just a game!

"Nuada?" My female two-legger had been woken by the male's vicious invectives. She appeared in the doorway, her eyes alarmed. "What's wrong?" Then she noticed me, hanging despondently from the white male's hand, and became puzzled. "Bat?"

The not-human male was still seething. "You," he accused coldly, "neglected to mention that your little beast has an unhealthy fascination with bare feet."

I told you, it was just a game! I growled. Are you always this sensitive?

Finally, my human realized what had happened. "Oh," she said sheepishly, wincing a little. "Did he jump on your feet?"

"How very astute of you," the male snapped.

Why was she just letting me hang here? I wondered. It was so humiliating! Tell him to let me go! I ordered, yowling.

My human held her hands out to the male. "I'm so sorry. I'll keep him in my room from now on," she promised.

Fuming, the male passed me to the safety of my human's arms, where I curled up and glared at him, the tip of my black tail lashing in agitation. "That would be wise," he growled. "And I shall attempt to go back to sleep."

He plunked back down on the couch, and my human carried me to the room she slept in. Once she had shut the door and collapsed onto her bed, she looked wryly at me. "Now he's angry," she pointed out.

I butted her hand with my head. As she obediently began scratching behind my ears, I purred, Don't worry; he'll get over it. He always does. The touchy male always forgot his anger quickly when he was around my human.

My human sighed. "I guess I have been teaching you bad habits," she admitted. "I shouldn't have made a joke out of it whenever you ambushed John or one of the kids. Nuada, though? D'you have a death wish, Bat? You're lucky he didn't kick you across the room and into a wall." Groaning quietly, she muttered, "I made him take off his boots so he wouldn't get my couch dirty, and you just had to pounce on him!"

Well, I wouldn't have if I'd known he was going to start like a frightened rabbit, I meowed resentfully, and twitched my whiskers.

My human glanced down at me. I suppose I looked as disgruntled as I felt because she started to smile. A strangled sound escaped from between her lips, and she clapped her hand over her mouth to smother it. But there was no stopping the sudden spasms of laughter.

He won't like that, I cautioned her with a warning meow.

Judging by the panicked look she shot toward her bedroom door, she came to the same conclusion, but she couldn't stop giggling. In desperation, she seized her pillow and buried her face in it to muffle the sounds of her mirth. It didn't work.

Her door swung slowly open to reveal the tall male. "Are you laughing?" He demanded from the threshold, watching my human with a dangerous glitter in his eyes.

Is it any of your business? I inquired, observing the two-leggers curiously. They were always so entertaining around each other.

"No!" My human wheezed between giggles. "No… yes." And she stopped trying to hold it in. Laughing loudly, tears streaming down her face, she gasped, "I'm sorry! It's just your face, and Bat looks so sad, and… you guys just..." Dissolving into giggles again and once more planting her face in her pillow, she gave up trying to explain and just kept repeating, "Sorry, sorry!"

The white male stared at my human much like I did then – half-irritated and half-bewildered. Finally, he found his tongue and commanded with some exasperation, "At least try to be quiet. I would like to sleep." My human nodded without raising her head from the pillow. Her shoulders were still shaking with laughter. Casting one last half-annoyed look at my human, the male growled, "And do not suffocate yourself with that pillow." He shut the door, but I could still hear him muttering about bizarre human humor as he returned to the couch.

Sporadic giggles were still emerging from the pillow my human was using to stifle her noise. You look very silly right now, I informed her with a healthy dose of feline disdain. Get your face out of that thing and do something productive like rubbing behind my ears. She could sleep later.

After a few more minutes of hopeless giggling, my human finally obeyed me, and her fingers began combing through my fur again. Now that was more like it. That male is too tense, I rumbled as I began to purr. He's even making me stressed. But my human kept rubbing and scratching, and the anxiety slowly drained away. Little by little, I began to relax. You really are good at this, I praised her with an especially hearty purr. I could actually fall asleep to this.

From down the hall, I heard the white male grumbling as he tossed and turned. Yes, he was definitely too edgy.

Maybe you should scratch behind his ears, I suggested. He certainly needs it.

Chapter 33 - The Inconstant Moon

that is

A Short Tale of Warnings, Remembrance, the Book of Failures, Solace, and Rejection

.

.

Nuada did not look around when he felt the sun on his face, or the soft kiss of the wind against his back. He kept his eyes closed. He did not want to see again this place that pulled at his memory and his heart. It was only a dream. A dream, yet still a memory. Not like... not like...

A wisp of memory flickered in the very back of his mind: a low, haunting voice murmuring mortal poetry of hollow men; the gentle pressure of a woman's arms around his shoulders and delicate fingertips tracing light circles over his skin. Only centuries of well-developed self-control kept him from outwardly frowning where his twin would see. The Elf warrior shoved down the puzzlement and frustration that he couldn't grasp more of that piece of memory. It had been a dream, now a memory, but different than this. Different than before. He almost had it, but then his twin shattered the thought with a sharp demand.

"Brother, what are you thinking?" Condemnation. Irritation. Confusion.

The memory slipped away. "Why did you bring me here again, my sister? What do you hope to accomplish?"

