Chapter 41 - Silver and Gold

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A Short Tale of the Siren Call of Sleep, a Distant Shore, a Second Letter, the Blue Velvet Box, Waiting, Silver and Gold, and the Winter Dark

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She woke from a half-sleep of shadows and pins-and-needles pain across her skin to a cool, gentle hand pressing against her forehead. She had to blink a few times before she could make out her brother's worried expression in the dimness of descending evening. "Hey, John." Her voice was a painful croak.

"Jeez, you're burning up, Sis." John brushed back the sweat-stringy hair from his sister's face. "I think you might have the flu."

"Why am I not surprised?" Dylan muttered. Biting back a sigh and trying not to cough, she took stock of her various symptoms. The cobwebby pressure in her skull and the aching chill in her body would have indicated fever even without her twin's layman's diagnosis. Someone had taken a blowtorch to the inside of her throat - or at least that's how it felt to her. Every time she took a breath, it raked at her throat and caught in her chest, trying to make her cough. She knew if she coughed, her world would narrow to a single tiny window of absolute and painful misery. "I hate flu season."

"That's what happens when you don't take care of yourself," John replied with an equal measure of sympathy and exasperation. He poked her in the arm and she made a small "mmm" sound of irritation. "Luckily for you, I come bearing gifts from a magical, far off place of great wonders."

Despite the way the world was spinning in one direction while blurring before her eyes, her mouth curved into a smile. "The Floating Night Market?"

Her twin snorted. "The drugstore."

Sometimes taking medicine wasn't so bad. As a child, she'd actually enjoyed the taste of the grape-flavored syrup her parents had given her to combat coughs and sore throats. Why couldn't grown-up doses of over-the-counter medications retain the yummy taste of child medicines?

The only reason she didn't throw up the dextromethorphan that seared her throat with its acerbic taste was because she clapped a hand over her mouth and John was obliging enough to let her punch him in the shoulder with her other hand. After swallowing several times to make sure the bright orange syrup had coated the inside of her throat, Dylan indulged in a few minutes of muttering that included copious usage of the word "yech." But at least the burning in her throat was almost entirely gone. John also dosed her with three Tylenol for the fever.

"And this," her twin added, "is because you're such a good girl and you did what the nice doctor told you." He handed her a lemon Jolly Rancher. She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth before balling up the tiny plastic wrapper and flicking it at him. John poked her in the arm again. "Now, I'm gonna go camp out on the sofa, okay?"

"You don't have to-"

"Becan asked me to," John interrupted. "Though he didn't want me to tell you. I think he's worried that you might collapse or something. He's no tomte - he can't exactly pick you up if you fall down and can't get up again. It's just until your fever breaks, Miss Independent. And I was already off work when I called you, so I'm not losing pay or anything. Relax. Go to sleep. You should be able to get some actual rest now." When she sighed, he added, "Consider it payback for last year when I got in that bike accident and had the concussion and you took care of me for those two days at Christmas."

Dylan smiled and nodded. That was fair. And the dextromenthorphan was making her drowsy. The medicine blanketed the aches of the fever. She blinked, and John wasn't at her bedside anymore. She blinked again, and he wasn't even in the room. Sleep was a siren song. Finally she let her eyes drift closed and gave into its call. Besides, sleeping was the fastest way to get better. Dylan hated being sick.

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The minute he smelled the sea and heard the gulls calling overhead, he knew it was a dream. Feral eyes opened slowly and Nuada studied the pristine shores awash with rolling surf. Sunset painted the sea and sky with strokes of amber, bronze, and rose. Clouds hung like wisps of spun gold across the painted sky.

Despite the long years since last the Elf prince had seen this place, he still recognized it. The Elven warrior glanced to his right. Among the rocks and wilds, the River Boyne flowed into the sea. None of this Irish seascape looked in modern times as it did now in this dream. As it had when he was but a child. Weary melancholy settled over him as he thought once more of treasures and wonders lost to time and men. Nuada had wanted to dream of Dylan. Of comfort and unconditional acceptance. Instead, this reminder of sorrow mocked him. He closed his eyes.

Delighted laughter dragged his attention unwillingly to the pounding surf and ivory sand. Everything in him went still as he saw Dylan, her hair streaming down her back, playing in the water with... was that a dog?

At the shoreline, he was finally close enough to study the idyllic scene before him. A pure white Irish wolfhound romped through the water, nearly bouncing with joy as Dylan laughed and splashed the massive beast. Every so often the hound would prance close enough to almost touch her, then leap away again. Its mistress - and she was clearly the hound's mistress - didn't seem to mind that the animal and the surf were soaking her pale blue summer dress to the knees with salty ocean water.

Then she looked toward where Nuada stood on the shore, and her grin melted into a smile as warm as the sun shining down on the beach. She called to the dog in Gaelic, and it obediently trotted out of the water at her side. It not-so-obediently shook the water from its fur as soon as it reached dry sand. Dylan took the soaking with only a laugh. The Elf prince would have scowled at the dog, but couldn't seem to wipe away the smile curving his lips.

"Is this my dream or yours?" Nuada asked when she was in easy earshot.

"I think it's yours," the mortal replied, glancing at the hound. "Because I have no idea what kind of dog that is. I don't think I've ever seen it before." The dog's tail wagged twice. Then the massive beast pressed itself against Dylan's legs, nearly knocking her over. "Although apparently he's seen me before. You're a good boy, aren't you, Cù Chulainn?" She rubbed the dog's ears, and the hound gave a contented sigh. "I've always wanted a dog."

"Yes, well," the prince said, folding his arms and gazing down in consternation at the beast. The hound gave him what, on a face not lacking a muzzle, would have been called a completely unrepetant grin. Its tawny eyes glinted with doggy mischief. "Someone is most assuredly a very bad dog if he finds it acceptable to get water all over his mistress."

"You leave him alone," she said indignantly, shooting the feral-eyed Elf prince a mock-scowl. "He's a very good dog. I like him." Then her expression melted into a happy smile and she held out her hand to Nuada. "If this is really one of us walking through the other's dream... how about we pretend it's not? We can just... do whatever. No worries. Nothing to bother us. We can just... be. For a while."

Nuada found himself taking that proffered hand without thinking. He laced his fingers with hers as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He could feel her pulse through her palm, soft and steady against his skin. The Elf prince refused to think about what he was doing. Why he was doing it. Whether it had any impact on the real world or if it was only a dream for true. He'd wanted to dream of her, wanted just to see her in this place where the rules did not apply. Someone had given him this moment of peace and he was not going to squander it by doubting or fearing or questioning anything, not even himself.

"Walk with me," Nuada commanded, and she fell into step beside him. The hound trotted alongside her. Every so often it would bound forward and run off a ways down the beach before stopping and turning to see if his human was going to give chase. When she didn't, the dog always came back to walk beside Dylan again.

Wanting a moment without the energetic beast, Nuada scooped up a piece of driftwood and threw it with the sharp command, "Gabh." The hound went bounding after the stick, eager to play. The Elf prince had known that and thrown it fairly far. It would take the dog at least five to ten minutes to find the stick and bring it back.

"That was mean," Dylan chided him gently. "Is he even going to be able to find that stick?"

"That was not mean," Nuada replied. "Dogs like to play fetch. And if he's a hound worth his feed, he'll find it. Forget your ferocious beast for a moment. Now is my time with you, my lady."

The scent of the sea was strong where the wind misted off the surging waves. Elven senses could smell the salt and the sand, the sunlight and the surf on Dylan's skin. Her hair, damp with seawater and ocean spray, was longer than he was used to seeing it because of the wet. Drops of water clung to her neck like tiny jewels that glittered in the sun. Breezes ruffled her hair and the skirt of her sky blue dress swirled around her legs on the wind. But her eyes looked tired.

"Are you well?"

She smiled at him, smiled for him, but there was still that haggard tiredness in the depths of her gaze. She shrugged. "I'm okay." Then her smile took on a sharpness, like the dangerously jagged edge of a pearly seashell. "Unlike some people I know. You haven't been sleeping."

