Chapter 39 - I Need to Write a Letter

that is

A Short Tale of Accusations, an Awkward Meeting, Life Moving Onward, the Wildness of Changeling Children, and Putting Pen to Paper

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John bolted awake when he heard the front door open and close. Groggy, he hauled himself out of the armchair in the living room where he'd fallen asleep and turned toward the front entryway, expecting to see his twin coming through the door. He froze when Becan, looking apologetic, led in the pointy-eared douche bag.

The Elf looked, the twenty-one-year-old decided, as if ripping out Dylan's heart and grinding it under his heel hadn't affected him at all. Every stupid blond hair was in its proper place. Golden eyes melting towards bronze were still sunk in pits of darkness. Nearly black lips pressed together in annoyance the moment the Elf prince realized that John was in the room. Even the black and red silk or whatever was perfectly pressed and neat as a pin. The lance that had left the now-blue-and-green bruise on the federal agent's cheek was strapped to the Elf's back. And he stood at the entrance to the living room looking like he'd rather be anywhere but.

Jerk.

"What the hell, Becan?"

"Master John, His Highness wishes to see Lady Dylan-" The brownie began, but his mistress's twin ruthlessly cut him off.

"She's not here, Your Royal Assness," John snapped. If Dylan came back and found the guy here, what would happen? She'd be so happy to see him. But what was the guy doing here, anyway? No greater fae like this one could be trusted, John knew that. His sister had known that too, once. If she saw Nuada here, she'd throw caution to the wind and just get hurt again, dang it. "So beat it."

"Then I shall wait for her." Every word that dropped from those dark lips simmered with fury. "After the service I rendered your sister, I would expect at least some gratitude from even such a lowly, hollow thing as yourself, human."

"Gratitude?" John scoffed. "I'm supposed to be grateful that you left my sister thinking you hated her? That you left her bleeding to death from whatever you said to her? Yeah, no." He paced to the fireplace. Becan had kept the fire going to keep the room warm against the iciness of the snow outside. "Dylan would've been better off if she'd never met you. You fae... you ruin everything you touch."

Becan eyed both men with increasing trepidation as the prince took a single step into the room. He fairly vibrated with rage. His voice was like black ice - sharp, dark, cold as the grave - when he snarled, "If she'd never met me, your sister would be dead."

Humans. Humans and their destructive hatred, their vicious desire to dominate and destroy, their rage and their hate and their cruelty. The poison of them, infecting everything they touched. Ruining everything they touched. Decimating. Killing. Just as they'd tried to do to her. If she had never met him, if he hadn't been there that night, Dylan would have died. And he never would have known her...

She is mortal, Nuada reminded himself forcibly, never taking his eyes off Dylan's twin. That's what mortals do. They grow old, wither and die. Sometimes - often - they don't even grow old first. It wouldn't be the first time a woman died at the hands of human butchers.

His mother. Beautiful emerald eyes that turned to hammered silver in the moonlight. A cloak of curling hair like spun garnets. Love and laughter and her face soft with mother love and her arms holding him with the unspoken promise that she would never let go because he was her son.

His mother, dead at the hands of humans. Human males that sought to destroy a woman in the worst way possible.

Just like Dylan.

"Without me, she'd be dead now," Nuada snapped.

"She almost died because of you!"

A matching rage twisted the mortal man's features. But no hatred, Nuada saw with a brief flash of surprise. That surprise just barely splintered the icy crust of fury that had frosted the inside of Nuada's chest. Just anger and worry and dread all tangled together into a black knot that made eyes so oddly familiar burn with fury.

"She told me about... about that guy. Eamonn or whatever. She told me how she went to save you from him and he almost killed her. You think I don't know what he did to her? Maybe you haven't noticed, but she's woken up screaming in the dark from remembering. Screaming for you, and where the hell were you, huh? Nowhere. You just ditched her because for once she didn't put your royal self ahead of her own safety!"

"You know nothing of what you speak," the prince hissed. His hands itched for his lance, for the sword sheathed at his hip. But no. No, if he drew those weapons now, if he drew them at all, mortal blood would splash these walls and Dylan would never look at him with any warmth ever again and he shouldn't care about that in the face of this filthy human's disrespect but Nuada knew he did. He could not allow his temper to control him. "You know nothing."

John didn't know what made him say what he said next. Intuition, maybe. An almost preternatural sense of what would strike at that seemingly empty faerie heart the hardest, the sharpest, the swiftest. Or maybe just something dark and coaxing that he sensed suddenly in the room with them. Simple hatred? Something fae? He didn't know, and didn't care.

"Then where were you? Where were you when that Elf guy mind-raped my sister over and over again? Where were you when she was trapped in her own nightmares, screaming for you to save her? Where were you the night those men hunted her down and ripped her apart?" Keeping his voice icy and even, John answered his own questions. "You weren't there. At least not in time. Or if you were, then you just watched them hurt her until it was convenient for you to dirty your hands and finally rescue one little insignificant human. You let it happen. Don't you dare tell me I don't know. You can just go to Hell."

There was an odd, frozen stillness inside Nuada. An emptiness without even a whisper of sound besides the vicious words that spilled from John like blood. Like Dylan's blood on cold concrete, on Elven bedsilks, on a dim staircase. Like his mother's blood soaking into the ground as human monsters ravished and destroyed her. His sister's blood when those same monsters beat her for screaming and weeping during Cethlenn's torture and eventual death.

You let it happen. Where were you? You just watched them hurt her. Watched them? Listened to the wolves howling and watched them spill that iron-laced blood to the cold night air? You just watched. You let it happen. Let Eamonn break her. Let the wolves devour her. No. No, never.

