Chapter 16 - In the Dark of the Night

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A Short Tale of Memories in the Dark, Tears in Shadow, Battle and Bloodlust, a Whisper of Failure

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Screaming terror ripped her out of sleep and hurled her back into wakefulness with a choked gasp. Dylan bolted upright in the wide bed, her fist stuffed in her mouth to silence the shriek choking the breath from her. Icy sweat plastered her hair to her face and neck. Cold fear coiled sickeningly in her stomach. And for just a moment, tears burned and memory whispered cruel reminders of waking nightmares long past. She looked around, fighting panic. Where... how did... where was she? This wasn't her room. This wasn't her cottage! Where was she?

Then recollections of the evening, and the two days prior, slammed into her mind and she fought a sudden despair tightening around her chest. Court, the king, the pretense at love, and the melding of thoughts while alone in the dimly lit bedroom. Escaping to the bath. Returning to find Nuada gone. Dressing for the night and going to bed. Simple. Easy. Everything was all right.

And yet, somehow, it wasn't.

A crack of thunder rattled the windows. She gasped as another crashing boom reverberated through the cold bedchamber. Her heart slammed hard against her sternum, until she thought the bones were bruising her.

I'm okay, Dylan told herself, pushing sweat-stringy hair out of her face. She tried to pretend she didn't see the way her hand shook like a leaf in a gale. It's okay. I'm in Findias. I remember. I'm safe. It's okay. But every deep shadow was a monster from her nightmares skulking through the room. Every flash of lightning was a reflection of burning silver eyes lit with evil promise. And every hiss and crackle of the low fire in the hearth was a whisper, a threatening hushed voice murmuring brutal fantasies as Elven fingers bit deep into her skin and Elven cruelty burned inside her skull. And the room breathed the name of her worst nightmares: Eamonn. Eamonn...

Flashes of darkly-dreamt torments burned against the back of her tightly shut eyelids as sounds assaulted her: Eamonn grinning over her, her blood on his pale lips and teeth; the hollow snap of her arm breaking in his grip; her own thin scream as the dark Elf pressed red-hot iron to her bare skin; her lungs struggling for air as Eamonn held his hand over her face and said, "Watch the light fade from her eyes, Silverlance."

And the hell-thing that filled her with sick horror: Nuada, struggling to rise despite the spiked iron shackles dragging him down; blood matted his pale golden hair, streaked down his bare chest; the men who laughed as Eamonn did everything in his power to destroy her, they beat the courageous prince who fought to reach her, who tried in vain to save her. The sight of the Elven warrior dragging himself onward with bleeding hands, trembling with the effort to keep coming, made her heart hurt. Made the tears she fought so desperately burn at the backs of her eyes. They seared her cheeks as they fell.

Stop, stop! She pleaded to the phantom images branded into her mind. Nuada, stop! Please... I don't want to see anymore. Please.... But she did see. Eyes closed, eyes open, there was nothing she could do to stop herself from seeing and feeling what Eamonn had planted in her brain -

- Hands bruising, breaking her
No, only a dream
Not real, not real!
Eamonn's mouth hard and biting
She screams when he breaks her fingers
One by one
And the sobbing, the pleading
Not her voice
Nuada
Blows thudding against his bare flesh
Oh, Nuada, Nuada, don't...
Nuada struggling to reach her
Can barely stand, blood dripping
Horrified golden eyes locked on hers as she dies
Over and over and over again
Just a dream! Nightmare
Not real a trick not real
Please, please don't hurt him
Eamonn, don't, please -

Help me, she thought frantically, clinging to the present with all the desperation of a trapped animal. Hysteria burned in her stomach, adrenaline burned in her blood. Terror screamed under her skin. She tried to call out, but her voice was hollow and broken by the fear and soul-tearing grief dripping down her spine like the rain smashing against the windows and running like blood. John. Help me, John. Where are you? I need you, help me, I can't... But her twin brother was in the human world, far from Faerie. As far from her as the moon. John, I'm scared. John... Trapped without him in the dark, she shivered and fought to suppress the fear. There had to be someone, someone who would come and...

Nuada! Nuada, help. Please... Nuada...

Her head felt like it was splitting apart. Her chest ached, as if someone had literally punched a hole through her ribs. Dry lips parted and she struggled to call out, to break the darkness. Shadows throttled her into silence. Phantom pain stole the breath from her lungs. A dark poison festered inside her mind, dragging her back into memory, into fear and the mist of dark dreams. Always it was the same: Nuada battered, bleeding, and broken on the icy stone floor. Still struggling. Still fighting. Molten bronze eyes locked on her face every time she died in dreams. And the shadows breathed around her.

Heavenly Father, she prayed, desperation choking her. Help me, please. I'm scared. I don't know what to do. Panic and ice cold fear skittered up and down her spine like venomous spiders. There's something here, something trying to get me.

It was ridiculous, but Dylan knew the living shadows of the room held their breath, waiting for her to move, to make the mistake of sliding out of the safety of her bed. Then they would reach out with scaly claws and drag her away into darkness. It was Samhain night, the night when the veil between all the various realms grew thin as breath. The night when the dark things of Faerie waxed strong in their tenebrous powers.

Help, Dylan tried to whisper, to cry out. Childlike fear throttled her into silence. Help me. I can't... Was this only the after-effects of a bad dream? Or was it something worse, some malevolent shadowed thing oozing across the floor toward her, intent on terrorizing an already terrified woman? Did some dark thing lurk in the blackness?

In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, Dylan prayed, trying to grasp at even a shred of anger to fuel her dwindling courage, if any devils lurk here, any evil things, I command you to depart!

But there were no devils to be cast out. No ghosts to be bound by the power of the Star Kindler. No dark forces commanded by the Adversary to be fought. There was only the echoes of a nightmare, and her deep-seated fear of the leering, threatening dark.

Call out, a voice breathed against her heart. A tiny ember of courage bloomed inside her. I am with you. Call out.

Digging her nails into her palms, she sucked in a deep breath. Warmth flared in her chest, and she managed to choke out, "B-B-Becan!" She had to take another breath as an irrational tide of horror swamped her. But the voice in her heart, the prompting of the Spirit, helped her to whisper, "H-help... Nuada..."

The door creaked open. A thin shaft of torchlight sliced through the dark. Then the door closed again with a muffled thump. The saliva dried in Dylan's mouth. Had someone come into her room? Who...? Eamonn.

Eamonn. Eamonn, coming in the dark to finish it all, to take her and break her to pieces, all for the sake of destroying Nuada's spirit -

- Teeth tearing into her wrist
Blood sheeting down an arm twisted and broken
Chains rattling, Nuada swearing
The dark Elf whispering in her ear,Tá tú a chroí. Anois, beidh mé sos sé i bpíosaí.
You are his heart. Now I shall break it into pieces.
Dizziness and pain
Fire throbbing where his teeth tore
Death like ice at the back of her bruised, swollen throat
And Nuada shouting,
Eamonn! Don't, I beg you.
Pleading for the dark Elf to spare her
Impigh mé leat... dean trócaire. Eamonn!
Eamonn laughing as the prince begs him to have mercy
Tears for Nuada's pain sting her eyes
She would die, and he would suffer
Nuada... -

With a choked cry, she threw back the thick covers and swung her legs to the floor. Needles of ice seemed to stab into her feet through her socks. Still limping a little from the slight stiffness in her bad leg, she scrambled to the fireplace and quickly coaxed the dying embers into brilliant life. Light and heat washed over her, vainly trying to push away the nightmares and the darkness. Dylan hunched on the floor, as close to the fire as she dared sit, until the heat almost seared her skin. The sudden flare of firelight told her that no one lurked in her room. Nothing waited to hurt her. She was completely alone.

After a long, tense moment where she dug her nails into her palms and sank her teeth into her bottom lip... after that, the tears came. And Dylan buried her face in her hands and wept.

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Nuada raced down an endless corridor, leather boots pounding against the smooth flagstone floor. No doors, no windows, no tapestries or branching hallways. In the distance he heard the crashing of thunder, the staccato percussion of rain on the rooftops. He smelled human blood, sharp and metallic. The stench of slaughter. And the floor was stained with ever-widening puddles of crimson.

Goblin bronze sang as a Fir Bholg gladius arced down, intent of cleaving flesh. Only the glint of torchlight on metal from the corner of Nuada's eye warned him. The prince dodged to the side and brought up his own blade to block the heavy sword. Silver clashed against the bronze. The impact shivered through Nuada's arms as he stared into familiar, sky blue eyes. Sreng. How had he escaped the Butcher Guards?

"I'll be takin' the Sword back soon, Silverlance," the Fir Bholg man said, and chuckled. He pressed with the troll-like strength of the Sons of Dela against the Elven warrior's own strength. It took everything Nuada had to hold the other fey warrior at bay. Without the Spear of Light or the Sword of Victory, the strength of the Elves of Bethmoora was barely two-thirds that of the Fir Bholg, the Elves of Eirc. Nuada could feel his strength wavering beneath Sreng's even as the prince came to a swift decision.

Lunging to the right, Nuada dodged the bronze blade and thrust his sword deep into Sreng's foot. Blood spurted. The other warrior roared in pain and tried to swing his gladius at the prince. The feral-eyed warrior rolled himself backward, evading the potentially lethal slice. With a howl, Sreng lurched toward Nuada, his face a mask of fury. Nuada brought up his sword as the Fir Bholg man lunged for him. The Elven silver bit deep into the other fighter's side. He staggered. Turned to face the bronze-eyed Elf prince who wasn't so much as sweating yet. The hatred in those sky-blue eyes brought a smirk to Nuada's lips. Attacking in anger nearly always resulted in injury or death. Battles were won by those with cool heads.

