Chapter 30 - All Through the Night

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A Short Tale of the Edge of a Knife, Fealty, Touching, Prom, Another Confession, Hot Chocolate, Another Question, and a Another Tale

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Nuada's knife was in his hand before he was even truly awake. Only the tenderly spoken love, please wake up, and the even more desperate plea of I need you had him attempting to pull his strike. He froze, eyes wide in dull horror, with his blade barely a hair's breadth from cutting Dylan's vulnerable throat. The needle-sharp edge of the knife pressed a line against the soft flesh. Golden eyes met a gaze of terrified blue. When the mortal swallowed reflexively, the razor edge sliced a tiny cut just beneath the scar from where she'd been licked by the fear-darrig. A drop of blood welled up, rolled down her neck and soaked into the lace edging her pajama top.

Just a fraction of a second too slow, Nuada realized, just a fraction's delay in realizing who she was, where he was, and it would have been more than a single scarlet drop. It would have been a lethal flood of dark crimson life's blood. Dylan's blood. The thought - and the memory of blood slicking his skin as he succumbed to that hellish voice - almost made him dizzy.

"Gods," Nuada rasped. Swallowed hard before wrenching the knife away from her throat. Raked a shaking hand through his hair and tried to regulate his ragged breathing. Dylan drew a breath that was almost a sob. It, and the memory of sobs and screams, hit him like a blow. Louder now, horrified relief igniting the anger smoldering beneath his words, he snarled, "Gods, Dylan. I could have... do you have any idea what I could have..." He nearly choked. Fought against the urge to shake her, or crush her against him just to feel her racing heartbeat, an affirmation that she was alive and unharmed. That the vile dream had been just that - a dream. Instead the Elf prince demanded, "What are you even doing in here?"

"I... I heard you cry out in your sleep. You were having a nightmare, I..." She trailed off as a sudden realization hit her: she'd frightened him. Not the dream, but her. She had actually frightened him. Dylan reached out a trembling hand, and he actually flinched away from her. She jerked her hand back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... but... you sounded so..." So what? Heartbreaking. Desperate. Afraid. But she could never, ever say that to him or he'd be furious. More furious than he was now. All Dylan could whisper was, "I'm sorry," one more time.

Then, to her horror, she found herself crying. Not bawling like a hysterical child, as she had two nights ago. Only the slow salt-trickle of a tear or three, and a little sniffle. Still, to cry over something so stupid... but she couldn't seem to stop as the adrenaline faded from her blood and the terror faded from her body and she realized what a close thing it had been and that she was an idiot for thinking she could do anything for Nuada that was even close to what he'd done for her after her own nightmares, and of course the Elf warrior would be angry that she'd done yet another stupid thing that almost got her killed and he would be angry because she'd seen him vulnerable to the nightmare and darn it, why couldn't she just shut up and stop crying already? There weren't even anymore tears. Why was she still sniffling like a baby?

I'm so pathetic. And darn it, she'd whacked her hand on the floor when he'd lunged for her and she'd lost her balance. Now the cut at the base of her thumb was throbbing from the impact. Ow. She sniffled again.

"Don't," he said sharply. Then, more softly, "Don't... Dylan..." He wanted to reach out, to wipe away the tears. But the thought of touching her after that dream filled him with revulsion and shame. He'd given in. In the end, he'd eschewed his honor and given into the poison, to the vicious little voice urging him to... to... And Dylan's eyes. A nightmare only, but her eyes. So betrayed. So accusing. He couldn't drive them from his mind. Something had broken in the depths of those so-blue eyes when...

Nuada clenched his fists until his knuckles ached. Tried to shove aside the nightmare. The feel of her skin bruising under his touch and the disbelieving, heartbroken, almost strangled cries as he'd...

Another quiet sniffle shattered the hideous thought.

"I'm sorry," Dylan murmured. Bit down on her tongue until she had absolute control of herself. "It's just the adrenaline let-down," she added, wiping at her eyes. Jeez, could she be anymore pitiful? Crying over her own pathetic fears and a little pain when Nuada had just had a nightmare of blood and hell. What was wrong with her? "I'm sorry, it'll never happen again, I just thought..." Thought she could pay him back a little for putting up with her whining. For staying with her after her nightmare and for church and for going with her onto the roof with Lisa. For hanging up on Petra when she couldn't bring herself to do it. For breakfast and tulips and just everything. "I just..." A helpless gesture. "Never mind. I'll leave you alone now-"

She'd barely begun to stand when he reached out and yanked on the too-long sleeve of her flannel overshirt, bringing her back to the floor with a thump. When she cocked her head and shot him a confused look, Nuada said almost too softly, "You are bleeding."

