Chapter 44 - T'was But a Dream of Thee

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A Short Tale of a Prince's Vigil, a Brave Little Warrior, the King's Warning, a Ring, Sleeping Arrangements (and Other Details), and a Swimming Lesson

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Her blood had been replaced with ice water but fire smoldered in her chest and inside her skull. Everything slipped by through darkness and exhaustion. Every so often she would wake from the dark and see worried firegold eyes gazing down at her. Gentle hands would smooth back her hair. Help her sit up enough to sip from a cup of something warm and soothing. Something that tasted like distilled starlight and the tang of ocean breezes, the green wilds of the old world and silvery moonbeams. The sweet healing brew banked the fire and thawed the ice. Then there would be another cup, this full of deliciously hot spiced cider to soothe the healing ache in her throat. After that, those same gentle hands would help her lie back and tuck her in again.

Sometimes she would hear a familiar voice murmuring the old myths of Ireland, those rare times when sleep stayed elusively out of reach but she was too exhausted to do anything except shiver. When vicious dreams forced her awake, reassuring words and the whisper of Gaelic lullabies helped her fall back asleep. She thought it was the melodies caught inside the glass flowers Nuada had given her, but the songs didn't sound quite right. The words interwove with the twilight mists of Faerie.

And there was always that tender brush of fingers against her hair. A gentle touch that never failed to soothe her.

Dylan was sick for two days. Two days of burning fever and restless, broken sleep. Two days of dark dreams that wrenched her awake, strangling her with faceless terror. Nuada did not leave her bedside in case his lady woke frightened. Dylan always woke frightened. Whenever she jolted awake from the nightmares, softly calling out for him, he allowed himself to brush back her sweat-dampened hair and tell her gently that he was here, that he was with her. That she was safe. As long as Becan was asleep, Nuada would sing softly to Dylan, or read some of the old stories from his mother's book to her. It always seemed to comfort her.

But nightmares always found her when she managed to catch some sleep. Though he never entered her mind to push the nightmares away, Nuada knew what she dreamed: a potentially deadly race through midnight winter woods, brutal hands catching her, hot scarlet blood spilling across white snow, and those hands sliding around her throat. It always ended just when Dylan began gasping for breath.

Wink's potion was brewed quickly and kept the worst of the fever at bay. Troll potions were the best in Faerie. The bottle Wink had brought with him held water from the inlet near Roan Inish, one of the islands that served as home to the selkies. Water from Faerie could have either malevolent or benevolent effects on humans. The magic of Roan Inish was, at least for the most part, benevolent. Nuada also knew that the seal-shifters were well known as healers and apothecaries, just like trolls. A few drops of that mystic water would keep a mortal from sickening worse, but more than those few drops at a time could be dangerous. Once the first batch of the troll potion was made, Wink returned to the underground lair. The troll was uncomfortable in such a confining space as the cottage with its low ceilings and narrow doors. He assured Nuada he would be back in a couple days to brew another batch of healing tonic if it was needed.

The Elf prince sat in the chair that had never been taken from beside Dylan's gargantuan four-poster bed. Sat and studied the sleeping mortal woman who tossed and turned, shivering with fever chills. Arched a brow when Bat limped into the room and tried to hop onto Dylan's bed.

They hadn't realized the kitten had spraigned a paw when he'd landed after Eamonn's throw. Becan had done what he could for it, though. As for the rest of the cat's wounds... Becan had shorn off a large patch of the sleek dark fur to get to the raw scrapes beneath in order to treat them. Bat still refused to grace the brownie with anything but frosty glares every so often, in response to the indignity.

What Nuada hadn't told Dylan was that the little cat's ribs had cracked from the force of the dark-haired Elf's throw. Apparently Becan knew a young bakeneko from Manhattan's East Village in training to be a healer and had called the feline shapeshifter to heal the kitten. Without that aid, Bat well may have died. How sad would Dylan have been then? He knew she loved the (often irritating) little creature. And Bat very well might have saved Dylan's life. Now Nuada watched as that fiercely devoted little beast tried to claw his way up the blankets to get to his human's side.

Nuada bent down, carefully scooped him up, and deposited him on the bed beside the sleeping human. Bat gave him an affronted look, as if to say, I could have done that myself, you know. The Elven warrior gave him a mildly challenging look in return. The cat turned up his little black nose, flicked his tail in Nuada's direction, and moved to Dylan's side. Curled up next to her in a ball of black fuzz and purred. Not the purr of a happy cat; the purr of a grown cat soothing a distressed kitten. He'd made that same purring sound while licking the ice from Dylan's eyelashes and trying to massage warmth back into her body.

Nuada reached out and rubbed behind the kitten's ears. "Good boy," he murmured.

The purr stuttered for a moment. Bat eyed him warily. Sniffed at the hand that still stroked dark fur. Then a velvety tongue rasped out and licked at the underside of Nuada's wrist. A reassuring rumble began in the kitten's chest and this time it was for the stubborn snarly male who protected Bat's human.

Nuada chuckled. "Looking out for both of us, eh?"

The cat mewed and butted his head against Nuada's palm. Then he went back to purring at Dylan, lightly kneading her side through the blankets.

The Elf prince went back to studying the mortal woman. What had she meant by you don't want me? Why did that sorrowful confession tease at his memory? You don't want me. You don't trust me anymore.

He trusted her with his life. The knowledge that he even could trust a human that way should have shocked him. Would have shocked his father and sister. But perhaps not Mr. Wink. Lassling, the silver troll had called her. The prince's vassal had spoken of the mortal with affection and approval. Wink most likely knew that Nuada trusted Dylan that far. But he would not, could not trust the impossible mortal with his heart. For both their sakes, he could not.

Was that what she was picking up on? She was very perceptive. Mind-healers had to be so. Or was it simply that he had no idea how to behave around her? If he'd meant to pursue her it would have been one thing. Firm footing there. As easy as stretching out his hand, with his experience (and Dylan's lack thereof). Yet instead the Elf prince had to pretend to pursue while also maintaining emotional distance. And how was he to do that when she always managed to slip beneath his defenses? How was he supposed to act with this woman who called to every protective and male instinct the Elven warrior possessed? Especially when his own nature fought him at every turn.

And now he was getting a headache. Massaging his temples, Nuada leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Tried to force himself to relax. It was the middle of the afternoon, but except for that stretch of sleep plagued by the memory-nightmare, the prince hadn't slept in two nights.

After only a few moments with his eyes closed, Nuada began to drift off. Distantly he felt slim fingers brush over the back of his hand. Instinctively Nuada turned his hand palm-up and Dylan's hand slid into his. Weary golden eyes flicked open to glance at her. Blue eyes blinked sleepily at him before closing once more.

Sleep came quickly then, with that fragile mortal hand in his, her fingers curled around his own. But he did not dream of her.

Once again he dreamed of battlefields and butchery, of blood-soaked killing fields and the screams of dying men. This time he fought in the battles as well. Felt the sting of smoke in his eyes, the burn of fatigue, the agony of wounds inflicted in the heat of battle. Scars now, Nuada tried to remind himself. Those wounds were scars now. But the memories had him by the throat and refused to relinquish their hold.