"Obviously I must have caught at least some sleep, mo duinne," Nuada replied with a sardonic lift of his eyebrow. Dylan stopped walking. "Otherwise I could not be sharing this dream with you. Ow." He winced when she poked him sharply in the chest, right over the spot where Wink's bronze fist had smashed into him twice during their sparring session a little less than a week ago. "What?"

"Don't just brush me off, Your Highness. If this is a dream, you shouldn't look like you haven't slept in days, and that's exactly what you look like." She turned to face him completely, her eyes dark with worry. "What is it? What's going on with you? New stuff, or just everything that's happened lately?" When he didn't say anything, Dylan's eyes flashed. "Do I have to hunt you down and make you take care of yourself? Because I know where you live. Well..." The mortal trailed off, frowning. "Actually, you could be anywhere. But," she added, triumph in her voice, "I know how to find you."

"Oh?" The slender, golden brow arched higher. His lips twitched. "You do, do you?"

"Yes, I do. And even if I didn't, I could make you tell me where you are."

"I sincerely doubt that," the Elf prince replied, struggling to keep a straight expression pasted on his face. She was trying to look so serious. "You're too gentle a creature to employ torture, my lady. Anything less could force no secrets past my lips."

Dylan cocked her head, the wild tangle of her hair sliding against her face and curling darkly against the paleness of her throat. "Too gentle for torture?" She smiled and laid her hands against his chest. Her touch was so light it almost wasn't there. "What is it with the men in my life underestimating me? John used to say the same thing." Smug mischief glinted in her eyes. "Then he turned fifteen and learned the error of his ways."

Freedom in the unreal, the Elf prince reminded himself. And even if this is real, even if this is no dream, she won't remember it when she awakens. It doesn't have to mean anything. Just enjoy being with her. "Do your worst, then," Nuada challenged her. Dark lips curved into a smirk. "I am not afraid of you."

Her arms twined around his neck. She stepped close, closer. "That's because you don't know any better."

Nuada inclined his head. "Perhaps it's as you say. Then again," his arms slid around her waist of their own volition as he let himself fully relax into the dream, fully surrender to the pleasure of being with her without the ravenous expectations of the real world. "Perhaps you do not know any better than to provoke an Elven warrior, milady." He laid his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, breathing in the richness of the sunlight on her skin. The Elf prince could feel her heart pounding against his chest as his grip on her tightened fractionally. He suddenly noticed the odd difference in them, the softness of her body so pliant against the hardness of his.

"I provoke you all the time," Dylan reminded the prince, and he could hear the laughter beneath her words. "I can tell, because sometimes you get this weird look on your face like you're about to choke on your tongue. Like right now." He flashed her a mock-scowl and she grinned. "Oh, stop that." Dylan reached up and lightly touched his mouth with gentle fingers. Her touch was like the kiss of velvet as she traced dark lips. "Smile."

Because he wanted to kiss the tips of her fingers, Nuada forced his face to remain in that fake scowl. "Make me," he challenged, wondering what she would do.

Dylan used the breadth of his shoulders to pull herself up on tiptoe. Nuada went utterly still as his mortal lady leaned in, slowly closing the scant distance between them. Dream, he thought. Only a dream. It doesn't matter if... if she... it's only a dream. He could taste the sweetness of her breath against his lips. The Elf prince closed his eyes because he knew if he didn't his gaze would be fixated on that soft, scarred mouth and he wouldn't be able to stop himself from kissing her. And even though it was only a dream, Nuada knew that if he kissed her here, now, he would have to do it in the waking world too.

But was that such a terrible thing, he wondered suddenly? The question should have shocked him, sickened him. Instead it tantalized him. There were so many reasons - good reasons, dangerous reasons - why he should not allow himself to consider such a thing. He could not afford that kind of distraction. Couldn't afford to love injudiciously (or even, really, to love at all). Especially not a common-born mortal woman who was nothing but a weakness to him. And although kisses didn't mean love, he knew that if he kissed her, the temptation of loving her - that seductive, silk-lined, sweetly baited trap - would be all the harder to resist.

And still, Nuada did not move. Didn't even try to stop her from kissing him. He couldn't do it. Could only wait with bated breath and suddenly pounding heart for the sweet caress that would shatter him. He closed his eyes.

At the very last second, just before those soft lips would have brushed against his mouth like fire and silk, she moved aside. Leaned in close enough to whisper in his ear. The soft heat of her breath against his skin sent a tremor through his body. It took Nuada a moment to register what she'd actually said.

"Nuada," she'd whispered. "Stop scowling before your face gets stuck that way."

His eyes flew open as Dylan stepped back just out of reach, grinning. Why, that little... Love? Love was not the problem just now. Kisses were not the problem. The problem was that he was going to strangle her. After he kissed her. No. Forget kissing her. That would be giving in. That would be surrendering to the golden heat simmering in his blood. He was simply going to strangle her. It was his only hope for retaining what little sanity he had left after that little piece of torture. Or was strangling too permanent?

Dylan cocked her head and smiled at him. He narrowed his eyes, his mouth twitching against his will. She knew exactly what she'd been doing. Which surprised him enough to make him question whether he walked in her dreams, or if this was merely an echo of her from his own subconscious. He had never truly known her to be quite so flirtatious.

Except that night out in the snow, he thought, remembering the way her fingertips had lightly stroked against his throat and her eyes had glittered in the wintry starlight. Then he shook the memory away. Still... Nuada couldn't keep the smile from spreading across his face as Dylan rocked back on her heels in the soft sand and laughed.

"See? I made you smile," she said. "I could make you tell me where you are, too - if I wanted." Sobering, she reached out and took his hand. "I miss you, Nuada. I... I miss you and I don't know if it's ever going to go away. I don't even know if you're really here or if I'm just dreaming about you because I'm pathetic. You've never been this... laid back in my dreams before. I don't know. All I know is that I'm sick with worrying about you. I'm scared something will happen to you and I won't be there to help or your dad will do something and... and I just miss you."

"I am well, and I will come back soon," Nuada murmured, pulling her back to him. She laid her cheek against his chest. "I promise you, I will come back soon. There are some things that need to be seen to first. That is all."

In a very small voice she asked, "It's not because you're still angry, though, right?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Sighed. "You are... my friend. And friends quarrel. They become angry with one another. That is the way of friendship. Sometimes forgiveness can take even the dearest friends a great while. That does not mean..." That doesn't mean I love you any less. "That doesn't mean my fondness for you is diminished."

"So," Dylan said, pulling back from him. The starlight of her eyes had dimmed when she looked up at him. "You're still angry. After I apologized a bazillion times and cried my head off and you ditched me for nearly two weeks and almost broke my stupid brother's arm, you're still angry with me."

"I-" Her balled-up fist driving hard into his shoulder cut him off. He blinked at her in astonishment. "Woman, how dare you? You do not strike royalty!"

"I'm not 'striking royalty,'" Dylan informed him sharply. She punched his shoulder again, wincing when her knuckles cracked against the hardness of combat-shaped muscles. "I'm retaliating against your unfairness."

"You know," the prince replied coolly, "that actually hurts." In the same way being swatted with a lady's fan hurt, which was hardly at all, but still.

"I'll kiss it better when I'm done." The side of her fist smacked against his chest this time. "After you beg for mercy."

Astonishingly, Nuada felt a grin spreading across his face. He tried to fight it, but to no avail. He was suddenly reminded of all the times as a boy and as a youth when his sister - or, now that he truly thought of it, the few young court ladies he had counted among his real friends - had pummeled him in retaliation for some trespass or other. The Elf prince merely chuckled now and captured Dylan's hands, holding her immobile. She glared at him.

"I'm not done," she told him. "You didn't beg for mercy."

Acting on a sudden and reckless impulse, Nuada spun her around so that her back collided with his chest and he held her hands trapped against her body. His reward was a breathless squeak. He leaned in until his lips barely brushed her ear. "Mercy, then," the feral-eyed warrior murmured. She shivered.

