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 wheezing choking sort of gurgle. Desperately trying to suck in air, she gasped, 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 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. Sharp Elven ears could hear the pounding of her empty black 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 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. He loathed the stench of woman's 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 the words left 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, Your Highness, 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... Your Highness, 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. Most fae couldn't lie, unless they were royal. But 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. "Your Highness, 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, Highness, 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, Your Highness?" 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 away 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, Sire," 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 leman to wear - off her head and looked at him.
Finally, Dylan 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 fae 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 and consume sustenance 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 killing 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 prince, 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... Highness, 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 sinking into a chair, muttering, "Very well. As you wish, little human healer."
"And don't move, please, Highness," 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.
"Begging Your Highness's pardon, but 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. I'm a healer; my duty here is quite clear, my lord. 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 do not 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-"
"Begging your pardon again, but even an Elf's body must wear out eventually. You're speeding up the clock. You should rest more, Highness. 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, then 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 and noblemen 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, Sire. 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, Your Highness," 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, thinking hard.
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 savage lust from her hair.
Still eyeing the Elf's back doubtfully, she pulled on the pale blue shift and black kirtle 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 about 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. Fae lord or not, 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 on him 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 mostly 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. Even moving to the edge of Central Park hadn't been quite the same. 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 - probably a lord or maybe even a prince - sitting in front of her. And there was something strangely familiar about him...
"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 dispatch without a qualm. 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, then added belatedly, "Sire." 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 or a lord," 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 kingdom."
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. 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.
"Begging Your Highness's pardon, but... 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, if it's all the same, Sire," 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment