Chapter 17 - Before the Dawn

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A Short Tale of Rumors of Love and War, Music in the Night, Echoes of Fear, a Whisper of Assumption, and an Incautious Word

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Wink scrubbed at his face with one hand, trying to force the burning tiredness from his eyes. Dawn was still some hours away. Yet the taverns were not yet closed, which meant he had more places to frequent still. As he trudged down the street, the silver cave troll grumbled silently to himself. He was gone for a few hours and somehow the prince managed to get wrapped up in rumors of betrothal and human mistresses. Of course Wink knew better than to give credence to any of the gossip. Nuada bedding a human? He'd as soon bed one of his hunting dogs.

As for the mortal... Wink knew she cared deeply for the prince. No one who did not care for Nuada would have done all that she had to protect him. But his mistress? If - and it was a colossal if - Nuada could have ever been persuaded to lie with a mortal, he and the human would have become lovers long ago. No woman could resist the Elven warrior when he set out to bring them to his bed. Past conquests could attest to that. If the prince and the mortal were not intimate now, they never would be.

The silver troll slipped into another tavern - the Jugged Hare - and lumbered to an empty booth. As soon as he was seated, a slender meliae approached. Torchlight turned her shimmering raiment to liquid silver. Her ash-blond hair fell in wild tangles down her back. Pale green eyes studied the troll for a long moment before she asked in a voice like the wind through the trees, "What'll it be?"

"Manna cordial," the troll grumbled. He was fond of the sweet drink made from the sap of ash trees, and it was weak enough that he would not become innebriated from the faerie liquor. Then he got a better look at the meliae and grinned. He recognized this girl. One of her "sisters" worked in the royal gardens. Wink was not surprised; most of the families in Findias had family working in the palace. He also knew that wood nymphs, particularly ash nymphs, kept their ear to the grapevine. Tree maidens loved gossip. Well, he might be a little rusty in charming a pretty lass, but Wink was sure he could manage to make her laugh, at least. "The stars must surely shine on me tonight, beautiful maiden. The beauty and grace of the pale ash trees are reflected in your loveliness."

"And you are probably old enough to be my father," the dryad replied, but her lips were quirking into a smile. "Flattery will not avail you free drink, Sir Troll. I have other tables and customers to see to."

Now Wink laughed. "I would not cheat such a fair creature of her custom. I am merely a lonely troll, looking for some drink and simple conversation."

The dryad looked the silver troll up and down, speculation in the eyes as soft and green as the leaves of her ash tree. Wink saw that she noted the mechanical hand he bore. Saw the interest - and the recognition - in her eyes. How many silver trolls would there be in Findias who bore both a hand of flesh and a hand of Elven bronze? The meliae dipped a small, bobbing curtsy and said, "I'll go and get your cordial. Then we can talk."

"As I am taking my ease, I would appreciate discretion," the troll rumbled. The meliae inclined her head and went to get his drink. When she returned, sliding the mason jar of pale amber cordial in front of him, she perched on the opposite bench and propped her elbows on the table. "Tonight must be slow, pretty lady, for you to have such leisure."

"Those who wish to discuss the latest rumors about the Royal Family have gone to other establishments, as we do not serve strong enough drink to suit their tastes."

Wink took a long pull from the jar of cordial. Unlike the ale he'd been quaffing all night, the sweet drink was a welcome taste on his tongue. "I usually like my drink sweet," he said, locking his single dark eye with her pale green ones. "And what rumors would those be, lovely wood witch?"

"Oh, some nonsense about Prince Nuada Silverlance having returned to us at last," she replied airily, studying the broad tusks ringed with bronze that glinted in the torchlight. "Being engaged to a mortal. As if that would ever happen. Everyone seems to have forgotten that he is meant to wed the eldest daughter of the Emperor of Dilong."

Wink nearly choked. That farcical arrangement was still in place? Neither he nor Nuada had known that.

"At least as far as the common folk know. Last the townsfolk heard, an envoy from Dilong was supposed to arrive for the Midwinter Solstic, as the eldest princess will be old enough to be formally promised. So even if the mighty Silverlance is betrothed to a human, she will have to deal with the Elves of Dilong - as will His Majesty and the rest of the royals."

The Elves of Dilong? Wink knew there had been some talk of Nuada, as crown prince, marrying the Emperor of Dilong's eldest daughter (as in Dilong, a woman could not inherit the Jade Throne). But that had been over three thousand years ago, when the Jade Emperor had first married. When no child had been forthcoming, male or female, talk of a union between the prince and the Dilong princess had slowly ceased. Did Balor even remember that Nuada had once been intended for anyone? It had been so long ago, before the prince's exile. So much had happened. Did the king of Bethmoora even consider the agreement binding anymore, if he did remember it?

The eldest princess, Ming Xian, would be three hundred years old this Midwinter, if Wink remembered correctly. Nuada could not marry a... a child. And if Dilong took offense, how was a child of merely three centuries going to challenge a grown mortal woman for the right to him? Would the human even fight? My prince, things have become even more complicated. Perhaps you were right - politicking is nothing but a headache waiting to happen.