This was dangerous. He knew that. Knew this was deliberately placing himself in the path of temptation. But he was suddenly drowning in the silken feel of her hair caressing his skin, the scent of her that clung to the slender column of her throat. She was trembling now. Not in fear. If it was fear, sharp Elven senses would have been able to smell it. Nuada did not let himself think about why else she might be trembling in his arms. Could not think about it. Instead he focused on the way she leaned back against his chest, her eyes drifting closed. Absolute trust. Her head dropped back onto his shoulder and she let out a breath. The setting sun burnished the smooth expanse of her throat. He could feel her pulse beating steadily against the soft skin.

Because he wanted to bend his head to that throat and brush his lips against where her pulse fluttered, wanted to feel her heart pound and hear her breath catch when he did so, Nuada instead let his cheek rest against her temple. Safer that way. Even safer to let her go, but he didn't want to. Not yet. He would have to let her go when the dream ended, anyway. Why couldn't he have her for a few moments in this place so far away from the rest of the world? Why couldn't he let himself drown in her? Just for a few minutes. Just have peace in her, with her, for a few precious minutes.

"What are you thinking?" Dylan asked. "Tell me what's running through your mind right now."

"How much I..." The fae warrior trailed away. He couldn't say what he truly wanted to say to her. Not even in dreams. The heat of the words scorched his throat, but he couldn't make himself so vulnerable to her again. "I'm thinking about how much I'm enjoying the roar of the ocean; it's been a long time since I've been to these shores. What are you thinking about?"

"The fact that it always sucks when I dream about you because, since it's my dream, I should get to kiss you - or at least dream that you kiss me - but it never happens." Dylan sighed. "Which is so lame, I have to say."

Elation and disappointment crashed together in his chest at the unexpected declaration. Elation because if he wanted an engraved invitation to give in to the yearning, he'd just been given one. Disappointment because now Nuada knew that this was merely a dream, not a mystical connection between his sleeping mind and Dylan's.

And would the longing rise up just as sharply in waking if he kissed this figment of his desperate imagination than if he'd given in and kissed his lady in a shared dream? Or would that yearning be soft and easy, since his lips would not touch the real thing? Did he truly want to risk torturing himself in order to find out?

Before he could choose - before he could reach the insufferable conclusion that he couldn't choose, and yet couldn't not choose, either - she pulled away again, but only just enough to turn and slide her arms around his neck. Her fingers tangled gently in silvery blond tresses. Her eyes were wide and earnest as she looked up at him. Dylan swallowed hard before whispering, "This is just a dream, so... so it's okay to ask. Nuada." Oh, gods, she couldn't. She couldn't ask. If she asked, he would have to give in and then he'd have to hold her against him, have to lean in and capture that perfect mouth with his and taste... "Nuada, please."

"Don't," he said softly, unable to look away, unable to step back. It was only a dream and that made it better and worse and he knew if those words passed her lips, he would be lost forever because he would either kiss her, or forever regret that he hadn't. "Don't ask."

Nuada wanted to push her away. Wanted to crush her against him and never let go. Human, he reminded himself. Mortal. Innocent. Too innocent, in all the ways that mattered, for what any kiss in a dream would inevitably lead to. Wrong. Forbidden. Gods, she was so soft against him, she would kill him, he knew it.

"Then I won't," she said. "I'll just tell you. Please, Nuada." Her eyes were so incredibly blue. His heart stuttered as Dylan whispered, "I want you to kiss me."

No, his common sense snarled. No, his self-preservation instincts cried. No, his honor and his duty commanded. No, his heart groaned, knowing he would never be free of her if he did this, never. But as he leaned in, his eyes locked on her mouth, on her face tilted up to him so that those so soft lips were like an offering to him, he could only whisper, "As you wish."

You didn't beg for mercy, she'd said. As the scant distance between his lips and hers began to vanish, Nuada could only plead silently, Have mercy on me, my lady. Have mercy, my love. Leave me with something. Because he was almost certain this kiss would leave him with nothing. Nothing but the taste of her on his lips, on his tongue, and a craving for that taste that could never be sated. Gods, I cannot do this, I can't...

Mercy comes in many forms. It can come as a king's pardon before the executioner's stroke. It can come as a smile from a stranger when all the world seems to have turned against you; a phone call from a friend when life seems hopeless; the embrace of a lover when all other defenses crumble; or simply a small moment of peace when the heart begins to weaken under the onslaught of the world. But in this instance, mercy (if it could be called mercy, and not cruel fortune) came in the form of a very large, very energetic dog that had finally found the stick.

The wolfhound smashed headlong into the back of Dylan's legs, knocking her completely off balance. Only Nuada's lightning reflexes kept her from crashing hard to the sandy beach. Cù Chulainn bounced up and down beside his mistress and the two-legger that had so kindly thrown the amazing stick that tasted so interesting so very, very far. When feral eyes sliced to the dog, he offered the two-legger male a chance to throw the stick again. Nuada had to wonder if killing an animal in a dream counted as cruelty, since the beast didn't actually exist. The Elf scowled at the enthusiastic hound. Cù Chulainn didn't seem to notice. He only bounced some more, ran a few paces away, and then ran back to practically hop up on his hind legs and attempt to sloppily lick the prince's face. Luckily for everyone involved, Nuada dodged and got the beast to stop with a sharply spoken, "Suigh!"

The dog sat. Dylan, also now seated on the sand (probably to avoid being knocked over by enthusiastic puppy love), laughed when the hound regarded the Elf prince with sad, honey-colored eyes and wagged its shaggy tail hopefully.

"It is not amusing." But at least now he had control of himself again. At least he wasn't breaking under the enticement of Dylan's embrace, her whispered words, the allure of her. He swallowed hard and fought the urge to drop down onto the sand beside her. No more giving in. Not even in dreams, where inhibitions seemed not to exist at all. Nuada could not allow himself to kiss the mortal woman that had twisted him up and invaded his every waking thought and moment of sleep. He'd be lost if he kissed her.

"Nuada."

The Elf prince frowned as both he and Dylan looked around. Who was calling him? The gruff voice came again, and Nuada felt the dream begin to dissolve under the intrusion. Honey-gold eyes fell on Dylan's melancholy face. Just as wakefulness began to pull him from her, Nuada said, "I'll be back with you soon, mo duinne."

"Nuada, I love..."

And the dream shattered as firegold eyes snapped open in wakefulness and he glared up at Wink. The silver cave troll raised an eyebrow. "Have a good dream?"

"Not that it's any of your business," the prince muttered, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes with the heels of his palms. Wisps of the dream flitted through his mind. He remembered much of it, this time, though. Only the very end was fuzzy. He'd been about to kiss her. About to commit an act that basically amounted to sampling a highly addictive drug that would leave him desperately craving it for the rest of his life. Nuada shook his head to clear away the thought. "Why do you ask, my friend?"

Wink shrugged. "Merely curious, Your Highness. You've been asleep most of the night." The troll tossed something to the prince, who caught it instinctively. "The last piece of the gift, if I'm not mistaken."

A tired smile curved the prince's mouth. "Thank you. And thank you for waking me. I did not mean to sleep so long." I must have been more tired than I first thought, Nuada realized. Getting to his feet, the Elf headed for the workroom. "I'm nearly finished with the rings. But the gift itself, once packed, is ready. Will you take it to her come dawn, my friend?"

The silver cave troll grinned. "Indeed. I very much wish to see her face when she opens it."

So did Nuada, but he was not going to accompany his vassal. For one thing, he had to finish spelling the stones for the three rings. For another... if by some curse or cruel twist of fate Dylan did not accept the gift for whatever reason, if she rejected his letter and his apology... Nuada did not want to be there to see it.

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Dawn saw John's twin sister well enough to sit up at the kitchen table, though she still had a fever and her brother insisted she stay in bed. But Dylan hated eating in bed ("Crumbs get everywhere, and then they poke me in my sleep, it's so irritating,") so she'd trudged into the kitchen and slumped into a chair. In her place, John would've lounged on his futon in boxers and an undershirt. His sister sat at the table in a pair of cold-weather pajamas - black yoga pants and a thin, blue long-sleeve shirt sprinkled with thin, silver snowflakes.