Nuada dreamed of the carnage of the Golden Army and the wall of ice that he'd forced around himself so that he could look on that carnage without flinching. It was necessary. He knew that. As a warrior and as a prince he knew that. Necessary to protect his people, to protect Bethmoora and all the Fair Folk, from the humans and their mindless hunger for more and more and more. He dreamed of the day his father betrayed the fae by seducing the other fayre kings into agreeing to the truce with the humans. Centuries' of war crowded into a single nightmare, only to be worsened by that treason, that betrayal, that stab in the back from his own father.

And then there was a brief moment when he thought the hell of the memory was ended. Instead of slogging through slaughterhouse mud and carrion, he stood on a hill overlooking Bethmoora. The city of Bethmoora, the abandoned capital city now hidden beneath the Giants' Causeway. Cursed, the goblins said. Bethmoora, the Golden City, and the humans were putting it to the torch. The city, one of the two places he had always called home, was burning. The flames turned the skies to pitch blackness edged with hell fire.

But this had never happened and he knew then with absolute certainty that he was dreaming. And that made it possible to bear the crushing weight of pain that this dream pressed upon him.

Nuala stood with him, her face a blank mask as their home and city was razed to the ground. Her voice was a blade of ice driving deep into his chest when she demanded, "What have you done, my brother?"

"You invade my dreams again?" His voice was tight with the effort it took not to turn to his twin, the other half of his heart, and beg her to hold him, to comfort him. He never had to beg for Dylan's comfort. She offered it freely, without being asked. He'd fallen asleep holding Dylan's hand. Why was she not in this dream? And his mind had been shielded against his sister's invasion. How was Nuala here? And a better question was "Why are you here, Sister?"

"Father is going to send the Butcher Guards to find you if you do not return by tonight, Nuada. Do you really want to be dragged back to Findias like an unruly child brought home to face his punishment?"

Feral eyes began melting towards furious bronze. "So I should tuck my tail between my legs and come home like a good dog? Why does Father insist I return when I have told you that more pressing things currently hold my attention?"

Nuala didn't say anything for a long time. The blazing inferno below them painted flickering light across her face. Then she sighed. "He told me to ask you something. For myself, I will tell you something that perhaps I shouldn't, because you are my twin and my brother and I love you. But first... Father wanted to know if the human is still alive." Nuada stiffened. "Is that why you won't return, Brother? Because you've killed her to escape your forced courtship?"

"How dare you?" Hurt and grief and rage sliced through his veins like shards of glass. "How dare you? I swore to protect her and you dare to ask me if I have..." Flash of memory that stabbed nearly as deep as Nuala's accusation: his knife at Dylan's vulnerable throat and a tiny spill of scarlet blood. And that nightmare. The vicious nightmare of her trapped beneath him, broken and bleeding. Dying. Her body bruising under his hands and the light fading from her eyes. No. Gods, no. He couldn't think about that here, Nuala would...

But the sick horror in his twin's eyes when she stared at him told Nuada that his sister had already seen both memories. He could feel her revulsion through their link. Fought not to flinch away from it. "She's alive," the prince said softly. "Alive and unharmed. And against any who would seek to hurt her, my honor demands I stand as her sword and shield."

I would never harm her. She knows that. Why don't you, Sister?

"I know you speak the truth because you cannot lie to me when we share dreams," the princess murmured. Her stomach was churning from the brutal images she'd glimpsed via the mystical link between the royal twins. She could almost taste her brother's horror at the images, his sickened aversion to them. Were they fantasies that Nuada fought against?

Not all those flashes of the human were violent, though. Some were merely edged with a dark passion that sent tremors of fear through the princess. She felt more than a shimmer of lust from her brother when Nuada's thoughts strayed to the human. How much of a nudge would her brother need to go from lusting for the human to taking what he lusted for, whether Dylan wanted him to have it or not? The fact that Nuala didn't know the answer chilled her.

"Know this as well, Nuada. Father is of two minds about the human. On the one hand, he worries you might try to do her harm." Was it her imagination, or had Nuada Silverlance actually flinched at the suggestion? Imagination, surely; had to be. "On the other hand, he's beginning to wonder if the human is a bad influence on you and is considering... removing her from your life."

For just a moment she felt it - the shock, the fury, the instant denial. And beneath that, the faintest whisper of despair. That despair tasted too closely of the same dark emotion Nuala had once felt from her twin on two other occasions: the day of the truce between the humans and the fae, and the day their mother had died.

Only that was impossible. Her brother wouldn't feel such strong emotion for a human. True, Nuada was fond of the girl, any faerie with eyes could see that. And clearly he desired her. But fondness and desire didn't account for this awful heartbreaking thread of... of something hissing and coiling beneath the anger and the disbelief that anyone would dare deny the Silverlance something he had claimed for his own.

Then the mental walls came back up and without warning Nuala was thrust roughly from her brother's mind.

Nuada wrenched himself to wakefulness and found himself on his knees on the floor of Dylan's bedroom, braced against her bed. She still slept. No more tossing and turning. The flickering light of the crystal rai flowers cast little dancing shadows across her face. She looked so peaceful. Father is... considering removing her from your life. No. Gods, no. What did that even mean? That Balor would kill her? No. No, not his father, who had long ago become the pet of the humans. But then what? Ordering Nuada, who was bound by honor to obey his king, from ever seeing Dylan again? No. No, he couldn't do that. His father could not do that to him.

Familiar fingers brushed against his cheek, a soothing caress that pushed the rage and despair back until Nuada could at least breathe. Blue eyes dull with fever still showed concern. "Cad atá cearr?" What's wrong? "Are you okay?"

No, he wanted to say. No, I'm not. But he could not afford to be weak. Could not afford to give into his emotions when those emotions did nothing but drag at him. Instead, Nuada clasped the hand that lingered against his cheek and pressed it more tightly there. A ghrá mo chroí. He was shaking. He knew it and couldn't stop the tremors shuddering through him in memory of his sister's message. His father was thinking of trying to take Dylan from him. Take his friend, one of only two he possessed in the world. Wanted to take away this place of refuge and this woman who was his only true comfort.

He needed her. He couldn't lose her. But Nuada only said, "Go back to sleep, mo duinne."

Dylan gave him a sleepy-eyed look that still managed to convey so much: compassion, understanding, and a just a hint of exasperation. But she only replied, "I'm here if you need me. I can pretend to not be sick for a bit if I have to. Don't forget that. I'm here. Don't forget. Okay?"

"I know." Nuada didn't relinquish her hand when she fell back asleep. Only pressed a kiss to the back of it and whispered, "I know."

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Becan scowled at the great lummox of a troll that had dared invade Lady Dylan's kitchen not once, but twice (although there was no real heat in the brownie's expression). Instead the wee fae obeyed the troll's orders when he asked for different herbs and, one one occassion, a pomegranate. Lady Dylan's own little tree was currently bearing fruit so that was no problem. Usually the mortal made her own salves and tisanes for injured or sickly fae who might have need, but lately she'd been neglecting her own store of personal medicines, relying instead on the human stuff her brother had brought her.

At least, Becan thought, her supplies are still fresh.

