Chapter 15 - White As Snow

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A Short Tale of Escape, Belongings Returned, and the Nature of the Human Mind

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That girl is too clever for my brother's good and my own peace of mind, Nuala thought as she followed her twin and his new human out of the king's Hall. More than three hours, and they have yet to slip in their pretense of being in love, while still deflecting everyone's hints and barbs regarding matrimony. Perhaps Father made a mistake in trying to force Nuada's hand in this. Even if he capitulated, Dylan never would.

And there the pair of them were, whispering to each other and laughing at the foot of the stairs as if they really were as madly in love as the youths and maidens in romantic tales. But Nuala could feel the barest kiss of strained panic whisper through to her from her brother. And did Dylan's smile seem to be a bit forced?

In fact, Dylan's face felt like it would crack in half if she had to keep smiling for more than another sixty seconds and her leg felt like it was on fire. She'd had to keep that stupid smile plastered to her face for the last however many hours, but the nerves that her smile had kept hidden had been so brutal, even with Nuada's presence and silent assurance, that she hadn't really been able to eat much or drink more than a few sips of water. No one - except maybe Nuada - had noticed. They'd all been too engrossed in her face and the gossip now zipping around the court.

But there were still people around - including Nuala, whom the mortal had to keep reminding herself not to hurl profanity at. James three, verses eight through ten, she reminded herself. And chapter five, verse twelve. Don't say mean things to people. But boy, she really wanted to, especially since the searing pain in her knee was, even if indirectly, Nuala's fault. But instead of giving way to her irritation and the pain lancing through her bad knee, she took Nuada by the hand, smiled at him in what she hoped was an inviting manner, and began tugging him gently up the stairs.

I promise, she thought, knowing he could hear her, that I won't jump on you the moment we're alone. Your virtue is safe. As she'd hoped, the crack about his virtue made the prince laugh, though it was obviously strained, even to her ears.

Many of the court ladies would wonder about the safety of your virtue, since you sleep in my bed chamber, he replied, and could have kicked himself when he felt the faint tingle of old fear from her. Sometimes it was so strangely easy to jest with her. But he could not let his guard down around any human, not even Dylan. Especially not Dylan, as it was so easy to bring her darkest memories to the surface with a word or a gesture. And he never knew when the memories of what Eamonn had managed to do to her in her mind would resurface. Dylan... you do know you're safe with me? The thought of her fearing him sent sick shame churning in his belly.

Yes, I know. If I didn't feel safe with you, Nuada, do you think I'd be pretending to be all giggly and stupid-in-love with you? It's okay. The mortal continued to climb the stairs, though her breathing labored and her movements were more than a little stiff. A wisp of concern murmured in the back of the prince's mind. Dylan confirmed his worry when she added, Oh, boy, my leg hurts. But don't pick me up. I don't want it obvious that I've got a bad leg. You know, in case someone tries to attack me again.

A sound precaution... but I suggest you soak that leg when you finally get around to bathing. Although the thought of Dylan soaking in his bathing chamber - and the resulting image from that thought - made the "suggestion" come out surlier than he meant, and the human did not look at him or reply.

At the entryway to her room - although it's technically Nuada's room, I suppose, she thought - Dylan opened the door and gestured for the prince to precede her. When Nuala moved to follow her twin, however, Dylan stepped between the princess and the door. The Elf prince turned to watch as his sister leveled her gaze at the human standing in her way.

"Look, Your Highness... I'm still kind of annoyed with you, not to mention tired. I feel like I've been run over by a bus, and I doubt Nuada feels much better. So could you leave us alone?" The entire time she was speaking, Dylan had been slowly backing up to the entryway with deliberate steps. Nuada moved to lean against the chamber wall beside the doorway. Forcing the rigid ache from his spine while listening to the human trying to stand up to his sister and her not-inconsiderable wrath was all he wished to deal with right then. Especially as the mortal could take care of herself. "We need a break from the dog and pony show, thanks," Dylan added. "Good night."

"I will not leave you alone with my brother."