But he... in nightmares, he had given into the monstrous dark and hurt her, too. Blood. So much blood. Burning hot and slick and so scarlet; the sickening copper stench of it. Her blood on his hands, wet and red. On the pavement, soaking into his bed, slicking that dark stairwell. The feel of her skin bruising under his hands in dark dreams. And her screams, her pleas, her tears.

You just watched them hurt her.

If he moved, if he even breathed, Nuada was certain every ounce of self-control would shatter and his sword would be buried in the human's chest before either of them could so much as blink.

"Master John," Becan breathed in horror. "You should not say such things. His Highness-"

"Doesn't give a damn about Dylan," John snapped. "If he did, he wouldn't have done whatever he did to her. Wouldn't have ripped her heart out like he did. Do you get off on that?" The human demanded of the Elf prince. "Making her care about you, using her for whatever sick thrills you fae get from hurting humans, then tossing her aside?"

Nuada's fingers twitched. His sword was heavy against his thigh. He could almost smell the stench of human blood spilled in violence. The memory of her blood? Or a manifestation of his desire for her brother's blood?

There was just the faintest whisper of hatred in John now, fueled by that dark energy throbbing through the room. He remembered his sister at five years old, crying into her pillow because she'd been spanked for doing things she wasn't supposed to in order to help a sick demi-merrow. Dylan at seven, screaming for him as two men in white uniforms dragged her out of the house and into a van. Age ten, home for a visit, coming home with a black eye and broken nose because some neighbor kids found out about "the fairy thing." His sister at twelve, trapped beneath two monsters leaving her battered and bloody and shattered. Still twelve, still battered, now soaked with blood because she couldn't take it anymore and she wanted to die just to escape.

And there was always more. All the different things over the years that had happened to her, to him, to their sisters. All of it because of the Gentry.

"You enjoy it, don't you?" John demanded. "You enjoy twisting her up and breaking her heart. You enjoy hurting her. You don't care about her, you just want to see her suffer. That's all the fae want with humans - to see them suffer. Because it's amusing to you. How long does she have to cry over you before you finally stop tormenting her?"

"Shut up, human." Sword at his side, thirsty for iron-laced blood. Spear at his back, hungry to pierce fragile human flesh and find that empty, hollow pit where the human heart should have been. "Shut up."

"You're disgusting. My sister deserves better than some sadistic Elven freak." The hate was choking him now. John struggled to breathe evenly around the lump in his throat and the knot in his stomach. This was wrong, this was so wrong, but he couldn't stop himself. Couldn't bite back the vicious words. All he could think of was his sister. Her grief like a knife. That grief had been easing the longer she spent around the Elf, but now... now it was sharp as a shard of ice and twice as cold. All because of this... this bastard. "How do you live with yourself, knowing what you've done to her?"

"Once more I will say it." Nuada's voice was eerily calm. His heart slammed against his breastbone, threatened to shatter his ribcage. The blood throbbed through his temples. "Shut up."

"Master John," Becan whispered, pleaded. "Please."

"How can you take his side?" John snapped at the brownie. "You saw what he did to her! You saw how she was after he left; you were the first person to see her. You were there that first night! And what happened? She screamed herself hoarse from the nightmares! She was begging him for help and he left her because he doesn't care! She's had to sleep with all the lights on because of the nightmares and they still keep coming because of whatever he did! How can you take his side?"

Nuada's fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. In his mind's eye he saw Dylan, a single tear trickling down her scarred cheek, glittering like a diamond. Would she cry if he parted this human's head from his shoulders? Did he care if she did?

"Because..." The brownie trailed off. Shot a petrified look at the far-too-still prince. "Because he cares for her."

John scoffed. "Sure he does. If Dylan had any sense, she'd ditch him back. She'd hate him for-"

The sword, limned with carnelian light from the fire like blood, was at the human's throat in the next heartbeat. The razor-edge parted the flesh just under the human's Adam's apple, breaking through the healing cut from their last encounter. Blood welled up and flowed.

More, Nuada thought with savage hate. He wanted more of that blood. Wanted to cut out this human's lying tongue before cutting his throat so he could speak no more vicious lies. See the mortal blood flow hot and red.

Blood. A single thought splintered the icy crust of hatred that made him so cold he burned. Blood. Human blood. Blood of her blood. If he killed this human, she would not forgive. Would never forgive. Would hate him forever. His sister hated him, deep down where her gentle heart could not really taste the true flavor of such dark emotion. His father... his father hated what Balor thought Nuada was, if not the truth of it. This human whose blood stained his blade dark - he hated Nuada as well, despite everything the Elf prince had done for the woman that John claimed was the other half of his soul. But of course, most mortals had no souls. Most.

But Dylan didn't hate him. I could never, ever hate you, Nuada. If he did this... if he made this human male pay for his slander... she would hate him for it. He would never get her back. She would be lost to him, forever out of reach.

For you, a ghrá - beloved. The thought struck before he could censor it. A flick of his wrist whipped the blade away from the vulnerable throat with just enough force that it turned what had been an inch-long cut into a shallow, two-and-a-half inch-long slice across the neck. It was no deeper than a particularly bad cat scratch. Blood beaded along the slice before trickling from the wound. Nuada still wanted to see John's blood gush, but he repressed the urge despite the hissing words slithering through his mind.

Where were you? You let it happen.