"Smile while you can, Silverlance. Mock your own kind while you can. She'll pay for it," the Elf of Eirc snarled. Nuada's expression turned stony. Crimson began lancing like tiny bolts of lightning through the molten bronze of his furious eyes when Sreng added, "Your little human tramp. Lord Eamonn will exact retribution for all your sins from her fragile mortal flesh."

With a voice like the arctic wind, his blood burning as it pulsed through him, Nuada demanded, "Where is she?"

Sreng scoffed and muttered, "Hardly matters now, does it? If she's still alive... well, she soon won't be." Then the Fir Bholg launched himself at the Elf prince and brought the gladius down with all the rage he could muster. Nuada barely managed to block the strike this time. No longer did Sreng attempt to prevent injury to himself. He slammed his broad-bladed sword down again and again and again. The shock of the blows threatened to numb the prince's arms as he blocked rapidly with his own sword. The attacks were so reckless and swift he had no time to dodge aside. No time to think of countering. Madness fueled by rage smoldered deep in the other warrior's eyes as he battered at the prince.

I don't have time for this, Nuada thought as pain burned through his chest. That blasted poison. He still was not recovered enough. Curse the healers. They had sworn... I must move past this weakness and kill him quickly. Dylan is in danger. Was she with Eamonn now? Was the dark Elf hurting her?

"Eamonn said that once he finishes with your whore, I can be the one to kill her," Sreng panted, grinning at the prince. "Cut her into little bloody pieces, I will, and send them to you in a box. Will you weep then, traitor? Weep for the one you sold out your people for?"

Bronze eyes flashed scarlet. Sreng only laughed. Black hate thrummed in Nuada's blood.

The Elf of Eirc made a drastic mistake when he stepped too close to the Elf prince. Nuada brought his sword blade up to block Sreng's attack even as he brought his heel down on the other fighter's injured foot. The Fir Bholg roared in agony and stumbled. A swift blow of sword hilt to elbow numbed the red-haired Elf's arm and forced him to drop his gladius. It clattered to the floor.

Then Nuada plunged his sword deep into the warrior's belly.

Blood fountained from the wound and ran in golden streams down the silver blade. Blue eyes locked with eyes of Bethmoora gold. Nuada twisted his sword and drove it deep. Deeper. Sreng cried out against the fresh wash of pain. Blood bubbled between his slack lips as he fell to his knees.

"I do not weep for humans," Nuada said coldly. "But be sure I will butcher any who attempt to harm what is mine." Then the Elf prince wrenched out the sword and swung it once, hard. Silver arced across Sreng's throat. His head toppled from his shoulders with a final spurt of dark life's blood.

Somewhere ahead Nuada heard a sharp, all-too-human scream. Nuada stepped around Sreng's corpse and began to run down the corridor.

At the end of the hall was a door. The handle was smeared with red, and on the floor in front of it lay the black jewel he had given Nuala so many centuries ago. Dylan had worn it only that night. A Ghrá, it said. The endearment was carved deep into the silver setting. Now the Elf prince knelt and lifted the silver necklace, letting the links slip through his spread fingers. They left thin red lines against the paleness of his skin. And when he saw that blood, smelled the iron of it and knew it to be mortal, he knew a moment of true fear. And then he heard the laughter - Eamonn's laughter - and there was hatred burning like hellfire to mingle with that fear.

The pale warrior wrenched open the door and froze. Eamonn lounged against Nuada's bed, stripped to the waist. His dark hair spilled over shoulders and a chest smeared with human blood. And at his feet, black-bruised eyes closed as if she slept, lay Dylan. Bruised. Broken. The too pale flesh streaked scarlet with blood. Far too still. She did not breathe or stir. Only lay silent and unmoving on the floor.

Nuada's bloodstained sword fell to the ground with a clatter that seemed to drive the breath from his chest.

"Cosúil le mil meá agus súatha talún, Sleighe Airgead. Like honeyed mead and strawberries, Silverlance." The dark-haired Elf ran a finger over his bottom lip, licked it obscenely as if savoring the last vestiges of a rare delicacy. Something icy settled around Nuada's heart. "Such sweet kisses. Exquisite, even for a human."

"You killed her," he said dully. A strange fog seemed to numb his thoughts, his mind. There was nothing to hold onto but a dull confusion. "You killed her."

"Eventually." Sickening, the smile that stretched Eamonn's lips. "But I had such fun with her first. Pity about humans, really," he added with a laconic shrug. Nuada saw that his chest and neck had been raked by a woman's nails. "They are so very fragile, are they not? Your little whore bled out beneath me before you arrived. And her screams were so lovely. I especially enjoyed working with her hands."

Nuada's eyes widened when he saw that each of Dylan's fingers were black with bruises, twisted at sickening angles. The ice in his chest spread cold fingers through his belly and up into his throat.