"You want me to marry the guy and you won't leave me alone with him? That's a little disturbing to my peace of mind." Finally level with Nuada inside the room, the mortal smiled with genuine affection edged by a little weariness around the edges. She still liked Nuala. She just didn't want to deal with her right now. Hair pulling was considered rude, after all. "Good night, Princess," she said firmly.

"Dylan-"

But Dylan had already shut the door. Nuala stared at the closed door for a long moment in stunned silence. That silence was broken only by the click of someone - probably that human, the princess thought with no little irritation - locking the door. Well, if that was what the mortal wanted, then fine. She could deal with Nuada in the mood he was no doubt already in from the last few hours at court. He had never been comfortable with the fawning, the double-edged words, the subtle backstabbing. Having the crown prince among the courtiers for more than hour would have usually sent him to the salle afterwards for several hours of intense training to work off his temper, or perhaps he'd have gone for a ride in the royal forest. Keeping him in his suite while his temper sizzled was very unwise.

But if the human would not heed the princess, then on her own mortal head be it. Nuala turned and strode toward her own room, ignoring the twinge of concern in her own mind and the sizzle of temper in her brother's.

The seemingly-heedless human listened to Nuala's retreating footsteps before stepping slowly and carefully away from the door, pain burning through her leg. Tension slipped away from her like raindrops on glass as she threw off the silver-embroidered black mantle and unclasped the necklace whose presence had made Nuada look as if he'd been punched in the gut. She tossed the mantle, but laid the necklace carefully on the chest Nuala had pulled it from. Then she limped over to the bed, where Nuada himself lay spread-eagle, and slid (or fell flat on my butt, she thought with a tinge of self-deprecation) to the floor so she could lean her back against the bedframe. From the corner of her eye she saw pale skin and silvery blond hair.

"If I'm too close," she mumbled, closing her eyes, "let me know. I'll move."

"You are acceptable where you are."

For a long moment they merely stayed silent, trying to relax after the mentally exhausting hours at court. Pain sizzled through Dylan's bad leg. She had forced herself for the first couple hours after the Samhain banquet not to limp, which had made agony radiate from her knee down to her foot and up to her hip. Nuada, probably sensing her pain, had begun to wrap things up. When the king protested that they stay longer, the prince had flat-out refused, claiming that his lady was tired, being only mortal and barely recovered from the ordeal of two nights prior. Although she'd felt stupid for relying on "the poor weak female" routine, by then her knee had been screaming at her. And even with the hideous pain, she had forced herself to limp up those beastly stairs without the benefit of being carried in strong, Elven arms. Now she began massaging the swollen knee, fighting back a hiss of pain as her fingers pressed deep into the muscle.

"Your leg pains you?" Nuada asked, then shut his eyes against the sudden surge of humiliation. Of course her leg pained her. What an inane question. Had she not been limping for the past hour? He knew Dylan, and knew she would never indulge in pretending to greater hurt than she felt.

"Meh, it's okay," she said softly, focusing on her task so she didn't cry. Tears burned her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. "Just overused it a bit. I'll be okay in a minute."

Before she could blink, the prince was beside her on the floor, and had gently pushed her hands away, to replace them with his own. Unlike her own kneading and pressing, the effect of Nuada's touch was immediate. The soothing coolness of Elven magic spread through her bad leg, dampening the hot pain. Dylan wanted to say something, to protest that he didn't have to do this if he didn't want to; she knew the fair-haired warrior prince didn't like touching her. But if she said anything, he might actually stop, and then the smoldering pain would come back. So she just let her head fall back against the bed. "I didn't know you could heal."

"It's not healing. A mere bit of soothing magic, only. It shames me that I didn't see your discomfort earlier."

"Well, I was trying to hide it," she reminded him. "Don't beat yourself up. So... any ideas on how to get out of this?"

"Not a one," the prince muttered. "My father has made it obvious that we'll incur his displeasure if we do not plight our troth and wed. I can think of no immediate escape. You?"

"Nope." Probably because she was so blasted tired. The last five or six hours had been some of the most mentally and emotionally exhausting she'd ever experienced. For a moment, she indulged in a tiny bit of self-pity. She didn't want to be here, in this beautiful and unfriendly palace. She wanted to be at home, curled up in her own bed, with one of her books. Maybe a blueberry muffin.

