Chapter 33 - The Inconstant Moon

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

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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.