Nuala's touch, light as a breath on his shoulder, had him fighting the instinct to flinch away. When had it become Nuala that he shied away from, and Dylan whose comfort he sought? Since the night I dreamt of blood and butchery. Since the night she did not shrink from me, but instead pushed away my nightmares. And his twin... when was the last time she had done anything to help soothe the grief in his soul?

"Where are you, my brother? Why do you not return to us? Father is..." Furious. The word whispered across the mystical link that bound them. But all his sister said, in a gentle voice, was, "Concerned."

Concerned that perhaps he'd found the final piece of the Golden Crown and would now pull the various strings he had tied into his father's court and find someone to steal the other two pieces? Concerned that, in his fury at the forced courtship, his not-inconsiderable temper had finally snapped and he'd... what? Hurt Dylan? Killed her to rid himself of the human pest? Rage was a black pulse in Nuada's chest. "Do not lie to me, Nuala. Not here."

You couldn't lie to yourself in dreams. The words shivered through his mind like gossamer. As if I am falling... He shoved the bit of memory aside. He could not currently identify its source and he couldn't afford to let it distract him now.

"Then tell me where you are-"

"It is not your business, Nuala!" He did open his eyes then, and didn't miss the way his sister - his twin, the other half of his soul, who should have known that he would never harm her - flinched away from him. He didn't miss the fear in her eyes. The fear that seemed to always shimmer just below the surface, no matter how gently he went with her. It only fueled the rage burning within him. "Am I a prisoner, to be dragged back to Father's hall when it suits him, to be publicly shamed and humiliated before the entire court? Or am I Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of King Balor and heir to the Golden Throne?"

"Brother-"

"I will not be a prisoner, Princess. Not to the humans and not to you. Or to the king." It hurt - like a poisoned knife in the back, it hurt - to put the icy walls of court and rank and title between himself and his father. Between himself and Nuala. Sister, twin, other half of his heart. But it was the most efficacious defense at the moment and the only one he could think of. "You look me in the eye and ask me, 'Where is your honor?' But my lady..." The words seemed to spill from his mouth of their own accord, and he remembered again, You couldn't lie to yourself in dreams. "My lady looks into my eyes and she does not need to ask."

"She is young, and foolish," was all Nuala said. Then, the most damning words of all. "She does not know you, Nuada. We do."

The Elf princess felt the pain, then. Her brother's pain. Swift as an arrow. Sharp as the edge of her brother's sword. She didn't want this. Didn't he see that she didn't want it? Didn't want to hurt him this way? But her brother could not hope to find protection in a mortal's naiveté on the subject of the prince and his broken honor. Such a paltry defense would not stand against their father's anger at being so openly disobeyed.

Prince, warrior, protector, lord and friend. Paragon of honor, courage, and all those other impressive, princely virtues. I know who you are. Words. Mortal words. Why did Dylan's words always serve to leave him... almost dumbfounded? Every time. For a moment he allowed himself a sliver of anger. It should not be that he was forced to resort to finding solace far from his home and his family, forced to seek it in a mortal woman's lowly cottage at the edge of the woods... in a mortal woman's kind eyes and easy smile. It simply should not be.

"I defend you to our father, my brother, but I cannot hold him forever," Nuala murmured when her twin did not speak again. She could feel the anger pulsing between them. Feel the darkness of his constant rage, the fury that always seethed and smoldered deep inside him. That anger frightened her. Did Dylan truly not see it? That was only further proof that the human was blind to Nuada's faults. "You must come back, and soon. It has been almost a week."

"And what waits for me there, my sister?" The anger began to dim a little. He sounded so tired suddenly. Almost defeated. She knew it was cruel to push him yet again this way, but... "There is no welcome for me in Bethmoora."

"It's your home!" Nuala protested, reaching out to him. As a child she would run to him and throw herself into his arms - when she wasn't pummeling him for putting something disgusting (like a frog) in her bed. Those embraces had been so easy. Yet it was so hard to bring herself to touch him now, knowing what she knew of him. Still, she managed it. Managed to just lightly lay her hand on his shoulder. She could feel the winding tension in him through that small contact. Tried to pour comfort and love through their bond.

"No," he said softly, feeling the words echo in his skull. He was saying no to so many things - including, for the first time in his life, his sister's delicate mind-touch. He tried to ignore the relief he felt from her as she pulled away. "No. Bethmoora is not my home." Not now. Perhaps when his mission had been accomplished and his father had been made to see reason regarding the humans. Maybe then Findias would be home again.

"Father loves you, Nuada. You know that." And I love you, my brother, so very much. If only you could see that.

The look he gave her, so carefully blank, was all the more heartbreaking because she felt his grief. Felt it, knowing he strove to suppress it so she would not. How heavy it was. She yearned to smooth away the lines of strain around her brother's eyes. She wanted so badly to hold him to her, to comfort him as when they were children. But she couldn't. She knew she couldn't.

"Please," he said, his voice a mere thread of sound. "Sister. Tell Father... tell him that I love him, that I have always loved him. I mean no disrespect with my actions. But I will not return to Findias without Dylan at my side. My honor and duty to her, and the king's orders, demand this. And she is not ready to return. When duty no longer calls me away, then will I return."