Wink kept his face carefully blank as he rumbled at the brownie, "Have a care with those leaves, Master Pipsqueak." Becan scowled more fiercely and handed the troll what he'd requested. Wink crushed the leaves in one fist and let them fall into the little pot on the stove. The pungent smell of broken eucalyptus leaves mingled with the sourness of lemon rind and the tartness of fresh pomegranate juice. "Thyme." The brownie handed over what for Wink would be a pinch of fresh thyme leaves. They too went into the steaming pot. "Willow bark. What is His Highness doing?"

The brownie blinked, then cast his senses through the cottage to locate the prince.

Nuada was staring out of Dylan's bedroom window at the nocturnal snow drifting down. Every so often when the mortal would make a small sound of distress, feral eyes would slice to where she lay huddled on the bed. Then the prince would return to looking out the window. Sometimes frail moonbeams would slip between the cloud cover and illuminate the human woman's bedroom, and Bethmoora's crown prince would sigh softly or clench his jaw.

Becan related all that to Wink. The troll frowned and stirred the tisane slowly. He'd learned as a boy at his father's side to brew healing tonics. Not the potent magical sort that true healers could create, those that could cure even the sickest faerie in a handful of days. Just simple home remedies. He had even taught a young Elf prince a bit of the herb lore Wink's father had taught him. But Nuada did not have a head for remembering all the different herbs and plants and their various uses. A scholar, the warrior prince had never been, even as a child.

Still... out of nearly everyone but the so-called princess, Wink was certain he knew Nuada best. And yet his prince's behavior puzzled the troll.

It was obvious to the troll that the prince was worried about his mortal lady. That wasn't odd in and of itself; Wink knew the Elven warrior felt some sort of fondness for the human. But the strength of that fondness... that was what the troll was pondering now as he sweetened the healing brew with honey. Why did Nuada care so much?

Wink approved of and liked the lassling well enough, in spite of the iron in her blood. But this seemed to be more somehow. More than just a distant fondness. More even than sweet affection. The cave troll had seen the Elven warrior this concerned about a woman that wasn't his twin sister on perhaps a handful of occassions over the last thirty or so centuries. Always they had been one of the prince's various mistresses or (when he was much, much younger) a girl of the court that the prince hoped to catch for a sweetheart. Never had Nuada Silverlance shown such non-honorbound interest in a human woman.

"Tell me about your mistress, Master Pipsqueak," Wink commanded suddenly as he added dried hyssop leaves and cherry bark.

Becan had been thinking that he needed to make sure his lady's elder trees and the rosemary bushes at the gate of her garden were still free of the snowdrifts - how else would they do their jobs? - when Wink spoke, which shattered the brownie's thoughts. If looks had ever possessed the power to kill (which, in the Wee Folk, thankfully they did not) the brownie's sloe-black glare would have sent Wink straight to Valhalla.

But when the massive troll only offered him a raised eyebrow, Becan sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

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Nuada watched the snow falling and listened to Dylan's breathing as she tossed and turned. He didn't want to be in this room. Didn't really even want to be in this cottage where the scent of her saturated everything and the feel of her soaked into every stone and wooden beam, every scrap of fabric and every piece of furniture. Too many forbidden thoughts stalked him here. Too many empty hopes taunted him. But Nuada was not leaving his mortal lady again, no matter what anyone demanded of him. Not until... until when? When would the chains that bound him to her finally break? When one or both of them died, most likely, and wasn't that a joyous thought?

He could not afford this kind of weakness, Fates curse it! He could not afford to be... to be simply Nuada. Could not afford to be anything less than Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora. Not now. Especially not now. Not when he'd already lost so much and still had so much to lose. Eyes of molten bronze slid over Dylan's sleeping face before cutting back to the snowy night. Too much to lose.

His father was not to be trusted. His sister was not to be trusted. As much as those cold truths hurt, Nuada was warrior enough to acknowledge and accept them. Well... Nuala was his twin. His other half. She, at least, could be trusted up to a point. But only up to a point, and not with this. Not with this. Only two days ago, both she and his father had threatened one of the things most important to him. He didn't dare reveal this weakness to them.

Not even Wink could be trusted with this secret because it meant that Nuada was not the honorable warrior prince who stood for his people and would do anything to save them from the long, slow death of fading into the twilight. He could no longer hold to that so completely because he wouldn't do anything. There was one thing he could never do again: he could never hurt Dylan.

Oh, he could ask her to sacrifice for him, for Bethmoora, for his people. He could ask and hope she would acquiesce. Yet if she denied him, the Elf could not break her spirit by forcing her compliance. A month or two ago he wouldn't just have considered it, he'd have done it. Done it without a qualm or a second thought. He wouldn't have even felt a twinge.

But not now.

The Elf prince wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to him to turn him into this... pitiful weakling. Even his sister had never managed to wrap him around her little finger the way Dylan had somehow managed to do. The only thing that saved him was that his mortal lady didn't know how much power she possessed over one of the most powerful males in Faerie. Would never abuse that power even if she ever did find out.

Not that he would ever allow her to learn of such a thing.

Unbidden came the memory of her body pressed to his as she slept curled around him. He'd woken to her warmth. Her softness. Her embrace. The comfort of her. That memory sent a whisper of heat beneath his skin and a shiver up his spine. He wanted to do that again. Wanted to wake beside Dylan again. Just hold her and know that here, at least, there was sanctuary. Even if it was only for the space of a single breath, there was sanctuary. Now that he'd tasted that, he couldn't let it go again.

They could not take this from him. He didn't know why he was thinking these things now - perhaps because of Wink's presence? Or the dream of that bloody battlefield and his twin relaying his father's threat? He didn't know, didn't care. All he knew was that no one could be allowed to take this from him. They could not. He wouldn't allow it. They had taken nearly everything else, but they would not take this, would not take this place or her away from him. He wouldn't let them! Not Eamonn, whose corpse already fed the worms; not his enemies scattered throughout Faerie; not the humans who had already robbed him and his people of so much. Not Oisin, not the Chamberlain, not Nuala, and not Balor. Not his father who was also his enemy. Not the father who refused to see Nuada Silverlance, and saw only a monster.

Not the father that he loved, the father who hated him.

Nuada heard the rustle of the blankets and the creak of the bed from behind him, but did not turn around. There was no tell-tale sound of footsteps. Only the excruciatingly gentle warmth of her palm against his shoulder. A shudder ripped through him. Tension whipped across his shoulders at the touch. But she did not draw her hand away.

"Cad atá cearr?" Her voice sounded so tired. He should... he should get her back to bed. Make her rest. She was sick, she needed to rest. Her hand burned through his shirt. "What's wrong?" She repeated in English. How he wanted to tell her. Tell the human whose touch tormented and soothed him everything that was in his heart. Could not. Could never. "It's all right," Dylan whispered, and then drew her hand away. Nuada felt the absence of that touch like an iron knife in the back.

But then... oh, then... slender arms carefully wrapped around his waist. He felt Dylan press softly against him. Felt her arms tighten a little in embrace. She laid her cheek against his shoulder. Slowly, so very slowly, the tension eased back. The edge of panic - he hadn't even realized that razored emotion was riding him until those comforting arms slid around him - faded. "Whatever it is, Nuada, it will be all right."