"Sis, you should really take it easy," John reminded her, handing her a mug of steaming cider. He carefully ladled out some of the chicken noodle soup Becan had made (or at least, John thought the meat in the soup was chicken, but maybe it was something else, considering it came from the Floating Night Market) and set it in front of his twin. "And eat your soup before it gets cold."

"Yes, Mom," Dylan replied, but she was smiling. Her sore throat was gone, thank goodness. Sore throats were the one thing she hated the most because then everything else hurt too - coughing, swallowing, even breathing. She tried a spoonful of the soup. Closed her eyes as the hot, soothing liquid soothed her throat. "Oh, Becan, I adore you."

"My lady," the brownie in question called from the front entryway. "The prince's valet is here!"

Dylan dropped her spoon. John's face pinched for a moment before smoothing out again. His sister felt a rush of gratitude. Thank goodness, he wasn't going to pick a fight with a cave troll. Dylan was pretty sure that, unlike Nuada, Wink wouldn't hesitate to put her twin through a wall if John insulted the prince, even if he was Dylan's brother.

"Let him in," she said.

When Becan scampered into the kitchen, practically bouncing with excitement, Dylan frowned. When the burly troll stepped carefully into the kitchen, Dylan's jaw dropped. John made a noise that sounded an awful lot like either "whoa" or "whaaa?"

Wink bowed to the prince's lady and her kinsman before setting the rather large, blue velvet box on the table. The prince's vassal was very careful to keep his face perfectly blank as Lady Dylan's eyes slowly took in the soft, crushed velvet of the package, as well as the shiny satin ribbon of snowy white that tied it closed. The box was nearly two feet long, a foot wide, and almost ten inches deep. When her gaze found Wink's face, the troll pulled Nuada's letter from the messenger bag at his side and laid it on top of the box. Wink rumbled something in Troll.

"Mr. Wink says," Becan translated, "that this is a gift from His Highness, for his most esteemed lady, and that the prince wishes for Lady Dylan to read the letter and open the gift in his vassal's presence so that Wink may bear back news of Her Ladyship's reaction. He says also that there is a second gift in the letter itself."

"Um... okay." When John had moved Dylan's soup bowl out of the way, she reached out and gently picked up the letter. Wink noted that her hand trembled when she broke the blue wax seal. Very carefully, she tilted the paper so that three tiny things that looked almost like jewels slid into her palm. The troll's mouth twitched when blue eyes widened and Dylan's mouth dropped open a little once more.

"What are those?" John asked.

"Anàil flowers," Dylan whispered softly. "They never wilt or die. It's a preservation spell, I think. You breathe on them, like this." Very gently, she blew a warm breath on the tiny blossoms in her palm. Even as she watched, they unfolded into full-sized flowers: a single white snowdrop, a pale rue blossom, and a vibrantly yellow rosebud. She knew then what this letter was. Consolation, regret, and apology. Her eyes stung, so she blinked hard so she wouldn't embarrass herself. Laying the flowers on the table, still conscious of Wink's eye on her, she unfolded Nuada's letter and began to read.

The troll knew his prince had done well when Dylan's mouth began to tremble and she sniffed once - not the sniff of a woman consumed by sorrow and fighting back painful tears. A little more than halfway through the letter, she pressed a hand to her heart and tears began to roll down her cheeks. At this point her brother proved incapable of taking it anymore.

"What? What? What does it say? Why are you crying?"

"Shut up, I'm not. Shut up," she mumbled weakly as she reached the bottom. Her eyes darted back up to the top and she began to read it again.

"Mo Duinne,

if I may yet presume to call you by such a tender name. You, who perhaps know me best of all, must
understand how difficult this letter shall be for me to write. Eleven months ago, I would have
considered this to be the very height of folly. I do not believe it to be so now.

I have been a fool. The days since last I beheld your face have been empty of those rare joys I could
truly call my own. Not only have I imposed a pointless exile upon myself from my one true place of
sanctuary, but I have grieved one of my dearest and most loyal allies.

At first I sought to lay the blame at the feet of a prince's arrogance, but perhaps it would be better
placed at the feet of a prince's fear. Yes, my lady, I was afraid. Afraid that somehow a mere human
had stolen my honor and blinded me to the truth. Afraid that, though I had managed to survive
Eamonn's plots against me, I was now to be brought just as low before my father and sister because
of your perceived treachery. I had risked much to stand with you, yet it seemed that you had cast me
aside without so much as a lingering glance when you told me you could not stand at my side.

Perhaps I am a coward, then. Though it sickens me to admit it, it was fear that drove me to turn against
you. I thought you had somehow stolen my honor, and that some trickery had blinded me to your faults
all these months. I was blind, but it was my own folly that robbed me of my honor, not you. Now I find
myself in the unprecedented position of having to apologize.

I regret so many things about that night, mo duinne, but none more so than the most wretched insult I
hurled at you in my anger and spite. If you can forgive me anything, forgive me that, for it was a vicious
lie from the darkest, most monstrous part of me. Allow me now to instead speak truth. You are precious,
Dylan. You are kind, gentle, honorable - and yes, sometimes infuriating - and you are precious. Let no one,
not even myself, ever allow you to be convinced otherwise.

My fair and gentle lady, I would lay to rest what quarrel we had. I would return to the way things were
before I behaved so rashly. I was unjust in my anger and foolish to leave you unprotected and alone. I
betrayed my honor and I betrayed you. I ask you now to extend to me the forgiveness and mercy that you
so often employ. If I were a bard or poet, perhaps I could pen these words with more grace. Perhaps I could
explain more clearly what it means to me that you have given me your fealty, your loyalty, and - if I still
may lay claim to it - your friendship.

As it is, all I can offer you, my lady, is this letter and a token; a token of my affection for you, and of my
regret and sorrow over the cruel words I used against you. My only hope lies now in the gentleness in your
heart. Until I am once again in your presence, I remain

Always yours,

Nuada Silverlance"

Dylan struggled to keep her breathing even as she finished the letter for the second time. Then, wiping at her eyes, she looked at Wink. "You tell him... you tell him that this is..." She had to clear her throat before she could continue. "I love it. Tell him I love this letter, and that it's the most beautiful thing I've ever read in my life." Always yours. If only. If she'd been younger by about ten years - maybe twelve - she'd have probably kissed the letter. Instead she laid it on the table and caressed the elegantly penned words with a fingertip.

"Wink wants to know, milady, if you intend to open the gift."

"Oh!" Startled out of her reverie, Dylan scoffed at herself in exasperation. "Yes. Um. Yes." Still acutely aware of Wink's regard, she tugged at the silk ribbon until the bow came loose and then lifted the lid from the box.

Looks like we're still on for the courtship charade, then, she thought, smiling a little as she lifted out the most elegant belt and knife sheath she'd ever seen, of white leather with the royal crest of Bethmoora embroidered in silver and metallic blue threads. In the sheath was the dirk Nuada had made for her. She knew it to be the same blade because his personal symbol, the Silver Lance, was etched beneath the crossguard.

"Is the belt and knife a faerie thing?" John asked, and Dylan laughed and nodded. "What's under the rest of the wrapping? There's more stuff."

Dylan glanced up at Wink. "There is?" When the troll nodded, she spread aside the pale blue wrapping and gasped. Her mouth curved up into a soft, dreamy smile as she took in the sight of twelve crystal flowers lined up in a row. Tentatively, she caressed the cool petals of a glittering honeysuckle that held in its depths a dancing light. She recognized each of the blossoms but... Then she saw the slip of paper tucked beneath another yellow rose and picked it up. Her eyes went misty as she read Nuada's words.

To comfort you when dark dreams find you, as I should have done these past nights.