Something in his gaze shifted, hardened with sudden resolve. Elven fingers slowly, so slowly, reached up and brushed just under the shallow slice in her throat. Calluses rasped like rough velvet over her skin. A whisper of soothing magic caressed her skin. Blue eyes locked with eyes the color of sun-kissed ivory. The palest yellow Dylan had ever seen Nuada's eyes. For some reason, the sight of those intense, pale eyes made goosebumps ripple along her skin. She was suddenly acutely aware that she was in shorts that showcased a lot of leg, and a tank top. The too-large flannel overshirt seemed a paltry protection. Protection against what? She wondered. Didn't want to push the thought any further. Didn't want to think about those brief glimpses into Nuada's terrible nightmare.

Nuada's fingertips brushed against her skin again. Scorched her. She caught her breath. He wrenched his hand back.

"I did not mean to hurt you," Nuada murmured, looking away now. For all that the words were coolly spoken, it sounded to Dylan almost like an apology. And though they still weren't physically linked, she somehow heard the unspoken words: I would never harm you.

"My fault," she mumbled. Shoved at the tangled curls falling into her face. "I shouldn't have-"

"No," Nuada said firmly, sharply. "You should not have." Noticing the way her shoulders slumped the tiniest fraction as she dropped her gaze, he added more gently, "But no, it is not your fault." At her questioning look, he explained in a quiet voice, "I have been a warrior for more years than even you can imagine. My skills and instincts were forged in training and honed in countless centuries of battle. I should have been able to pull that strike more effectively. And," Nuada added, "now you know better, do you not?"

Dylan nodded. Licked suddenly dry lips, unable to think of a proper response. Her neck itched. She realized it was the blood drying from the inadvertent slice, so she licked her thumb and swiped at the cut. The bleeding had already stopped. The saliva wiped away the blood at her throat. "Do you want me to leave?" Dylan asked when she caught Nuada with his head cocked, looking particularly alien, watching her. His pale eyes rested on her collarbones. He didn't speak. Only stared at the place where her pulse fluttered against her throat. "Um... hello?"

Please say no, she prayed silently. Please. The thought of having to walk down that icy corridor and sleep in her own room which seemed, suddenly, so very dark to her was more than she could handle just then. Not with the memory of that awful, awful voice urging... She pressed her lips together to keep the rising bubble of hysteria locked behind her teeth. Now now. She couldn't panic now. Couldn't break down now. No.

"Nuada?" She tried again when she could speak without her voice shaking. "Did... did you want me to leave?"

The Elf prince blinked, realizing his gaze had been fixed on the shadows cast by the fire onto Dylan's skin. Specifically, he found the dancing shadows near her collarbones and the hollow of her throat oddly... captivating. Soothing. The flickering firelight on her skin helped push away memories of the hideous nightmare. Softened the sharp little slice at her throat until it almost wasn't there.

Then Dylan's words penetrated. Nuada snapped back to reality. Focusing on the mortal woman in front of him, he said softly, "Of course; go." He turned away from her. Still attuned to him, still partially locked with him, Dylan heard the unspoken, I frighten her now. Of course I do. A viciously muttered curse snarled through the thinning link.

"Nuada, I'm not scared," she murmured, and his eyes found her face. She saw the shock in them before he forced them to blankness. She offered him a watery smile. "It's okay. It's just that you look really uncomfortable right now. I thought... maybe..." She trailed off. She didn't want to leave him. Not with that brittle blankness in his eyes. Not with the memory of her own fear screaming at her.

"I am well enough," the warrior muttered.

"Um... no you're not." Acting on instinct, Dylan reached out to touch the knife-edged scar carved across his cheek. Nuada jerked and grabbed her wrist in a grip so tight it was just shy of bruising. She froze instantly. The half-healed cut on her hand stung.

"Don't!"

She couldn't touch him. Not like that. Not with the memories racing through his skull, knifing him. Not with the image of her bruised eyes filling with tears of betrayal. The warm red wet of her oh-so mortal blood on his bare skin. Her screams and her desperate pleas echoing in his ears, Please, please, please. No, please... Over and over again in his head. The dream, the nightmare, hurling against his mind. Her eyes, those terrified eyes, and the blood. So much blood. Rivers of it. Burning iron and hot slickness like death... She could not touch him.

"It's okay," Dylan murmured so gently it was like the bite of a whip. Nuada fought not to flinch from it. She didn't try to pull away, or push closer. She held still as only a wild thing could be still. Her eyes were unfathomably kind. Not like... not like... He shuddered. "It's okay, Nuada. It's all right." With every word she spoke, her own panic faded a little more. Dylan struggled to keep a leash on it as she whispered soothingly, "Nuada. It's all right. It's all right."