My father will try to take you from me, he thought, but didn't say. I need you, I love you, and he may try to take you from me, mo duinne, a ghrá mo chroí. That will never be all right. Don't leave me. But her hands were slowly beginning to slide upward to rest over the heart that seemed to hammer in his chest hard enough to bruise. So he said nothing. Only soaked up the warmth of her and tried to relax. Tried to calm down enough that his voice would not tremble at all when he told her that she needed to go back to bed and rest.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Dylan asked after a few minutes. The soft weight of her cheek against his shoulder blade warmed his skin through the silk of his shirt even as it comforted him. He could feel her gentle heartbeat against his spine.

The words, when they rasped out of him, were not what either of them expected. "My sister hates me. My father hates me. They both hate-"

"No." Sharp, firm, and with just a hint of anger. She let him go then, and it left him aching and cold. But then she put a hand on his upper arm and pulled him to face her. Those fey-like eyes were dull with fever and exhaustion but they glimmered with something else that Nuada couldn't name. "No," she said again. Slender hands reached up and framed his face. Nuada swallowed hard. "Don't say that. Don't think that. They hate what they think you are but that's not who you are. Listen to me," she snapped when the prince began to turn away. Feral eyes flicked to that scarred face. Moonlit blue locked with sunlit topaz, refusing to release him. "You listen to me. If you never listen to another word I say, you listen to this. You wanna be mad about this, you can be mad later when I don't feel like I'm about to pass out. They don't hate you, Nuada, because they can't. They don't know you. They. Don't. Know. Do you understand me? They don't see you. They don't know you. They don't know who you are."

"And you do?" Stars curse it, there was a tremor in his voice and he could not seem to banish it. "You know me? You see me?"

Such compassion in her eyes. Such understanding. Unwavering acceptance. Did she know that she had the power to bring him to his knees? With one word she brought down every defense, every wall. Just one word.

"Yes."

Damning the consequences, damning the questions that would come from this, Nuada pulled Dylan's hands away from his face (did he imagine that brief flicker of hurt and disappointment in those eyes?) and then gently tugged her so that if she wanted to, she could clasp those hands behind his neck, which she then proceeded to do. Her scarred mouth curved into a soft smile. Then Nuada enfolded Dylan in his arms and held that impossible mortal as tightly as he dared. Slowly stroked her hair with one hand.

You know me? You see me? And her answer. That impossible and heartbreaking answer. Yes.

"Listen to this, too. If all the world turned against you," Dylan said softly against his shoulder, "I would still be here, Nuada." She leaned back enough to look him dead in the eye and added just as softly, "I see you. I know you. I will always be there for you if you want me. I promise."

"Even after all that I have done? After I hurt you so deeply?"

She laid a gentle hand against his cheek. "It hurt, what you said. I won't deny that. But I know that I hurt you as well, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have told you sooner, and I'm sorry. We're both sorry. It's okay."

"No," Nuada said softly. "No, it is not. I will never say such a thing again. I promise."

"And we'll be honest with each other from now on," she added. "I promise." She smiled and murmured, "Don't forget - I'm your friend, Nuada. I know who you are. I see you. Don't forget."

I see you. Eyes that saw so very much. Eyes that showed him so very much: trust, affection, respect, concern. I see you. I know you. Some of the crushing weight on his shoulders eased a little. It was suddenly so much easier to breathe when he could just take in the scent of lilies and roses that whispered over Dylan's skin and threaded through those riotous, sleep-mussed curls. It took him too long, though, to be certain he could speak without his voice trembling or, worse, without falling to his knees and confessing just what forbidden sentiment smoldered deep in his chest. Without revealing just how much those firm but gentle words meant to him. But eventually Nuada could step back and look down at her with expressionless eyes and a blank face.

"You should be in bed," the prince told the mortal in his arms. He felt more than heard Dylan sigh. Knew that her eyes were sorrowful, that his emotional retreat had saddened her. "You need to rest, mo duinne."

Dylan gave him a look of complete and very feminine exasperation. Instead of stepping back from the Elf prince, she carefully brushed back a lock of silvery star-blond hair. Her fingertips ghosted over the whorl at his temple. Nuada stiffened. She'd never touched him this way before. At least not in the waking world. Only in dreams, when his own desire managed to escape his rigid control for a few reckless moments.

"I don't want to rest or sleep or whatever." She tucked that lock of hair behind his ear. The tips of her fingers whispered over the delicate, Elven point and he had to fight a shiver. "If I fall asleep I'll have another bad dream. Can I stay with you instead?"

He wanted to say yes. Wanted to put her to bed and then slide into that bed beside her and soothe away any nightmares. Instead Nuada replied, "You can stay on the couch if you promise to stay on the couch and rest. All right?"

"Nuada, I don't-"

"We will make a trade of it," he murmured, capturing the hand that hovered so close to his face. "Allow me to-"

"Fuss," Dylan said dryly.

The topaz-eyed Elven warrior arched one knife-thin eyebrow and said in a voice as cool and dry as a desert night, "I am an Elven warrior. I am also male. I do not fuss." When the mortal cocked her head and smiled indulgently, he bit back a growl. Insolent chit. "Anyway. Allow me to... not fuss... and when you are well, I will... acquiesce to your demands next time you insist I sleep or eat something or... or whatever you may ask of me."

Now her eyebrow rose. "My demands."

"Yes."

Dylan bit her lip to keep from laughing at his sour expression. Instead, feeling more comfortable with him than she had in a while, Dylan stepped just a little closer. He was so warm. The heat of him pushed away the chill clinging to her because of the fever. He was still holding her hand against his chest. "Don't I owe you an act of service, though? Why not just use that?"

That soft smile of hers sent warmth curling in his belly. Those lovely eyes held just a hint of mischief, which only fired that warmth into a smoldering heat. An act of service? She had so much trust in him, to agree to such a thing. He could have misused that trust. It would have been so easy; she knew that. After the life she'd lived, she had to know that. The fact that Dylan knew he would not do such a thing just proved what she'd been saying about knowing him. I see you. I know you.

"I consider it prudent to hold that service in reserve."

"I'm really worried that you're going to use that whole thing later, when we get back to Findias. That you'll try and stop me when I go after some fae bimbo that won't keep her hands off you." Dylan paused. Frowned. "Wait. Is that in my job description?"

He couldn't help it. He laughed. Just thinking about Dylan defending his virtue, as it were, from the lust-minded harpies of the court forced the laughter out of him. "No," Nuada replied, still chuckling. "I think the court ladies would be at a distinct disadvantage against you. You can be quite fierce, you know."

"Fierce," she repeated.

"Mmm."

Making what he supposed was meant to be a "fierce" face, Dylan said in a little-girl voice, "Rawr."

He tucked her hair behind her ears, fighting the foolish grin that wanted to spread across his face. How did she make that change from wise and compassionate woman to fun-loving and often silly girl-child so quickly? But all he said was, "Very scary. Now. You need to lay down. Do you feel well enough to walk to the den?"

In the end, he carried her. Because she needed him to, and because he did.

.