Beneath those words was a list of each flower, and what it meant. An aloe flower of ruby red glass, for sorrow. An eglantine rose of palest pink crystal, to heal a wound of the heart. Rue the same gold-dusted ivory as Nuada's eyes sometimes became, for his regret. White poppy, to console her. An apple blossom that actually carried the sweetness of that flower's scent, to remind her that she was his favorite: favorite human, favorite healer, favorite person with blue eyes; she could take her pick. A white daffodil, because she was a lady the prince could respect. White bellflower, because he was thinking of her. Honeysuckle for bonds of love or affection. A pear blossom to represent their friendship, and how long it would last. Jonquil, which Dylan knew meant "return my affection." A blue-tinted violet, as a promise that he would never betray her again.

Finally, a yellow rose that looked more like a jewel than crystal, for apology and friendship, and for a broken heart. When she'd lifted the rose out of the box, the last of the flowers, Wink rumbled something that Becan translated as, "Wink says all the flowers are made of goblin crystal, except the aloe, violet, and the rose. The rose is yellow diamond."

Dylan's eyes went wide. "Say what? Tell me he didn't spend a whole lot of money on this. He did, didn't he? Oh, boy." She looked down at the diamond rose. "Of course he did. Beautiful things are expensive."

Unperturbed, the troll added something. Becan translated with awe in his voice, "He also says that each of those flowers contains... oh, my. A lightning bolt." Dylan's mouth dropped open. "That is why they glow. Except for the violet and the aloe blossom. Those are fûjin - wind flowers. They carry the melodies of the air and the whispers of wild things. Pick one up, my lady, and listen to it, and you will hear something special."

With a quick glance at Wink, Dylan picked up the crimson aloe blossom. At the touch of her fingers along the green stem, the glass hummed softly, like the ringing song of a fingertip stroking a crystal wineglass. She leaned in to listen to the sweet chime. When her breath touched the ruby red blooms, she heard the faintest lullaby whisper. The gentle voice was vaguely familiar but... but she couldn't quite place it. Maybe that was part of the spell laid into the flower. But the song... the song was like the sweetest soothing bedtime lullaby she'd ever heard. It was still faint, still just a whisper, but her heart turned over at the words in the Old Tongue.

"Cén fáth a bhfuil tú ag caoin? Cad iad na deora ar d'aghaidh? Go gairid feicfidh tú go léir do eagla beidh pas a fháil amach. Sábháilte i mo lámha, agus tú codlata amháin." Knowing she'd probably embarrass herself by crying if she kept listening, Dylan gently laid the flower on the table and sniffed away the happy tears stinging the backs of her eyes. The melody faded away. She looked up at Wink. Knew the silver cave troll knew exactly how the lullaby flower had touched her.

"What did all that mean?" John asked. "What language was that?"

"It's Gaelic. It said, 'Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face? Soon you will see all of your fears will pass away. Safe in my arms, you're only sleeping.'" The human's eyes were misty still, and her smile was tremulous. "They're to help me sleep. To keep me from having bad dreams. They're night lights." She looked up at John with incredulous eyes and laughed. "They're magical night lights and two little music boxes. Or music flowers."

Her twin had to (grudgingly) admit that that was pretty cool. "There's more stuff in there," John added as Becan very carefully gathered up the twelve flowers with magic and took them to Lady Dylan's room.

"No, there's not," she replied. "No way." When her brother pulled back another layer of wrapping, he made a confused noise, but Dylan's eyes blew wide and she squealed. Wink blinked in surprise as she reached the part of Nuada's gift the troll hadn't been quite sure about. "Oh. My. Gawsh!"

There was another slip of paper with Nuada's handwriting on it. This one said simply, To make you smile. One for every day that I am gone from you.

"Are those... are those... um..." John trailed off as Dylan lifted out a pair of brand new socks. There were at least twelve pairs in the fancy box, and his twin was gushing over the first one like it was Godiva's chocolate or diamonds or something. Then he got a good look at the socks. "Wait a sec. What does that say?"

The pair she held were pale blue, with a single chubby black penguin on each one. Above the penguin, in snow-frosted black letters, the socks read, You did what? With who? For how many cookies? Dylan started to laugh. Her grin was absolutely delighted. "He must have gotten that from the magnet on the fridge. Nuada..." She could feel tears threatening again and blinked them back. The fact that he'd even noticed the magnet on her fridge with the fat little penguin, noticed it enough to apply it to this made her heart flip over. Then Dylan went through the other pairs of socks.

There were fifteen, all told. Some weren't silly - just pretty. Slim black socks of some silky material, that shimmered with gold highlights when the light changed (this pair came with a brief note informing Dylan that here was proof that black socks were just as acceptible as colored ones); sapphire blue that sparkled as if studded with ice-white stars; green that shifted colors like leaves rustling in the breeze underneath summer sunshine; umber with jade green vines that actually sprouted red and white roses when the wearer wasn't looking. Others were adorable: fat black kittens against white fabric, and the kittens actually moved to chase after little gray mice, but never when the eye was actually on them; rainbow-striped fuzzy toe socks; bright yellow ducks and fluffy white rabbits wearing bows and silly multicolored faces with googly eyes and black sheep; one pair had a blue-eyed brunette demi-fey with silvery blue wings, with the words I'm not short - I'm fun-sized.

Oh, gosh, she thought, recognizing it from one of her bookmarks. There were all different things. But her absolute, absolute favorite was the penguins. She loved them so much she put them on as soon as she'd gone through the entire collection. The minute Dylan slipped them on her feet, the chill that had been shivering through her from the toes up began to ease.

"I love them," she cried, looking up from her feet to Wink with eyes that practically shone. "Oh, I love them, I love them! You tell him I love them so much! You have to tell him, okay? They're perfect. Oh, my gosh, it's like Christmas came a month early. I love them!"

The troll blinked. Well, then. He honestly had not expected that reaction over socks. A fancy gown or slippers, maybe. Jewelry absolutely. Women loved glitter. But not socks. Apparently, Wink thought, watching the human woman kicking her feet like a delighted child and admiring the penguin socks, the prince knew his lady just as well as he thought he did.

"There is one more thing," Wink added.

"Hang on a sec, I'm being deliriously happy here." She clasped her hands under her chin and gazed lovingly down at her feet. "And you can tell him it was a hundred cookies and if he wants to know what it was and who with, he needs to come over and ask me," she added. "Anyway, there's more? Seriously?"

"One thing more."

When she pulled it from the box, the utter delight faded from her face, to be replaced by a look of soft wonderment. With tender fingers she flipped open the cover of the leather-bound book and read the words neatly written on the flyleaf.

My mother used to read this book to me when
I was a child. As you enjoy reading - and I
enjoy listening to you read - I thought you
might be persuaded to indulge a prince's
whim by reading these tales of faerie to me
when I return to you. Or perhaps, if you
wish, I might read them to you, instead.

- Nuada

Dylan carefully closed the book and pressed it to her chest. She had never, ever expected the crown prince of Bethmoora to do this. To go to so much trouble. If she'd been a suspicious, paranoid kind of woman, she'd have thought he was trying to buy her off. But if that were so, he would've used jewelry or chocolate or something. Not these gifts that spoke straight to her heart.

His gifts would not be a promise of courtship meant to do her honor, a knife forged by his own hand and the belt and sheath to go with it. Not beautifully dancing lights and soft lullabies to fight against the nightmares that constantly hounded her nights. Not this book that must have meant so much to him, this volume of tales that held memories of his beloved mother. And definitely not the socks that would always make her smile, socks he thought were absolutely ridiculous but had bought them for her anyway.

"Wink," she said softly, holding the book to her heart. "Is... is Nuada coming back today?"

The troll said, "He awaits your acceptance of his apology."

Would she be up to having anyone over? Her fever hadn't quite broken yet. She felt like she'd been run over by a bus. After Wink left and she ate a bowl of Becan's soup, Dylan was almost certain she was going back to bed. But... she wanted to see Nuada. Wanted to have him back with her where she could make sure he was taking care of himself and that if he had anymore nightmares like that vicious one of his mother - and of her - that if he needed Dylan there, she could be there for him. She just wanted to reassure herself that he was okay. And, if she was being honest with herself, having the prince in the cottage made it feel safer, and somehow homier.

With a tender smile, Dylan said, "I absolutely accept, and he is most welcome."

