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A Short Tale of Mistaken Intentions, Fresh Blood, Another Promise, the Revelation of Names, and a Tale From Dylan's Childhood
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The door slammed open.
Dylan's eyes popped open, and she shrieked. Her hand found the exquisitely-shaped, green glass bottle of rose-scented shampoo, grabbed it in white-knuckled fingers, and threw it as hard as she could towards the door before scrambling madly out of the tub and grabbing the towel. She refused to be attacked while naked – call it a self-confidence thing, or just inconvenience. Having random parts of her anatomy flopping around while she ran was also distracting, not to mention painful. She couldn't afford any sort of distraction in a fight. Hastily covering herself, she reached into her purse and snatched up one of her rocks. She needed to get more soon, she thought a bit wildly. She was running out.
Then Dylan's wide eyes focused on the – quite furious – personage standing in the doorway and felt the blood drain from her face.
"I-I-I-I thought y-you were... I'm s-sorry, Y-Your Highness, I thought... you're g-g-gonna k-kill me now, aren't you?"
"Can you think of a reason why I should not?" Nuada demanded from the door.
In one upraised hand he held the bottle of shampoo, caught after Dylan's hasty throw. She had tried to attack him. This... this filthy, ungrateful, putrescent human, whom he had saved at risk to his own life, had dared to attack him. How dare she even consider the idea?
Rage burning in his veins, he took a murderous step forward, his dark bronze eyes tinged with the color of fresh mortal blood. A thrill of satisfaction shivered up his spine as she shrank away from him, trembling.
"Tell me, human," he snarled, and felt another shuddering thrill as he saw her flinch at the thunderous sound of his voice. She hid behind the curtain of her dripping wet hair. "Why should I not kill you here, now? You have attacked me unprovoked-"
"You scared me!" She yelped, voice fraught with panic. "I thought... I thought you were the enemy. You can't p-possibly kill me for that!"
"What enemy?" He demanded incredulously. Was she lying? Or simply daft? "There is no enemy that can defeat me, and no one can get into this sanctuary unless I invite them."
"Well, how am I supposed to know that?" The mortal demanded waspishly.
Dylan was suddenly furious. She hated feeling like a moron, but somehow the Elf in front of her was making her feel incredibly stupid for not realizing that an enchanted place like this probably couldn't be broken into without at least a lot more noise than she'd heard in the last two and a half hours. But she'd been so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she'd reacted without thinking, her fight or flight instinct triggered. With nowhere to run, she'd grabbed the nearest object of any worth as a weapon and flung it as hard as she could, albeit with little accuracy.
And now that her reverie was broken, suddenly she could feel what she'd done to herself in her aborted attempt at flight. Chest and side aching dully, her breath came in shallow pants that she couldn't control. Her face, which she'd accidentally hit against the corner of the little waterfall, throbbed in tandem with her heartbeat. The cracked cheekbone burned like blue fire. She felt a trickle of wetness on her cheek, and when she wiped gingerly at it, the back of her hand came away bright red and dripping wet.
"Do you think a warrior such as I would have an unguarded sanctuary?" The Elf demanded, voice cracking like a whip.
Dylan allowed herself to feel the burning in her face, the ache in her ribs, and even the sting of her missing fingernail, before allowing the scream rising up in her throat to rip out with her fury.
"I don't know!" She yelled. "I'm human! What do I know about enchanted holes in subway walls and stuff like that? I'm a psychiatrist, not one of the Brothers Grimm! What do I know about the fae? I know a lot, but not that much. I haven't been a kid for almost twelve years! The average dog doesn't even live that long. Good grief, you're such a jerk!" Why did he have to try and make her feel so blasted inferior? Forget this crap! Fury rose up in her, sharp, hurting, black.
Then the Elf moved, a single motion, and the fury dissipated like mist in the harsh morning sun, to be replaced by ice-cold fear.
He stepped to the edge of the bath, the only thing standing between them. His eyes bored into hers like wasp stings, frosted bronze promises of pain. Her chest ached. She couldn't catch her breath.