"You asked me where I was when she needed me," Nuada said tonelessly. His knuckles were bone-white on the hand that gripped his naked sword. "I ask you this, human - where were you?" The Elf prince sheathed his sword, turned on his heel to walk toward the door. He had to leave again. He couldn't stay. Could not continue to listen to this mortal harangue him. Blood would be spilled in a lethal fountain this night if the Elf had to listen to the human spew any more accusations.

"Turn around and I'll tell you."

The words were just odd enough that Nuada did turn... and stumbled back a pace when John's fist slammed into his mouth.

"Master John, no!"

Nuada gritted his teeth and glared at the human who now had smears of amber blood on his knuckles from the leaking cut on the Elf prince's mouth. The feral-eyed warrior tasted blood from where he'd cut the inside of his mouth against his teeth. Thought briefly about spitting it out. More work for Becan that way. Nuada swallowed back the fey sweetness of his own blood and studied the human that had dared to hit him. Considered his options through a haze of crimson fury and black hatred.

"I've been wanting to do that for days," John growled, then went flying backward when Nuada punched him. He slammed into the wall and slid dazedly to the floor, scarlet dripping from between slack lips. "Uhn..." The mortal groaned when Nuada hauled him to his feet by the front of his shirt with one hand. More scarlet dripped onto the human's shirt from the cuts inside his mouth from Nuada's blow.

No blades. Not here, not now. If he drew his sword again, he'd never sheathe it without the Elven silver tasting dark mortal life's blood. Oh, but he wanted that life's blood. Craved it almost like a drug. Yearned to hear it sing over Elven silver as the human screamed and died.

But he couldn't. He could not. So he would resort to a more common form of retribution. To hit the putrid, hollow thing again... or to hit it more than once: that was the question.

"Milady will be very unhappy if you fight him, Sire!"

Dylan would just have to be unhappy.

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She knew there was a problem the moment her hand touched the doorknob. There was no sound to alert her, no smell of danger or sense of cruelty in the air. Not even a cold slither down her spine, a warning from the Spirit. There was nothing. But as Dylan fumbled with her keys and started to unbolt the cottage's front door, she knew there was something wrong inside the cottage.

Becan met her in the entryway. "Milady, you must stop them!"

She didn't even bother asking him who he meant. Just followed the noise of snarled insults and the sound of flesh impacting flesh to the living room. Stopped. Gaped at the impossible scene before her.

Her stomach lurched and her heart flipped over when she saw John stuck in an immobilizing joint-lock against the coffee table, which creaked ominously under her brother's weight. His arm was wrenched upward behind his back. The stomach-lurch morphed into a somersault and her heart stopped for a second when Dylan saw that the Elf that held her brother in the painful joint-lock was none other than Prince Nuada Silverlance. Both of them were snarling at each other. Both of them had scraped knuckles. Both of them were bleeding.

For a moment she was so stunned and angry she could hardly think, let alone speak.

"Say that once more and I shall break your arm at the shoulder, human," the Elf growled. "And your elbow, while I'm at it."

John spit a mouthful of blood. "Fine. My sister hates your guts and-"

"Both of you stop it or I'm gonna be the one breaking arms," Dylan yelled. Two pairs of incredulous eyes sliced to where she stood in horrified disbelief in the doorway. She could read the question in those eyes easily: when the hell did you get here? She ignored the look and focused on Nuada. Ignored the weak-kneed relief that spread through her when she saw he wasn't hurt beyond what someone (presumably her brother) had done. Ignored the nerves burbling in her stomach at the mere sight of him in the cottage again. Instead she snapped, "Let my brother go." At his sharp look, she added a little more politely, "Please."

Eyes that were nearly crimson locked with eyes like stardust. Dylan tried to put every ounce of pleading and desperation into her gaze because that was exactly what she was feeling right now - sick and desperate - and because if Nuada decided to break her brother's arm, both she and John were going to be screwed; John because of the arm, and her because what was she supposed to do when the prince she'd sworn herself to attacked her twin and hurt him?

Nuada muttered a vicious Gaelic curse and released John, stepping back quickly so the mortal man couldn't hit him again. For you, a ghrá, he thought again before he could stop himself. Managed not to say it, though, thank the gods. The human male groaned pathetically and slid to the floor, rubbing his abused shoulder.

"Dylan," he croaked when he could speak around the pain in his arm. "This son of a bi-"

"Be quiet, John," she said softly. Her brother's mouth snapped shut. The hurt in his eyes blazed at her, scorched her. She knew she had to walk very carefully here or risk possibly everything. Dylan asked, "Can you get up?" Her brother nodded. "Then I want you to go into my room and wait for me there, understand? And don't get any blood on the carpet or Becan will get sick from the iron."

Her twin looked as if he might argue, but one good look at Dylan's face and he fell silent. John got shakily to his feet and left the room without another word. Nuada opened his mouth, but Dylan raised a regal hand and he fell silent. Starlit blue eyes fell on him with all the force of a blow.

"I understand..." Dylan had to swallow quickly before she could continue on. "I understand that you hate me for what I've done. I understand that. I... accept that. You wouldn't feel the way you do if I didn't deserve it. I'm sorry for everything I've done to hurt you, Nuada. I'm so sorry. But..." A thread of hurt - and more, of blistering anger - under the voice now. "But you can't come here and hurt my brother because of what I did. Begging Your Highness's pardon, but I won't let you."

The Elven warrior briefly entertained the thought of being angry. I won't let you. The only thing she had ever clearly stated she forbade him. As if she could truly stop him from hurting the wretched human male if the prince sought to end his pathetic existence. Nuada tossed the idea of anger aside. If Dylan didn't stand between the prince and her twin, would Nuada still feel as he did for her? Even if the puling mortal whelp didn't deserve her protection. Her honor demanded she defend her kin. He could understand that.