"I really did love the letter," Dylan mumbled sleepily from the couch. Her eyes were closed, so she didn't see Nuada look up from the book he'd been perusing to study her. They'd been in the den while Becan and Wink eyed each other in the kitchen for the last hour or so. The almost-silence had been very near the companionable quiet the Elf and the human had once enjoyed. Until now, Dylan had been lying on the futon, listening to the music playing softly from her cell phone while Nuada searched the book he'd given Dylan for his favorite childhood tales. But now she added, "It was so beautiful. It... it meant a lot to me, the things you said." She cuddled beneath the blankets and sighed in contentment. "I love this song, too. Who cares if I'm sick? I'm happy right now."

Nuada closed the book and listened for a minute to the young woman's voice that came from Dylan's phone. Found himself almost mesmerized by the words.

"Child and a fool in one.
So sure I could need no one.
My heart always on the run to nowhere.
Now as you're holding me,
Your heart is reminding me,
Now I could never be without you."

"But how can our love succeed? A miracle is what we need." Dylan sang along in a whisper, a somewhat melancholic peace spreading across her face along with some other emotion as she sang. Nostalgia, maybe? "Keep me suspended in time with you; don't let this moment die. I've got a feeling when I'm with you, none of the rules apply."

None of the rules apply. Oh, if only. If only. Then this place wouldn't be forbidden him. Neither would the woman who called it home.

Home. This was his home now, as well. When had it become so? When had this cottage and this woman become his safe haven? Conflicting loyalties burned in his gut whenever he remembered that simple fact and why that fact was so very wrong. A duty to Dylan? Is that greater now than your duty to Father? Nuala's sharp words, a reminder that he was not just a son, but a prince whose loyalty belonged to his king. A reminder he hadn't needed, thank you, Nuala. Well, whatever. He had other things to concern himself with just now.

"Dylan," Nuada said, and her eyes flickered open to focus on his face. "I want to talk to you." She immediately turned off the music and gave him her full attention. Suddenly oddly nervous, the Elf prince reached into his shirt and drew out the gold chain around his neck. Slipping it over his head, he held it out to the mortal watching him with tired curiosity.

She took the chain. It held two gold rings, each set with a red stone. She wasn't quite sure what they were - they looked like rubies, and since they'd been around Nuada's neck, they very well might have been. A faint shadow shifted and shimmered behind each stone. An image that looked vaguely familiar, but too blurred by the facets and thickness of the jewels for her to be entirely sure. The stones were cut differently; the one set in a slender, elegant golden band was small, and the red jewel in the golden man's ring was a little smaller than the diameter of a dime. The man's ring was plain gold, unadorned except for the stone. But the other...

Dylan wasn't sure if the band was made of different pieces of gold or if the pattern of intertwining vines and flowerbuds had simply been etched deeply into the metal. None of the golden buds were open, though some showed the faintest hint of petal. Only one flower actually bloomed. Nestled in the heart of a fully opened rose was the small ruby. The metal was still warm from resting against Nuada's skin. On the inside of the slim band were words in Old Gaelic. Dylan managed to translate them as, So we might always find each other.

Wide-eyed and more than a little stunned, Dylan looked up from the spectacular ring to meet Nuada's eyes. "This is beautiful. Where did you get it? Them?"

"I made them," he said softly. Then, as if the words were being dragged from him, he added, "The flowered ring is for you."

Nuada had to admit, he enjoyed seeing that completely dumbfounded look in Dylan's eyes. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened and closed again. Twice. Then she stared down at the ring again. After a moment where she clearly struggled for something coherent to say, the mortal whispered, "But I don't deserve... I mean, why? It's so... so beautiful. I... you didn't have to... it's lovely. I've never had... Nuada, I'm..."

"Clearly at a loss for words," he supplied, not even bothering to suppress his smile. She liked it, then. Good. That was the one thing he'd wondered about because she seemed so... disinterested in jewels and other fripperies that women usually seemed so excited about. Wink had told him more than once that all women, as the troll put it, "loved glitter." Apparently they did. Even this one.

"Give it here a moment." When she'd returned the chain with its rings to him, Nuada murmured a short word of release in the Old Tongue and slipped the slender band off the golden chain before slipping the chain back around his neck. "Give me your hand."

Slipping the ring on the fourth finger of her right hand was one of the hardest things the Elf prince had ever done. He suddenly wanted to slide the golden band onto the slender finger on her left hand. A declaration. A blatant disregard for propriety, for politics, for the loyalties that commanded him and the vows that bound him.

The force of that desire hit him with all the power of the bronze hammer Wink called a fist. Shook him. Nuada took a mental step back, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the ring he had made for the woman he loved glittering against her skin like an impossible promise. Love was one thing (a forbidden thing, but still only sentiment, with no real action to condemn him). But the sudden sharp impulse that had lanced him had also put a glimmer of a whisper of a thought in his head. One he could ill afford at this moment - or any other moment. Ever. No. He wouldn't think of that. Would not let that shadow of a half-thought unfurl into even a murmur of an idea. No.

Then he opened his eyes and found himself drowning in a gaze of impossible and fey-like blue. His common sense was crying, No, no, no. Every part of him echoed that sentiment. Except his heart, and the exhaustion there. He was so tired of saying no all the time. Couldn't he say yes to her? Just once?

Maybe. But not with that. He could never say yes to that unless his father commanded it of him, and even then it would still be no in all the ways that counted.

"That ring," Nuada murmured, feeling as if he were slowly strangling. "It has a... you might call it a spell, locked in the stone. It's connected to this one." He tapped the gold band on its chain that hung against his chest. "Turn it sinistral thrice around your finger and repeat the words engraved on the inside of the band. That will take you to Faerie, to me. This way you can still fulfill your duties as a mind-healer and be with me in Findias when your work day ends."

Those eyes filled with soft wonder. "You made this for me so I could-"

"If you are still willing to go with me," the prince added, releasing her suddenly and shifting back in his chair to put a little distance between them. Blast it, he couldn't breathe when she was looking at him like that, much less think. "I will not force you to return with me. If you do agree to return with me, I will do everything in my power to make sure you feel safe and-"

"Nuada." The command in her tone was soft, but it was there, firm enough to stop him. He clenched his teeth. Fought not to clench his fists. He hadn't meant to give her the option of not going back with him. Hadn't meant to just come out and say it, at any rate. But he didn't want to chain her to his side with force of any kind. He wanted it to be her decision. Wanted to know she was with him because she chose to be with him and not because... "Nuada."

Somehow she'd managed to lever herself up off the couch and onto the floor next to where he sat leaning against a chair without the Elf prince truly taking note of it. Now Dylan dropped her head onto his shoulder and murmured, "As long as you're with me, I know I'm safe. Okay? And I'm going back with you. Even if you hadn't done this, I'd still go back to Findias with you. I go when you go, remember? So what are you so nervous about?"

The Elven warrior shot her a frosty look. "I am not nervous about anything."

Somehow the mortal woman managed to unman him with a single gentle look. "Okay." Agreement in verbage but not in tone. A deaf man would've detected that. Even a month ago that would have infuriated him. Now it didn't bother him. When had that happened? Dylan added, "But you're... concerned about something. Something you think I'm not gonna like. What is it?"

"What happened last night... with Eamonn... that was my fault, Dylan."