Eamonn added, "I had no idea mortals could scream like that. Beautiful. Did you know," with a wink and a conspiratory whisper, "the poor thing whispered your name as she died? Rather sweet, actually. She actually expected you to arrive in time to save her. Although it is always a disappointment to hear a woman call out another man's name when I'm roge-"

With a roar of vengeance and fury, Nuada launched himself at Eamonn. But somehow, even as he moved, the dark Elf faded away, leaving only a mocking laugh like a blow to the belly. That was how the Elf prince knew it was a dream, but it did not matter. Dreaming, waking, it mattered not at all. Eamonn was gone, and Dylan lay dead on the floor.

Panting with the black hate burning through him, sick from the hollow ache in his belly, Nuada dropped to his knees beside her. She looked like a broken doll a negligent child had merely tossed aside. Eamonn had torn her dress - the same léine she had worn to court. Blood stained the snow-white linen. So much blood. The sight of it, so scarlet against the white, was yet another knife in his chest. The prince slipped his arm beneath Dylan's too-still form, carefully lifted her to cradle the limp woman against him. Everything in him revolted against holding a human this way, but he seemed to have lost control of his body. All he could do was let his eyes - and his mind, numb with shock - absorb what he was seeing.

Dylan's head lolled on her neck like a flower on a broken stem. Black fingerprints stood out starkly against her pale throat. The thin, gold chain of the medallion she always wore, broken now, slid from around her throat and fell to the stone floor with a clink. Crimson stained her scarred lips. A tiny trickle of blood glistened at the corner of her mouth and smeared her cheek. The same cheek he had caressed only hours before. Pretense, that caress. Only charade. But the sight of that blood marring the bruised skin made his stomach rebel.

He could not process any of this. Could not understand how he had failed. How he had allowed Eamonn to reach her, allowed him to hurt her this way. Tentative fingers brushed against a vicious bruise darkening her jaw. Her skin was so cold. It had been warm before, but now she was so very cold beneath his touch. His hand trembled when he traced her bruised, bloodied mouth. No breath warmed his skin. And her lips were cold now, too.

Nuada's mind tortured him with questions: had it been brutal? Had the mortal wept and called out for him as Eamonn had said? What all had the silver-eyed Elf done to her? How long had he tortured her before finally ending it?

"Teacht ar ais," he whispered, voice shaking. The words were not his, he did not choose them, but still they spilled from his lips like blood. Still he pleaded in the Old Tongue, Come back. She must come back. How could he have failed in this? She must come back. "Tabhair," he said. Please. "Teacht ar ais. Dylan... tabhair nach bás. Ní féidir leat bás." Please don't die. You can't die. He had failed. Eamonn had robbed him of honor. He had failed her. "Impigh mé leat, oscail do shúile." But despite his plea, despite that he begged, her eyes did not open. The hollow ache in the pit of his belly expanded until it felt as if some dark monster raked at him with its claws. And he could only plead, "Dylan, tabhair... tabhair..."

The mocking laughter returned. Louder now, echoing off the walls, taunting him. The stench of blood was nearly overwhelming. It mingled with the sick perfume of terror, the acrid stink of perverse and vicious male arousal. He should get up and strike Eamonn down like a dog. And yet all he could think was, Eamonn bruised her face. He touched that dark smudge at her jaw again with a hand that shook. Fury... or despair? His breath shuddered in his chest. She is mortal. So fragile and mortal. That beast bruised her face. Dylan... mo duinne....

A hand slammed down on his shoulder, and he spun, an enraged snarl of pure hate on his lips and his lance suddenly in his hand...

And only at the last minute did he manage to pull the knife strike that would have skewered little Becan. He was not in that blood-spattered room anymore. He no longer dreamt of death and mortality, and a woman broken and far too still in his arms. He was in one of the guest suites down the hall from his own suite. The walls of Findias kept out the rain pounding against the rooftops. Sweat dampened his bare chest. The loose, cropped trews he slept in were tangled around his legs along with the blankets. A well-laid fire crackled in the hearth, and a terrified brownie stared up at him in mute supplication, sloe-black eyes wide in the nut-brown face.

"You should not attempt to wake a warrior by grabbing them," Nuada muttered, pushing back the silvery blond hair spilling around his face. His cheeks were wet. Perhaps he had built the fire up too high before retiring. Why else would he be sweating so hard in late autumn? Nuada swiped at the moisture on his skin with a hand he refused to admit was shaking, and slid out of bed. Stalked to the fire. The heat seared away the last vestiges of his nightmare. Why did he continue to dream of Eamonn slaying the human? Why did his mind torment him thus with failure and shame? Noticing Becan still stood shivering beside his bed, he placed the knife atop the mantle and growled, "What did you come for? What did you need to tell me?"

"My m-m-mistress..." Becan swallowed hard and cleared his throat when Nuada's head whipped around. In the dimness, the brownie couldn't tell if the prince's eyes had melted to bronze. "She asked m-me to bring y-y-you to her chamber."