Wink bowed low. He'd expected as much from the human lady that had sworn her loyalty to his prince, and somehow won Nuada's loyalty in return. "Then, my Lady of Central Park, if it pleases you, he will return to you tonight."

.

Nuada let his shoulders fall back against the marble wall of the shower chamber as the steaming water pounded down on his body. He was finally finished. The spells were laid, the jewels set, the rings complete. Wink had delivered the box and the letter to Dylan several hours ago. Despite the nervous tension shivering down his spine, Nuada had told his vassal that after delivering the missive and token to the prince's mortal lady, the troll might go to see Lorelei at Fafner's Cave instead of returning directly to their current lair. Which had been a mistake. He should've ordered Wink to come right back. How else was he supposed to concentrate on anything when his friend hadn't returned yet to appraise him of Dylan's reaction?

The Elven warrior ducked his head beneath the spray and tried to relax. He was Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance. He was not a lovesick youth suffering from his first infatuation with a member of the fairer sex. Dylan's reaction was nothing for him to worry about. She would like the gift. No, she would love it. And she would love his letter as well. Nothing to worry about.

How long did it take Wink to play the flirtation game with a rhinemaiden, anyway?

Nuada stepped out from directly beneath the water so he could pour shampoo into his hands. It wasn't, as Wink had insinuated just before leaving, that he felt the need to "dress up" for the mortal woman. But he hadn't seen her in more than two weeks. She had to be reminded that Nuada was a prince, of aristocratic bearing and the noblest bloodlines. Just in case she decided to punch him, as she had in his dream. And oh, that dream... so close, he'd come so very close to losing himself...

The memory of that dream, of the nearness of her, the enticing whisper of I want you to kiss me, and just how close he had come to kissing her yet again had him biting back a groan. He could not go to her thinking of that dream. If he did, there would be no almost when it came to a kiss. He would kiss Dylan, and he would break, and there would be nothing left of him.

To push back the memory, and the ember of lust catching fire in his belly, Nuada made the water cold enough to bite and started washing his hair.

Once out of the shower and dried off, he hastily dressed not in his usual sable and crimson, but in blue silk trousers. His silver shirt and blue tunic were laid out across the table, waiting until his hair was combed and dry before he could don them. The Elf prince was finished with his hair and with dressing when Wink strolled in, whistling a jaunty tune and carrying a bottle of troll beer in one fist.

"What time is it?" Nuada asked in a deceptively mild voice. "Have you any notion?"

Wink shrugged nonchalantly. "Sunset, I believe," the troll replied, as if he didn't particularly care about the answer. Nuada knew then that Wink had made him wait this long for a reason. Most likely to see Nuada squirm. Well, he was not going to give his friend and brother the satisfaction. "Since you normally dislike going above ground during the day anyway, Sire," his vassal added mildly, "I didn't think you'd start for your lady's domicile before dusk. Was I wrong?"

"That is not the point," the Elven warrior replied with forced calm. "The point is, I wanted to know my lady's reaction. Hours ago."

"Oh." Wink shrugged again. "I did not realize."

Nuada waited a beat while the troll put the bottle atop one of the stone shelves lining the walls. Two beats. Then, "Wink."

His oldest friend cast him a carefully blank glance over one shoulder before trudging to his bronze chair and settling into it with a sigh. Nuada noticed that while the troll's tusks were free of lip-color this time, there was a smudge of that same wine-red cosmetic at the troll's shoulder. The prince bit back a growl as disturbing images flickered through his mind and waited for his vassal to say something. Anything.

After a full minute of silence, Nuada growled, "Wink."

Wink's eyebrow lifted slowly as he regarded his prince's careful composure. "My prince?"

"Well?"

The troll cocked his head. "Well, what?"

Nuada would not slam his fist down on the table over this. Even if Wink was tormenting him on purpose. He was a warrior and a man grown, not a petulant child. He would not throw a tantrum because his vassal was being deliberately obtuse just to vex him. "What," the Elf prince asked with quiet deliberation, "did Dylan say?"

"Which part? Or the whole thing?" Wink tried to keep his face straight as he added, "I'm not sure I can remember all of it. She wept, though."

The Elf prince jerked in shock. "She wept?" He was on his feet in an instant, arms folded tightly across his chest. He had not expected tears. The last thing he wanted was to cause Dylan any more pain. And he'd been so sure she would like his gift. "Why?" Nuada demanded. "Did she say why?"

"No, but I imagine it was because she was happy."

Nuada frowned. "Happy?"

"Mmm," the troll replied, idly studying the shovel-like fingernails of one hand. "She was touched by the anàil flowers. She wept when she read your letter. She smiled when she saw the belt and dirk, and smiled wider when she found the rai and fûjin flowers you bought her. She guessed their purpose immediately. Her eyes got very wide when I told her the rose was made of yellow diamond; your lady is not greedy. She was surprised and touched, I think, that you would go to such trouble. I thought she would weep again when she read your explanation of the flowers, but instead she moved on."

Now Wink allowed himself to grin.

"If she'd been standing instead of sitting when she got to the socks, I believe your lady might have actually jumped up and down in excitement. She squeaked like an overjoyed maiden when she saw them. You were right about the penguins, by the way, Your Highness. I humbly apologize for doubting you. And your lady said to tell you that it was one hundred cookies, but that if you wished to know what with who, you had to go and ask her."

Relaxing now, Nuada sank back into his chair. To be honest, the Elf prince hadn't quite understood what the magnet on Dylan's refridgerator meant, exactly. Only that it was subtly sexual but made innocent enough by the use of cookies and penguins. He was not sure why, but it didn't really matter. And he also knew that whenever Dylan's smile seemed to falter and she caught a glimpse of the little cartoon penguin, she would laugh and smile more easily. "And the book?" The prince asked.

Wink sighed in exasperation. "I was afraid that she would cry again. Luckily, she did not. Female tears make me nervous. She also says, Sire, that she loved the letter you wrote and that it was the most beautiful thing she had ever read in her life. Her exact words."

Nuada's eyes went wide and he tried to ignore the thrill of satisfaction and pleasure those words produced. He'd actually thought the letter a bit lacking, though he had done the best he could. She loved it? Most beautiful... There was a curious warmth stirring in his chest somewhere around his heart. He suppressed it, but barely.

Wink continued, "She accepts your apology and wants to see you tonight, if you are willing. Which," the troll added with an edge ot his voice, "I assured the lassling that you were. I believe you'll be staying there for the next few days - or however long until we return to Bethmoora?"

"I will, my friend. With Becan there, we have a chaperone, so I..." Nuada trailed off as something Wink had said penetrated. He cocked an eyebrow. "The lassling?"

"Erm..." The massive troll looked a bit abashed as he glanced down at the floor. "As I told you, my prince, I like her."

Nauda just laughed. Apparently his vassal had taken more than a liking to the human woman. No wonder the troll had so vehemently taken her part in all this. Instead of feeling even the slightest bit betrayed, the prince was surprised to feel relief. Relief, and the faintest glimmer of a hope so forbidden and forlorn Nuada didn't even want to acknowledge its existence. But he had to. Wink liked Dylan. Perhaps... perhaps if Wink liked Dylan, then it was not such a betrayal for Nuada himself to... no. He wouldn't think about that now. Not just yet. For now, things had to be resolved between himself and his lady. He still had to apologize in person.

The Elven warrior rose to his feet and moved to the wooden chest where he kept spare clothes. If he was going to stay at the cottage, he was not going to wait for Wink to bring his clothing like he'd had to before. He would pack his own things and bring them with him back... back to Dylan's idyllic little cottage in the woods. Back to the mortal dwelling that had somehow become Nuada's home.

For the first time in days, Nuada's mouth curved upward into a carefree smile. He was going home.

.

After John had come back to the cottage from buying a futon - Dylan was tired of people having to sleep on her dinky sofa - she'd sent her twin back to his apartment. Everything was fine now. She felt much better, thanks to the medicine and a deep, dreamless sleep aided by the gentle lullaby of the fûjin violet of colored glass and the lovely ambiance of the rai flowers Nuada had bought her. Her fever had broken barely an hour ago. She still felt weak and shaky, but that was okay. Becan could stand by to help if anything happened to her. And it wasn't as if she could call Nuada on her cell and tell him not to come. No, she'd be fine.