Suddenly, he leapt. Dylan lost sight of him in the moments he was airborne.
He landed with frightening grace only a few feet away from her, taut with menace, eyes full of hatred.
Then he faltered, and fell.
He hit his knees on the rough red stone of the bathing room floor, clenching his teeth to stifle the sounds of his pain. Blood, a dark stain, spread across his tunic from belly, side, and shoulder. Tiny streams of it ran down one leg to puddle upon the floor. He clapped a hand to his chest, ducking his head so that the human before him would not see how the wounds burned and cut at him.
The Elf did not realize it – if he had, he might have forgotten his honor and killed her out of fury – but he looked as if he were bowing to her. Dylan didn't say anything about that, however. She only gasped, steeled herself to do something positively suicidal, and moved herself underneath his good arm.
"You must have ripped your stitches," the irritated woman muttered. Her head felt cobwebby from panic and the brief moments of hypoventilation. Trying to stand was making her gasp, and pain was lancing across her chest. Being so close to a male was making her heart thunder. It felt as if her sternum might crack. But surely, in his new state of injury, the Elf wouldn't harm her? Despite what she'd thrown at him? After all, it hadn't been a rock. She wouldn't have missed with a rock. Trying to mask the quivering fear that slid through her guts, she mumbled, "Come on, Your Highness, we need to get back out there."
"Why are you helping me?" He growled halfheartedly. Dizziness sucked the breath from his lungs and made him gasp.
"Same reason as yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that," she snapped, finally getting her feet under her. Her shoulder was not going to appreciate this in the morning. The Elf didn't weigh much, but now that she'd had a good soak, her bruises, aches, and pains were starting to settle in again, and new ones were coming out. Through gritted teeth, she commanded, "Now lean on me, Sire. I don't know what kind of damage you've done to your leg, so it's best not to put too much weight on it."
"I was moments away from killing you," he informed her through his own clenched teeth, baffled at her behavior. Could she have misinterpreted his intentions? Was this perhaps why she was aiding him?
"Really?" She asked, sarcasm tingeing her breathy voice. "Well, good for you. I totally had no idea that the angsty Elf prince with the blood-red eyes wanted to do me in. I thought he was kidding about axing me. Silly Dylan, what could I have been thinking of?" Dylan hated being angry, but she had to force herself to stay furious with him for frightening her, or she would become terrified and be unable to treat his wounds, frozen by her fear. She didn't have time for terror. Instead, what was needed here was sarcasm of the most acidic type – her specialty. "Now stop being such a baby and do what the nice doctor-lady tells you, all right?"
"Do not patronize me, human," he snarled at her as she helped him into his chair.
She ignored him. Hustling butt, she ran back into the bathing room to grab her purse. Remarkably, she found laid over the chair where her soiled clothes had been, a fresh batch of garments: a white shift, a green kirtle, and a golden rope that was probably meant as a girdle. I don't wanna be naked, it'll make my hands shake, she thought to herself, and hastily donned the shift, tying it with the rope. She'd put the gown on later. It wasn't necessary now.
Clutching her leather purse in trembling hands, she ran back out and dumped the contents on the floor. She grabbed spool and thread, needle and scissors, her lighter, and found gauze, bandages, masking tape, and hand sanitizer. As a child, she'd once thought this bag was magic. As an adult, she realized she just forgot to take out almost everything she ever put in there. Perhaps one item in five ever saw the light of day again.
The only reason she carried the inconvenient parcel around, she reflected almost absently, was because it had come in handy at the most remarkable moments.
"Shirt off," Dylan ordered briskly. Swiping at her face with the back of her hand when she felt a strange tickling, she glanced down to see her skin was still wet and red. Under her breath, she muttered, "Ow. Crud." Laying out everything she'd set aside on the small table, the human woman watched warily as the Elf slowly, gingerly pulled off the deep red tunic stained dark with his blood.