The prince turned away from his twin, and something in the grass caught his eye. A small, pink flower with an ivory center. Petals like silk, none of them bigger than a brownie's eye. Without thinking, Nuada knelt down and plucked the little wildflower. He would never have done so in the waking world. But this was a dream and the flower looked strangely familiar. Where had he...

Dylan. At midsummer, when he had seen her at the medieval faire in Central Park. Nuada recalled the memory easily - Dylan in a long, flowing ivory and primrose-colored gown, the late-setting summer sun burnishing her hair. She'd worn a crown of pink silk flowers. Flowers just like this one. When it had fallen on him, he'd felt her gaze with all the force of a blow. He remembered what he'd seen in those silvery blue eyes like rain-swept autumn lakes: hope. Hope that it truly was him, that he had come back into her life after more than four moons away.

There is no welcome for me in Bethmoora. Nuada's own words mingled with Dylan's promise. You are always welcome here, Nuada. Always. And her eyes. The welcome had been there for him to see, as visible as a campfire in the dark. He could read her so easily with just one look into silver-washed eyes of impossible blue...

It is as if I am falling, hard and fast through a hole in the world. And every time I find something to hold on to, you look at me with those blasted eyes, and I am falling again. Falling, stumbling towards something he did not, could not possibly understand. Something so rich and strange and enticing that he could only find when Dylan looked at him without condemnation, without resignation or dismay or anger. It should not have been possible. He should have been disgusted with himself for letting it affect him so, should have striven with everything in himself to keep from succumbing. But he was slowly losing the will to fight.... And I fear that a time will come when I no longer reach for a handhold, and I will let myself fall.

The feral-eyed warrior suppressed a shudder as another flicker of memory drifted through his mind. He had said those words in a dream. To Dylan? He swallowed down his denial, forcing himself to be brutally honest. To remember. Yes. He had said such a thing to her when he'd walked her dreams but a few days ago. He'd forgotten until now.

"And if this answer does not please your king?" Nuala asked softly, shattering his thought.

Clenching his fists, he replied just as softly, "If Father doesn't like it, he can tell me so himself when I return. Hear me, Nuala. I will not yield." And exerting all the magic he possessed, Nuada forcibly wrenched himself from the dream his sister had woven around him. He snapped awake on Dylan's bed to a soft knock on the bedroom door. One molten bronze eye sliced to the half-open doorway. Becan stood there, visibly distressed.

"What is it?" Nuada sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"My lady... she... I think it would be... that is..." The little brownie took a deep breath. "Sire, I beg you to go to her."

Instantly alert, Nuada cast out with all his senses as he got to his feet. "She's returned?" He heard it now. The soft sounds of muffled mortal weeping, coming from the kitchen. He moved past the wee one. Becan could keep up or not. As he chose. The Elven warrior would find out what was wrong momentarily.

As it happened, Becan chose to stay in the master bedroom with the purring Bat. It was warmer there, for one thing. And this way, the brownie knew he wouldn't be interrupting anything.

Nuada found her at the kitchen table, her face in her hands. The first thing he noticed was that she'd changed out of that disgustingly sparkly pink shirt and jeans and into a much more appropriate skirt in swirling blue and one of the thin, long-sleeved shirts she favored. The second thing he noticed was that though she'd fallen nearly completely silent, her shoulders still hitched as she cried almost soundlessly. Each wrenching sob seemed to rip out of her with breathtaking force. In front of her was a book - a book to display pictures, it looked like. It was filled with clippings from human newspapers. Each little snippet showed a picture and some short sentences. Some of the pictures were in color, others in black and white. None of the people in the pictures was over twenty, none younger than five years old.

The last one on the page before blank space began was a youth with black hair in a horsetail and a silver hoop in one ear. His smile was tight-lipped and his eyes were hard. As Nuada approached the weeping mortal, he read the words, "Fifteen-year-old Rafael Gonzales died Saturday night from gang-related violence..." He didn't read further. He didn't need to. He only murmured Dylan's name. When she looked up at him, tears streaming down her too-pale face, her eyes shimmered with grief and pain.

"Sorry," she mumbled through her tears. She swiped at them with one hand. Nuada's eyes narrowed. Her right hand, the one that hadn't been injured by broken glass that first night, now sported a bandage across the palm. "I didn't mean to wake you. I was trying to be quiet, I-"

"Hush," he said, and slid into the chair beside hers. He took her hand and examined it carefully. Bandaged with the left hand, by someone who was right-handed. Probably Dylan had done it herself, then. "What happened?"

"Cut myself on some scissors."

"That isn't what I meant," he murmured. The prince knew she wouldn't miss the undercurrent of steel in his voice.

The Elf's presence helped ease some of the choking grief inside her. She'd been just fine when she came in. A little tired, maybe. Still trying to shove aside memories resurrected by the sight of Francesca's battered face and the message of warning, and also in a whole lot of pain from her sliced up hand and her throbbing leg, definitely. But she'd been fine. Until she saw Rafael's obituary.

Only fifteen years old. He wasn't even one of hers. Not really. But she'd known him. Liked him. Liked how he'd treated Lisa. His love and respect for her had been obvious. The two teens had had plans for themselves. The fact that they'd even found each other - two kids with the Sight who'd grown up around gangs and managed to turn out decently - was nothing short of a miracle. But now it was over, because a rival gang member had gunned him down in a place that was supposed to be safe.