She sat up abruptly. "No, Nuada, no-"

"Hush," the prince commanded. Dylan subsided, but her silent glare spoke volumes. "Blame is not what is under discussion here. I mention it only because it applies to something else. I swore to protect you. I was derelict in that duty and as a result you nearly... you were hurt." The mortal's glare softened and she sighed. When she dropped her head back onto his shoulder, Nuada allowed himself to relax a little. "I want you to know that what prompted this decision was first and foremost your safety and the vow I made to keep you safe. Do you remember when you stayed in my room while in Findias? There was a locked door opposite the entrance to my bedroom. Do you remember it?"

"Yes," Dylan said slowly. Why was the Elven warrior so tense? It felt almost as if he were bracing for something. A blow, maybe. Or another betrayal. Why? "I tried it the morning after... after you comforted me. But it was locked so I figured it didn't matter." Now she let her mind focus for a moment on that locked door. There had been three doors in Nuada's bedroom - the locked one, the door that led to the rest of the prince's suite, and the door to the bathroom. Three doors. Only one of them kept locked at all times. Why? Because the rooms on the other side weren't in use, she'd realized. And now... "That door leads to, like, a consort's suite or something, doesn't it?"

"Yes. If you return to Findias with me, my lady, that is where you would stay."

They sat in silence for a long moment while Dylan chewed that over. Her own rooms - not just a room but rooms - with a bedroom attached to Nuada's bed chamber. Did both sides of that door have locks? She dismissed the question as soon as it popped into her mind. What did she need a lock on the door for? It wasn't like Nuada would come in without permission. Unless she was under attack and screaming her head off. Which was probably the point.

The longer the silence stretched, the tenser Nuada became. Dylan wasn't sure what to say to ease that tension. When the prince was tense enough to snap, she finally said, "I just have one question." Somehow he managed to stiffen even further. "Actually, it's a two-parter. First part: do I get my own bathroom?"

Nuada blinked. "Of course."

"Does it come with a shower?"

The Elf blinked again in surprise. Realized he had been holding his breath. What had he expected her to think about the arrangement? The dream - the nightmare - of Nuala had twisted him up more than he'd thought. But Dylan hadn't worried about anything except whether she had her own shower chamber. She wasn't worried about the door joining his bedroom and hers. Wasn't worried about it in the least. She trusted him. He should have remembered that. "Yes, it comes with a shower."

"Okay then." She snuggled against him. Sighed. Nuada closed his eyes and relaxed into the knowledge that she, at least, still trusted him. Still believed he possessed some shred of honor. "I'm completely okay with those sleeping arrangements. Anything else you (falsely) think I'm going to freak out about?"

"There is one other thing," Nuada said. Dylan shifted a little so she could look up at him. He looked... worried. Worried and exhausted. Every time she saw him, he looked more and more worn down. "My father has sent the Butcher Guards to search for me. He means to drag me back to Findias whether I will or-"

"No." She jerked away from him and used the futon to haul herself to her feet. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me. I'll kick his butt. You just watch me. No one is taking you anywhere you don't want to go." She took a step. Swayed. "Whoa. Room's spinning. Got up too fast again. Anyway... um... right. Becan!" At her call, the brownie came dashing into the den. He skidded to a halt in front of his mistress and stared up into the familiar face that he had almost never seen angry before.

Lady Dylan was infuriated now.

"M-Milady?"

"I need my stationary - my official-looking stuff. The stuff Peri got me for Christmas last year. And my black gel pen. And..." Dizziness swamped her. She hastily sat down on the futon. "And a hard surface to write on. Quickly, please." Becan raced away and Dylan dropped her head into her hands. "I hate your dad so much right now. For real. Okay, no, not for real, but I am so not happy with him right now. Ugh."

Nuada eyed her warily. The Elf prince was not one-hundred percent sure, but he couldn't recall off the top of his head Dylan ever being this angry before. "What are you going to do?"

"Write the king a frigidly polite letter informing him that you are currently indisposed and that anyone attempting to remove you from my presence by force will have to face my wrath. Your father might not find a human's wrath that impressive, but I've got several friends who could give him a run for his money if I was a vindictive kind of person - which I'm not, but he doesn't know that." Becan came back in with the stationary, pen and a photo album to write on. His mistress gave him a fond smile in place of thanks (since offering thanks to a brownie was considered a grave insult and would usually drive them away from the home they cared for) and set to writing.

Nuada said nothing. Only watched as Dylan swiftly penned several elegant lines on a piece of the somewhat stiff, formal writing paper and then signed it before folding it into thirds. Her brownie perched on the arm of the futon-couch and waited until she was finished folding the paper before sealing it with magic, since his mistress possessed no official seal. "Am I to take this to His Majesty?"

"If you please, Becan," Dylan said softly. The Elf prince did not say a word. Did not try to stop her. He had seen most of what she'd written as she'd been writing it. His father was in for a surprise. The thought brought a brief smirk to Nuada's mouth. "And Becan," Dylan added as the brownie began to walk away. "This is a command from your mistress. Do not under any circumstances tell the king or anyone else where Prince Nuada Silverlance is, what he is doing, where he's been, or anything about him. The same goes regarding me as well. And make sure no one and nothing follows you home. Understand?" The brownie nodded, bowed, and left quickly. The human settled back against the futon and sighed. "Okay, done being gung-ho, now. My brain feels like it's being chewed on by a monster with glass teeth." She pressed the heels of her palms to her temples.

"Where did you learn to write a letter like that?" Nuada asked. "It was very diplomatic."

She smiled. "Pride and Prejudice," she said. At his puzzled look Dylan added, "It's a book about the Regency period in England, back in the early nineteenth century. There's a letter similar in tone to mine in the book. I've read that book probably two hundred times in my life. It's one of my absolute favorites. And I may have gotten some help from a few friends in polite letter-writing to the fae over the years. Anyway, I don't feel good, so I'm gonna lie down again now." Which she promptly did. Scrunching back beneath the discarded blanket, Dylan added, "Ugh. I hate being sick. So, okay, we've discussed your dad's impatience and our sleeping arrangements. Anything else I need to know about?"

"You know you'll need your own retinue."

"My own what?"

The Elf prince didn't smirk, but he wanted to. She actually sounded a bit panicked. "Servants, madoigna. If we're going back to Findias, and we are going to play along with the courtship charade to convince my father of our obedience, I must treat you as I would if we intended to wed. That includes procuring servants for you. A lady of your status would have her own servants. At least two bodyguards, a lady's maid-"

"Okay, you know I'm sick, right? This is not a nice thing to do to a sick person." Shoving a hand through her hair, she gave him a stricken look. "I don't want servants."

"Why not? You have one already."

"Becan is not a servant," she cried. "He's family. I only have him do the housework and stuff because he's a brownie and I know that he'd be unhappy if I said he couldn't. But I don't want people taking care of me when I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don't want a maid or anything. And I can almost guarantee you that there aren't any fae interested in domestic service who want to work for a human like me."

Nuada frowned. "Dylan, not all the Bright Ones hate humans." He knew that irritating fact from experience. Just look at his father, his sister. Then there were human sympathizers like Lady Jocasta, and those who were ambivalent towards the children of men, like Erik.