"And there's rumors that an Elf of Zwezda tried to assassinate the king," the meliae continued, watching Wink intently. Her eyes seemed to focus now on his large shoulders and the spines protruding from his back, the deep scar slashing across an eyeless socket. Unlike most fae, nymphs could - and more often than not, did - wed outside their species. And the ash nymph had to admit, there was much to admire about the troll she talked with. "But if that were so, he'd have been executed publicly, yes?" She shrugged and ever-so-casually brushed her hair back from her face. "Rumors abound on that subject, however. I have heard that he is a spy for the Elves of Eirc, for the Sons of the Spider, or even the Zwezda themselves. They say that war will come between the Elves before war comes betwixt the Hidden Folk and the humans. I say these are nothing but idle whispers... but what do you say?"

"I say... that I have heard enough of politics," Wink said, and reached out to lightly brush a careful finger over the back of her small hand. "Thank you, beautiful one. Perhaps I shall return tomorrow, for more... talk. I would have your name."

The meliae smiled. "I am Sophia," she said, and watched him walk away. So. That was the silver cave troll called Wink, the one-eyed warrior with the metal hand. The one who owed the Exiled Prince his allegience. Sophia grinned as she got up to check her tables. Well, he certainly was handsome. Wait until I tell my sisters.

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At last, she sleeps, Nuada thought, relaxing a little now as Dylan sighed and settled more comfortably against him. He would not think on the mortal's strange words; not yet, at least. And he would not put her to bed quite yet. I will wait a while before I move her, in case she does not sleep deeply enough. I do not wish to wake her. Did not wish to feel as if he owed her something for the way she had looked at him with sorrow in her moon-washed eyes.

I consider you my only friend, even though you hate me. But he did not. How could she think that? Shame was like wormwood in his mouth. Had Nuala told Dylan that he hated her? Or had it been his own behavior that gave her such an idea? If Dylan had not slept, he might have asked her.

But in fact, Dylan wasn't sleeping. She was listening to Nuada's slowly drumming heartbeat with her eyes closed against the burning exhaustion. It was easy now to let her body go limp. The panic had all but faded. She just wanted to stay here, in this half-waking state, where it seemed as if nothing could touch her so long as the prince remained with his arms around her. Now that the urge to cry was dissipating, she could relax. Breathe. Let go of the fear that had threatened to choke her. Nuada was here, unharmed. Everything was all right. No one would hurt him.

Please, don't hurt him, she thought sleepily, unsure if it was a prayer or just exhausted thoughts. Never again. Not like that, please. Hasn't he had to deal with enough? Especially after what happened to his mom.

It's because of you.

Dylan tensed as the icily familiar voice breathed against the back of her neck, inside her skull. Not a real voice. Wasn't real, she told herself. Only the ghost of a nightmare. Only a dark dream. But she was suddenly cold and shivering again. The world around her faded away - the fire, the light, Nuada's bodyheat like the warm glow of a candle in the darkness. There was only the vision, the mental prison slowly wrapping around her mind until she forgot where she was, who she was with-

-Cold, rough stone beneath her
Biting deep into her skin
Pain flares
No fear no horror no despair
Only numbness in her chest
Can't feel the jagged pieces of her heart
Silver eyes gleam like poison
Rough fingers jerk her head to the side
"Take a good look."
Silver pain bright blades slice through Elven flesh
Golden blood welling, flowing
Amber eyes find hers and stay on her face
Regret and despair and rage now
Her fear and his shame
Their desperation
"It's all because of you."
Eamonn's lips against her ear
"He suffers because of you."
No, no, no! Please, please let him go...-

"Dylan!"

Hands gripped her shoulders and shook her, snapping her back to the present so fast she nearly passed out. Icy sweat plastered her hair to her neck and shoulders, dripped down her face. Her blood was ice. Her fear was arctic poison. Why was she so cold? Where was she? Eyes like glittering topaz pierced the fear. Locked onto her and pulled her back from the brink of the abyss where the nightmares waited to swallow her up with their obsidian teeth. The shadows seemed to hiss and snarl at her. Fear threatened to strangle her.

"Dylan! Look at me!"

She looked. Let her eyes rake over the ashen face, trace the slashing scar across his cheekbones. Found those amber eyes again. Amber eyes that burned with something that might have been desperation or fear. Nuada. Nuada. Alive and safe and right there with her. Never mind the living, breathing darkness pressing down on them. He was here. He was safe.

"Come back, Dylan. Teacht ar ais. Come back."

Come back. Nauseating fear was a living thing in his belly as he saw for just a moment his own nightmare: the pale, still woman lying in her own blood on the floor at Eamonn's feet; a broken doll discarded by a vicious, evil child. Please don't die. You can't die. Dylan, please... Begging, pleading. Sick shame and horror - and grief? - squeezing his heart like a vice. But he shoved the image and the emotion down and down where he would not have to think of it and shook the mortal again, gently this time. "Dylan, come back now. It was only the memory of a dream. It is not real. Come back to me."