But, she reminded herself, that wasn't what Heavenly Father had in store for her right now. She was here to do something for someone. Probably Nuada, Dylan thought, but maybe it was someone else. And that was okay. If someone was helped in some way by her presence, that was great. Especially since the pain in her knee was almost gone. Sheer relief was so strong, she felt like singing. He'd probably think I'd gone crazy if I did, though. So she only said, "Thank you, my prince. That is so much better."

They locked eyes for a brief instant, feral amber against serene silvery blue. Then the sweet coolness of magic was gone, replaced by a not-unpleasant tingling, and Nuada was across the room, gazing dispassionately out one of the tall windows into the dark night. She felt his sudden absence almost like a blow, but the gentle warmth of the Spirit eased the sharp stab of sadness.

Obviously I did something to annoy him. Fantastic. Or he just couldn't stand it for one more second. It sucks that I'm so gross to him. Very carefully, using the bed as leverage, Dylan got to her feet. "I should probably get ready for bed. It's kind of late." I wish I had my scriptures, she added silently. Feels weird not to be reading them every night. It's been... wow, three nights, now. I'm sorry, Heavenly Father.

"Someone has laid out night clothes for you."

"Oh?" Dylan said, distracted. She couldn't help but smile when she saw the pale blue smock, silver kirtle and blue hair ribbon laid out over a chair near the door to the bathing chamber, along with two towels, a pair of her own store-bought winter socks, and her fuzzy white bunny slippers. Becan, I adore you. Here were the clothes she liked to wear. She felt almost naked in the thin léine, and much preferred the layered medieval look of shift and over-gown. And the socks and slippers were the perfect security blanket in this strange, rather lonely castle.

Then she noticed there was something else beside the chair draped with clothing - an embroidered, blue canvas bag the size of a large purse. She actually squealed as she dropped down beside it and reached inside.

Nuada stared at the human who seemed to have suddenly taken leave of her senses. Dylan withdrew a very thick book with silver-edged pages, bound in blue leather, from the bag. Her name was stamped on the bottom right corner of the cover, but there was no title on the cover. She actually laid her cheek against the book and closed her eyes, as if cuddling against a small, furry animal.

"What is that?"

"My scriptures!" Seemingly delighted, the mortal rifled through the bag and pulled out a thick binder, several brightly-colored pens, a tiny black book with gold-edged pages, and a pink spiral-bound booklet. "And everything else! My journal, my pens, my hymn book! Becan brought them, I know he did. Extra porridge for him tomorrow, seriously. With butter and honey. And cream!"

"Why do you need such things? You're not at your church now."

"Hmmm?" She mumbled distractedly, then snapped to attention. "I'm sorry, yes. No. I'm not at church, but I'm supposed to read my scriptures at least once a day, though I try for twice, since I have a better day if I read in the morning, and sleep better if I read at night. Our Prophet counsels us to study the scriptures daily, and Christ Himself said, 'Seek first to obtain my word.' You know how I am - the Lord commands, and I obey."

"You mean to say," the prince replied, obviously disbelieving, "that you read from that book twice a day, every day?" The tome was nearly as thick as the span of one of her hands. "For how long?"

"It depends on what I'm doing. For right now, I am slowly but surely making my way through the Book of Mormon, as part of my Virtue Project. So I'm trying for at least a chapter every time I read. Bare minimum is one verse, but sometimes the verses end in the middle of a sentence and then when I come back, I get confused for a minute. Although tonight I'm going to do a topical study on forgiveness on top of my Virtue reading."

Nuada blinked. Forgiveness? "Why?"

"Because I'm mad at your dad and your sister, and I don't know if they have a good reason for what they're doing or not," she said, opening the large book. Inside the front cover were several squares of thick cardstock with multicolored writing on them - one in pale blue, one in dark blue, one in red, one in pink, and one in black. He saw that the red one said in bold letters at the top, DON'T GET ANGRY. The card scribbled on with pale blue ink was labeled SPEAK NO ILL. The Elf warrior could not see the rest. "I try not to get mad before I know someone's motives. Whenever I get mad at someone and can't seem to get rid of it, I read up on forgiveness. It helps me stop being mad. Not always, and not always all at once, but it usually helps." Smiling ruefully now, Dylan added, "I need all the help I can get."