"First of all, it is my chamber." And only Nuala's interference kept him from regaining mastery over his own bed. As if he would throw the mortal into the stables as a replacement chamber. Or worse, force himself into her bed based on its true ownership. Some people's sisters never changed. "Secondly, your mistress summons me to her?" He demanded. "As if I am her dog? I do not think so." She would not do that.

"P-please, Your Highness," the brownie stammered. "I heard the request from her own lips."

Strawberries and honeyed mead, Silver Lance. Such sweet kisses. Exquisite, even for a human. Eamonn's words. Eamonn's lies. He would heed none of them. Dylan was mortal. She did not have lips that tasted of honey and sweet summer fruit. Nor, he told himself vehemently, did her lips taste of blood. They were mere human lips, neither sweet nor exquisite. Nuada did not have to taste them himself to know the truth of this. Eamonn's sickening lies could go hang, and so could Eamonn, gods curse him to the blackest, hottest circle of Hell.

"Why did she send you to fetch me?" Nuada demanded after a moment. The fire danced and sparks whipped into the air as a log shifted in the fireplace. "I am not her dog. What does the human want with the Silver Lance?"

"I... I do not know, Your Highness. She asked me to b-bring you, and then began t-t-to weep. I think she may p-perhaps have had an ill dream-"

But Nuada was not listening. He was not even in the room anymore, Becan saw. The prince had strode from the room with a grim look on his face, promises of retribution in his eyes, before the brownie had managed to finish saying the word "weep."

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The mortal sat hunched before the fire, the dim light turning the tear tracks on her face to pathways of diamond and glass. Nuada saw this, and saw that she did not look up when he entered the room. Firelight danced over the dark kirtle covering her drawn-up knees. Her hair hung loose and wild down her back, and gleamed with the light of the hearth. Nuada shut the door and walked slowly toward her. Silver-washed blue eyes did not so much as glance in his direction. She only continued to stare into the fire with empty eyes. The Elf prince smelled blood before he saw the dark smear of it at her mouth. Memory rocked him - blood smeared across scarred lips, vicious bruises darkening her face - but he shoved it down and studied her further. Flames glinted off the dark fluid that oozed between the fingers of her clenched fists. She did not look at him. She only blinked when he sat down next to her before the hearth.

"Dylan?" He murmured. Reached out to touch one of her bleeding fists with gentle fingers. Her hand jerked, spasmed. Then it twisted and she was clutching his fingers and he could feel the blood seeping from the deep crescents in her palm. He stiffened, but did not draw away from her. Could not have, even had he desired it. The mortal's bloodied mouth was trembling now with some suppressed emotion. A dangerous light flared in her otherwise vacant eyes. He could not leave her thus. So instead, he stretched out his legs so they would not fall asleep and waited for her to speak.

"I can't get him out of my head," she whispered suddenly. "Him. Eamonn. It's not like before. I... I had a bad dream." Now she sounded like a forlorn child. Nuada remembered that night in the sanctuary when Dylan had confessed to fearing the dark. She'd sounded like a child then, as well. "I had a bad dream and it was scary and I couldn't fight him or stop him when he... and I woke up and it was dark and suddenly he was right there in my mind and I can't get him out!" And she flung herself at him.

Instinctively he opened his arms so that the mortal collided with his chest. He thought briefly about pushing her away. Condemned the thought as unfeeling and dishonorable. Something a human would consider, and that made him almost ashamed. He had failed to protect her from Eamonn, so it was his task to comfort her now.

"I'm sorry," she quavered. "I know you don't like it, I'm sorry, Nuada, but please! Please, please don't let go of me. Please let me stay here. Please don't leave me alone."

An idiot would have thought she pleaded to remain in Findias, but he knew what she wanted. She wanted - needed - to stay here. With him. Stay pressed against him as if he could shield her from every dark and frightening thing. Against his better judgment, he folded his arms around her. Then he drew up his knees so that she was cradled between them. "Do you think I would desert you if you truly needed me? After everything that you have done for me and my people? Never."

Obviously, he thought dryly, I have said the right thing, or she would not be snuggling her face deeper into my chest. Which was not exactly a good thing, but it was at least an improvement over the hysteria. Still, the near-searing heat of her breath against his bare chest was distracting. "I would never abandon you. Gach tá go maith, a rún amháin. All is well, my dear one. The darkness cannot hurt you while I am here."

He felt absolutely ridiculous calling her "my dear one" (not to mention revolted, if the strange feeling in the pit of his belly was anything to go by), but the Gaelic endearment seemed to soothe her further. So he added a couple more nonsensical things.

"It is all right, a chumann. Do not be afraid. Tá mé anseo; I am here. I will stay with you, a stóirín, until you can sleep again."

Nuada thought he might be ill with the saccharine words in the Old Tongue. Sweetheart and my little darling. The Elf could feel his teeth rotting from the sweetness. But he had fallen back into old habits from soothing his twin in this manner, and it was obviously comforting the shaking human in his arms. He felt her relax, slow inch by slow inch, until she was a warm, limp body slumped against his chest and cradled by his bent knees.