"It feels real," she gasped. Her breathing was too fast, too shallow. She couldn't get enough air. Couldn't breathe past the cold, hard weight of the fear pressing down on her. And suddenly she felt eyes on her back, watching. Calculating. Plotting. But there was no one; she knew that in her head, even if she didn't believe it in her heart. Dylan shivered. "The blood and you... I don't... I can feel his hands on me. It won't stop." Revulsion burned in her stomach. Fresh tears seared her cheeks as the stink of freshly spilt golden blood hit her nose. She shoved to her feet and wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. "Nuada, the blood... I can taste it, it burns... I can taste blood and..." She nearly choked. The darkness seemed to laugh silently at her. "He made me watch... and you... I can still hear them laughing at you. Hitting you. Your bones breaking. Hurting you. It won't stop."

Panic crept into her voice with every word. The sheer terror in her eyes hit him squarely in the stomach. With trembling hands she covered her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes as if to block out whatever she saw. He wanted to pull those shaking hands away from her face, show her that there was nothing to be afraid of. Not here, not now. But then she spoke again, and the fear and heartache haunting her voice froze him.

"Blades and glass shards and fire... screams. No one would come. No one would help. And every time one of us died, it just started all over again. Every time I close my eyes I see you. The blood, your blood. They won't stop, they won't leave you alone, I'm crying and crying, begging, and they won't, they just laugh and I can feel him, he wants to hurt you, wants to destroy you, Nuada, he doesn't just want to kill you, he wants to break you to pieces."

Something brushed against her cheek and a silent scream slammed hard against her chest-

- Hands touching, mocking tenderness,
Eamonn whispering
"Watch the show, sweeting" in her ear
Can't stop them from hurting Nuada
Fingers biting
He lightly brushes her face with his hand
Wrenches her head back so she can see
With her own eyes she can see
A single tear on a pale cheek
Blood runs like golden water
Bones give like glass under brutal fists
So much blood
Nuada hangs limp in the shackles
Can't even lift his head
And still they hit him and hit him and hit him
"Enough! Please!"
Eamonn lifts Nuada's silver spear, grins
"Your turn, now."
Agony bows her spine and makes her scream
Nuada cries her name-

"No! Don't touch me!"

At her cry, Nuada jerked his hand back from her face. The fear in her eyes frosted his blood. Never had she looked at the Elf prince that way. Never. Like she looked at a monster. As if he were nothing but a beast. It hit him low in the belly and left him hollow. He could only gaze at her in shock where she hunched away from him, one hand covering the cheek he had accidentally brushed with his fingers. Her shoulders heaved with every breath. Glassy terror in her eyes was like a knife twisting in him. A petrified sound escaped her lips, a sound like a fist in the pit of his stomach.

Then he saw something in her eyes shift, brighten. And her shallow breathing deepened and her eyes lost their glazed look. Recognition filled her gaze.

"Nuada. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." There was no revulsion or disgust in her voice or eyes now. Regret simmered there, and sorrow, hot enough to burn him. "I'm sorry. Please... I'm so very sorry."

But the hollow feeling was still there. Still pulsing darkly in his chest. Bile burned the back of his throat.

Dylan moved closer. There was an awful look in his eyes, one she had never seen before. "Nuada?"

"I am sorry my touch is so distasteful to you," he mumbled, looking away now. He did not see her flinch. Instead, his eyes found the fire. Better to watch the flames than catch a glimpse of that contempt and fear again. Pain threaded through his skull. The heat of the fire seemed to burn him. He needed sleep, not this shadowed meeting stalked by nightmares and rejection, where the darkness itself felt alive and hostile. Such things were good for nothing but headaches and irritation. Why was he even here? Here in the dark with a mortal woman who abhorred his very touch? Nuada moved as if to rise. "I will trouble you no more, human."

"Don't," Dylan snapped, and his head whipped around to stare at her. Now mingling with the pain was anger, like black lightning amidst the storm in her eyes. Irritation whispered under Nuada's skin. She dared to command him? "Don't you dare. Don't you even think about leaving me just for... for that. That's not fair. I am not afraid of you, Nuada. I do not fear you, or hate you. I don't think you're a monster." He saw her lip trembling. She wiped at her face with a hand that shook violently, as if she were trying to shove away tears. "You are the bravest, most honorable man I have ever met and I am not afraid of you. I could never be afraid of you." Dylan's voice broke, and the prince felt the sudden headache begin to ease back. "I'm sorry. I wasn't reacting to you. I had a flashback and it... it was... it was bad. And Eamonn touched my face and then you did and I got confused. Everything was confused. I'm sorry. Please... please don't leave me alone. I know you don't want to be here, but please."

Not in the dark. The words seemed to shimmer in the air between them. Don't leave me alone in the dark. Not now. I can't be here without you. Please.