"You believe it's wrong... to be angry?" He scoffed. "Mortals. It seems consistency is beyond a human, even one such as you. Did not your Christian God get angry at times?"

Dylan looked up, studying the Elf prince for a long moment, as if considering. Then the mortal carefully replaced the little white cards and closed the leather tome. She put everything that she had pulled out back into the canvas bag, then sat down with her good knee drawn up to her chest and her arms folded around it, her chin propped on her knee. The human seemed deep in thought, and Nuada had to wonder if she were trying to think of a way to lie to him without lying, as she had done so skillfully in his father's hall. The idea sent a quick flare of rage through him, but it dispersed quickly. She had never lied to him before. When she did not wish to speak of something, she had always told him so, but never lied about it. And when Dylan finally spoke, he was surprised at her words.

"I have done a lot of bad things in my life. Called people names, yelled at people, thought mean things about them, and been unkind. It was mostly when I was young, but I've had lapses as an adult, too. And I've disrespected my parents, insulted the parents of my patients - and, sometimes, my colleagues. I've hurt the people I love - my parents, my siblings. I've done much that I shouldn't have.

"All of those things, or just one of them, has the power to separate me forever from my Heavenly Father if He chooses not to forgive me. But He does choose to forgive. And He doesn't smite me, or punish me for the things I've done. He laments for my rebelliousness, and when I am unhappy because of the natural consequences of my actions, He laments my unhappiness as well. He does not become angry for my transgressions, but He is saddened. And He always, always forgives me. I will always owe Him a debt for that."

Now she shrugged, and Nuada saw that she did not resent this idea, but accepted it as plain fact. There was silence for a moment. The prince knew Dylan had more to say, but was again choosing her words with the utmost care.

"There is a story in the Bible, about a man who owed a whole lot of money to a great king - ten thousand talents. Never could he hope to repay the debt, even if he lived a hundred lifetimes. When this debtor went before the king he owed, begging for mercy, the king pardoned him of the debt and sent him on his way with kindness." At Nuada's scoff, she smiled. "Don't the Tuatha dé believe in mercy, Your Highness? Did not your father grant both of us mercy by unchaining you, rescinding the second half of your sentence, and not killing me for showing up uninvited?"

"Well..." Nuada began, and stopped when Dylan turned her head to the side and laid her cheek against her knee. Dark curls slipped over her cheek and part of her face, partially veiling her moon-washed blue eyes. It was such a familiar pose - had she not often sat like that during their talks before her little hearth, dining on sandwiches and other simple fare, before the human would pull out a book and begin to read? The sight of it sent a strange feeling through the Elf's chest, and he fell silent. Very well. Merciful, King Balor may have been, if mercy consisted of veiled insults and attempting to strong-arm his own son into a union Nuada most certainly did not want. But what did that have to do with anger? Nothing that he could see. "Continue," he commanded coldly.

And hello again, Prince Prissy-Pants, Dylan thought, and smiled wider. Did he realize how ridiculous he made himself when he acted that way? It was almost adorable (not that she would ever tell him that). "So the king sent the debtor away with a pardon for his debt. That same debtor met with a man who owed him a sum - a sum much smaller than the one owed to the merciful lord; less than one talent. When the second debtor begged for mercy, the man who had so recently been pardoned refused. Instead of forgiving the second debtor, the pardoned man called forth the slavers and had the indebted man hauled away into bondage."

"But that is unfair!" Nuada burst out. "That is so like humans - to be selfish and cruel and-"

Dylan lifted her head and arched one eyebrow, fixing him with an expectant look. A brief pang struck Nuada hard in the belly. His mother had often given him a similar look when he was a child, when he had seen fit to interrupted her. Where had the mortal learned such a trick? Through gritted teeth, the prince made a disparaging gesture and growled, "Continue."

"When the merciful king heard what the pardoned man had done, he rescinded the man's pardon and he was enslaved as well. The end." Nuada opened his mouth, and Dylan said a bit loudly, "You're probably wondering what this has to do with anger. Allow me to elucidate. Why do we get angry?"