"True, but look at me for a second, Nuada. I mean really look." She rolled onto her stomach and cupped her chin in her hands, even though lifting her head made her temples pound. "I don't know what you see when you look at me, but I know what most fae think of disfigurement, or anything else that isn't perfect or reminds them of mortality and death in some way. I know Ravus the Apothecary - he's a testament to that, and he's one of your own kind. Sort of. Any fae who doesn't care about my mortality is going to care about my face - or the rest of my scars. Which is why I don't want a maid. I'll take bodyguards if you need me to because I know you're worried about my safety, but that's all."

The Elven warrior shifted closer to the couch. Studied the face under discussion. Dylan was not a vain woman. She had never mentioned her scars to him, really, or indicated one way or the other how she felt about them. So why this sudden self-consciousness? "What's wrong, Dylan?"

She shrugged. Wouldn't look at him. "Nothing. Look, I'm pretty enough for a human, but that's underneath the scars. I know how the Fair Folk see me: to some I'm an oddity; to some I'm an eyesore; but to many of them, I'm a reminder of something they do not want to think about - the vulnerability of their own perfection. And I know that you care about how they see you. I totally understand that. You're a prince; you're the heir. When people look at you, they don't just see Nuada. They see Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of King Balor, future king of Bethmoora. And what I don't want is for the... the discrepency between what you should have and what you're stuck with to be emphasized any more than it has to be in their eyes. I don't want to make you look bad if I can help it. So I'd rather not give the court the opportunity to compare my faerie handmaiden's no-doubt gorgeous face to this." She indicated her scarred countenance with a circular motion of one finger. "You've got enough problems."

"What I am stuck with?" He echoed, incredulous. "I am stuck with nothing I do not want."

Blue eyes finally met his own, and they were surprisingly sad. "You're stuck with me. A human with iron-laced blood that your father is most likely going to try and force you to marry. I know you don't want that."

You don't want me. Where had this come from? Without thinking, Nuada reached out and gently brushed his fingertips over the scar on Dylan's cheek that was his favorite to touch. Her skin was still a little too warm. She looked so very sad. Slowly, deliberately, he took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. Saw her eyes go soft and misty when he brushed his mouth over her knuckles. Then the Crown Prince of Bethmoora said softly, "Madoigna, you fear the judgment of my father's court. Why should it matter to you whether they find you lovely to look at or not? It matters nothing to me what they think of you. I already know what I think."

"And what's that?" Her voice was resigned and tired.

"I think you are beautiful," Nuada confessed. The corners of his mouth quirked up when her mouth fell open. "And before you attempt to tell me I do not think this, let me assure you, my fair and gentle lady, that I most certainly do."

Beautiful. He thinks I'm beautiful. The pleasure from that simple statement shimmered through her like liquid gold. But what about... "But the scars on my face-"

"Are also lovely," Nuada said in a voice that brooked no argument. "And they are a testament to your courage and your strength."

"I just don't want to make trouble for you," she said softly. "You told me once that one of the things you hate about court life is that the women are always after you to screw around with them. If they see me as... as less, they're less likely to respect my... I guess you could call it my claim on you, and more likely to bother you despite our 'relationship.' And the men are more likely to think less of you because of the scars on my face." When Nuada raised an eyebrow, Dylan sighed in exasperation. "Don't look at me like that. I know you could have almost any woman you wanted, for one reason or another. You're the prince and you're despicably handsome. Nuala said you were a... what did she say?" She frowned, trying to remember. "Oh, yeah! A consummate lover."

Nuada nearly choked on his tongue. "You and my sister were discussing my virtues as a lover?"

Dylan's eyes widened. "Oh, snaps. I wasn't supposed to tell you that. Crud." She dropped her face into the pillow she'd been using on the futon and covered her head with her arms. "I am never coming out of here," she said, her words muffled by the pillow. "Never, never, never. I am going to die of embarrassment. Please bury me in a nice, sunny spot near a tree, okay?"

He simply waited. Eventually one blue eye peeked over her arm. Dylan sighed when she saw him. He just smiled. Wise and compassionate woman to silly, fun-loving girl-child in a single eyeblink. But Nuada only said, "You have to come out to take your medicine."

She scowled at him. "Oh, my gosh, you're so literal." But the scowl wouldn't stay in place because the same words kept replaying over and over again in her mind. He thinks I'm beautiful. Nuada thinks I'm beautiful. Laying her head on her folded arms, she added casually, "Okay, so I need bodyguards. I'll think about the maid thing. Anything else?"

"You'll need decent court clothes."

Her eyes widened. "Please tell me I get to go shopping with you and not, like, your sister or someone. Can I shop for clothes with you, please?" Then she was pressing her face into the pillow to smother her laughter because of the absolutely horrified look on Nuada's face. "Oh, come on. What's the big deal?" Dylan demanded when her giggles were finally contained.

"I am not going shopping with you for clothes."

"Why not?"

Various reasons. Various good reasons. Because if anyone found out, he would be publicly humiliated. Because no male ever wanted to take a female shopping for anything, much less clothes. Much less dresses, of which a man would be asked his opinion (he'd made the mistake as a youth of going shopping with Nuala and - Fates help him - some of her friends, and found that out the hard way). Any opinion offered would, of course, be the wrong opinion based solely on his gender. And most importantly, he didn't want to have to sit there and study the way silk or satin, velvet or lace, molded to the shape of Dylan's body. The Elven warrior knew his eyes would devour her every time she stepped out to show off a new gown. So he growled, "There will be no shopping. The palace tailors will see to you."

"But you'll come with me when I have to go see them, right?"

No, because there would still come a time when she would have to try on whatever the tailors and seamstresses had put together and he would have the same problem: keeping his eyes - and his thoughts and, most likely, his hands - to himself. But now she was looking at him with wide, beseeching eyes. She'd used the exact same look when she'd asked him if he would come to church with her back in Findias. He hadn't been able to say no, then, either. It had felt too much like kicking a puppy.

"I will... consider it."

"Thank you, Nuada," Dylan murmured. "I appreciate that."

Silence. Then, "You're welcome. And that's enough discussion of all things relevant to our return, at least for tonight. Wink should be finished with... ah." The troll lumbered in holding a steaming mug between his large hands. He handed it to the prince's mortal lady. She blew on it. Took a cautious sip. She'd been barely conscious before when she'd taken the first several doses of troll potion and most likely didn't recollect the taste. But now... now her eyes widened as she rolled the healing tonic around on her tongue before swallowing.

"This is absolutely delicious," she cried, and took another sip. Winced. "Ow. Burned my tongue. (sip) Wink, this stuff is amazing! (sip) What's in it? (sip) Or is it a secret?" Dylan smiled up at the burly cave troll as she put the mug to her lips and took another glorious sip. It tasted like stardust and spring breezes, summer sunshine and the crispness of fresh autumn apples. Did she detect a hint of pomegranate? She adored pomegranates. And the more she drank of the troll potion, the better she felt.

When it was all gone, Wink bowed and rumbled goodbye before leaving the room. Nuada reluctantly agreed to let Dylan sleep on the couch so long as she went to sleep right this minute (which made her feel about five years old, but it was worth it to have the Elf prince tuck her into bed. Erm, couch). Then the Elf got to his feet and walked to the door to bid Wink farewell.