"You cannot say that to me," he rasped, voice tight with some emotion he could not name. "You can't, I... you don't know-"

"I do know," she whispered. Moved just a fraction of an inch closer. "I know what you dreamed. I saw part of it. Heard most of it. So I know."

The look he gave her was bleak. He pulled her hand away from his face before releasing her wrist. Wasn't sure if he was relieved or not when she did not attempt to touch him again. "So you do," he muttered bitterly. "So you do." So... she'd borne witness to his shame. All that was lacking to make the wound a fatal one was his father's presence. And yet... and yet Dylan did not shrink from him. "How can you stand to be near me when I... after witnessing that?" In fact, that was something he'd always wondered - how Dylan had managed to stand his presence during those early weeks after her attack. After the first few days in the sanctuary, his presence had actually seemed to comfort her. Yet cold logic told him it could not be so now. Not now, when he had...

Because I tried to run away from you when you needed me, she thought, and licked away the tear the streaked down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. Would she ever be able to forget that? Because I betrayed you, even if you don't know it. But she didn't say any of that.

"You're my friend, Nuada," Dylan said instead. Her voice was still unfailingly gentle. "I offered you my loyalty, my fealty, because you are..." She trailed off, unsure how to finish that statement. But the brittleness she sensed in him needed an answer to his question. "Because," she whispered, "you're my prince. I care about you. I..."

I love you.

Shut up, she told the sappy part of her brain. Stop saying that. It won't help.

He didn't hear the brief mental argument. Only the last spoken words: You're my prince. I care about you. The Elven warrior was on his feet in an instant, putting as much distance between himself and the infuriating, incomprehensible mortal woman as possible without actually leaving the room. His eyes burned like molten copper as he studied her face. His body shook with repressed emotion as Dylan rose slowly and stiffly to her feet and came toward him. She looked so small and vulnerable huddled inside the oversized black flannel shirt. So fragile with the dim light of the fire caressing the criss-crossing scars on her face. Yet her expression was fierce and determined when she came to stand in front of the shuddering Elf.

"Get away from me." Each word was like a sharp stone on his tongue, but he managed to spit them out anyway. They left his mouth bleeding. "Get out."

"If I obey your orders, Your Highness," she said, "then I leave you because you ordered me to. Not because I want to. Think on that, and if you still want me to leave, then I will." When he didn't speak, just looked at her with haunted eyes, she added softly, "I know. Nuada, I know that you're tired and that every day is a struggle for you. I know how much what's happened - all of what's happened - has hurt you. You think I don't see it? You think I don't notice or care that every time you look at your father or your sister your heart bleeds? That you never get enough sleep and you're always on edge, even when you're smiling or laughing? That you're always expecting a knife in the back? That I don't know how afraid you are that your father's right and you're just as bad as he thinks you are?"

The Elf shuddered. She could not say these things to him. She couldn't possibly know, couldn't possibly understand. Couldn't possibly forgive. Yet her eyes told him she did. Impossibly, unfathomably, Dylan did understand. And she had already forgiven him.

"But you're not what he thinks you are. You're not, Nuada. I don't know or care how many times I have to tell you that before you believe me but it's the truth. And it was just a dream. Only a bad dream."

Now, finally, Dylan reached out with tentative fingers and brushed the tips over the royal scar. The Elf prince drew a ragged breath, but didn't shove her away. Didn't even try to stop her. Just closed his eyes and allowed it. Allowed her to ghost her fingertips over the scar carved deep across his cheekbones, and higher, to the circular scar at his temple. Her touch was... exquisitely gentle. Just a simple, soothing caress in the face of an unspeakable nightmare that had left him filled with shame and jagged edges.

And she continued to almost croon the words, "It was only a bad dream. It's all right. We're both all right. Nothing bad is going to happen just because we touch. Okay? It was just a dream. Just a dream. It's all right. It's all right."

Ever so gently, Dylan took his clenched fists and loosened the knotted fingers before carefully placing those hands at her waist. When he opened his mouth, as if to protest, the psychiatrist said coaxingly, "I know what I'm doing. I've done this before. You need to know that everything is okay and that touching me isn't going to turn you into some slavering hell demon intent on my imminent destruction, all right? It's okay. It's just a simple stance, light and easy. No pressure. Nothing scary. Consider it payback for trying to kick me out of a room in my house."

As she'd hoped, he chuckled weakly and inclined his head in tacit agreement. Very slowly, giving him time to protest, she laid her own hands on his shoulders. He tensed, but not too badly. "See? Nothing scary. We're all right. We're just fine. Although," Dylan added, smiling more openly now, "I'm suddenly having flashbacks to prom, but that's my problem, not yours."

"Prom?" He frowned slightly.