"Because... because others have angered us." Why was she asking such an obvious question?

"Nope. We get angry because others have done something that provokes us to anger."

"That's precisely what I-" Nuada began, and Dylan fixed him with that same look. Fighting the urge to snarl at her, he said icily, "Pray, continue. I am all attention."

"When someone does something that provokes us to anger, we may choose to let that anger come, or we may try to dispel it. It is possible to live without anger, or at least to give it minimal place in your life - not to suppress it, but simply not to feel it. It probably won't happen for me until I'm old and gray, if I manage it in this life at all, because I need lots of practice, but I believe it's possible. If it wasn't, God wouldn't command us not to get angry. He's not going to tell us to do something we simply cannot do. What kind of a just God would do that?" Another of those casual lifts of the shoulder in a half-shrug. "As long as we try our hardest, He'll help us with the rest. We'll mess up now and then, sure, but we just keep trying. Now, what this has to do with the story of the debtors. We, all people - human and fae - have messed up at some time or another, right? Nobody's perfect. True?"

The prince grudgingly admitted that this was so.

"We are the debtor who was pardoned. God forgives us the debt we owe through our transgressions. Do we have the right to hold others to their debts, which are so very small in comparison, when Heavenly Father has pardoned our own?"

"You mean..." He studied her for a long moment. "You believe it's evil to not forgive, since you've done worse and yet been forgiven?"

"Exactly." The smile she gave him would have been called dazzling if found on an Elf's countenance. "Which is why I try to love everyone, and be kind to everyone, and not get angry. I find it's a lot easier to just not get angry than it is to forgive once I've gotten mad. And even though I try really hard, I get angry a lot anyway, but not so much over the small things anymore."

I still kinda want to punch Nuala and give King Jerk-Face a good kick in the shins, she thought, frowning. But that's my own problem and I am not supposed to feel that way. I'll get over it.

"What about murder?" Nuada demanded. "Have you done worse than murder?"

"I don't know." She waited while the prince stared at her, tried to speak, and found himself speechless. "I read a book once, called the Five People You Meet in Heaven. This man named Eddie dies, and he meets five people in Heaven. One of them is his wife - yay - but one of them is this other guy that he's never seen before. And this guy is there to meet him because when Eddie was a little boy, he or one of his friends threw a baseball and when they ran after it, it caused a car accident, and the man - who was driving that car - died. Eddie never even knew until that moment.

"So, have I done something like that? I don't know. I probably won't know until I die. But I might have. I hope and pray that I haven't, but I might have. And you might not consider it murder, but the pain and suffering that the man's wife and children must have felt at his death was probably no different than if he had been murdered. If I have caused a death in the same way as Eddie did, people suffered in the same way that man's family suffered as well. So who's to judge? It's up to God, not me.

"Which is not to say that crimes should not be punished, because they absolutely should. But they should be so according to a law, and the punishment should not be given in hatred or anger or thirst for vengeance, but out of justice. But my job is not to judge (although I mess up a lot with that). My job is to love, and to forgive, no matter who I'm loving and forgiving. "

"And... if you cannot? If you can't simply forgive?"

"Then I pray for Heavenly Father to help me do so. He's always willing to help you do what He's asked. And there's nothing I can't do with myself - no sin I can't overcome, no trial I can't face - as long as I always remember to pray. And as long as we try, and I mean really try, that's what's important."

Nuada stepped away from the window and strode over to sit in front Dylan, to study her face. There was absolutely no deception in her gaze. Instead, there was calm acceptance, a firm resolve, and a quiet peace. But he could not simply accept this. No mortal believed this way. To forgive even such heinous crimes as murder? To believe that simple and impotent prayer could change a human's greedy, hollow heart? It could not be. Yet he remembered that the mortal had prayed with equal fervor for mercy on Eamonn's behalf - although she had sounded as if she were swallowing broken glass - as she had for protection for Wink, his sister and father, and himself. And he recalled the unwavering faith that had been in her voice. But it simply could not be. No one could be like that, not really.