"Do you think so little of me, then?" The prince asked in a cool, almost expressionless voice. That little thread of anger and hurt in Dylan's words threatened to strangle him. "That I would punish one for the sins of another?"

Dylan's hair was tied up in a long ponytail. Now she yanked the white velvet scrunchie out of her hair, letting it tumble loose around her shoulders and down her back. A few stray curls hung in her eyes. His fingers itched to smooth those curls back from her face. Instead he tightened his hands into fists at his sides and waited for her answer.

"No, Nuada. I think you're angry with me; rightfully so. I lied to you. I didn't mean to, and I'm sorry, but I did and you have every right to be furious with me. To... to hate me. And people often do things in anger that they wouldn't normally do otherwise."

"You think me lacking control, then?"

"Oh, stop it," she snapped. "You'd try the patience of a saint, I swear. What am I supposed to think? If John did something that serious, wouldn't you have just killed him? I know you hate humans. I was the only one you didn't hate and now there's not even that. So why else would you have hurt him except to punish me?" Not that she didn't deserve his anger, his punishment. She knew that, and she knew that Nuada knew she felt that way. "I'll take whatever consequences you think I deserve because I know the seriousness of breaking an oath to a denizen of Faerie. But I won't let you hurt John because of me. I'll kick your butt into next week if I have to. You don't get to hurt my brother because of something I did."

"It was not because of anything you may or may not have done," the prince said coolly. He nearly had to bite his tongue to keep from adding mo duinne at the end of that statement. And there was that phrase again: I won't let you. To his shock, Nuada felt his mouth twitch at a sudden surge of amusement. Suddenly the mortal woman reminded him yet again of a kitten with its fur all puffed up and a bottle-brush tail. Forcing the mirth away, the Elf added, "I came here to speak with you. Your idiot of a brother said things that I will not stand for. He had to be... reprimanded."

Dylan shrugged out of her coat and tossed it onto the back of the armchair. Her gloves and scarf followed. "You were about to break his arm in two places. That's a bit more than a reprimand."

"He said things that I will not stand for," Nuada repeated tonelessly.

"What things?" She demanded, searching his face.

He had no idea what she would see there, so he smoothed away any and all emotions, any and all thoughts. But still he could hear her brother's voice hissing like a basilisk in his skull. You just watched them hurt her. You let it happen. You enjoy breaking her heart. You enjoy hurting her.

Why was he here? Why had he come here? To please his oldest friend. To torture himself. To prove to himself that no matter how enticingly she called to him, no matter how sorrowful her eyes were, he would not betray himself and everything he believed in by softening towards her. Now she was studying him with confusion, with hurt and concern in those damnable eyes of hers.

"I will not speak of it." Silently, he added, I should not have come here. I should never have come here. He turned to leave, to escape, but her hand on his arm, soft as a snowflake, stayed him. Amber eyes landed on her face.

"You're bleeding," Dylan murmured. "The two of you were fighting. How badly did you hurt each other?"

"Your brother has bruised ribs and facial bruises. A few cuts. Scraped knuckles. Nothing more. I was careful not to permanently damage him, since he means so much to you," Nuada added with a trace of bitterness he couldn't suppress. He started to turn away again.

Her palm against his cheek turned his face back to her. He wanted to shove her away, wanted to wrench her hand away from his skin. Instead, he stood there and waited. Stood there and allowed her hand to gently stroke down his cheek, skipping over a bruise. He fought the shudder that tried to pulse through him. Tension strung out between them, tight as a wire and just as sharply cutting. The crisp scent that clung to her teased him - fresh apples and sharp cinnamon, something sweet underneath it all.

As if she couldn't help herself, she gently touched his bottom lip, right where her brother had first hit him. Nuada almost winced at the sting. Her fingertip came away wet with a drop of amber blood.

"And what about you?" Dylan very lightly touched the bruise darkening along his jaw. "H-how are you?"

"Why does it matter to you?" Nuada clenched his teeth. Why had he asked her that? Why couldn't he simply keep his mouth shut?

Her eyes were so very gentle. How could he think when she was looking at him that way? Where had all of her righteous indignation gone? Where was his own anger?

"I must go now."

"No, stay," she pleaded. He didn't move. Couldn't seem to force his legs to work. "Don't go yet, please. Please stay. I'm sorry. Nuada, I'm so sorry, please don't leave."

Danu's mercy, he had to. He couldn't stay here. Couldn't stay here with her eyes so wide and glimmering like starlight, looking at him, pleading with him not to go. Her fingers trembled merely a handspan away from his bloodied mouth. He could easily kiss her fingertips. He had to put some distance between them. Had to say something to make her stop looking at him that way. As if he were the answer to her every prayer. He had to say something to make her stop looking at him that way.

Disgusting human whore. No. Not those words. Never again. But there was one other that might do it.

"I have no reason to stay... human."

He saw the change in her immediately and hated himself. She dropped her hand and stepped back from him, letting her eyes drop to the floor. He felt the absence of her nearness like a sharp slap. Dylan took a quick, sharp breath. Dropped an awkward half-curtsy. She still wouldn't look at him. "Forgive me, Your Royal Highness. I meant no offense. Let me get you some ice for that bruise, at least. And you and John should probably have a talk."

"If your brother says one more word to me," Nuada said icily, any ghost of tenderness forgotten, "I will break more than just his arm, human."