Laughing a little because she felt absolutely ridiculous, a mortal woman explained to an Elven prince about the American pastime of prom: the supposedly elegant, formal dance that signaled it was time to get the heck out of high school and escape into the so-called adult world. That dance that came complete with the horrendous rituals of dress-buying and picture-taking, hours-long visits to the salon for professional manicures and hairdressing, drunken afterparties where virginity was offered up like a sacrifice to clique idols, etc.

Of course, this meant she also had to explain slow dancing (which was, in her opinion, just plain weird and made her feel kind of stupid, considering who she was talking to). Dylan knew Nuada knew how to dance - real dancing, anyway. He was an Irish prince. Of course he did. But slow dancing wasn't really... real dancing. She could tell from his expression that he didn't think so, either, so she went back to explaining prom. At least it was distracting him.

"Not that I went to any of the drunken parties, and I got my dress from a catalogue online because I was still stuck at Saint Vincent's," she added. "Had to do my own hair, too. We had a little mini-prom for the older kids, though, which was nice. Had my first real kiss that night. My only real kiss, come to think of it." Dylan briefly pursed her lips in thought. "Was it? Yeah. My one and only real kiss was at prom. Guy was completely schnockered, though - blech. Tasted like peppermint schnapps. Where he got peppermint schnapps in a psychiatric hospital, I have no idea, but that's how his mouth tasted. At least he didn't try to grope me, though."

The sharp pieces inside him were slowly being soothed and softened by Dylan's chatter. He had a feeling she knew that, too. Instead of trying to block out his nightmare, he focused instead on something he was rather curious about, dulling the memory of the dream further. "What do you mean, 'a real kiss?'"

Dylan just barely managed to suppress the shiver trying to race up her spine when Nuada said the word "kiss." I'm so stupid, she lamented silently, flexing her fingers where they lay on his well-muscled shoulders. I am so freaking stupid! Yeah, he's relaxing and doesn't look like he's going to shatter if I poke him with a stick, but what about me? What about me? I'm getting fluttery again. Crud.

Aloud, she explained, "You know - not the kind of kiss you give another kid when you're like, five years old." At his baffled look, she added in exasperation, "You know. When you're little, you stand a foot apart from another kid and lean in with your lips super-puckered and just barely touch mouths before you both squeal about cooties and run off in opposite directions while your friends laugh at you and say 'ew.' A real kiss is... um... well, it's like..." Dylan could feel heat spreading through her face and groaned inwardly. "Can we stop talking about this now? I know I brought it up and it's my own stupid fault but I'm getting kind of embarrassed."

For some reason her blushes always made his mouth curve in a smile, no matter how dark his mood. With a weary chuckle, he said, "Still so innocent."

"I am not innocent!" She protested in mock outrage, balling up her fist and thumping him lightly on the chest. "In case you've forgotten, I'm a doctor. I know about the whole birds and bees thing. And just because I'm not some deliriously attractive Elven Casanova who's broken thousands of hearts throughout the centuries and makes a habit of... of... of kissing anything with a pair of mammary glands doesn't mean that I'm... okay, stop laughing at me."

Nuada's grin was tired, but one hundred percent genuine. The last bit of dread in Dylan's chest faded away at the sight of it. She'd seen that grin maybe a handful of times since she'd met him. It was good to see it again.

"You think me delirious attractive?" He inquired with a raised eyebrow, then laughed again at Dylan's horrified expression.

"No!" Oh crud, oh crud, oh crud. Her face was on fire. Why don't I ever think before I speak? Crud! "That's not- I didn't mean... I mean, I guess you're handsome but I don't... oh, brother. Ya know what? It's late, I'm tired, you scared the living daylights out of me earlier so I'm on an adrenaline-crash, and I just don't care anymore so I'm gonna say it: I don't think you're bad looking, at all. You're fairly attractive, actually." After a moment of silence, Dylan closed her eyes, muttered something that sounded to Nuada like, Well, I'm dead meat anyways, and added, "You're hot. There - I said it."

"Hot," he echoed slowly, as if testing the word. She huffed.

"You want me to spell it out for you? Yes, hot. It's human slang; it means deliriously attractive, handsome, dashing, sexy, or E - all of the above. Hot." Shut up, brain, she snarled at herself as embarrassment and exhaustion in equal measure flooded her body. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Stop talking now. "Okay, now that I've humiliated myself utterly, since you seem to be more relaxed now, I'm going to bed, where I can smother myself with my pillow to put me out of my own misery and why are you laughing?"

In truth, Nuada had no idea. Only that the cold, twisting knot in his chest had not only loosened, but faded almost completely. And in the face of his own mirth, Dylan smiled, though he could see she was still blushing hotly. To soothe some of the embarrassment, the prince replied, "I am not surprised that you think me so." He grinned wider when Dylan rolled her eyes. "I am an Elven prince, and a warrior. I have spent countless years training my body, keeping myself in top physical form." His grin melted into a smirk when he saw Dylan's gaze drop to his feet and work its way back up to his face, almost against her will, her eyes widening as she went. She swallowed when she saw his smirk. Nuada arched an eyebrow. "Do not most women find such men attractive?"