She'd snapped. Plain and simple. Suddenly there was nothing that could hold back the hot tears she'd been keeping mostly locked away since finding out about the Hispanic boy's death.

"I finally had a picture," Dylan whispered, not looking at Nuada. Her eyes were drawn to the scrapbook in front of her.

She knew cops who did something similar - kept files or scrapbooks on all those cases they'd lost, or never solved. People still missing, criminals still unpunished. The dead, still unavenged. As a psychiatrist, Dylan even knew it was a bad idea. Knew how it could easily warp into obsession. Drag the spirit down into despair.

But she needed to be reminded that she had responsibilities. Reminded that there were people counting on her to help them. Otherwise, she probably would never leave her cottage. Not after escaping the institution, and especially not after her attack in December. And that's why, whenever she failed to help someone, she would put their picture in this scrapbook. A reminder that failure was never a viable option. A warning, that failure meant someone had died. That's what she explained now to the prince who sat beside her and did not relinquish his grip on her hand.

"The boy's death was not your fault, Dylan," Nuada murmured. The prince didn't care one way or the other about a single human death. They could all blink out of existence for all he cared. But she mourned for the youth. He could see the grief over the boy in her eyes. Feel it through their linked hands. So he would comfort her.

She squeezed her eyes shut as two fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. "I know," she said. "I know it wasn't, but... Nuada, he was just a kid. He was half my age. He was just a boy and he died and... I've lost so many." Dylan rested her fingers against the bottom of the page. It was the twelfth page of the book. Each page had at least five pictures on it. "Made mistakes. Been just a few minutes too late. Misstepped around parents or guardians and been replaced, and then the kid I was working with decided they couldn't stand it anymore. I try," she whispered brokenly. "I try so hard and it's never enough. I can never be enough for anyone."

Dylan remembered Gunter, and the blood. The sound of the other girls screaming and crying. Another boy, Ryan, mumbling, "Oh, man, oh, man, oh, man." Over and over while she tried to get her friend to breathe. The nurses shoving her roughly aside to get to the dying boy. She'd had bruises for a week from hitting the wall so hard.

And then there was Allison. Allison, who'd just walked in front of one of the screeching subway trains in the New York Underground and...

"I just... I can't..." She covered her face with shaking hands, ashamed to be crying over her own inadequacies. What must the Elf prince be thinking of her? That I'm a pathetic crybaby, Dylan thought. But the words came spilling out regardless. "I'm not enough for my family, I'm not enough for my patients... or for you."

He frowned, stunned. Mo duinne, how could you think... But he didn't speak the words aloud. Couldn't. And then she began to speak again. Told him about the little girl hiding from the monsters at the museum. Orphaned, and so young. Nuada could see the child had hit Dylan hard. Harder, perhaps, than even she knew. She told him about her sister being attacked. He sensed she was keeping something back, but he didn't care enough about her wretched kin to press her. A broken wrist and broken ribs were little enough to fear. The Elven warrior had suffered such injuries himself and knew that much. Though the thought of a male - any male, human or Elf-kind - abusing any woman, no matter what her breeding, disgusted him.

By the time the words faded away, she was dry-eyed and had her breathing under control. It should have pleased Nuada. Instead it worried him. Always, whenever Dylan shoved her emotions down that way, it worried him. How did her sanity hold under the strain? Yet she showed no signs of breaking. That, too, worried him, though he did not understand why.

When she stopped sniffling, Nuada said gently, "Come with me." He stood, pulling Dylan gently to her feet. The sharp wash of agony that smashed into him through the mental link had him sucking in his breath sharply. "Dylan! What did you-"

"Stairs," she muttered, sagging against him. Needles of black fire were stabbing deep into the aching joint. Only Elven strength kept her on her feet. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead against Nuada's shoulder as the throbbing intensified. "Lots of them. Now don't pick me-"

Nuada's small sigh of exasperation as he swung her into his arms cut her off. The prince moved toward the den, where she'd be able to sit on the sofa and maybe stretch out a little.

"Up," Dylan finished dryly. "Seriously, Your Highness. What is your obsession with carrying me everywhere?" Despite the pain, she slid her arms around his neck and batted her eyelashes. In a sugary-sweet voice she asked, "Does it make you feel manly?"

His look was as withering as the desert sun. For the first time since leaving the Met, Dylan smiled. Surprisingly, Nuada grinned back and raised one eyebrow. "Why? Does being carried make you feel feminine?"

"No," she replied, folding her arms as they stepped into the den. "Actually, it makes me feel like a wimp."

Dylan wasn't sure if it was in retaliation or not, but she had to laugh when Nuada dropped her unceremoniously on the sofa, even though it hurt her leg a bit. She kept laughing as she leaned back against the arm of the two-seater and stretched out her painfully stiff leg.

She stopped laughing when the amber-eyed faerie seated himself on the floor in front of the sofa and pushed the hem of her skirt up to just above her knee.