How often had he sat this way with Nuala growing up, after she had been wakened by some nightmare or other? Too often to count. But with anyone else? Never. At least she's no longer intent on squeezing the breath from me, he thought with a smattering of half-relieved pique.

"Tá brón orm," Dylan whispered in Gaelic. Her eyelashes tickled his bare chest as she pressed closer. Her shoulders shook, but he heard no tears in her voice; only grief. "I'm sorry," she repeated, in English this time. "Please don't leave."

"I will not," he replied, and stroked her hair as he had often done to his frightened sister. "What happened?" Nuada asked, and was surprised when the human wrapped her arms around him and clung as if she never meant to let go. A whimper crawled from her mouth to scurry away into the darkness. The darkness, which hung around them like a ravenous shadow. Suddenly the dimness and the oppressive night lurking outside made him uneasy. Well, he could deal with that later. Frowning, Nuada commanded, "Dylan. Tell me."

"Eamonn..." She said, and her voice quavered. Sudden fury coiled in the pit of Nuada's stomach, burned in his veins like poison. The dark seemed to whisper that hated name like a demonic chant. Nuada clenched his teeth. "I dreamed about... about the things he showed me. He... he hurt you. He hurt you and I couldn't stop him."

Surprised, he echoed dumbly, "Me?"

Dylan nodded without taking her face away from the safety of his chest. Fresh, albeit silent, tears coursed hotly down her cheeks to drip onto the Elf's skin. "When he... when I was... he made you watch." A sob caught in her throat and she tightened her grip on him. "You tried to save me and you couldn't and it hurt you. There were iron chains. They burned you. And his men would keep hitting you every time you tried to get up. Every time you even moved. You couldn't... couldn't even stand. But you kept c-coming. You kept trying s-s-so h-hard to reach me, to save me, and they wouldn't stop torturing you..."

And then any trace of composure shattered, and Dylan began to cry; terrible, wrenching sobs that ripped from her with vicious force, worse than any grief she'd shown him in the sanctuary. And all Nuada could think to do was hold her as tightly as she held him.

Not a nightmare about her, then. That was not what gnawed at her, what beat the tears from her haunted eyes. It was his own suffering that made her weep. Which was probably why she was not protected by the magic Nuala had laid in her mind. Dylan was still forced to witness what Eamonn had done to him, and to feel every moment of grief and hurt. Something hot flared in his chest, equal parts black rage and something that lanced him, and without understanding what unholy notion possessed him, Nuada laid his cheek against her hair. Everything in him cried out to ease her grief. But what could he do?

Nothing, he thought with no little bitterness. I know nothing of comforting mortals. All I can do is let her weep, and what comfort is that?

"I'm sorry," she said after a few moments. The roiling mass of black emotion surrounding the mortal began to fade, but the Elf prince knew it was not that those emotions were gone. Dylan was merely shoving them down so she could gain control of herself. She had done the same in the sanctuary moons ago. It had surprised him then, but it unnerved him now. Such self-denial could not be healthy. He could feel the effort it took for her to lock away the anguish so that she could speak in a voice that held steady. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. I don't know what's gotten into me. I hate breaking down this way. I almost never do anymore."

Not since I was a little girl trapped in the dark. So close to the human woman, he heard the bitter thought she could not bring herself to utter. Not since a pack of human wolves tried to rip apart my sanity. Why did she suddenly seem so broken? And why did it suddenly feel as if the night were pressing in on them, trying to drown them both? Nuada suddenly realized he felt as if he were being watched. Yet there was no one in the room but Dylan... and perhaps Becan. Was the brownie the eyes that the prince felt? Most likely... and yet...

"I don't have a good reason to cry about this," the mortal added, bringing him back to the moment. "I'm sorry."

"Dylan..." The Fae warrior fought the urge to tighten his grip on the shivering human. He did not wish to hurt her any more than she had already been hurt, and he found that he, too, was shaking. The memory of his own nightmare was acid in his veins. Hate and fury mingled with the fierce need to keep Dylan from crying anymore. Each tear only added to his shame. "Just because the rape wasn't physical, does not mean it should not hurt you."

Just as his nightmare of finding her brutalized and dead had not been real, yet it had hurt him. The sick shame and dark rage that burned in him whenever he thought of Eamonn... and a strange, hollow ache in his chest at the thought of what Dylan's death truly meant to him: no more nights full of tales before the fire; an end to their talks of faith and life and freedom; the loss of one of the only two people in his life who had never viewed him as a monster. "You are allowed to grieve for yourself... and for me if you must. There is no shame in it."

"I wish I could be as strong as you," Dylan whispered. "You're not afraid of anything, are you? Not the wolves, not the leanashe, not Eamonn." And he knew that was the sticking point: he was not afraid of Eamonn. He wished Eamonn a brutal death being drawn and quartered, but did not fear him. She did not know that he feared what Eamonn could - would - do to her if he ever found her alone. But he said nothing, only let her continue with, "I wish I was brave like you." She sighed shakily.