"Um..." Work, brain. Work! Say something! "We're not having this conversation. I am not talking about this with you," she mumbled, and dropped her hands from his shoulders. "I'm delirious from exhaustion, so I'm going to bed now, and so are you. Good night."

But when she tried to escape, he caught her wrist. His grin faded and his eyes grew shadowed. "I do not wish to sleep," he said softly.

Translation, Dylan realized with a pang, don't leave me alone yet. Oh, Nuada... For him to feel that way; for him to give voice to it in any way, even surreptitiously... whatever he was feeling must've been hideously strong, and excruciatingly painful. But she didn't dare say that. Not out loud, anyway. So instead she very gently corrected him with, "You don't want to dream." Nuada inclined his head and she sighed. "Come with me."

Dylan slipped his loose grip on her wrist and took his hand loosely in hers, leading him toward the kitchen. She gently pushed him into a chair before going to the woodburning stove and pulling down a small frying pan from the cupboards above it. Dylan studied the stove before looking down at her arms. Her sleeves hung well past her fingertips. She flicked a nervous glance at Nuada before shrugging out of the flannel shirt that hung almost to her knees, leaving her in her pajamas.

She laid the overshirt on the opposite counter and then dove into the cupboards and fridge. Nuada caught a glimpse of a cartoony magnet stuck to the fridge door of a penguin with wide eyes. It read, "You did what? With who? For how many cookies?"

"Milk, vanilla, Never, and... ah. Powdered chocolate." Pouring some of the milk and a bit of vanilla into the skillet, she stoked the fire before tapping the powder into the pan and stirring slowly with a wooden spoon. Every so often she sprinkled another tiny pinch of powder into the heating milk.

"What are you making?" He asked to keep his mind on something other than the fact that she wore less clothing than he'd ever seen her in before. Nuada realized with some astonishment that he'd never seen Dylan's bare shoulders but once - that one time he'd walked in on her in the bathing chamber in his underground sanctuary. And then he'd been more focused on the shampoo bottle she'd thrown at him than on her state of undress.

Now he could see the way the dim glow of nightlights cast shadows against the hollows of those narrow shoulders. See the twin smudge-like scars that ghosted along her left shoulder blade. The warrior knew such marks were from gunshot wounds. A dark, hollowed-out line just above the collar of her tank top was from being stabbed with a thin-bladed knife. Another knife-scar slashed across her upper right arm. A burn scar in the shape of a handprint marred her right shoulder. When Dylan shifted and turned a little, he saw the ice-white spill of scar tissue that ran down the inside of one leg. Noted the deathly looking scars at the bends of her elbows, as well as thin silver lines that criss-crossed her forearms. The underside of her forearm bore a strange, jagged mark the color of old bones. A broken circle of pale pink scar tissue graced a spot to the left of her spine at the base of her neck; it looked like a scar from a bite. When Dylan reached up to pull a small container of cinnamon from the cabinet overhead, Nuada glimpsed jagged, long-healed claw marks peeking from beneath the hem of her pajama top. The back of her right thigh, just above the knee, had similar claw marks. Several wire-thin silver lines looped around the flesh right above her right knee, meshing with the claw marks.

But it was the concave, palm-sized scar that covered the flesh over her heart before spilling down over the swell of her left breast and disappearing under her pajama top that drew his full attention. And Nuada remembered what she'd said to the human girl on the roof: so I took a pencil and tried to stab my way to my heart so that I could finally just end it. He shoved aside the sudden urge to comment on that scar. On any of them. Not right now. Not when he was still trying to deal with the nightmare.

"I'm making hot chocolate," Dylan murmured, jerking him from his study of the war the marks on her body spoke of. He hadn't realized just how much damage she had sustained in her life. "I used to make it for John when he had nightmares about... we call it the Soul-Sucking Hell Dimension. Not sure what it actually is, but that's our name for it. The place he went when he was twelve, and my parents thought he'd died. Anyway, my hot chocolate always helped him fall back asleep."

"I don't want to-"

"You need to sleep," the doctor snapped. Seeing the prince bristle, she added, "Even your body will collapse without proper food and rest. You tell me to eat more, then I get to order you to sleep more. Don't think I haven't been paying attention." She poured hot chocolate into a mug, then unstoppered the tiny bottle whose contents glittered like bloodstone and, after measuring out a teaspoon-full, dumped it into the mug and stirred it in. Nuada recognized the brew as a troll potion to combat iron-fatigue. Those humans with the Sight called it Never. Dylan continued, "Three or four hours a night, every night, is not enough rest. You look like death warmed over and left to rot on a highway in August. Now stop snarling and do what the nice doctor lady tells you."