"Now, wait a minute-"

"Be still," the prince ordered, and laid his fingertips against her skin where the pain was the worst. She bit back a whimper. Even that small pressure hurt. When Nuada looked up at her, she hastily looked away. First crying, and now this. She hated this. Crying to the Elf warrior when she'd been doing this, living this life, for over five years. She should've been used to this by now. As for her knee, she'd had a year to get used to that, too. So why did-

Bliss. Absolute, indescribable bliss as cold, soothing magic flowed from Nuada's fingertips into her leg. Ever so slowly, inch by slow and torturous inch, the pain was pushed back until finally, she couldn't feel it at all. Nuada's fingers began to press and knead, easing the stiffness. She quit arguing after that. Instead, Dylan leaned back until she was fairly horizontal and covered her eyes with her forearm. Heaven, she thought. I'm in Heaven. I've died. He's killed me and I've gone to Heaven. "Thank you so much," she whispered.

"Do you feel like a... what was the word you used? 'A wimp.' Do you feel like a 'wimp' now?" He allowed himself a smirk when she shook her head. He knew from several sources (mostly past lovers, though his sister, as well) that the crown prince of Bethmoora was incredibly skilled when it came to massage. Nuada opened his mouth to say something - Dylan was relaxed enough now that he was fairly confident he could make her blush - when she gasped, then sighed dreamily.

"Oh, oh. Right there. Please," she whispered. Nuada obligingly pressed the indicated spot with the ball of his thumb. Dylan made that little humming sound low in her throat and breathed in soft Gaelic, "Níos deacra."

Amber eyes lightened to palest gold-kissed ivory as he obeyed the whispered command and pressed harder. He tried to pretend he didn't notice that odd sensation of falling. And I fear that a time will come when I no longer reach for a handhold, and I will let myself fall. Nuada shook off the memory of a confession-soaked dream. Ignored the heat whispering just under his skin as Dylan whispered "Oh, níos deacra" again.

It was a bit easier when his fingertips brushed the underside of Dylan's knee and she actually squeaked and twitched away from him. Her wide-eyed expression told him why: he'd accidentally discovered one of her ticklish spots. The Elven warrior filed that away for later examination and smiled at her, deliberately shading his expression with little-boy mischief. "Was that you who made that sound, or the cat?" He asked with studied innocence.

Her fierce scowl was ruined by the way the corners of her mouth kept twitching into a smile. But she was smiling. When Dylan could not smile, it made him uneasy. He could not have said why.

"You know," Dylan said musingly as she shifted and made room for him on the sofa. He took the open seat and she leaned against him. Casually. Comfortably. As if there was nothing unusual about it. The mortal had held his hand the same way, the morning after Hyakki Yako. Dylan's head on his shoulder was now a familiar weight. Her hair brushed against his bare skin like a kiss of shadows. "You know, you're my favorite."

He turned to study her. "Favorite?"

"Mmmm," she said.

"Favorite what?"

Now Dylan laughed softly. "Gosh, let me try and list them all. Favorite Elf. Favorite faerie of any kind. Favorite prince. Favorite guy with long hair." With a self-deprecating smile, she added, "Favorite blond because I'm just shallow like that. Favorite person parked on my sofa. So many options. They all fit."

Unsure what unholy notion had taken possession of him, Nuada said softly, "You are my favorite human." Her giggles drew his gaze from the fire - which he'd been studying with fierce concentration - back to her. "And why are you laughing?"

"Because that doesn't really mean much," she said between giggles. "I've been your favorite human for months, seeing as how you didn't want to kill me for about that long. How many other humans can say that? Probably none. Now, saying I was your favorite... um... brunette, for example, or your favorite female with blue eyes. That's a little more surprising, since I actually have viable competition. At least, I'm pretty sure you know brunettes or people with blue eyes that you wouldn't rather see get eaten by rabid dingoes. Or if I'm your favorite person who wears silly socks." She wiggled her toes at him. They were currently encased in royal blue wool decorated with pale blue piglets sporting silver wings. "Make sense?"

"Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Wear those," he said, gesturing to her socks. "They're ridiculous."

Dylan laughed again. "I know. That's why I wear them - they make me smile. When I'm in a good mood, I wear my silly socks. It helps keep me cheerful. When I'm sad, I don't wear any socks. It's so depressing to look down at my feet and see plain black or gray. But if I have to go out or I have to wear socks for whatever reason, then I just put on black or gray ones. My personal philosophy is that socks should reflect a person's mood." Now she looked up at him, curious. "Do you actually wear socks? Because I've seen you barefoot before and if you don't wear socks, I'm wondering why your feet don't stink."

His mouth twitched. Eyes the color of warm honey slid to the ceiling so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye. "I wear socks, yes."

"What color are they?"

Nuada bit the inside of his cheek. Sometimes, albeit rarely, the mortal could sound so childlike. Right now she reminded him of a kitten who'd been distracted by a piece of brightly colored yarn and refused to pay attention to anything else until she got her claws into it. "Black."

"Just black?" Such good-natured disdain in those two simple words.

"I'm sure," he said carefully, "that I have some gray ones somewhere." The ceiling was very interesting.

"So just gray and black." Dylan propped her chin on his shoulder so she could look up at him. He could feel the weight of her scrutiny. "Do your socks reflect your mood, Your Highness?"

"No," he said.

"Then why don't you wear more colorful ones?"

"Because I am male." And men did not wear... blue footwear covered with flying piglets.

"Boys can wear colors, too, you know," Dylan replied gently. She wiggled her toes again. "And you look nice in blue."