Dylan stared at herself in the mirror, wondering if concealer and foundation would help make her look less washed out. Being sick always made her look like a hag. Sighing, she turned to walk out of the bathroom. It wasn't like she was going out anywhere. Makeup was a waste of time unless there were places to go. Nuada didn't care if she wore makeup or not. He didn't look at her that way, so...

Except that we almost kissed that last night, Dylan thought as she stepped back in front of the mirror and grabbed her makeup. Maybe... maybe he does. No, don't think like that. Don't get your hopes up. But by the time she walked out of the bathroom, she looked more like her usual, non-sick self, with the added compliment of eyeliner and mascara. To bring a bit of color back to her mouth, she'd cheated - applied lipstick, then wiped it off, leaving her lips a healthier color.

I feel really stupid right now, Dylan added with some exasperation as she smoothed down the skirt of her black dress and studied herself in the mirror again. I feel like I'm a grown woman playing dress up like a four-year-old. Or like a sixteen-year-old on her way to her first prom. Why had she tied her hair back with a ribbon instead of just using a scrunchie? Because she liked the way it made a loose sort of ponytail that subtly framed her face with stray curls and hung down her back. Why had she worn the black dress that, when she moved just right, glittered a little under the bathroom lights? The one that was just long enough to be modest, hitting just below her knees? With her new penguin socks, of all things? Why had she dabbed on just a tiny bit of her favorite lily-and-rose perfume? Because I'm a complete idiot, that's why. Oh, whatever. At least I look pretty. Would Nuada think so? Oh, shut up. Whatever. She fiddled with the gold medallion around her neck and studied her wide-eyed reflection.

A sharp rap at the door sent her heart pounding. She took a deep breath - this was going to be so awkward - and walked out of her room. Becan was waiting at the front door, the bolts already pulled back. Dylan bit her lip and nodded to her brownie. She'd asked him to go into her room once Nuada arrived. She'd known that she and the prince needed to talk. Alone. But that did not mean she was looking forward to it. Especially if he was still angry with her.

Dizziness tugged at her a little, but it was soft enough she could easily ignore it. Instead, she opened the door and looked up into feral eyes like molten gold. Her heart stuttered to a stop. The breath caught in her throat. Everything went very, very still. Then, before she could stop herself, Dylan threw herself into Nuada's arms and buried her face in his chest. He was here, he was solid and real and safe and he was here with her, he was okay, he was here.

"I'm so glad you're okay, I've been really worried and I missed you and I'm so glad you're safe, I'm just so glad you're safe, I can't believe you're here," she whispered, fisting her hands in his shirt. Slowly, so slowly it felt like an eternity, his arms came up to wrap around her narrow shoulders. "Are you still angry with me?"

"No," he murmured. A flash of relief even as a brief pressure spiked through Dylan's temples and she stepped back. Nuada asked softly, "Are you unwell?"

"I'm fine," she said softly, rubbing her forehead. "Just a little headache." The painful pressure increased slightly before fading again. Dylan shivered in the blast of icy winter wind that came through the door. "Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't keep you out on the doorstep, I'm sorry. Come in. Please."

"Thank you for the invitation," Nuada said, and something in his voice made her pause even as the mild headache pulsed through her skull again. Were they back to square one, then? Being so formal to each other? He'd said he wasn't mad at her anymore so why would they be? The Elf prince stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind him before turning to her. Dylan's heart began to pound as he said softly, "You look... lovely."

She swallowed hard as her insides melted. "Thank you. I thought... I thought, in case we were being formal, that I would..." There was a strange look in his glacial topaz eyes that made her trail away. Along with the pain ever so slowly building at her temples, now her eyes were starting to hurt. She was still cold, too. "I missed you."

"And I missed you," Nuada murmured, and reached out to her. She came willingly, because she knew he'd be warm and if he held her again she was pretty sure her night would be perfect. The Elf prince framed her face between his hands and said softly, earnestly, "I should not do this... the gods know I should not... but I must."

Dylan frowned. Something about those words sounded so strange, so... unfamiliar. She just couldn't figure out what, exactly. "Do what?"

Then his mouth came down on hers, firm and unyielding, scorching hot. She stiffened in shock, then melted against him. Before she knew it, she was trapped between the solid wall of his chest and the ice cold stone of the front door. His mouth moved over hers hungrily, ravenous as a prowling wolf in the dark. She couldn't breathe. He was stealing her breath. Stealing every thought with the hunger in this kiss that gave nothing but took everything. Dylan had imagined what it would be like to kiss Nuada, especially after that night at the playground. She hadn't thought it would be like this. Hadn't thought it would leave her feeling hollow and chilled. She loved him. She loved him more than life. So why did this feel so... so wrong?

"Nuada," she murmured against his mouth. "Nuada, wait. Stop. Just hang on a minute." When he didn't, when he acted as if he hadn't even heard her, a sliver of ice pierced her chest. In the back of her skull she heard the howling of wolves like an echo of memory. "Nuada. Nuada, stop. Stop!" She pushed her shaking hands between them and shoved at the immovable, implacable wall of his chest. Elven strength pinned her wrists against the door hard enough to send bruising pain rippling up her arms. Sick fear iced her blood. No, he couldn't, wouldn't do this to her. She knew him, he would never take what she wasn't willing to give, never. But now she tasted blood where he'd bitten her lip in his hunger. She felt her skin bruising beneath his hands and the aggressive hardness of his body. This was a bad dream, just a bad dream, he would never hurt her this way! "Nuada, please stop, please... Nuada, get off me!"

And she bit down hard on his bottom lip, her heart screaming.

Her eyes widened when he wrenched away to gaze down at her. Dylan's eyes ached and her head was swimming but suddenly she knew why. Partly because she was sick, yes; because the embers of fever were beginning to burn in her again and she couldn't quite catch her breath. But also partly because there was heavy, heavy glamor at work and the blessing of the fear-darrig was slowly but surely breaking through it.

As soon as she realized that, there was a tingling at her throat and the glamor began to dissolve. Golden eyes shifted to cat-slit silver glittering with hatred and triumph. The star-blond hair darkened to midnight black. The royal scar, which she loved to trace with just the very tips of her fingers, faded away.

Eamonn, smiling despite the blood beading along his bottom lip from Dylan's bite, inclined his head toward her in a mockery of polite greeting.

No. No, no, no. Oh, Heavenly Father, help me. But she couldn't say a word as Eamonn's tongue flicked out and licked away the blood on his lip. Could only watch him with wide-eyed terror as he leaned in close enough to kiss her again. His breath was scalding hot against her skin.

"That was not very nice, little whore," the dark Elf growled. "Do you treat the Silver Lance so coldly?"

Her heart slammed against her sternum hard enough to leave cracks. "Get out of my house," she whispered, even though she knew it was too late to rescind the invitation. Only his death would keep him from the cottage now. Dylan swallowed and said in what she prayed was a strong voice, "Get your hands off me. Get out." She yelped when Eamonn wrenched her forward and then slammed her back against the granite door. Her head cracked against the stone. White light flashed behind her eyes. "Oathbr-" A savage slap cut off the word and made Dylan bite her tongue hard enough that she tasted fresh copper. Her lip and the inside of her mouth were bleeding now, too.

"Be nice to me, human, or it will take a very long time for you to die." Eamonn didn't bother hiding his grin. He'd known the instant the Silver Lance left the putrid little cottage and his disgusting whore. His spies had seen to that. A little lovers' spat, how sad. But the Elf of Zwezda hadn't attacked then. No, he'd waited, biding his time. Wanting the little slut to be lulled into a sense of complacency before the dark Elf made his move. Because he'd needed her not to be thinking clearly. That was the only way she would issue an invitation to him, and erase the last place of safety from him that she (and the Prince of Bethmoora) possessed. "In fact, if you're very good, I might not kill you at all."