He glared at her, the easy comraderie from earlier gone, but when she gave him the porcelain mug of hot chocolate, he took a sip. Let the just-right sweet drink slide over his tongue. Since it tasted... well... wonderful (loath as he was to admit it), the prince didn't snarl at her again. Nuada even softened his glare when Dylan poured what was left of the hot chocolate into another mug for herself. It seemed the Elf warrior was not the only who feared dreaming enough that sleep remained elusive.

They sat diagonal from each other, Dylan back in her huge overshirt, and slowly drank the hot cocoa in silence. When there were only dregs left in Nuada's cup, Dylan said, "I want you to sleep in my room tonight. I'll take the sofa." When he protested, she held up a regal hand for silence. Where did she learn that gesture? The Elf wondered. The mortal added, "I know chivalry or whatever says as the gentleman you have to let me have the bed, but I think you'd sleep better on a real bed than on my cramped little sofa. Or my floor," she added with a hint of bite. "Speaking of which, why weren't you on the sofa?"

"I had a crick in my neck," he grumbled. The glare she shot him was equal parts hurt and annoyance.

"You're taking the bed tonight."

"And if I refuse?" The prince demanded coolly.

Dylan said nothing for a long time, only continued to sip at the hot drink. Finally, she murmured, "If you do this for me, I'll answer five questions for you - since I know you probably have some that you don't think I'll answer - or I'll do you any one act of service that you command of me, no matter what it is." And she let her gaze lock with eyes that flashed between amber and sun-kissed ivory.

For a very, very long time there was only silence begging to be broken. Then, finally...

"Both the questions and the service," the warrior prince said.

She shook her head. "Either/or. Not both."

"I demand both," he said softly. Silly girl. She should know better than to try and negotiate with him when he possessed what she wanted. The warrior didn't take his eyes from Dylan's, only watched the battle playing out behind them. Finally she sighed and nodded. He smiled without humor. "Well, then. I will take the bed in exchange for the answers to five questions and an act of service." He would hold the requested service in reserve. The stars only knew when that might come in handy. As for the questions... "My first question is this: why did you try to take your own life?" Remembering hatred smoldering in her eyes when she'd whispered after that, though... some things... happened, he added, "The whole truth."

She paled. Hid behind the pretense of sipping the last dregs of hot chocolate from the porcelain mug. Then she laid the cup on the table, clutching it between laced fingers so tightly her knuckles went white as bones. Nuada thought she might refuse. Take back her command for him to sleep in the bed.

But then, in a quiet voice as brittle as old glass, Dylan told him about John. About how, when she was a day shy of twelve years old, her parents had called the mental hospital administration to have her informed that her twin brother had been missing for more than two weeks and was presumed dead. She spoke of the grief and the aching loneliness. It struck a chord in Nuada that felt like a knife between the ribs. To lose Nuala, his beloved sister, the other half of himself... he wouldn't survive.

Then, in a voice like razor-edged shards of ice, Dylan told him about two boys - two ruthless, cruel, twisted boys - named Patrick and Xander. She wouldn't give him their surname. Only told him about the casual blows, the name calling, the pranks and the pinching, the slaps, the hair pulling, and the hands that were always, always touching - to shove against walls and into couches, against counters and into the dirt in the courtyard where the children at Saint Vincent's were sometimes allowed to play. In a tremulous voice Dylan told him about those two vicious boys, and their father. Their father, with his money and his prestige at the hospital. Their father, who encouraged the cruelty, who pushed his vile offspring until one day the two of them went too far. Until three girls and another little boy got hurt.

"Do you know..." Dylan had to swallow several times before she could continue. Her gaze was far away. "Do you know why I didn't bleed to death the night we met?" He was afraid to answer. Afraid not to. She was barely holding on as it was. The wrong word, the wrong gesture, and Dylan would shatter like glass. After a tense moment of stillness, Nuada managed to shake his head in the negative. "Because I wasn't a virgin. If I'd been a virgin, I'd have been dead long before you came. I suppose I should thank Patrick and Xander for that... but," with a mirthless laugh that would have made a lesser man flinch, "I don't think I will."

There was an interminable silence as Nuada fought to control his rage. When he couldn't stop his hands from shaking, he clenched them into fists and hid them beneath the table. He swallowed hard. Finally managed to keep from snarling when he asked in a carefully neutral voice, "Did you ever tell anyone?" So many victims didn't.