"If you were any braver," or any more foolhardy, he thought, "I don't think I could take it. How many times have you risked your life to save mine? You refused to run the night we met, and nearly died trying to save me. Despite your wounds, you made sure I was safe before allowing yourself to fall unconscious. Then you forced me to care for myself, even after I nearly strangled you. You tried to save me from the leanashe. Saved a halfling child from Eamonn when you knew what he was capable of, then stood up to him when he threatened us. When you learned I was to be charged falsely, you sought out a creature that could've easily killed you in order to reach me. Risked death again by coming before my father without being summoned. And you knew he would most likely kill you. Wink told me thus. After that, you offered to take the rest of my punishment. And when I thought your reckless courage had finally attained its limit, you gave yourself up to Eamonn for rape, torture, and death to save my life. It is only now, in the deep dark of the night when phantoms haunt your sleep, that you finally let it all bring you low. And even in this, your tears are not solely for yourself. You weep for my pain as well, for what Eamonn did to me in your mind. You wish to be braver, Dylan? Your courage would frighten a lesser man than myself. I beg you," he added, chuckling a little, "to think of yourself next time. Be a little selfish."

Impossibly, her mouth quirked in a smile. The admiration - and exasperation - in his voice had been obvious. Translation, she thought. You're going to give me gray hair one of these days, but I'm too much of a Macho Elf Man to admit to it. But all she said was, "Thank you for staying with me, Nuada."

"I remembered the nights you woke in the sanctuary, and you were so afraid after dark dreams. I..." He hesitated, but then she shifted to look up at him. Her smile was exhausted, but open and genuine. "I did not wish for you to be alone."

Nuada sensed the odd feeling that flooded the mortal as she looked away and finally released him from her embrace. His skin felt strangely cold where she had touched him, as if it missed the warmth of her. Dylan shifted and looked down at her hands. "My hands hurt." It was more a question than a complaint. Vague confusion tinged her voice. Then she touched hesitant fingers to her lip. "My mouth hurts."

Nuada wrestled with his sensibilities for a brief moment before he reached up and gently cupped her chin, touching the pad of his thumb to her bitten lip. With a brief thought he felt the soothing magic he'd used the previous evening flow into the wound. Then he covered both of her hands with his - how had he never realized before how small her hands were? How small she was? - and did the same for those hurts. Neither injury was healed, but the pain was dulled enough that Dylan did not wince when she swiped at the half-dried tears on her face with the back of a loose fist. "Thank you. So... how awkward am I making you feel right now?"

"I am an Elf," he said with cool disdain. "I'm never awkward."

Lifting her head seemed to take more strength than she had, but Dylan managed it. The look in the Elf prince's eyes made her lips quirk in another tired, watery smile. Elves are never awkward. Right. I bet their farts smell like roses, too. Then she wondered if Nuada could hear her. Was he glaring at her? No. The prince stared into the dancing fire, a far-off look in his eyes. His expression made her shiver suddenly. He looks like I did, the first time I looked in the mirror after my attack. Like I'd just crawled off of some battlefield in Hell.

"I dreamed darkly as well," he said suddenly in a very, very soft voice. He could not look at her. If he did, Nuada knew he would see her as she had been in his nightmare: cold and still at Eamonn's feet. His grip tightened fractionally. It felt as if the darkness around them held its breath, listening intently to his words. "I dreamt that I came for you, and that... that you were dead when I arrived. That he killed you. That I failed." Nuada let out a shuddering breath and Dylan realized that the Elf prince was actually shaken by his nightmare. She pressed her cheek against his breast bone. Felt the thunder of his heart against her skin, hard and fast like the wings of a bird. "I couldn't... in the dream, I failed you. I failed, and holding your corpse in my arms was the price."

And he remembered pleading in a broken rasp, Come back. Please, come back. Please don't die. Nuada thrust the memory away from him, and the strange icy chill that was not anger, though it burned coldly in his chest at the thought of Dylan lying dead in his arms.

Surprisingly, Dylan said something in a tired voice that made him smile. "We're both of us pretty messed up right now, aren't we? Quite the pair."

"Yes," he said with a weak, hollow laugh, as the mortal shifted in his arms again. "We are that. Dylan... why do you always put yourself in danger for others? I would not have you do so for me." The debt accumulating between them was already too vast for him to ever be able to repay. His honor pricked him every time he so much as thought about it. "Surely even you are allowed to be selfish at times, to think of yourself first."

"I am selfish," she mumbled, sighing and settling more comfortably against him. "Almost everything I've done for you since you saved me has been because I couldn't stand seeing you hurt. I care about you, Nuada. I wasn't lying when I told your sister that I consider you a friend. My only real friend, probably, even though you hate me. Well, strongly dislike me."

The prince frowned. What did she mean by that? Something dark slithered at the corner of his eye, but when Nuada turned to get a better look, there was nothing. Only the darkness of shadow... and that strange feeling of being spied upon. He mentally shook himself and turned his attention back the mortal in his arms.