I know you don't want to be here... I consider you my only friend, even though you hate me. Why did she say things like that? Why? Better to be with the human than with Nuala, whose tortured and torturing emotions were like molten glass in his skull. Better to be with the mortal than at court with those thick-headed imbecilic lords and those flutter-brained, nymphomanic court ladies. And it was better to be with Dylan than to see the disappointment and shame in his father's eyes whenever King Balor looked at him.

Did the human not know that she and Wink were the only ones who looked at him as if he had any value? And only she watched him, in rare unguarded moments, with warmth and affection and joy. Did she think he did not see that she cared for him? Did she think he did not value that affection? Well, he would show her the truth.

The Elf prince resettled himself, his eyes never leaving her face. Then he held out a hand and said, "Come here."

Slowly, she came forward and scooted back into her place. His arms closed around her hesitantly, and she threw her arms around him, laying her head against his shoulder. Her breath was warm against his chilled skin. And the fact that she held him so tightly told the amber-eyed warrior everything he needed to know without words.

"I will not leave you, Dylan." To do so was unthinkable. Cowardly. Even if she was mortal. It was his fault that she was so afraid. She needed him.

"Promise?"

"Do you not trust me?" He asked, meaning to tease, to silently apologize for snarling at her and hurting her. For behaving like a callow youth, instead of the honorable warrior he was. But she did not laugh or smile. His Dylan, who always smiled. Her arms only tightened around his chest. "Yes, then," Nuada whispered. "I promise you."

More than an hour passed in near silence, broken only by Nuada occasionally murmuring assurances that he would not leave her and brief floods of Dylan's hot tears running down his chest when a memory took her. How could he leave her thus? Though of course, he knew he would have to eventually. For one thing, his left leg had fallen asleep. The other was not far behind. And the prince knew his hindquarters would carry an impression of the floor for the rest of his immortal life. But every time he so much as shifted a little, Dylan would whimper - actually whimper! - and cling to him more tightly.

I will butcher Eamonn for this, like the mangy cur he is, the Elf Prince thought, stroking her hair. The idea gave him a brief flash of satisfaction. Then it faded, and he was left with a quietly crying mortal whose tears were like knives in his belly. Something had to be done. Yet the only thing he could think of was... no. No, he could not do that. To even think of it was folly. But he could feel the fear and heartache clawing at the woman in his arms. Felt the despair and regret, like ashes in his mouth. Human or not, he could not leave her in such pain as this. But... he could not do that... could he?

She will laugh at me, he thought, and a spark of fury flared inside him. If she laughed at him, he would leave her to weep in the dark. If she dared to ridicule him... But she would not, the fae prince reminded himself. Dylan would never mock anyone. Memories of being inside her mind assured him of that. Which meant there was no help for it but to do the only thing he could think of to comfort her.

Drawing a deep breath, Nuada quietly cleared his throat and began to sing.

"Cé glaoch Cŵn Annwn mar an glaonna gaoithe, agus sé anáil an oíche eagla sa dorchadas, thiocfaidh mé póg a thabhairt duit mar an chéad breacadh an lae." Though the dogs of the Otherworld howl as the wind howls, and the night breathes fear in the dark, I come to you as the first kiss of dawn. "Trí casadh an bháisteach an spéir go dubh, tá mé ag teacht tríd an stoirm." Though the rain blackens the sky, I am come through the storm.

Dylan tried to swallow the salt of her tears so she could hear the gentle words in the Old Tongue of Nuada's people. Even though it was Old Gaelic and not the modern language, he sang slowly, the timbre of his voice like breaking dawn and lullabies, and she could understand every word. Understood that the song was a promise. For the first time she realized Nuada held her to him, the way John had often held her when they were little and she'd had a bad dream.

Some things are universal, I guess, Dylan thought as the panic began to fade. A sigh hitched in her throat as she felt the warmth of Nuada's body push at the chill of nightmares in her bones.

"An scáthanna teitheadh. Thagann siad faoi bhun mo chlaíomh. Stailceanna mo sleighe croílár an dorchadais. Ní bheidh na Sleighe Airgead bhriseadh." The Elf prince fought the faint tinge of embarrassment at the words to the song he had written as a child. At only nine centuries of age, he had first held the Silver Lance, the weapon of the crown prince of Bethmoora. The feeling of invulnerability had heavily influenced the words to the lullaby he later wrote for his sister. He would never tell Dylan he had been a boy when he wrote, The shadows flee. They fall beneath my sword. My spear strikes the heart of darkness. The Silver Lance will never break. The words of a confident child sounded almost silly to him now. Perhaps that was why he had not sung this song in over two thousand years.

Dylan shivered as wisps of memory tried to creep into her mind. Each image was there and gone in a flash, but each was like a slap. She could still smell the blood, hear the percussive impacts of brutal fists against Elf flesh. Could never chase the image of the Elf prince, bleeding and shaking with the effort to crawl, from her mind.