"Could you not find the decency to dress properly?" Nuada demanded when he caught sight of her in the plain shift and girdle. Her blue eyes leveled on him like ice, and for a moment the Elf prince felt himself frozen in place, even his thoughts stilled by the chilly gaze. There was a strange, vast emptiness behind her pale, mortal eyes that held him. A fury that was more than fury. A grief that was more than grief. A feyness that he hadn't seen in a human in thousands of years, if he'd ever seen it at all.
"Shut. Up. Your survival is far more important than how I dress, Highness. In case you didn't notice, you're bleeding, and I'm not sure why, though I have several viable theories, so let's check that out and you can eat my face off another day, all right? So I'll say it again – shut up."
The woman knelt, cringing when her knee – which she'd hit against the pavement in her flight the day before – took her weight. Needles of pain shoved deep into her leg, but she ignored them. Shoving her unbound hair out of her face, she peered intently at the bullet hole above the waist of the Elven warrior's trousers. Dylan bit her lip when she saw the thin lines, angry and bright gold, running from the wound down the Elf's belly and disappearing beneath the fabric of his leggings. As she checked the stitched wounds in his arms and shoulder, she saw that they were the same – lines of a sickly golden color marred the white skin. The mortal sighed, and went through her bag again, muttering under her breath.
"Not you... not you... no, no, no... nope... ah-ha!"
Out of the bag came a jar marked with a handwritten label: Echinacea/Goldenseal Salve. This seemingly remarkable item was always on her person because it helped prevent and fight infection, and she was both very clumsy (see prone to injury) and highly sensitive to her random injuries becoming infected.
Not to mention, tetracycline is crazy expensive, she thought, and added with a touch of sarcasm, Blast my delicate constitution.
She also grabbed a tiny set of Q-tips (part of her portable first aid kit) and a pack of tissues. Placing those on the table as well, she carefully wiped the fresh blood from the Elf's chest. Biting her lip, she set to work. She'd have to cut the stitches already there and pull them out. The wounds were bleeding badly – she needed to figure out why.
"Okay," Dylan mumbled to the Elf, trying to ignore the way his eyes followed her movements, trying to ignore the way his hands clenched into fists. She wasn't sure if it was the pain, or the sight of her, that brought out this reaction. His face, as inscrutable as darkness, made her heart thump. "Okay, let's get started."
Then there was a long silence. Dylan was fine with that. Silence was great when you were trying to concentrate.
"What is your name?" Nuada asked when the empty silence had stretched into long minutes, perhaps even an hour. He wondered if he still frightened her. She moved with a surety that he had missed at the day's beginning, but she still refused to really look at him. The Elf had to wonder if she would even answer his question. For several moments, as she pressed her lips together and poked into the wound at his belly, she did not speak. Her eyes were focused on her bloody job, and one corner of her mouth turned downward in concentration.
"Dylan," she said abruptly. She took the metal flame-maker and flicked it open, so that the metal would heat up. "I told you that," she added.
"Your full name."
She gave him a poignant look and did not answer him, but only pulled the thread from the bleeding wound at his shoulder. The look told him much, if not all. This strange (and irritating, he snarled silently) human woman knew the power of names. Perhaps she was a reader of the old tales. It mattered little. Nuada was almost certain that without some sort of promise from him, he would get little in the way of that sort of information from her. Infuriating mortal.
If he possessed the telepathic gifts his far more talented twin could claim (specifically, the ability to walk through mortal minds without being sullied by the contact), he could have simply ripped the knowledge he sought from her mind. However, he did not possess Nuala's delicate mental touch. Everything she was, he was not. Everything she claimed – the power to heal, the full magic of the Old World, their father's love – he could not. So he had to use... charm... persuasion... and other such soft methods, to learn what he wished to know. Or torture, which yielded not altogether-reliable results. Only in direst need would he attempt to pull the thoughts from a human mind. The last time he had been forced to do so, the poisonous mind had made him physically ill.
"Do not worry," he said tonelessly, breaking the silence that had descended after her abrupt answer. "I give my word as the crown prince of Bethmoora that I will not use the knowledge of your true name against you, nor allow any other of my kind to do so, save for your own well being or if you were to betray me." An event, the Elf prince fully believed, would not be long in coming, so the promise cost him nothing. "Now I ask again – your name, human?"