Silver-washed blue eyes like stardust finally lifed to his face. Her voice was soft and hesitant when she whispered, "You weren't this... hard with him before. Why are you so angry with him? What did he say to you?"

You enjoy breaking her heart. You enjoy hurting her. You don't care about her, you just want to see her suffer. How long does she have to cry over you before you finally stop tormenting her? You just let them hurt her.

"Ask your precious brother," the prince snapped. "See if you can actually find a bit of truth in all of his lies." Nuada turned again and strode toward the front door. He would not let Dylan stop him this time. He had to leave. He'd done what Wink asked; he'd come to see Dylan and he'd seen her. They'd talked. His honor allowed him to leave now. Allowed him to escape being so insufferably, torturously close to her.

I understand that you hate me. His honor did not allow him to leave while she thought that. Nuada's jaw tensed. At the door, he turned back to her.

"Dylan." Why did she have to look so brittle? He wanted to stay here. Wanted to erase that brittle look in her eyes. Mo duinne... Instead he said tonelessly, "I have told you before that I do not hate you. Do not call me a liar again. Now go and see to your brother."

And like a coward, the crown prince of Bethmoora fled once more.

"So he's finally gone, huh?"

Dylan turned to see John standing with a towel-wrapped ice pack pressed to his black-bruised jaw. His eyes were stormy with hurt and pain and anger. And was that worry? She could feel all of that through their bond, which meant it was stronger than almost any emotion she'd picked up from him in months, even years. When he came to stand in front of her, Dylan sighed and dropped her forehead against her brother's chest. "Are you mad at me, too?"

"Kind of," John muttered, adjusting the ice pack. "It kind of hurts when the other half of my heart ditches me for some pointy-eared jerk. I'll get over it, though. And at least you've got kind of a good reason. If you weren't in love with him, though, I'd be furious."

She jerked her head back to stare up at her twin in shock.

"I'm not blind, D. You don't get all morose over just anybody. Jerk's lucky. Lucky someone like you loves him and lucky I didn't break his face."

Dylan thumped him hard in the chest with her forehead. The force of the blow made John cough and wince. His twin's cranium had connected with one of the dark bruises thickening over his torso, courtesy of His Royal Pain-in-the-Assness. John swallowed the complaint that wanted to whine out of his mouth and sighed.

"Okay, sorry. It's just... I think our bond is getting stronger. I think I'm picking up on a lot of what's going on in here," and he tapped her gently on the forehead. "Or maybe what's in here." He poked her in the chest.

She sighed and dropped her face against his chest again. They hadn't had an overlap-problem, as John called it, since he'd hit puberty his first year of high school when his usually-meager psychic ability had gone gonzo for a few months. Once the initial rush of horomones had ended, their link had leveled out again.

"I dunno, Sis. I said some things... I said some things to him I probably shouldn't have and I think it's because I'm feeling what you're feeling and I gotta be honest, it pisses me off and scares me."

Dylan frowned. "Scares you? Why?"

"Because," John said softly, putting an arm around her. "The last time I felt this kind of... of hopelessness from you, you tried to kill yourself." She wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him a squeeze. "I'm just... I'm really scared you're going to try to leave me again."

"Oh, John. Sweetheart, never. Never." She squeezed him tighter. "It's okay. Don't ever think that. I'm fine. You're my brother, I'd never leave you. I'm fine."

No, her twin thought with a cold, sick feeling in the very pit of his stomach. No, you're not. You're not fine, D. You're all twisted up and you're pretending so hard that you're not that you don't even see it anymore. You were so fragile to begin with, walking a tight-rope through life. You never let anyone see how hard it was for you and now you're all messed up. He means so much to you and he doesn't deserve you but you need him. And I didn't help things, either. Crap.

Aloud, John added with just the right amount of grumpy-child in his voice, "I suppose I have to go and apologize to him."

His twin gave a short laugh, but didn't say anything for a very long time. Just listened to the sound of her brother's heartbeat under his t-shirt and wished things could be simple again. Easy, like when they were little. Finally Dylan asked, "What did you say to him?"

"You're not gonna like it. In my defense, in retrospect I think an awgwa was screwing with my head. But you're still not gonna like it."

Dylan's exasperated breath momentarily blew a lock of hair out of her face. "I'm already ticked at the both of you, so how bad could it be? C'mon, don't be a wimp."

He was a wimp, but he 'fessed up to it anyway. And it was bad. By the time he finished the recitation of the argument - or as much of the argument as he could remember - Dylan had stripped him of his shirt, checked out his bruised ribs to make sure they weren't broken, put some salve on the lacerations on his face, and had hit him at least twice as many times as Nuada had. His blows had hurt worse, though John didn't make the mistake of telling that to his twin.

"I can't believe you, John," she hissed, and thwacked him on the back a few more times.

"Ow, ow, ow!" He yelped with every strike. "Awgwas made me do it! Awgwas made me do it! Ow!"

Dylan rolled her eyes and gave her brother a good, solid thump on the noggin just for kicks and giggles. "Yeah, blame the evil rock faeries. Suck it up and stop being a baby. You deserve it. And no more ice cream on my tab for you anymore, either." John's look of utter horror almost made her relent. Then she remembered what her brother had told her about his fight with Nuada and just folded her arms beneath her breasts. "Don't look at me like that. No more ice cream for you."

"What about pie?" His sister made the absolute best pie in the world (in his humble opinion) and she couldn't really mean to exile him from both free ice cream and homemade apple pie after he'd already agreed to go and apologize? Did she? "C'mon, D, not the pie, too!"