Her vision blurred and her eyes burned as another phantom vision scraped her heart raw: Nuada chained by iron to the wall, struggling to remain on his feet despite the heavy shackles; Eamonn grinning as if this were the greatest joke in the world, taunting the fair-haired prince that if he could not remain standing under the blows from his fifteen men, each of them would have a turn with the human whore. Blood dripped from Nuada's mouth and nose. Black bruises bloomed like pain across the pale skin. Then the dark Elf struck the prince hard in the face with the butt of the silver-tipped lance. Nuada staggered. Nearly fell. Managed somehow to keep on his feet.

Dylan choked on the memory. Refused to let the scalding tears fall.

Nuada felt the mortal stiffen in his arms. Tasted her anguish like ashes and rot on the back of his tongue. Dylan only held herself this way, so tense his own muscles ached in sympathy, when she battled against the urge to break down. His arms tightened instinctively around her. "Caoin má mór duit ach eagla nach bhfuil an oíche go labhraíonn go bog an aisling dorcha. Tá siad ach macallaí na taibhsí d'aois. Tá siad aon rud ach aisling sa ceocháin." Cry if you must but fear not the night that whispers of dark dreams. They are only echoes of old ghosts. They are nothing but dreams in the mist.

If only they were. If only she didn't have to remember the things Eamonn had shown her. The things he had done to Nuada. Hate like black poison pooled in her stomach along with the nauseating fear. She wanted to kill the dark Elf for everything he had inflicted on the pale Elf prince, even if it wasn't real. Every vicious and cruel thing. But as soon as she thought that, a flashback slammed into her like a tsunami and it was suddenly all in front of her eyes-

- Nuada dragging himself across bloody, broken glass
Reaching, straining, always reaching
"Come on, Silverlance.
Just one touch of her hand and you're both free!"
Glass knives biting deep and burning
Every minute of struggle drags by
Blood runs in deep, golden rivers down his skin
Mingles with crimson mortality
Almost touching, almost there, almost
Scarcely a breath between their hands...
Flash of silver
Pain bright arc of death
She screams when the sword rips through her
And dies with his name on her lips -

But it wasn't real! She forced her eyes open as wide as she could and focused on everything around her now. The fire was hot through her clothes. The light was golden and umber, and it danced across Nuada's chest and across her arm. His skin where her cheek rested was wet with her tears (and probably some saliva, she thought disparagingly, since she could never keep herself from drooling when she cried that hard). Dylan could hear the steady beating of Nuada's heart under her ear, telling her that he was right there. He wasn't hurt. He wasn't dead. Eamonn hadn't done those things to him. Nuada was fine.

"Taobh thiar an stoirm luíonn an solas na gealaí airgid. Solas na réaltaí ar an spéir," the Elf prince continued, his voice soft and slow and steady. That sound served to anchor her in the real world, too. Behind the storm lies the silver light of the moon. The stars light the sky. Dylan focused on the song, the heat from the hearth, and the constant drum of Nuada's heart, shoving the memories and nightmares down. "Breacadh thagann go tapa mar an fia." Dawn comes swift as the deer. Would Nuada stay with her until dawn? When the sun rose, she might be able to sleep then. Maybe. Sleep without dreaming. If he just stayed with her until then.

"Beidh mé a shealbhú tú, agus tú a chosaint i an dorchadas go dtí go breacadh an lae." I will hold you and protect you in the dark until dawn. And hadn't he done just that? Nuada's bare chest and shoulders were slick with her tears. He hadn't said a word about it, just let her cry. Let her sob against him and shake. Six months ago, he would never have let her do this, she knew. Even a month ago. But he had seen inside her mind. And now... now he cradled her against him in the dimness. Stood guard against the nightmares that crept at the edges of sleep. "Eagla nach, le haghaidh mé anseo." Fear not, for I am here. She had always felt safest when he was with her. Always. "Beidh an oíche agus beidh deireadh breacadh an lae thagann os mé fhágann tú riamh."

Dylan was pretty sure she liked that part best. The night will end and dawn will come before I ever leave you. She'd never heard an Elven troubadour sing before, and wondered if they could possibly be better than the prince who sang to her now. As Nuada's voice faded into silence, Dylan sighed and looked up at him. His face was more alien than she had ever seen it. His eyes were clouded and far away. But he was here. As long as he was here, she was almost certain the nightmares would stay away.

Nuada as a teddy bear. Kind of weird, she thought. But cool, too. Maybe I should get a bumper sticker with something like that on it. "My security blanket is a ticked-off Elf prince." Meh. Most people probably wouldn't get it.

She found her lips quirking into a small, tired smile. Oh, but she was tired. Her eyes burned from crying and from tiredness. But to sleep... to leave herself vulnerable to those dreams again... she didn't think she could do that if she were alone, and if she tried to go to bed, he would leave. His honor would demand it.

"That was... incredible," she murmured. "Thank you so much, my prince. I feel so much better."