Dylan's face was a throbbing sheet of fire where Eamonn had hit her. There was blood in her mouth. Nuada's coming, she thought suddenly. Hope flared. He'll come. I just have to hold out until he comes. Then Eamonn leaned in and whispered a hideous suggestion softly against her ear. She could hear the vicious glee in his voice. A memory - or an echo of a nightmare - slithered down her spine like a venomous snake; a memory of pain and screams and the hot stickiness of blood, and Nuada's eyes dull with his own agony and regret as Eamonn made the prince watch her die. The fear was a sudden living, breathing thing gnawing at her, but the absolute and utter fury (how dare he hurt Nuada! How dare that vicious monster lay a finger on her prince, cause him one second of grief or pain! She wouldn't let him!) burned through the black choking terror, leaving in its path a grim and icy determination faintly edged with hatred.

When Eamonn pulled back to gauge Dylan's reaction to his words, she spat the mouthful blood in his face. Salt and iron scorched the fae's skin. Not enough to burn, but enough to irritate. With a muttered oath, he hit her across the face again, hard enough to stun her. Snarling, the Elf threw her to the floor. The impact sent bolts of pain shooting up the arm she landed on.

Eamonn flipped her onto her back and pinned her to the floor. His weight was like a mountain crushing her as he leaned in and said softly, "You're mine, sweetness. I'll use you until there's nothing left of your world but pain. Until you beg me to slit your throat. But I will not kill you. Not until he comes and finds you slowly bleeding to death on the floor. Then I shall make him beg for your worthless life before I break his pathetic heart. I'll drown him in your mortal blood."

A glint of silver caught Dylan's eye. She bucked and heaved, trying to get free of the Elf who wrenched her arms over her head so that her shoulders screamed. He shackled her wrists with one hand and reached down to the hem of her dress with the other. She had to think, she had to think! She couldn't wait for Nuada to save her, she had to save herself. But how? How? Had to think. Couldn't panic yet, not yet. Then she caught a clear glimpse of what she'd seen out of the corner of her eye. Becan was struggling to carry a small, silver canister without making a sound and attracting Eamonn's attention. As soon as she saw it, and the brownie, Dylan knew what it was: the defensive spray out of her purse.

Aerosol, plastic, pepper spray, aluminum, chrome. Five "mortal" substances often toxic to the fae. The only things worse were iron, salt and lead. And despite the panic clawing at her, strangling her, a swift and insane plan suddenly sprouted in her mind.

Blue eyes locked with eyes like black buttons, and she blinked, hard, to show Becan that she knew exactly what he was trying to do. The wee fae wasn't strong enough to fight Eamonn. None of the knives or anything that the brownie could manipulate with his magic were iron, and so would do very little good against the silver-eyed Elf. But pepper spray would work perfectly. She just needed one wrist free.

Eamonn shoved at her skirt, baring one thigh all the way to the hip. His fingers bit deep into her skin as he began to slide his hand up over her leg. Not again, she thought, struggling against the screaming panic. His fingertips scraped roughly over the spill of sensitive white scar tissue on her inner thigh. Not again, no, no, no!

"Wait! Wait, wait. It doesn't-" Dylan nearly choked on the revolting words, but forced them out anyway. "It doesn't have to be this way." The dark Elf paused and looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. "I... I'll do what you want," she whispered. She didn't have to pretend to keep that tremor in her voice. "Just please let my hands down; my shoulders are killing me. Please. I'll do anything you want, please." Ugh, it sickened her, to have to sound so desperate to him. But she knew this kind of monster. Knew that he would believe this because he was just egotistical enough to believe that she might willingly offer herself to him. "Think about it," Dylan coaxed tremulously when the Elf frowned down at her. "You want to make Nuada suffer, right? Well, he loves me. Which is disgusting, by the way. Think how much he'd suffer if he found me with you. Enjoying it, I mean." Hating herself, she said softly, "Think about how much it will hurt when he hears me call out for you and not him. Think about how much it will hurt him to see us together, to know that I gave myself to the man who tried to kill him. Gave myself willingly. To know that you've taken the most important thing in the world to him and made it irrevocably yours. It would be worse than anything you could do to him by yourself; you know that. The ultimate betrayal."

Silver eyes burned into her face. "You humans. You're all the same: anything to save your own skin." Disgust dripped from every word. "You really don't give a damn about him, do you?" His grip on her wrists loosened a fraction. "I'll admit, as far as rape goes, I usually prefer my women a little more willing and a little less likely to bite. Still, to hurt the traitor, I'd do a lot I wouldn't otherwise." He frowned more fiercely, but his grip loosened even more. "All right, then, sweetness. Prove it to me. Prove what you're willing to do. Be my sweet girl and show me what favors you bestow on the lily-white prince."

Forcing herself to look Eamonn in the eyes, suppressing her shudder of revulsion, she said softly, "Kiss me."

She thought she'd gag the moment his mouth slammed down on hers, teeth biting and tongue threatening to choke her. Not a real kiss. Just another form of rape, full of savagery and blood and pain. Dylan forced herself to hold still and stay as un-tensed as possible. To let the twisted Elf kiss her. As the seconds ticked by, the dark-haired Elf seemed to lose track of what his hand should have been doing with her wrists while his mouth was occupied. He released her bruised wrists as his hands went to her hips. Pain and a release of brutal tension shimmered through her shoulders as she slowly lowered her arms.

Dylan struggled to breathe under the onslaught of Eamonn's hungry mouth and cruel teeth. Struggled to keep down the panic and revulsion bubbling up in her stomach and trying to choke her as Eamonn's weight pressed down on her like the crushing heaviness of graveyard earth.

Don't struggle, she ordered herself. Pinching fingers bit deep into her skin. Bruises bloomed. Her heartbeat threatened to shatter her ribcage. Not yet; don't struggle yet. His teeth found her throat and bit down. Tears pricked her eyes at the sudden throb of pain. Don't struggle. Don't think about the damage. Then he was suffocating her again with his mouth.

Something cold and hard touched her fingers. One hand wrapped around the canister of pepper spray. Now. Dylan wrenched her mouth away from his.

"Eamonn?" She gasped.

"What?" The Elf snarled, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties. "I am a little indisposed. What?"

She locked eyes with him, and let him see her absolute fury and loathing. "Get the hell off me." And she sprayed him right in the face. He fell away from her with a howl of agony. Dylan climbed to her feet, gasping and trying not to throw up as she stumbled away from him. Vicious pressure hammered against her temples. The world was swimming in a fever-induced haze as the fear-darrig's blessing tried to fight the glamor and her body tried to fight the sickness dragging at her. She staggered against the door, her leg threatening to buckle. She locked her knee to keep on her feet. More pain sizzled through her leg but she refused to let it distract her. She shook her head to clear it and nearly sank to the floor as dizziness slammed her.

"Milady!" Becan scrambled to her side. "Milady!"

"I'm okay," she mumbled, pushing her hair out of her face and struggling to breathe through the pressure crushing down on her chest. "I'm all right, Becan. I'm okay." Grasping the pepper spray, she tried to think as Eamonn thrashed and howled on the floor, his hands covering his face. Out, she had to get out, had to run. The cottage wasn't safe. She'd invited him in; he could get to her here. She had to get out, out into the woods, had to hide somewhere, had to get someplace safe.

But the snow... Dylan knew she'd be hypothermic within thirty minutes. Forty at the most. And there was still the chance that Eamonn would catch her. He was Elf-kind; she was human. He was swift, strong, and only injured by a quick shot of defensive spray; she was slow, weak (compared to an Elf), and sick with the flu, with reaction-sickness from the glamor, and with the nausea of what she'd just done churning in her stomach. She couldn't even risk getting her shoes from her bedroom. Only her leather jacket, which hung from a hook by the door.

Better hypothermic and moving towards possible safety than warm and dead, she thought, yanking the leather coat off the hook and shrugging into it.

"Run, Becan," she commanded. "Find Nuada."

And she and the brownie both ran outside into the freezing winter night.