"After what you said to him? You're lucky I don't rip you into little pieces and sprinkle you on my toast. The only reason I don't is because you'd taste awful." Her eyes were like pools of cobalt ice shrouded in frigid mist when they narrowed at him. John had to fight not to swallow reflexively at the anger in their depths. Yeah, his twin had stopped whacking him with her good hand (the other one still being bandaged from where she'd cut herself with scissors and thus rendered non-viable for punishment), but that didn't mean that everything was all hunky-dory between them.

Would she forgive him? Of course. That didn't mean she wouldn't make him squirm like a worm on a hook first. Unfortunately, she loved the jerk who'd broken her heart. That meant if John wanted his privileges back (and his other half's good humor), he had to make nice with the Elf prince.

I'd rather get neutered, the federal agent thought. Somehow Dylan must have picked up on the sentiment, if not the thought, because she jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. Ow. But then she bussed a kiss against his temple and he felt a little better. Okay, she wasn't quite that angry. John sighed in relief. It was more like I'm-gonna-rip-your-hair-out-mad than I'm-gonna-make-sure-this-softball-makes-first-contact-with-your-cash-and-prizes-mad. He could handle that.

An irate meow was his only warning before Bat sank his needle-sharp little cat teeth into his foot. John yelped. Dylan just sat back and watched her kitten do his little kitty-cat best to maul her twin.

.

Dylan went through the next several days almost, she imagined, the way a normal human being would've gotten through them. Thursday afternoon she saw two patients and updated their files. When the two teenagers had both gone home, she and Becan actually had a little fun making dinner together. The brownie was a culinary genius, but he couldn't compete with Dylan's apple pie. After dinner the mortal woman continued to work on the blue quilt. Right before bedtime she got a text from Hollis telling her the time and date for her second psychiatric evaluation: Saturday afternoon, two-thirty PM. Hollis would be conducting. She sent him a thank-you text, hung up, said her prayers and read her scriptures, and went to bed.

Friday she was back at the office. Her schedule was full regarding appointments that day. Luckily the chicken parmesan and penne Becan had made the night Nuada left (and just thinking the words brought everything back for a painful stinging moment) was still in the fridge. She ate it cold between appointments. Ariel drove her home. They stopped for frozen yogurt at TCBY on the way (ice cream three days in a row was too much even for Dylan's inner child).

"What's up with you, Boss-Lady?" Her secretary asked as she dished up fat-free frozen strawberry goodness. "You seem depressed."

"Clinically? That's weird, I'm on meds," Dylan said, and Ariel gave her a "ha-ha, very funny" look. The psychiatrist smiled and slurped up a bit of orange creme milkshake. "Boys," Dylan said after a long silence. "Boy trouble." When her secretary's glass-green eyes went wide, she huffed out a breath. "Yeah, I know - I never mentioned a guy. It's... really complicated. Anyway, it's fine. It's just been distracting me a bit. I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"If I wasn't fine," Dylan reminded her friend, secretary, and chauffeur in a wry voice, "I'd have needed balm for my soul and gone for the triple-killer-fudge super-thick chocolate milkshake with chocolate whipcream, chocolate chips, fudge bits, and chocolate sprinkles." She held up her orange creme shake. "I'm fine."

Saturday John drove her to Saint Vincent's again. Hollis was very careful about the drugs this time; only a hundred miligrams of diazepam to keep her "calm" and to ease the possible panic-attack side effect of the sodium pentothal. They only used two miligrams of that. Hollis asked the requisite questions and made copious notes. Nothing out of the ordinary happened this time. When it was over John helped her back to the car and she slept the entire way home. He had to half-carry her to the bedroom so she could conk out.

Sunday was church and that was fun. Surrounded by her kids in Nursery, she could almost forget about Nuada. Forget about Bethmoora, forget about Faerie. And because the kids all had such short little legs (the oldest was only three) Dylan could race around with them in the snow without putting much strain on her bad leg. The only thing they didn't do was jumping jacks. The bouncing was just a little too much.

"Come on, everybody!" She called to the dozen toddlers hustling to out-do each other. They were laughing and whooping as they hopped around in the frosty white stuff. No one even seemed to notice the cold. "It's a race! C'mon, around the tree! Let's go! Can't catch me!" Of course a mountain of children brought her down like a pack of fluffy-coated, pastel-colored giggling hyenas on a gazelle right after she said that. But at least they would be able to pay attention when she brought them inside for lesson time. And for snack time there were hot cookies and warm apple juice. Couldn't ask for much more than that.

When she worked on the quilt she thought about going down the hall to the little room that held her piano. Always, she decided against it. The only reason she had that piano was for those rare times when she held Family Home Evening on Monday nights with John. Music was a big part of her life and a big part of her faith. But she could hardly play - only one note at a time, and only after weeks of practicing the same song over and over again - so why bother? It didn't take skill or talent to play random keys. It only took an ear that wasn't tone deaf and a love of music. But the only thing she could play right now would be just random pressings of the keys as she let the sounds take her where she didn't want to go.

And every night she dreamed of Nuada. Every night she apologized, told him she was sorry and that she missed him. Every night he folded his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, his hands gently stroking her back as he whispered soft things in Gaelic that made her heart thunder and shivers traipse up and down her spine. And every night she woke up alone, knowing it had only been a dream. She was getting sick of dreams. She was getting sick of sorrow.

She was also getting a little sick of John, whose snores sounded remarkably like a logging truck, even through the closed bedroom door because he was all scrunched up on the sofa and not breathing right.