"Are you tired?" He asked without looking at her.

"Yes, but... but I don't want to sleep," she confessed quietly. Nuada looked down at her, brow furrowed, and her eyes shifted away. Suddenly she felt like an insecure, whiny child begging for a blankie and crying about the monster under the bed. "I'm just..." Dylan gestured helplessly, unsure of what to say. Confess that she feared her own dreams, or keep silent? The prince was probably tired of being stuck here with her crawling all over him. She should just let him go. "I'm sorry. You're probably tired. You should... I should let you go to bed, I guess."

Her reluctance was obvious. "What is wrong?"

"I..." Dylan looked down at the glisten of tears on Nuada's chest. Her tears, like a sheen of diamond over pale skin. He'd let her cry on him for what seemed like hours. She knew right then that she could tell him anything. "I'm tired, and I want to go to bed. But I don't want you to leave me. I can't help thinking something terrible is going to happen to you. But I know you hate being around me when I'm like this, all... wishy-washy and crying and stuff. I'm sorry. I just... when you're gone," she added softly, and Nuada's belly clenched at the thread of fear and melancholy in her voice. "When you're gone it feels like I'll never see you again. I know you're a skilled warrior. I know I'm being stupid. But if anything were to happen to you for real, I... I think I might... I don't know what I would do. I get panicky just thinking about it. And I don't want to dream again. Not like that. Not ever." With beseeching eyes, she pleaded, "Tabhair... fan liom?"

Please... stay with me?

Nuada fought the groan that yearned to escape. Of course he would capitulate. Dylan struggled to maintain a strong, brave facade every waking moment of her life. He should have expected that the rare instances when it slipped, it would fall away completely in a flood of emotion. His failure had done this. He would live with it. But they both needed sleep. The floor was not a welcome prospect for slumber, either. Yet laying on the bed with her... he knew her adherence to and reverence for what she called the Law of Chastity probably would not allow him to do that. And his honor pricked him more than a little bit at even considering it.

Stay with me, she had whispered softly in Gaelic. And he remembered her whispering brokenly, like a terrified child, I am afraid of the dark. The dark, that even now seemed to pulse with a strange, sentient malevolence that sat ill with him. He sighed. The floor it was, then. Fighting a scowl, he said, "Beidh mé a bheith ceart anseo. I gcónaí."

Dylan blinked back the sudden prickle of tears. I will be right here. Always. She resettled her head against his chest and sighed, the hitch in her breathing the only indicator that she still struggled with the fear that had prompted her to call him to her room in the middle of the night.

The middle of the night. For the first time, he thought of how this must look to those who would not understand. Like his father and Nuala. They would assume that he shamed Dylan by stealing into her bed in the night, even if they found the two of them sprawled on the floor as they were. Would it shock the king and princess to see him, holding the mortal as he had once held his twin after a bad dream? Probably. He shifted slightly. Dylan's hands flattened against his chest, as if she meant to stay him.

"Dylan... I should not be here." He shifted again. "It is hardly proper-"

"Ná téigh!" She cried. Don't go. "I don't care about proper; don't go." A razor-edged shard of fear made her voice knife through him. With a barely suppressed sigh, the Elven warrior resettled, ignoring the beginning of a dull ache in his lower back. If she did not want him to move... he would not. He would stay, as honor demanded, until she fell asleep once more. Even if his posterior and spine did not appreciate such chivalry.

"Dún do shúile. Codladh anois. Tá mé anseo."

Dylan let her eyes close and let her body relax. Close your eyes. Sleep now. I am here. When Nuada said something like that, all the fear faded away, replaced with a tired contentment that allowed her to slowly drift off, lulled by the sound of his breathing, the watery thud of his heart, and the even rise and fall of his chest.

.

Daybreak was still an hour away, but the Midnight Star was fading as the false light of the predawn hour began reaching across the night sky. The mortal in Nuada's arms slept easily now. No nightmares twisted her peaceful expression. All it had taken was allowing her to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. He carefully lifted the human in his arms and even more carefully stood. Her head against his shoulder was almost comforting. Her breath was surprisingly soft and sweet and warm against his bare skin. The prince padded on bare feet to the mortal's bed and laid her upon it, straightening the tangled blankets and pulling them over her. She stirred once, shifted. Was still once more.

Eamonn will pay for this, the prince vowed, not for the first time. Dylan's hair slid across her face like a dark curtain. Remembering the way she had reacted to the simple touch of his hand, he very carefully brushed the stray curls from her cheek. Only his iron will kept his hand from shaking with the strength of his fury at the dark Elf. How many nights would Dylan awaken in terror and tears because of the traitor? He will pay for tormenting her like this. He will not escape my vengeance.

Becan slipped into the room. Nuada knew it was a brownie from the faint kitchen smells that always clung to the Wee Folk, and knew it to be Becan because the little house sprite had made sure the rest of the castle staff knew he was the one responsible for Dylan. Now the tiny faerie scrabbled up the side of the bed like a mountain climber and perched on the footboard.