"You just said it," she growled under her breath, and plucked a thread from his flesh so deftly he barely felt it.
"What?"
"You just said it," Dylan repeated, voice tight. "Highness."
"I said only 'human.' What are you babbling about?" Nuada demanded, gritting his teeth. Would she always speak in these frustrating riddles?
"You call me 'human' as if I had no other name," she informed him, eyes like cobalt ice. She glanced at the lighter, tried to ignore the searing heat beginning to scorch her skin. "So begging Your Highness's pardon, but I'm sure as heck not going to tell you my real one."
"I..." The Elf prince gritted his teeth against the invectives he wanted to spit out. Swallowed back the curses. When he was certain he could speak without snarling (and could resist the urge to drive the razor-sharp knife the warrior always carried into that empty void where a heart should have been), Nuada said tonelessly, "I meant no offense. Will you tell me your name?"
"No."
Dylan flicked her eyes to the Elf's face and back to his wound. Her fingers were starting to hurt. The metal of her lighter was becoming too hot for her comfort. It was almost ready.
"And this," she muttered, "is really going to hurt. It's the only thing I can do, with what I've got to work with. The wound in your stomach won't close. I can't get the bleeding stopped."
She glanced at the hot metal and hissed at it. A droplet of saliva touched the metal and sizzled.
Nuada understood what she was going to do, and braced himself. He would not allow the human to receive enjoyment from his pain by crying out. Somehow, he did not doubt that the mortal spoke the truth about what she would do, and how needful it was.
"I am ready."
Dylan glanced at her patient, at the mouth set in a tight line, the cold eyes, the proud face, and sighed softly in exasperation. For a moment, she was reminded of her brother, John, whenever he'd been hurt as a child. Reluctantly, she said, "Myers. Dylan-Roberta Sahara Niamh Myers."
Nuada opened his mouth to speak, paused, and looked down at her.
"Niamh?"
"My uncle Thad's wife. Brace," she replied shortly, and pressed the hot metal to the skin. The Elf jerked, then stilled. His fingers bit deep into the soft wood of the chair arms. A feverish light glinted in his eyes. Dylan spoke to cover the hideous sound of sizzling flesh. With her mind drawing irritating parallels between the Elven warrior and her twin, she suddenly couldn't stop talking. "My brother John's middle name came from him. He's my mother's older twin brother. My aunt Niamh is my father's younger twin sister."
Finally, she pulled the lighter away, and waited while the Elf's harsh breathing eased. Perspiration glistened against the moon-pale skin. After several long moments, Nuada's death grip on the arms of his chair loosened and he very slowly relaxed. It took another moment for her words to penetrate the fog of agony.
"Sahara?" The Elven warrior's pain was audible in the growl of his voice. "Is that not a desert?"
"My mother," she mumbled, with a flash of her old irritation, "was a neo-hippie from Arizona who loved the Lion King. And she was a bit dyslexic." Hence why Mrs. Heidi Myers had mistaken the Savannah desert for the Sahara desert.
"Dylan-Roberta?"
"My father was a Bob Dylan fan, but my mother told him he couldn't name me after someone famous. So he snuck it in there backwards. Robert Dylan – Dylan-Roberta. My mom didn't realize what he'd done till after they took me home from the hospital. By then, it would've been too much effort to have it changed. What's your name, Your Highness?" She asked suddenly. "It's not Roiben, is it?" The corner of her mouth twitched, as if this were some sort of private joke. "Or Oberon? Airgetlam? Iubdan?"
He blinked as the pain receded further. Thank the gods for the healing magic in this chamber. Yet he had not told her his name? Somehow that seemed like a grave oversight. And where had she heard the name Roiben before? He knew that name. Knew an Elf that carried it; King Roiben Darktithe. Why did she suggest it? Why would she think of any of those names?
"No," he muttered. "It is not Roiben, Oberon, Airgetlam, or Iubdan. I am a bit too tall to be Iubdan, anyway."