Monday was back to the office again, with a full day of appointments. Luckily no one was having a crisis just then and it was all mostly routine. She actually had time to go out and get something for lunch from the Farmer's Market. Though the apples were fresh, she stayed far away from them. Lately apples had begun to stick in her throat whenever she tried to eat them.

Instead she stuck mainly to fresh bread and creamy cheese, sometimes with the boiled eggs that this tiny old Amish woman sold at a quaint little stall at the Market. Grapes were good too, especially the purple ones that were fat and sweet. Adrian King, one of her former Sight kids who'd just survived his seventeeth birthday, grew them in a greenhouse to sell at the Market in winter.

Back at the cottage in the early evening, Kaye brought her little sister over for one of their haphazardly-scheduled "human lessons." As a human changeling, Kate didn't have a lot of experience living in the human world, since she'd been taken to Faerie as a baby and Kaye-the-pixie left in her place. However, the wild child liked Dylan and adored her "big sister," and was slowly learning how to be civilized. They'd made some good progress with her; she was now willing to eat Pop-Tarts and cereal for breakfast instead of honey slathered over flowers, for example. Now Dylan and Kate were working on not biting random strangers for calling her "cute." Kate's philosophy was, "Faeries do it - why can't I?"

But they were making progress. The psychiatrist was pretty sure it was mostly because of Bean, the sidhe changeling boy that was Kate's best friend and one of Dylan's actual neighbors (he and his mother lived in one of the nearby apartment complexes). Bean, as short as Kate despite his unknown age, with untameable tufts of sidhe-scarlet hair and upswept, tilty silver eyes that always made Kate calm down when she was throwing one of her wild tantrums, was very good at playing human because his mother was trying to pass for one.

Kaye had brought Bean and his mother, Peri, on the off-chance Kate decided to act up during the lesson. With Bean seated next to her and doing the practice exercises with her when Dylan asked him to help, though, everything went smoothly. The pixie, the sidhe woman, and the mortal took the two changeling children to the playground of faerie metal even though it was near dusk and let them goof off on the equipment while the sister, mother and friend all talked.

"They're good for each other," Peri said softly as her son pretended to rescue Kate from slipping down the slide into hot lava (and of course her incredibly melodramatic death). "It's good when a fae child and a human child can be friends with one another."

"It's good for the Tylwyth Teg to touch mortal lives with their magic," Dylan replied, tucking her gloved hands into her pockets. Her breath steamed on the air and she tried desperately not to think of the magic that had touched her own life in this place several nights ago. "Those of us who can See, who can understand - at least a little - and appreciate the beauty of what the Fair Folk are need to be reminded that this kind of magic exists, or soon no one will remember it."

Bean and Kate started throwing snowballs at each other. Half the time they nibbled on the snowball first, then threw it. Dylan dubbed Kate the "black team" for her dark hair and Bean the "red team." So far, the Red Team was winning. Kate's aim was terrible. Usually she hit the trees or the ground instead of her silver-eyed target.

Maybe, Dylan thought suddenly, I can bring Tiana here to play with them sometime. Since the little girl had been able to see the nuckelavee, she probably had at least a little of the Sight. Kate could use a girl friend and Tiana could use another child to play with instead of being cooped up with Anya all day or whatever they're doing with her.

"Girlfriend, you okay?" Peri asked Dylan suddenly. "You look totally down."

Dylan noticed Kaye giving her an appraising look before saying, "Oh, crap. I know that face. You're in love. With a faerie. Aren't you?"

"H-how did... how did you..."

"One word: Roiben," Kaye replied dryly. "How do you think I looked after he set me that stupid task thing? 'Find a faerie that can lie.' Jeez. If I'd known you back then, that would've been so helpful. I totally didn't know fae royalty could lie outright. So annoying. So yeah, I know the I-love-a-totally-unavailble-and-out-of-reach-faerie-knight-who's-the-air-I-breathe-and-my-heartbeat-and-the-colors-of-my-world-and-I-love-him-so-much-but-I'm-crap-outta-luck look." At the other two women's raised eyebrows, the pixie added defensively, "Hey, I got that out of one of those trashy romance novels. I didn't make that up."

"Who is it?" Peri asked, then said in a deceptively calm voice that still managed to carry, "Bean, if you eat that beetle I'm going to wash your mouth out with yucca-root." Her son hastily put down the offending insect before it could complete its journey to his mouth. "So who's the faerie?"

"Wait," Kaye said suddenly. Because Dylan could see through her glamor, it was a little disconcerting when her pupil-less black eyes zeroed in on the human woman's face. "Wait, wait, wait. Roiben mentioned something about... something about the crown prince of Bethmoora being engaged to a human from New York City and it causing a big uproar because Emperor Huizong and Silariel were pissed about it for some reason. Tell me that wasn't you."

"Great, everyone in Faerie knows my business." Dylan sighed. "Yes, it's me, but we're not engaged, we're... courting, I guess you'd call it." If we're even doing that anymore, she thought but didn't add. "Anyway, I don't really want to talk about it. I'd rather... Kate! We do not eat tree bark!" Distracted by changelings trying to eat things they probably shouldn't, the three women forgot the conversation about faerie kings and princes and focused on keeping bizarre objects out of the children's mouths.

.

Nuada stared at the blank sheet of paper on the table in front of him, trying to will elegantly-scripted, eloquent words to appear like dark inky blood on the pristine white page. Amber eyes bored into the blank paper. Pale fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the tabletop. Nothing happened.