Her smile was sharp and hopeless and left him bleeding. "The words were like cold iron in my mouth and I was afraid... but I told. All four of us did. Even though I wanted to escape and be with my brother, wherever he was, and never come back to that place. I told, and do you know what they said? That telling stories about the other kids wasn't going to help me get home any faster and that I needed to be honest with my therapists when I explained to them about these."

And she held up her arms, letting the oversized sleeves slide to her elbows to reveal the silvery scars slicing across the flesh of her forearms. Nuada could imagine the feel of the knife parting flesh, spilling scarlet that dripped and spattered the floor and finally gave voice to the truth so many refused to hear or see. Couldn't imagine the desperation behind such an act, like a wolf chewing off its own leg to escape from a trap. No. The Elf warrior couldn't imagine that kind of desperation in the woman he knew. It infuriated him to even try.

"I was young, then, or I'd have figured out some other way to cope. Or maybe I would've just..." She couldn't finish. Instead she added, "Of course I knew better than to tell my parents. My sisters believed me, but what could they do without my parents' help? When I finally got out of that place, I went to the police. And you know what they said? That they were sorry, but that the statute of limitations had already passed."

"The what?"

"Statute of limitations," she said tonelessly. "The law that says a crime must be prosecuted within a set amount of time. For sexual crimes, the limit is five years. After five years the assailant can't be prosecuted. He could sign a sworn confession and still not be prosecuted. I had to wait almost six before I got out, so..." She let her arms drop to the table. Shuddered. "One of the girls, Allison, and the boy, Gunter... they killed themselves. Because of those monsters. Because of what happened. Gunter managed it while we were still at Saint Vincent's. Allison tried to hold on, but after the police said they couldn't do anything, she... she gave up and..." Another tremor wracked Dylan hard, but the bronze-eyed warrior saw how she swiftly suppressed any and all emotion. How she fought for control and never let the pain swirling through the room break free of her grip and force her to break.

Nuada leashed his fury because it would do nothing for her. Would only make the tears he saw shining in her eyes spill over, fall. Instead the warrior shoved aside the rage and stretched out his hand, palm up, toward the trembling woman across from him. She stared at it for a long moment. Then Dylan slipped her hand in his and closed her eyes as Nuada sent warmth and comfort and reassurance through the link. Dylan's mouth trembled, and then she brought their clasped hands to her cheek and sighed. Let the pulse of magic and warmth wash over her. Let it burn away the ice-cold shadows. A single tear spilled down Dylan's cheek to kiss Nuada's hand before running down his arm like a drop of cool blood.

They sat that way in silence for a while. Slowly the tension drained out of her body. She sighed again. Then she opened her eyes.

"Are all your questions going to be this difficult to answer?"

He stroked her cheek with the knuckle of one finger, a silent apology, and her eyes slid closed again. The feral-eyed warrior would do some digging. Would find this Patrick and this Xander. And when he found them, they would die... eventually. After he had revisited their sins back upon their heads ten, no, a hundredfold. Their blood would paint the walls of whatever hovels they called home. Would turn the earth of their freshly-dug graves to scarlet mud by the time he'd wrung every last drop of pain from them that he could. In the end, it would not be enough to recompense the shattered innocence of the woman he had inexplicably grown fond of, and the child she had been, but it was better than nothing. It had to be.

But Nuada didn't give any of these thoughts away. She wouldn't want him to do this thing. She, with her naive forgiveness and her mercy. So he only continued to caress Dylan's soft cheek as he said, "I do not think they will be. We shall have to see." The Elf warrior had four more questions. He would hold them in reserve as well... for now.

"Would you..." Dylan had to clear her throat before she could continue. "Would you like to start another story, Your Highness? Since you don't want to sleep? We could begin Once Upon a Winter's Night." Which was how he found himself on the sofa beside the human ("This way, if I fall asleep and you try to carry me to bed, I can kick you or something without having to get up," the mortal explained, which hadn't really made sense, but he'd let it go) with a book in her lap. The tome was bound in soft white fur; the skin of an armored bear of Álfhelm, which Dylan said was a gift from one of the fae she'd taken care of some years back.

Dylan tucked her feet beneath her. Gently, lovingly stroked the fur with gentle fingertips before opening the book to the first page.

"They lived in a one-room, stone cottage on the edge of Faery, there where the world ends and the mystical realm behins, there where golden sunshine abruptly becomes twilight all silver and grey, there where night on one side instead of the other is darkness, sometimes absolute, sometimes illumined with a glorious scatter of bright stars and silvery moonlight, sometimes illumined by small, dancing luminosities atwinkle among hoary trees, there where low, swampy lands and crofters' fields and shadowed forests on this side change on that side into misty fens and untilled meadows and deep, dark, mysterious woods.

"There at the edge of Faery... There at the edge of the world... There where they lived in days long past, when the mystical yet touched the real."