"Is she well now, Your Highness?"

"She is as well as could be hoped for." The prince turned to Becan. "Your loyalty does you credit. If she wakes thus again, fetch me at once."

"Yes, Your Highness. Thank you." The little fae bowed as Nuada turned and walked out of the room to return to his own chamber. His lady was lucky, Becan knew, that the Silver Lance cared so much for her. He wondered if his mistress (or Princess Nuala) understood the depths of the Prince's affection.

Nuada moved swiftly and silently down the hall, careful of the servants and guards that would, even at this early hour, be prowling the corridors. He managed to slip back into his room without being seen (Dylan's protestations of the chaste nature of their relationship would be as smoke in the wind if anyone saw him leaving her room so early in the morning) but when he turned from the door to return to his bed, he stopped short and blinked. A slim, blond figure rose from the mattress, took several steps forward, and slapped him across the face.

"Sister. A pleasure, as always. Could you not sleep, either?" Even the princess could not miss the sarcasm tingeing his voice.

"Do not 'Sister' me, Nuada. I know where you have been." The disgust in her voice was like a second slap. "The brownie who serves your lady told me you went to her chamber in the night. I felt your fury. Did she refuse you? Or did you guilt her into accepting you into her bed?"

He forced the shock and bone-deep hurt down and away before it could register for his sister. So even after all this, she thought him capable of rape. For that was exactly what it would have been, had he done as his sister accused. If he ever took a woman to his bed, it would be with her full consent; how could Nuala believe otherwise? Did she truly think him such a monster? But all he said, in a dry voice, was, "Neither, though doubtless you believe I am lying."

"What other reason would you have for going to her chamber thus?" Nuala demanded. She did not believe him for an instant. Why else would she have felt the anger simmering through their bondline all this time? The fury and the lust for blood? His feelings, burning through their connection, had turned her own dreams into a vicious bloodbath.

If I had been awake, I would have stopped him from going to her, the princess thought, whether he was in a fury or no. True, there had been brief flashes of hurt or sorrow, but they had been quickly snuffed out by Nuada's rage. Only a shimmer of true lust had edged his desire for violence, which only further cemented what Nuala had initially suspected. And the entire time the fury and lust were burning, the prince had been in Dylan's darkened room. For what other purpose could he have gone there to begin with, never mind in the state of black rage and desire he had stewed in all the hours there?

The Elf prince moved around his sister to the bed. There he unceremoniously dropped himself, stretching full-out on the exquisitely soft feather mattress. His spine, long compressed by the fact that he'd sat on the cold stone floor without any kind of back support while a human slept slumped against his chest, cracked audibly more than once. Nuada stretched. His twin continued to glower at him. The warrior felt her fury and suspicion through their bond like hot iron against his heart. With a sigh, he turned his head to look out the window at the eerie false-light of the pre-dawn hour. Clouds from the nocturnal maelstrom hid even the rising Morning Star from him. "I do not have the heart to fight with you this night, my sister. The brownie fetched me to Dylan's chamber. She had suffered a nightmare. I soothed her."

"How?"

Embarrassment seared him. "I held her. We were quite chaste." He would not tell his sister that he had sung to the weeping mortal. That song had been written for Nuala, long ago when she and Nuada were only children. The prince had been... between nine and ten centuries? Perhaps younger. Part of the song - and nearly all of the tune - had been composed on the spot one night while his sister wept, as Dylan had wept, into his chest in the wake of a horrible nightmare. The rest had been penned the next morning. Nuada had never sung that song for anyone else, not even in an attempt to show off for his father. Yet he had shared it with Dylan as she cried. And he had heard from her own lips that she cared more for him than any other, save her twin. Even now, that simple statement murmured in the shadows shook him.

Yet Nuala would never believe any of that without searching his thoughts. His twin clung to her honor, but she did not understand his. Because he had failed in saving the human from Eamonn, he was at fault for the nightmares. Being at fault, he would do all in his power to mend the damage they caused. Even singing to a weeping mortal woman in the dim light of the fire. But Nuala would never understand that.

As for his twin's belief and understanding... he knew Nuala detested touching his mind with hers. What she found there always served to upset her; there was nothing he could about that. His heart was not his own. But that knowledge was like a blade of ice straight to his heart. He refused to suffer further proof of that knowledge while still so raw from Dylan's fear and his own nightmares. And his back seemed intent on assassinating him. That did not improve his mood a whit.

"Do you hate me, Sister?" Nuada demanded suddenly, pushing himself upright to stare at his twin with challenge in his eyes. "Is that why you continue to harrass and attack me?" In a softer voice, letting a brief kiss of hurt caress his words, he murmured, "Do you truly think me so dishonorable?"

"Brother, I do not hate you," she said. Was that remorse in her voice? "But I felt your rage strongly enough that it gave me nightmares. Dark dreams of blood and slaughter and the screams of the dying. I felt your fury; I expected..." In truth, she had expected for his hate and rage to explode so fiercely that the barrier between their minds would have shattered. And then she'd thought to see what her brother saw, to be able to witness what her brother was doing in the wash of that acidic fury.