"Give me your hand," he commanded, steeling himself. It had been many centuries since he had attempted to touch a mortal mind more than casually. This communication employed between himself and the human during the endless hours at court had consisted of only the briefest mental contact. Here he would be immersing himself in a human mind and consciousness. Searching for a deeper understanding of her thoughts. The last time he had attempted such a thing, the contact had caused him to be violently ill for days afterward. What would it be like this time?

Dylan scanned the Elf prince's face. A whisper of fear threatened her with vicious half-thoughts, hissed that Nuada would hurt her this way, as Eamonn had. But one look at beautiful eyes like amber jewels silenced the whispers. She had never known a more honorable man. She loved him just as fiercely as she loved John, because Nuada was her dearest friend in this life (even if his regard for her derived only from honor; Dylan was closer to Nuada than she was to anyone but her brother, sad as she could admit that was). Dylan knew Nuada would never, ever hurt her. And so her hand was steady when she reached out and laid her palm against the Elf's.

He found her thoughts, and simply let them wash over him, stunned into silence.

There was desperation there, the desperation she felt to be perfect, to always forgive immediately and to love unconditionally no matter what the circumstances. She did not always manage it, and that was where such fierce desperation and desire came from - the desperate need to always manage it. Not because she wanted to be perfect out of pride, but because being imperfect was morally abhorrent to her. The human truly believed that, unless she tried with all her strength to forgive all things and to love all creatures, she was not worthy of the forgiveness and love that she felt she needed from her God. Not that perfection was required. No, it was only the sincere pursuit of perfection that was needed. And it was not simply a feeling of needing divine approval. Nuada saw that Dylan's soul longed not for the love of men or other earthly creatures, but truly needed love from the divine. The fact that she was so certain God even existed, much less cared about a single human to the extent that she believed, astonished him.

And he found memories of Dylan praying, as a girl and as a grown woman. But not praying for the trash and shallow, material things he had seen many mortals request (though the brief memory-flash of her praying for a kitten made him smile). She prayed instead for other things.

Heavenly Father, please instill in me a deeper love of hard work... bless me with alertness while I study... help me to forgive more readily... please give me the strength to stand against their lies and their drugs... bless me that I might remember to speak kindly... watch over John, since I can't... help him keep the creek clean while I'm gone... help me to eschew my anger... my God, bless me with an open heart... please bless that I may be more useful to Thee in some way, Kind Father... please help my love of my Savior to grow ever stronger... Heavenly Father, bless me that virtue may garnish my every thought, that I might walk in Thy holy ways...

He easily detected pieces of darkness in the mortal's mind - the painful soul wounds of her past, mostly, though there was selfishness, anger, and a small bit of laziness that surprised him - but they were small, and to his mental eyes, caged by the white light of her desire to be loving and kind, her refusal to let her grief and sorrow affect her happiness in life, and the determination to surpass the standards set before her by her Christian God. He had expected her heart to be, like most humans, nearly black and cold with the evil that festered inside them. Perhaps not quite as dark, since she struggled so to suppress that part of herself. But instead, Dylan's mortal heart was nearly as white and pure as fresh-fallen snow, and as warm as spring sunlight.

And there was a presence inside her, separate from her, that seemed to shine like a star. It seemed to soothe every sadness that Nuada had ever felt, to ease every grief, simply by saying to him in words he could barely hear, I am with you.

A careful touch against his cheek pulled him out of the mental contact. Dylan's fingers brushed against his cheek, and came away wet. He had been weeping.

"You okay?" Dylan whispered. Her voice was hoarse and thick with some emotion Nuada could not name, and did not want to. But the concern and affection in that voice seemed to pierce him to his soul. It was as if he saw her with new eyes. "You look a little pale. You're not going to throw up or faint or something, are you?"

"No... no." The Elf prince slowly rose to his feet, feeling oddly unsure of himself. "I am... well enough." He started to walk to the door. He had to get out of this room, get away from her so he could think. He could not think with those liquid eyes like rain-swept oceans watching him so apprehensively. Yet his legs felt weak. Somehow he doubted he could make it down the corridor. Instead he sank down upon the bed. "You should go and..." The prince gestured vaguely to the bathing chamber.