It had been five days. Five days. Nearly a whole week had passed since last he'd seen Dylan's face or set foot in her cottage. Instead of getting easier, it had only gotten harder. Harder to drive her from his thoughts, harder to keep from worrying about the mortal he'd left alone in that tiny cottage in the woods. Where were you? What if... what if something happened while he was here, in his self-imposed exile from that small sanctuary? Everything in him rebelled at the thought of Dylan being hurt because he hadn't been there to protect her.

So he'd decided. As a prince, he was bound by his oaths and by the commands of his father and king. As a warrior of honor, he was bound to the human woman for good or ill. She had already apologized. She had already wept and begged his forgiveness in the dream they'd shared. He had already given it in another dream, though whether they shared that one or not, Nuada didn't know. It didn't matter; he'd forgiven her. Now it was time for him to ask for her forgiveness.

By the stars, he missed her. It had always been enough, before - training and planning for a war he knew would one day come, eschewing companionship of any form but visits with his twin and (when the king deigned to receive him) his father, as well as the unshakeable loyalty of Wink. It had always been enough for him through the last nearly two dozen centuries. But not anymore.

The feral-eyed warrior had already figured out exactly what he would do. As a noble, his duty to his lady in this regard was clear: a formal letter of apology and a token of the same sentiment that also served as a reaffirmation of his affection. When he saw her again he would also have to apologize verbally. Well enough. His pride could handle such a thing. Especially after... after...

Disgusting human whore.

A white-knuckled fist slammed down hard on the table and the bottle of ink clanked from the force. Those words needed to be thoroughly eradicated from the list of his many sins. But this was going to be difficult, this letter. He was going to have to give just enough of the truth to erase the venom and grief thickening between him and the human who'd sworn herself to him... but he had to keep back the most damning truth.

And if he did tell her of it? If he did the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his life, what did he expect would happen? He would foolishly throw away his honor and his self-respect for the sake of a human who could never love him in return. Humans could not love that way. Not the way that he loved her.

Not loved, Nuada snarled at himself, but could have loved if I allowed myself such treasonous folly. Which I haven't and never will. Missing Dylan was one thing. Loving her was another. But he still had to write this blasted letter. And there was only one way to do it.

Swallowing his pride, swallowing nearly all of his reservations, and throwing thousands of years' caution to the wind, he picked up the quill, dipped it into the inkwell, and began to write.

Wink strode into the lair, having just returned from the Troll Market with supplies. The cave troll stopped short when he caught sight of his prince bent over the table, topaz eyes fixed on a sheet of paper as he tapped a quill against his lips. His hair was bound in a long horsetail with a black leather tie to keep it from brushing against the ink on the page. He frowned in concentration. Could Nuada actually be... writing a letter of apology to his mortal lady?

Nuada had returned from that second sojourn to Lady Dylan's cottage five days ago with bleeding knuckles, a dark brown bruise around one eye, and blood leaking from a cut on his lip. Wink had raised an eyebrow and the prince had muttered something about "human males." When pressed, all the Elf would say was that he and Dylan's twin brother had had a disagreement. The troll had reminded his prince that permanently maiming his lady's kin was probably not quite the best way to regain his lady's affections. Nuada had snarled about leaving the wretch intact as a gift for his lady.

Wink had left it alone after that.

Since then, the prince had been even more moody than before. The silver troll had begun to ponder the thought that he would have to go back to the lassling's cottage and tell her that his intervention had been a failure. Apparently not, though. Not if Nuada was finally writing the apology letter.

The white feather-pen flicked out and more words were etched onto the paper. Wink knew his prince was taking great care because there were no balled-up failures littering the floor. Remembering the sorry attempts at letter- and poetry-writing perpetrated by a lovestruck princeling millennia ago, the troll smiled. "How goes it?"

"Slowly," Nuada muttered. He could not keep the terseness from his voice. In order to write this letter, he had to force himself to remember the awful shock in fey-like eyes like rainswept lakes and the tears shimmering there that she refused to let fall. They'd clung to her long lashes like jewels. One had fallen against his skin, so hot with her grief that it had nearly burned him. He fought not to choke on the memory. "But I am nearly finished. After this, we have to go out."

"As you wish, my prince." Wink dropped the large satchel of foodstuffs and other items beside the entryway to their current undergound lair. "Where to?"

"The Troll Market." Amber eyes scanned the page as Nuada penned the last few lines of the letter and signed it. It was a good letter. Sincere. He prayed she would accept it because if she didn't... what would happen to him then? What would happen if the one person who would forgive him nearly anything refused to grant him forgiveness now? He despised the way something cold coiled in his belly at the thought of losing her regard. "I must purchase a few things and..." This part galled. He choked the words out anyway. "I may need your help."

Wink arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. Only nodded graciously and went to find something quick to munch on before his prince could drag them back to the faerie market beneath the Brooklyn Bridge.

While Nuada waited for the ink to dry completely, he reached across the table to the small brown paper envelope he'd purchased earlier that day. Carefully he picked it up and opened it. Tilting it just so, he slid the fragile contents into the palm of his hand. Sighed.

I'm a fool to go to such trouble, the Elf prince told himself. To care so much about this. But when the ink had dried Nuada folded the letter into thirds around the contents of the little brown envelope. Lifting the blue candle that had illuminated his efforts while he worked, he dripped the liquid wax onto the seam, sealing it. Blue for sorrow, for mourning, for regret. Then he carefully pressed his personal signet into the wax, marking it with the seal of the Silver Lance.

"Now, my friend," Nuada said, rising to his feet. "We go to the Troll Market."

This is going to be quite embarrassing, the prince grumbled silently, but went to pick up his sword and spear for the trip.