As for what she'd thought him likely to do... Dylan still being counted among the living had surprised her greatly. Nuala had seen her twin in skirmishes and battles with mortals. His viciousness and hatred had driven him to butchery more than once. Yet not, it seemed, this time. Not with the mortal woman who should have drawn the worst of her brother's wrath. And that puzzled the princess. "I love you, Nuada. I worry for you... always, I worry for you. For your honor, your heart, your..." Your sanity. But this, she could not say aloud. It would only enrage him.

I love you, Nuada. Words he always yearned to hear. Words that never failed to fill him with joy... and pain. Never did love come without strings attached to it, it seemed. Never from his father, or his sister. Always there was more to it than simple emotion. Subtleties and shades of meaning. This was why he hated court life and loathed politics.

You are one of the best things that has ever happened to me. No double-edged words there. No nuances or possible double-entendres. Only quiet and sincere sentiment. Nuada realized no one had ever said such a thing to him. Oh, he knew his mother had felt that way. What mother did not feel thusly about her children? But no other had ever expressed that sort of... affection for him before. Only a mortal woman. And he knew, despite the stain of humanity on her soul, that she spoke the truth.

"Why do you persist in thinking me a monster, my sister?" He asked softly, wearily.

"You have done monstrous things, my brother. I have witnessed them with my very own eyes, and you know it." Such sadness in Nuala's voice. Such hurt. As if the thing she spoke of had been an attack against her personally. Yes, he had begged his father to accept the goblins' gift of the Golden Army. Seventy-times-seventy soldiers, unstoppable and without mercy, to protect his people - and all the Fair Ones - from the humans and their mindless butchery. Seventy-time-seventy sins on his soul, seventy-time-seventy scars on his heart. All for the sake of his people. Why did his advocacy of the Army make him a monster to the other half of his soul? Why? Why did his love for his people and his love for all the Hidden Ones paint him a villain in his twin sister's eyes?

"Dylan does not think of me so," he muttered without thinking. When his sister tensed, when her suspicion pulsed through their bond, his fury prompted him to throw caution to the winds and he growled, "No, she does not. And if she were to learn of the Golden Army, I dare say she still would not. When I held her in the dark, she whispered to me of loyalty, of trust... and of love."

You are one of the best things that has ever happened to me.

Mortal love, to be sure, a weak and flimsy thing... but a type of love nonetheless. And fealty. Faith in him. Why else had she sought him in her fear? Why else did she look at him the way she did? Loyalty in a human, devotion from one, should have been impossible. But not from her. And it hurt, like a sword-thrust through the back, that such loyalty and trust was impossible from his sister.

"Strange, is it not, Sister, that a mortal thinks more highly of me than you or Father do? Perhaps she sees more clearly than either of you, mortal eyes or no. Perhaps she can recognize my honor, my heart... and that I still retain a firm grasp of my sanity."

Nuala flinched, but would not back down. Not after what he had said. When I held her in the dark, she whispered to me of love... "Or perhaps she is blinded by her own heart. I will go and speak to her," the princess said, and there was a subtle challenge to her tone.

Nuada glared at her and muttered, "I have only just coaxed her back to sleep. Leave the human be for now. Interrogate her when the sun rises, at an hour the gods deem fit for being conscious."

"Very well." Nuala turned to go, then paused at the door. "Brother... if what you say is true..."

But how could it be? Her brother, whether he felt affection or not for the mortal, would never hold her the way he had implied, unless... And certainly not when he was still so very angry. His rage coiled inside him like a serpent waiting with bared fangs to strike, to kill. Yet the princess knew she had been wrong about the prince and the human before.

"If it is true, then I will say this for it." Eyes like antique gold coins met eyes of glacial topaz. Nuala's face burned from the crack of her hand against her brother's cheek. "Well done. It was honorable of you. If it is true, I am proud of you."

And she left him to the dark.

Well done. I am proud of you. Fair compliment, and the first he had received from his sister in a long while. A sigh shuddered out of him as he thought of Nuala, so beautiful and so blind to the truth if it displeased her. And his indrawn breath hitched when he thought of Dylan curled so trustingly against him. She did not doubt him. Even the recoiling had been not at him, but memories of Eamonn. Dylan never doubted him or his honor.

Did you know the poor thing whispered your name as she died? She actually expected you to arrive in time to save her.

Nuada clenched his fists. He would never let that dream come to pass. Never. He would die before Eamonn managed to get to Dylan again. And in the meantime... in the meantime, he would play his father's political game of forced courtship until he and Dylan could figure a way to get out of it without his father being able to contest it. And if she woke from nightmares into choking darkness again, he would go to her. He would go to her, and comfort her, as his honor demanded, until the fear left her like night mist in the morning sun. Never again would the mortal be forced to weep alone in the dark.