"A-all right," she said, and slowly stood up, careful of the minor stiffness in her leg. Dylan gathered up the clothes and towels and was about to go into the bathing chamber when she stopped and turned to the prince. She took a few hesitant steps toward him. "Nuada... I'm sorry if I upset you. I didn't mean to."

Translation, he realized. She is sorry I find her thoughts so repulsive. She tries to be perfect. She would be, if she could. Forgive her, that she is not. That is what she is asking me. It almost made him feel like a monster. And there was such worry and self-reproach in those silvery eyes. Hardly knowing what he did, he reached out and brushed his knuckles down the length of one of the thick scars slashing down her cheek. Her skin was warm, and remarkably soft to the touch. He let his knuckles whisper every so slowly along her jaw, reluctant to end the contact, but finally allowed his hand to fall. "You've done nothing wrong, Dylan. You..." You never do anything wrong. But he would not - could not - say that.

"Okay," she whispered, smiling now - always smiling, he thought, always trying to smile - and left the room. He felt the absence of her immediately, even though she was only on the other side of the door. Nuada listened carefully for the tiny splashes of water that meant she had slipped into the bath. When they came, so came soft singing. Slightly out of tune. Not charming or endearing at all, as many said of their loved ones who could not seem to carry a simple melody. But the feeling in the words, the love and the plea, reminded him of what Ariel, the sylph who helped keep his sanctuary useable, had said all those months ago. That Dylan sang the way a child sang, full of love and joy.

"Abide with me, t'is eventide;
The day is past and gone.
The shadows of the evening fall;
The night is coming on.

"Within my heart, a welcome guest;
Within my home abide.
O Savior, stay this night with me;
Behold, t'is eventide.
O Savior, stay this night with me;
Behold, t'is eventide..."

Dylan lay in the tub, letting the water lap gently at her throat and jaw as she sang. Singing always helped to settle her, even though she wasn't very good at it. Tonight she desperately needed settling. The touch of Nuada's knuckles gently ghosting over her cheek filled her mind as she vainly attempted to focus on the words to the hymn. Why had he done that? It had been almost an exact repeat of the caress from the king's Hall (until the touch against her jaw, she reminded herself, and couldn't keep from tracing the still-tingling path Nuada's touch had taken). She'd asked him in the great hall not to do it again... but there had been a difference in that first touch and this one. Not just the extent of the caress, either. Something subtle. Unlike the first time, his touch hadn't frightened her. It had sent her heart racing and her blood humming.

That's ridiculous! I can not be attracted to Nuada, Dylan thought with no little desperation. She sank under the water as heat flooded her face. I can't! He hates humans. If he thinks I'm attracted to him, he'll be really mad. Not to mention completely grossed out. And besides, attraction leads to crushes, and sometimes crushes lead to love. Love is bad. In this case, romantic love is very bad. I love Nuada as a friend (unfortunately, a hot friend, but a friend only). It can't become anything else. So snap out of it. I will not be attracted to Nuada.

Well, there was nothing to worry about. If she could force herself not to be angry and not to hate (sometimes), if she could alter her own feelings so that she loved even those who tried to hurt her and forgave them (maybe), then she could keep herself from being attracted to someone (please, yes). And besides, it might not have even been attraction. The scars on her face were incredibly sensitive. She might have just had a totally reflexive reaction. Sort of how John always shivered when someone breathed on the back of his neck. Even guys had that effect on him, and her twin was as straight as a flag pole on a clear day (seeing as how, on incredibly windy days, most upright pole-objects struggled to stay straight and often bent beneath the wind).

I'm okay, she told herself. I just can't let him do that to me anymore. I'll tell him in the morning - no more cheek grazing. It makes me too shivery. We'll figure something else out to show our... attraction or whatever. Calmer now, Dylan ducked under the water to wet her hair. Suspended in liquid weightlessness, just enjoying the beauty of being in the water, she suddenly realized that Nuada had said he would tell her something interesting after their time in the great hall. He probably forgot, Dylan thought, surfacing for air. I'll ask him in the morning.

She slid back into the water once more.