Boys? He didn't snarl. If he tried, the prince wasn't sure if it would come out as the appropriate growl, or as helpless laughter at the utter ludicrousness of this conversation. So instead, Nuada said in a somewhat strangled voice, "I prefer black." And he did not appreciate the woman at his side referring to him as a "boy."

Dylan laid her cheek against his shoulder again and said, "Whatever you say, Your Highness. So, what favorite am I, exactly?"

She was still laughing at him, curse her. But they were back on familiar territory now. "Of all the people I know with blue eyes, you are my favorite," the prince muttered, turning back to the fire. Dylan's giggles abruptly ceased.

She hadn't expected that. She'd just been teasing. And Nuada didn't exactly sound like she was his favorite anything at the moment. But... he wouldn't have said it if he hadn't meant it. Dylan swallowed hard. Favorite. The word sent a frisson down her spine. Of all the people I know with blue eyes.... Did that mean he liked her eyes, as well? Favorite. Happy warmth mellowed in her blood.

Suddenly, almost surprised at her own daring, she shifted and slid her arm across Nuada's chest to half-hug him. Her hand rested on his bare shoulder. The Elf stiffened. Slowly, slowly relaxed again. Dylan could feel each rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The shoulder she leaned against was warm under her cool cheek. She closed her eyes and tried not to count the seconds ticking by. Tried only to enjoy the wild scent of the forest and the feel of his heartbeat against the underside of her arm. After the night she'd had, this was the most precious gift she could ever receive - just being here with him, without any of the world's evils trying to hurt them. Safety. Peace.

Sanctuary.

Nuada closed his eyes and sighed. I should not be here. The words floated through his mind. Weightless. Meaningless. It didn't matter what he should do. In this moment, it only mattered what he wanted to do. And what he wanted, more than almost anything, was to sit here with her and forget the weight of the world.

So he laid his cheek against her soft curls and breathed in the sweet honeysuckle scent left by her shampoo. He kept his hands where they were - one on his knee, the other on the arm of the sofa - because he suddenly wanted to put his arm around those fragile mortal shoulders and pull her more tightly against him. To shield her, shelter her. He never wanted her to feel that sort of pain again. Never wanted to see that shimmer of misery in her eyes again. She had already suffered so much in her short life. But touching Dylan that way would be a gross mistake.

Then Dylan shifted a little and her grip tightened just a fraction. Her fingertips began lightly, seemingly subconsciously tracing one of the ridged scars on his shoulder. Each stroke of that velvet-soft fingertip over the sensitive knife scar lulled him. Somehow soothed him. Made that strange heat bloom in his belly. Eyes still closed, Nuada's senses zeroed in on each oh so soft caress until there was nothing else but the touch, and the scent of her, and the warmth of her skin against his.

Don't do this, the Elf prince thought. To her? Or to himself? This is wrong. She's mortal, I should not... I should not want this. But it wasn't about should or shouldn't. It was about finding just a single moment of solace here with her. He could forget Dylan's humanity and simply be. Just for a little while.

"Nuada," Dylan whispered. Her breath was soft against his neck. The heat in his belly spread to his chest. "Do you... do you want to talk about... about before?"

"No." He couldn't afford to think about before, out there in the snow. The sound of her carefree laughter and the way the tension had drained from his body. Couldn't think about her arms twined trustingly around his neck and her face turned up toward his as if she knew exactly what he wanted to do. Knew exactly what he planned when he leaned in to-

"Do you want me..." Breathing evenly suddenly became very difficult for the Elf prince as Dylan trailed off. But then she whispered, "Do you want me to stop... this?"

A pause. "No, mo duinne. I do not want to stop this. Or," Nuada added, feeling suddenly, strangely, almost insanely reckless, "this." Without letting himself think about what he meant to do, or why he meant to do it, he brought his hand to her face and ran his fingertips over the thick scar that slashed down her cheek. Skimmed his fingers lightly over the delicate line of her jaw, noticing for the first time the change in texture between the various knife scars that ran the length of her jawline. The scars reminded him of silk brocade. The unblemished skin was like softer, smoother silk. Nuada drew his fingers up and down her jaw. Felt her shiver slightly. But she wasn't afraid. Dylan was never afraid of him.

He didn't open his eyes as he let his thumb trace the contours of her soft mouth. Just listened to the way her breathing went shallow, the way her heart began to drum in her chest. Didn't let himself think about what he was doing, or what her reaction meant. Didn't think about the slow, simmering heat that was spreading through him like early morning sunlight across cool water. Only lightly brushed the pad of his thumb back and forth across Dylan's trembling lower lip.

Stop this. Stop, before you're tempted to... To what? He knew. Part of him, at least, knew what he wanted in this moment. That was why he kept his eyes closed. If he didn't look at the lips he caressed, there would be no temptation.

The Elf prince refused to even think about why there was temptation in the first place.

I shouldn't do this, Dylan told herself. A strand of star-blond hair brushed against the hand she lightly rested on the moon-pale shoulder. His touch against her mouth was hot enough to burn if she let it. And she wanted so badly to let it. I should stop him. But I don't want to. But... the way I feel... it will only get worse if I keep letting him do this to me. But I... I don't want him to stop. I just want to stay like this forever.