"It's hard to make friends with someone (real friends, I mean), when I can't tell them about the Huldufólk, and about having the Sight. There's always that secret between me and them. I've seen what secrets like that do to people. It's pretty much ruined my relationship with my sisters because they don't see what I See. They think I'm crazy, did you know that? Even now. They won't leave me alone with their children. They never visit. I get unsigned Christmas cards in the mail; that's about it. My parents never really visited me in the institutions, either, because of my gift. A secret like the Sight can mess with your head, your heart. If you get too close to someone who's quote-unquote 'normal,' you find yourself lying about what's around you, lying about your life. Soon enough, there's nothing left of who you are. Your whole existence hinges on the life you pretend to live.

"But with you, I don't have to do that. I can be completely honest with you. You know what I can See, what I know, who I am. And you're the only Bright One who visits me on a regular basis and wants more from me than for me to feed you or take care of you in some way. Most of my friends are fae, but even they are a bit fickle in that way; they forget about me for months on end, unless they need me for something. You don't do that. Sad as it is, you're basically my best friend in this world, besides John. Of course I'd do everything in my power to keep either of you safe. You're all I have.

"Besides, you're a faerie prince. I'm just a mortal woman. You're a bit more important in the grand scheme of things than I am. If it comes down to a choice between me living or you living, I pick you."

"Dylan," he said softly. The emotions churning in him were beginning to make his skull throb with tension and confusion. Would she never behave the way mortals ought to? "You don't have the right to make such a choice for me." And I do not hate you, he thought, but did not add. He would not speak on that until he could sort through the strange feeling inside him. How could she think that he hated her? Had he not allowed her to live all these months? Did he not now hold her in his arms? If he loathed her, the Elf prince would have slain her long ago. Surely she knew that he... felt... something for her that (had she been fey, and not a lowly mortal) might have been called affection. "You have no right to choose life for me at the cost of your own."

"Me caring about you doesn't give me that right?" She asked softly. Her fingertips slowly ran over a thick scar carved deep into his right bicep. The gentle, feather-light touch nearly gave him gooseflesh. She was studying the mark with half-lidded eyes. He could feel the heat of her breath on his skin when she leaned a bit closer to see it better. Why was the fire suddenly so uncomfortably warm? Forcing his thoughts away from the careful fingers absently tracing the sensitive scar, the soft breath, and the heat from the hearth, Nuada growled, "By that logic, I have the right to make the same choice for you."

There was a pause as Dylan drew in a breath that shuddered and pulled her hand away from his arm to tuck it against her chest. His skin tingled where she had touched him. Then she whispered, "Yes, you would... if you cared about me. But you don't. So no. The choice is mine."

"I... had not... I did not mean..." Why was it suddenly so hard for him to form a coherent sentence? Yet if he could speak like an intelligent being and not a complete imbecile, what would he say? That he cared for her? That would have been a lie. So he fell silent and said nothing.

"Nuada," Dylan said, shifting to look up at him. Eyes like liquid amber locked on her tired face and she smiled sadly. "It's okay if you don't like me. I know you hate humans. I can understand why. And I know you're only here right now because your honor compels you. I'm all right with that."

Was she? Why was she all right with that, when suddenly he was not?

"But listen, you're a prince. One day, probably when I'm dead and buried, and you're finally old enough to grow a beard like your dad's," here she grinned, a flicker of mischief like will-o-the-wisps in her eyes, "you'll be the King of Bethmoora. Right? You're the crown prince. You have a responsibility to your people. I know that the faerie royal families are tied by magic to the land and to the people on it. If your line dies, the Fair Folk of Bethmoora die with you. You don't have the right to sacrifice yourself for me, because your life is not your own.

"But I am my own person. I'm just a common human. God gave me agency, freewill. I can do what I wish, as long as I'm not sinning. Actually, I can sin if I want, I just have to pay for it later if I don't repent. But because I have been given my agency, I can do whatever I wish. And what I wish is to keep you in my life as long as possible, because you are one of the best things that has ever happened to me. So yes, my prince, I am very selfish."

Something hot burned in his chest like a dying star. The Elf prince wanted to say something to her, but everything inside him hissed and snarled at the silent words hiding at the very back of his tongue. Those words were so silent, he could not even tell what they were. Only that they longed to be spoken. He choked on the words and the taste of salt and sorrow. Whatever the mad part of him wanted to speak was best left unsaid. If they were words of condemnation, Dylan did not deserve them. And if they were not... well, what else could they be?

So he continued to hold the human who felt as if she might vanish like a specter on the night wind. Only held her as the crisp citrust scent of her shampoo tickled his nose and her breath warmed his already-hot skin. He could feel each rise and fall of her breast as she breathed. And after a while, as she slowly went limp as an exhausted kitten in his arms, it seemed that the mortal nodded off to sleep once more.

Seemed.