And her voice, lovingly shaping the words of the tale, was as the snowflakes falling outside, or the fire crackling in the hearth; the night winding onward toward the pearly gray of coming dawn, and the faintest kiss of dawn behind white winter clouds. Nuada let the story wash over him as Dylan read. Let the pictures it evoked wash away the dregs of his nightmare, keeping horror and shame at bay for a little while longer. Let himself enjoy a tale of a maiden and a great white bear, a masked prince and the evil witch's curse that afflicted him. A tale written as if a minstrel were sitting beside him, telling it from memory as in olden days. Dylan's voice was soft, and the cadence of it soothed him.

Sometime during the hours of reading she ended up leaning against him a little. He could feel the even rise and fall of her chest against his arm with every breath. She was alive. She wasn't hurt. She was alive. Some of the shame drifted away like smoke. He focused on the feel of her breathing. Her hair brushing against his shoulder and neck like dark silk. The soft sound of her heartbeat. Alive. Only a nightmare. Alive.

In the end, as the muted light of a winter morning through snow filled the windows, Dylan's voice began to fade. "As the notes faded into silence, Alain looked into Camille's eyes and whispered, 'Leave me not alone, my love, come sail away with me.' Camille slid... onto the... bench... and said..."

Nuada, eyes locked on the fire until now, glanced over at Dylan just as her head dropped to his shoulder. The book slipped from her fingers and landed in her lap before sliding to the floor. She'd fallen asleep.

Mindful of bargains struck and promises made, Nuada very slowly moved to mark their place in the book and then laid it on one of the chairs. The simple action took almost ten minutes because he didn't want to wake her. She needed rest more than he did. Then the golden-eyed Elf shifted Dylan half into his arms so that he could lay her down on the sofa. There were no issues until he tried to let go of her and step back.

Dylan stirred a little. Her lashes fluttered briefly before going still. And then her arms slid around his neck and she cuddled against him in her sleep. "Mmmm," she said softly. Her fingers were unconsciously twining in his hair again. Brushing languidly against the hollow of his throat. She snuggled even closer, her face seeking the warmth of the crook of his neck, and she whispered his name in slumber. Her breath was soft and warm against his skin. That same strange heat from before bloomed in the pit of his stomach and shivered down his spine.

"Dylan," he whispered, reluctant to rouse her, but needing to. Too long in this position and his lower back would begin to protest. Loudly. She shifted again, pressing closer as she snuggled him. Her heart was slow and steady against his chest. She sighed against his neck, and Nuada shivered again. "Dylan."

She started, made a small sound. Her eyes flickered open for a moment. A dreamy smiled curved her scarred mouth. "Hmmm? Hey... look. Prince Charming. Am I... dreaming?"

His own mouth quirked. Prince Charming, was it? "And if I said you were?"

"Then... it's a good dream," she mumbled, and shifted again. Her arms slid down from where they circled his neck, her fingertips lightly caressing his skin with the movement. Dylan curled in on herself, releasing him from her slumberous embrace. She sighed. Closed her eyes. "I love dreaming about you."

She... dreamed of him? Not nightmares, but dreams? He wanted to ask her about that. Wanted to rouse her so he could ask what she dreamed. But she was almost completely asleep again. So he waited. When she'd settled, he grabbed the folded blanket Dylan had laid out for him a few days ago, unfolded it, and covered the sleeping mortal with the soft warmth. She snuggled under the blanket, curling up like a kitten, and sighed in contentment.

Bat padded forward from nowhere on silent paws and hopped up onto the couch, where he curled up against his human. One paw stretched out and patted Dylan's cheek, and the stray curl that rested there. The longer the human was awake, the Elf had noticed, the more tangled her hair became. Always that one curl would escape and flip into her face. Bat patted it again, harder this time.

"Enough of that," the prince commanded softly, reaching out and brushed the curl back from the smooth, soft cheek. The kitten opened his mouth in a silent mew of protest. "Hush. Let our fair lady sleep." Bat glared at Nuada and licked Dylan's nose once, as if to say, I do what I want, but then the sleek black cat settled down, closed his eyes, and began to purr softly. Satisfied, the prince turned to leave.

At the door to the den, her sleep-slurred voice stopped him. "Nuada? I'm sorry."

The Elf warrior paused, more because of the regret in her voice than the actual words themselves. He waited a beat for the mortal to continue. When she didn't, he asked, "For what?"

"For... everything." Silence. Then, even more softly, "Good night."

After a long moment of stillness, he turned back. Saw she was asleep once more. Would her sleep remain easy and free of nightmares? He hoped so. For both their sakes, he hoped so. But what did she mean, I'm sorry for everything? What did she mean? He would ask her when she woke.