"Very true, Highness. So what is it?" As she moved to cauterize the other wound, the one in his shoulder that refused to close, she glanced at him, saw his eyes were like frozen pools of amber. Blue lines of pain stood out around his mouth. Dylan sighed and murmured, "You don't always have to be brave, you know."
"I am a warrior. I fear neither pain nor death. These wounds are as nothing," he said coldly. "Though the concept is not something a frail human female would ever understand."
"Men are stupid," she said, and pressed the hot metal into his skin.
The only thing that stopped him from striking her as searing agony burned in his shoulder was the tears that welled up and rolled down her cheeks. His pain truly distressed her. It made no sense. She, a human, wept for pain that he would not show to her. As he clutched at the arms of his chair and clenched his jaw against the fire ripping through him, he stared at her, focused on the diamond tears streaming down her face.
Nuada had to sit with gritted teeth for a long moment after she pulled the metal away before he could force his body to relax. Pain surged through him like some hellish and fiery tide.
Thankfully, she moved on to other wounds. These only needed to be re-stitched, as he had torn the thread from his body with his leap. As she worked, he watched her. Watched the light glittering off the tear-stained cheeks. Noticed the cool determination in her expression, and the grief in her eyes.
"I saw a demi-merrow once," she said suddenly. He blinked, the only outward sign of surprise that she could see. "Well, more than once. But the first time I saw her, she was sick. I didn't understand why at first."
Nuada glanced down at the human as she took up a pair of scissors and, without so much as a 'by your leave,' cut a huge hole in his trouser leg over the bullet wound in his thigh. It, too, had traces of amber blood-poisoning under the skin. She sighed, but continued with her story.
"I realized," she went on, and grabbed her hand-labeled jar of salve, placing it next to her, "that she came from the creek behind our house. The creek where my sisters would go with their boyfriends, goofing off and having fun. The creek where they would dump all of their trash. The creek where my oldest sister, Petra, threw her used cigarettes so my parents wouldn't catch her. My sister Victoria used to dump out all of her nail polish and her makeup so that my mother couldn't force her to dress up for my father's dinner parties. Mary used to shoot soda cans out there. If they landed in the creek, she scored points. Never mind she wasn't supposed to be using my father's gun in the first place.
"And they said I was the difficult one," she grumbled, no little bitterness in her voice.
"When I saw the demi-merrow, I realized that I had to do something. So I ratted out Mary to my dad about the gun. He locked it in the shed on a shelf too high for her to reach without climbing, and she's dead scared of heights. I ratted out Victoria to my mother. I forget what happened to her. And I ratted out Petra to our teachers one day when I knew she was smoking in the girls' bathroom. They obligingly called my parents. Then my twin brother and I cleaned up the creek."
Nuada was interested in spite of himself. He could tell by the way she spoke, by the way she moved, that she was telling the truth. As she sewed up his left arm as carefully as she could, he watched her face. There was bitterness there, and anger, but not at him. Not at anyone in the room. Her eyes glittered.
"And the demi-merrow?" Nuada could not help but inquire. He could feel tiny eyes on him and Dylan, and knew it was the little crinaeae that lived in his well, watching him, listening intently to the tale of the other water faerie.
"She survived, thank goodness. I had to nurse her back to health, which was scary. I mean, I was five years old. Anything could've gone wrong. I only knew from books the kind of thing to do – let her swim in fresh rain water, which I collected in a real glass fish tank. Plastic isn't exactly friendly to the Lords and Ladies, is it?" Dylan heaved a sigh. "I went to the dairy farm a few miles down the road and asked to have some of the milk straight from the cows, which I put in glass bottles. I didn't want to risk contamination by plastic or chemicals. I also asked the farmer for some of his wife's bread, since they use their own homemade flour and such. It was as old-school as I could get it. I even fed her with my baby spoon." At his questioning look, she elaborated, "My mother bought all of us baby silverware – knife, spoon, fork, bowl, plate, sip cup - from this place called Things Remembered when we were born. Had it engraved with our name, date of birth, whatever. Real silver. I figured silver was better than steel, and it seemed to work."