Forever. Stay with Nuada forever. No demands on either of them, no fear, no court machinations, no enemies trying to hurt one or both of them. Just stay with him. But she couldn't. Findias was waiting for them to return to its traps of political intrigue. And she couldn't go back. Not to stay, anyway. Not forever. Not even for a night.

And she still had to tell him.

"Nuada," she whispered, and shivered again when his thumb came to rest at the corner of her mouth for a moment before brushing against her cheek and then falling away. Dylan shoved at the curls falling partially into her face. Whispered, "I have to tell you something."

The prince shifted so that he could look down at her. Frowned slightly at the odd dread he saw reflected in her eyes. "What is it?"

The words were like rose thorns in her throat, choking her. She couldn't touch him like this and say what she had to say. It seemed like a lie, somehow. Reluctantly, she pulled away. Folded her hands in her lap the way she had as a child when her parents were scolding her for some new offense. Dylan couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from the fireplace. It was suddenly easier than looking at the prince at her side. "You're going to be angry."

Nuada's brows drew together as he studied her. Gone was the warm, contented woman from before. Now she sat, tense and worried - but not quite afraid. So he reached out and gently tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. Dylan squeezed her eyes shut. "Tell me," the prince said gently.

Dylan forced her eyes open. She couldn't hide for this... much as she wanted to. Dread was an icy black poison sliding through her stomach. "When we... when we go back to Findias and talk to your dad," she said softly. "We do have to talk to your dad, right? Explain why we left and why we were gone so long?" The amber-eyed Elf nodded and her clasped hands tightened until she knew she'd have bruises later. "After that happens... after we talk to him... I... I can't..." Say it, her brain snapped at her. Just say it. Don't be such a coward. This time Dylan didn't try to keep her eyes open. "I have to come back here. To the mortal realm. I can't... can't stay in Findias anymore. I can't stay with you."

Silence. Awful, dreadful, horrible silence. Something was pressing on her chest, pressing and pressing. Crushing the breath out of her. Her blood was like ice water in her veins. Her heart slammed hard against her breastbone, leaving cracks. Ten heartbeats. Twenty. Thirty. And still he didn't speak.

Finally she had to look. Even though, like the first time she'd ever seen him, that night in the subway like the white beast out of a faerie tale, her entire being was screaming at her not to open her eyes. Not to look. But Dylan had to look, if only to reassure herself that he was even still there.

Nuada was there. He sat as still as stone on the sofa, as if he'd been carved from marble. Only one of the Kindly Folk could hold so preternaturally still. Not even his chest rose and fell with the force of his breath. But his eyes were alive. Alive and melting slowly from the warm honey color they had been to sanguine-brushed molten bronze. And this time, the fury in his gaze was all for her.

"Nuada-"

A prayer, a plea.

He lunged to his feet and she fell silent. The prince strode quickly to the fireplace. Rested one forearm against the stone mantel and stared hard into the fire. Dylan saw that both fists were clenched so hard his knuckles were the color of old, bleached bones. Fury was acid-etched into every line of his body. Dylan wanted to drop her face into her hands, to hide. But there was no hiding from this. Not from his rage. She wouldn't hide from him.

The silence that she'd tried to break circled around them like a stalking beast. Break the silence, and everything would be lost. She knew that, and didn't try to say anything else. He had to get past his anger. She had to give him time to accept the rage and let it go so they could figure out what they were going to do. As a psychiatrist she knew and understood that. As Dylan, the woman who only wanted to take the words back and promise to do anything he asked if only he would go back to looking at her with that gentle warmth in his eyes... the silence felt like the executioner's axe waiting to fall.

When the axe fell, when Nuada broke the silence, he didn't just break it. He shattered it into a thousand jagged pieces with four simple words.

"You lied to me."

His voice didn't break. Didn't so much as crack. But her heart did, just a little.

"What? No, I-"

"You lied to me." Toneless words. Not a hint of the swiftly darkening fury that Dylan knew swirled just beneath those words. She could see that tenebrous wrath in his eyes when he turned back toward her. "All your professions of loyalty, of fealty, of... they were all lies."

"No!" No, he couldn't think that, he couldn't believe that! Didn't he see, didn't he know by now that she would never, could never lie to him? She never had. "No, that's not true-"

"Be. Silent." The words were carved from razor-edged ice shards. "'I go when you go.' Is that not what you said? And you said that if I went back without you, you would follow after me. That I deserved a defender. That I had you at my side as surely as I had Wink. That you would do whatever I commanded of you. You offered me your fealty and called me your prince. Is that not what you said?"

The word was barely audible when she whispered, "Yes."

"Yet you forsake those words when they are still warm in your mouth. How dare you?" Before she could attempt to speak past the lump in her throat, the copper-eyed warrior prince added with barbed scorn, "But of course - you are human." The word was the vilest of curses in his mouth. "I should have expected such deceit from one of your kind."

"They're not my kind!"

He waved that away with a knife-sharp gesture. "More words. More lies."

Nuada suddenly had to get out of the room. Out of the cottage. Away from her and her thrice-cursed eyes that held a sheen of crocodile tears that still managed to tug at his conscience even though he knew them to be false. Far, far away from the taste of pain in the air. The warrior didn't know how the human had bewitched him into believing any of the emotions he'd often tasted on the air were geniuine. Didn't actually care. Perhaps it had been genuine. Humans were changeable, after all. They could not deign to remember their oaths for more than a few moons, it seemed. He did not care about that, either. Only cared about getting away from her.

Memories - hot chocolate late at night, the sound of her voice as she read to him, the touch of her fingers against his face, the stench of human blood shed in defense of his life - tried to remind him that she'd suffered for him. Lived for him. Nearly died for him. Given him so very much of herself. But it didn't matter. Just when he'd stopped waiting for it, stopped expecting it, the mortal had finally betrayed him.

I go when you go. Lies. Ever the blackest of lies. He had disobeyed his father, raged at his twin and hurt her, for a lie.

He had to get out of there. Now.

The enraged Elf prince stalked past Dylan and down the hall to her room. She got up to follow him, but wasn't fast enough to get to the door before he slammed it shut and locked it. One trembling hand touched the polished rowan wood. "Nuada," she whispered. She knew he could hear her. "Nuada, please. You don't understand."

The door didn't open.

"Look, it's not that I don't want to," Dylan said to the door. Her chest felt unbearably tight. "I do. But I have responsibilities. My patients need me. I promised myself to them before I ever pledged to you. I can't sacrifice one for the other. They have to be able to get in contact with me. We'll figure something out, though. You could stay here with me or something. Or I could commute back and forth or... I don't know. We could do the whole court-function thing every so often to please your dad. He won't be angry when we explain, will he?"

The door yanked open and Nuada stepped out, fully dressed in the familiar black and crimson. The satchel Wink had brough him hung over one shoulder. Dylan's blood turned to ice. No...

"You're leaving?" Dylan blurted. "Come on! You can't really think that I-"

One hand, coldly impersonal, pushed her to the side. Despite the fury pounding through him in time with his heartbeat, he would not strike her. Would not deliberately hurt her. At least not physically. But the temptation to say something vicious was so strong in him that he had to grind his teeth as he strode past her. I go when you go. A mantra repeating in his skull. A mortal's oath. A human's lies.

She finally stopped him at the front door. Narrow as the entryway was, there was no room to shove the infuriating mortal out of the way. When she lifted her chin, defiance written in every line of her body and in her dangerously fey-like eyes, the leash Nuada kept wrapped tightly around his temper began to fray. "Move."

Dylan shook her head. "Just let me explain!"

"Every word that comes out of your mouth is false, human. Why should I believe anything you say?"

"If you would just listen-"

His hand wrapping around her throat silenced her. He didn't squeeze, or exert any pressure. He didn't have to. The point was not his strength, or even the implied threat of where his hand lay. The point was that the last eleven months were suddenly gone. They were back to that first night in Nuada's subterranean sanctuary. The night he'd snapped out of unconsciousness and grabbed her by the throat in a strangling grip.

A tear rolled down her cheek, slid along the line of her jaw, and dropped onto his wrist. She'd expected him to be angry, upset. But not like this.

"Why are you so angry?"

There were so many things the Elf prince wanted to say. Do you have any idea what I have risked for you? Do you know what my father will do to punish my disobedience? I did this for you, and now you abandon me to my father and to my fate. Without you I am surely condemned. But he didn't. She was human, and it was his own blasted fault that he had allowed himself to forget that fact, even for a moment.

"Nuada..." She wouldn't cry like some teenage girl because her boyfriend was mad at her. For one thing, Nuada wasn't her boyfriend. For another, she was too old to cry over something that, in the grand scheme of her life, carried little weight. But Dylan couldn't stop herself from whispering, "Tabhair ná téigh."

Please don't go.

He had to forcibly suppress a shudder at the desperation whispering just beneath the surface of her words. It was a trick. She was human. He would never again forget that she was human, and heartless. Never again let himself believe that the emotions in the depths of those silver-washed blue eyes were genuine.

The Elf warrior forced his face into a cold mask. To move her, he would have to strike right at her heart with implacable purpose and just an edge of cruelty. The words would leave a vile taste in his mouth, but they were the best weapons for his purpose. He would not be held prisoner anywhere; certainly not here, with her. "I am Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of King Balor... and I will not be forced to stay in the filthy den of a disgusting human whore. Now get out of my way."

It was as if he had slapped her. A flood of concern, swiftly shoved aside, tried to take him as her face went ghastly white, her eyes glassy. She fell back against the door. Her mouth opened, closed. No sound emerged. Her hands were shaking as she shoved at the riotous curls tumbling around and in her face. Finally, she bowed her head and stepped aside. She hardly even seemed to breathe. But when he'd moved past her to stand at the door, she whispered something so softly that for a moment, he was certain he'd been mistaken in the words. He turned on her.

"What did you say?"

"I said," Dylan murmured tonelessly, "'Please be safe, and please take care of yourself.'" Somehow she was still breathing. Still standing. Still managing to form audible words with a tongue that felt thick and numb. But she couldn't look at him. Couldn't look into those bronze eyes full of anger and loathing. So she stared at the door latch instead.

Nuada frowned, studying her. A trick. The words were just another trick... weren't they? And yet... and yet....

In the end, he didn't say anything. Only walked out into the swirling whiteness of the snowstorm that had begun sometime in the night, and disappeared.