"Why silver?"
"I read in a book once where a witch had to tame a unicorn because it was lost in the human world, and the only way to take it back to the Faerie World was to tame it long enough for them to lead it back. It was a very young unicorn. One of the ways to tame it, the witches found in this book, was to shoe it, but horse shoes are made out of iron, and they didn't want to hurt it. So Granny Weatherwax, the oldest and best of the witches of that kingdom, melted down her silver tea set to make silver shoes. I figured that if it worked in a book, it might work in real life."
"Go on," he prodded when she fell silent. She was wiping away the blood caked around the cut on the back of his ankle now. "What befell the demi-merrow? You said she recovered?"
"Yes, Sire. I set it up so she could take moon baths and everything. I was only five, so I took every precaution I could think of. Even then, I knew that being young and small meant more things could go wrong for me than otherwise. It was difficult – I was grounded most of the time for doing things my parents had forbidden me to do but needed to be done, like visit Farmer Cotton down the road. He lived three mile away, and my parents said it was too far for me and my brother to walk."
"Your brother helped you?" He asked, surprised. Not only one, but two human children had saved a demi-merrow, cleaned up the human filth in her home, and nursed her back to health, for no reason? Unless there had been a reason behind it all. Perhaps they'd lusted after her magic. Even humans at that young age could be vipers.
"Yes. John always helps me when I need him. He was the only person who believed me about the merrow; he's got a bit of the Sight, but not as strong as me. I think he was besotted with her. He used to talk to her for hours. I would've been jealous, but I totally understood. After all, a merrow! And a demi one, too. John and I were both small for our age, so meeting a faerie that was small too made us feel... better about the whole thing. And we'd read so much about the merrows, and now we had found one. She was so beautiful. For years after that, I wanted to grow up to be a demi-merrow. Then I realized I'd have to shrink by quite a lot if I wanted that to happen, so I decided I wanted to be a dryad instead, except I was too fat."
"As a boy, I wanted to be a troll. I found them to be formidable warriors," Nuada murmured, almost to himself, without thinking.
Dylan giggled.
"I can't see you as a troll, living under a bridge, scaring little children, Your Highness," she said. Then he moved, a ripple of menace, and she dropped her eyes back to his ankle. Then again, she thought, suppressing of shiver of apprehension. Maybe I can, at that.
"You took her back to the stream, I hope," Nuada said, his voice thick with venom. How dare she laugh at him. Had she ever seen a troll, she would not be so quick to laugh at his childhood wish. What boy, having been saved by something that loomed nearly two feet over his own father's head (antlers and all), with more muscle and temper than a team of angry draft horses, would not wish to become like his rescuer? Every time he forgot for a moment that Dylan was a disgusting mortal, she would remind him with her actions or her words.
"Yes, we did. She gave us permission to fish in the creek whenever we wanted after that, as long as we only fished for food, and not for sport. Maybe she did something, I'm not sure, but when our family fished out there, only my brother and I ever caught anything, and it was only ever enough to feed the two of us. If anyone but us tried to eat the fish, it tasted disgusting to them." At the memory, she laughed, though there was something bitter and sad in it, and it made him uneasy. "It served that lot right, I suppose. They never appreciated the beauty around them."
"And you did?" Nuada demanded, the words bit out from between clenched teeth. He had not the slightest conception under the sky why he was suddenly furious at her, but his rage was a pulsing, seething thing beneath his skin.
"I try," she said softly as she placed the final stitch, added the first dab of salve. "I always try to appreciate it. I try to teach others to do the same. That's all anyone can do." Dylan grabbed the jar with the homemade label off the table and unscrewed the lid. "This is a salve made from Echinacea and goldenseal. It's to help fight off infection. I made it myself, in my garden, under the sun. No contaminants."
"Impressive." His voice was like acid.
Dylan ignored him. Her own voice remained professional as she continued, "Your wounds are infected, no doubt from the human metal."
"No doubt," he commented sarcastically. "Your powers of deduction are incredible."
"I'm sorry, Your Highness," she whispered as she began to spread the salve on his ankle. "About the shampoo bottle. You scared me. I thought something had happened, and the men who... the men that attacked me had somehow... found me again."
He stared at her, and he knew she could feel it, the weight of his gaze, even if she couldn't see it. She had thought herself in danger from that pack of human predators? But he had slain them before her eyes. Or did she not remember? But how could she not? Despite his thought that it was impossible for her not to know, he told her, "Those humans are dead. I killed them myself."
"I know that," Dylan said, looking anywhere but at him. "Fear doesn't always make sense. I'm sorry. Look, can we change the subject? You never told me your name when I asked. What is it?"
"Nuada. I am Prince Nuada, Silverlance, son of King Balor-"
"Balor? The One-Armed King of Elfland? 'Hail Balor,' " she whispered suddenly, eyes alight with some half-remembered wisps of thought. " 'Great King of the Tuatha dè Danann. See the ranks of his unconquerable Golden Army! See how they parade in their glittering pride before him! His splendor is very great. He bows down all resistance.'" She noticed him glance at her in surprise, so she added with a modest shrug, "I know the speech. I read a lot. Your Highness," she added belatedly. "Wait... you're an actual prince?"
Nuada inclined his head in a regal and icy gesture he'd learned from his father. Dylan's eyes widened almost comically.
"I beg your pardon, Your Highness," she said softly. Ducked her head.
After a long moment of silence, Nuada asked, "Tell me... what do you read?"
"Legends. Myths. Fairy tales. My patients read those kinds of things as well, and it's common ground between us since they consider me to be an old lady."
Nuada barked a laugh. She? An old lady? She was a mere infant compared to most of the people he knew. And was this what they would talk about? Tales? Speeches? Childhood stories? Did that make her feel safe to be around him? Did that make it easier for her to deal with him? She seemed so skittish and yet... he had known women who'd tried to slit their own throats for less than what she had been through.
As she spread the salve on his wounds, he listened to her talk of tales, books. It was interesting, seeing as how he had not picked up anything other than research volumes (and a rare book of poetry, in capitulation to his twin) in several centuries. Things certainly had changed in the last few hundred years. The last time he'd talked of literature, it had been with Nuala, who loved books as dearly as he loved to piece together intricate bits of goblin-mechanics or work with his carving knife or at his forge. How odd, to find himself discussing something Nuala treasured with a mortal he could never trust.
But the longer they conversed, the less reserved she became. Without the thick tension permeating the air, the healing magic of the sanctuary was allowed to work much more speedily. His wounds, sustained only a few days ago, seemed to have gained more than a week of healing – those that weren't infected or had been ripped open. They hurt, fiercely, but he no longer felt so exhausted, so shaky.
He would have wagered the same about the human, though he was surprised that she hadn't yet wept wildly or gone into hysterics since her attack.
When she was finished tending his wounds, she carefully washed away the dried blood from the reopened cut on her broken cheek and added a bit of the salve. Then she put all of her things away in her bag. She had to fight to stifle a yawn.
"If it wouldn't kill you, Your Highness, I'd suggest a hospital for both of us, but I know better."
"Your wounds," he demanded suddenly. His voice was harsh. "They pain you. Do you... need anything?"
"No," she replied, too quickly. "No, thank you. I just need to sleep. Being in water for a long time always tires me out, not to mention that tookc what? Six hours?" With a wry twist of her lips she added, "Quit moving around so much, Your Highness, you're going to kill yourself."
"We both require some rest." After a second of thought, he added gruffly, "You will take the bed. I will take the floor." Last night, he had simply waited until she slept to move her to the bed. This time, he would save himself the trouble. And this way he would not have to contaminate himself with her mortal stink again.
"But you just had basically major surgery! Again! While you were awake!" She cried. "Are you nuts?"
"It is," he told her firmly, "the chivalrous thing to do." Although the idea of honor or chivalry applying to a human revolted him. He thought of chivalry, of valor, and wondered if his posterior would appreciate his gallantry in the morning.
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