"Another day or two and she'll be well again," Wink told his prince. "But my prince... the two of you need to return to Findias soon. Your father's patience grows thin. The game you play with him is dangerous."

"It is no game, Wink." Nuada turned to gaze back toward the entryway to the den. "It is dangerous enough to take her back with me. I want to be as prepared as possible, in all things large and small. We mean to try and trick my father into thinking we've capitulated to his desire for this courtship, but-"

"He won't buy it," the silver cave troll said flatly. Nuada stiffened. "Not after being gone this long. He won't believe that, after such a blatant disregard for his authority, you intend to give into that sort of demand. You'll have to play it another way." At the Elf prince's incredulous expression, Wink sighed. "Pretending to capitulate to the king will not be enough to stay his anger this time. The two of you will have to do something else."

Voice dripping with suspicion, Nuada demanded, "Such as?" Clearly his vassal had a suggestion as to the "something else."

Wink sighed again. "You're not going to like this."

The Elf prince folded his arms across his chest and regarded his oldest friend with cool expectation. "Speak."

One shovel-like claw scratched absently at the spur of his broken tusk. "Well. There is one thing I have thought of. Your father wishes for you to soften towards the humans, is that not so?" When the prince nodded, the troll added, "Then instead of trying to convince your father that you mean to obey him, work to convince him that you have softened as he desires." Nuada frowned. Clearly the prince wasn't quite following his vassal. "Don't bother trying to convince the court, my prince. Convince the king that you've fallen in love with her."

Nuada jerked back from Wink. His back slammed against the wall as he stared up at his oldest friend in shock. Did... did the troll know? How could he know? But could he have guessed at the sentiment smoldering in Nuada's heart? All he could manage to say was, "Wink... how would that even help?"

It would kill him. It would break him to pieces to have to pretend well enough to convince his father; his father, who always doubted. Because unlike the charade the two of them had been planning, this charade would never end. They would have no peace from the chains of courtship. Even in their own rooms, the pretense would have to continue in some way because the king's spies were very good and Balor would know if the facade slipped even a little. They'd have no time just to themselves. Could his resolve to maintain some emotional distance stand under that kind of pressure? Nuada knew his father well enough to know that the One-Armed King of Elfland would test the verity of this "relationship" in all ways possible. In order to convince him, the two of them would have to play the courtship game more carefully and more skillfully than ever before. And that could prove torturous - even disastrous - to both of them.

"If you can convince the king that you behaved recklessly out of love for your lady and a desire to... ahem, be alone with her, he might be more forgiving of your absence. The king will be so happy with your 'change of heart' that he will forgive your disobedience. Well, perhaps. There are no guarantees. Still, it would give you a better chance than simply trying to make the king believe you've suddenly decided to play the obedient son."

The problem was that Nuada could see that Wink's idea had merit. That it would work better than simply going with the old plan of playing along with the king's ploy. Nuada had to admit as much to himself. But how could he... how could they do such a thing? How would he survive it? And what would being forced to submit to such a thing do to Dylan? It would take a deeper commitment to him than he had the right to ask of her. Would she see such a plan as a betrayal?

"I will... think on what you have said," the prince said softly. "Where do you go now, my friend?"

"I need to see Lorelei," the troll replied. "If we are to return to Findias soon, I need to make arrangements with her."

Nuada nodded. "Give her my regards. I shall contact you when our date of departure is determined. Goodbye, Wink."

The troll left and Nuada went back to the den, where Dylan lay curled on the futon beneath the blanket. He studied her for a long moment. His life had been simple once. Well, perhaps not simple. Politics were never simple. But surely it had never been this complicated before meeting the human. Now he had to balance his duty to his father and to his people with his duty to this woman who had given him her fealty. Ah, sweetheart. What are we going to do?

"What did Wink say?" Dylan mumbled sleepily. Nuada blinked in surprise. He hadn't realized she wasn't asleep. He was growing lax in maintaining his awareness of his surroundings, including the woman in front of him. Silver-washed blue eyes flicked open. "You're worried. What is it?"

He considered saying nothing. Considered it, and discarded it immediately. She deserved the truth from him. But not tonight. He would not burden her with Wink's plan tonight. "In the morning, mo duinne. We'll talk about it in the morning. Go to sleep."

Those blue eyes considered him for a very long time. Then she whispered in soft Gaelic, "Ná fág mé. Tabhair, fan liom." Don't leave me. Please, stay with me. When Nuada began to take a step back from her, she reached out and grasped his hand. "I've been having bad dreams the last couple nights. Don't go. Stay here, just till I fall asleep. Please?" That softly spoken please echoed through the mental link between their joined hands. The Elf sighed and sat in the chair beside the futon, allowing Dylan to retain her grasp on his hand.

"Close your eyes and go to sleep," he said. She obeyed the first order and, after only a few minutes, the second. Nuada stared at the slender fingers loosely curled around his own. At the golden ring glinting in the firelight. Wished that this woman was not human. Wished that he was not a prince. Wished Balor and Nuala would leave him be to enjoy being at ease with his lady while he could. That peace would end soon. A week or two at most. Then it would be back into the lethal game again.

I will keep you safe, a ghrá mo chroí. No matter what happens, I will protect you. I swear it.

.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he knew he must have because when next he opened his eyes, he wasn't in Dylan's cottage. There was no battlefield, thank the stars. Instead he was back in the meadow ringed by towering trees. The bright summer sun blazed down from overhead. Birdsong and the babble of the river were the music of midsummer. A gentle breeze rustled the pink and white wildflowers sprinkled across the lush grass.

But there was no Dylan.

Then he heard familiar laughter. Instinctively turned toward it, began to walk. He followed the little river to the edge of the meadow and into the woods. After only a few moments in the forest, Nuada came upon the source of the river - a little waterfall that thundered down into a large spring ringed with pink azaleas and red poppies, with the sweet scent of honeysuckle in the air. Dylan sat on a moss-covered rock beside the spring, a vibrantly scarlet poppy in one hand. She held it out to a hummingbird that hovered just above the bloom. The mortal was clearly trying to coax the little bird into feeding from the blossom.

For just a minute, Nuada simply watched her. Watched the way the breeze tugged at her summer dress that was such a pale blue it was nearly white; the way that same breeze tugged at her long dark ponytale as if inviting her to come and play; the loveliness of her delighted smile when the hummingbird dropped down a bit to sip at the crimson flower. Then the bird zipped away and Dylan turned to see him standing at the edge of the woods. Her eyes lit up like blue stars.

He came toward her then because he couldn't stay away. Who could resist that welcoming smile? "Is this my dream?" Nuada called to her. "Or yours?" But he knew. He knew they were sharing a dream. Was not sure how he knew with such certainty, but the Elven warrior was sure.

"I don't know," she said, drawing her knees up to her chest. Her thin cotton dress, he realized, was just short enough to give him a perfectly modest view of her ankles and slender calves. Dylan cocked her head. Wiggled her toes at him. "Is this a good dream?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. Then he climbed up onto the rock beside her and, before he could even think to stop himself, slipped his arm around her shoulders and laid his cheek against the top of her head. A small thrill went through him when she leaned against him. Dylan draped an arm across his chest and half-hugged him. Nuada sighed. "Yes, this is a good dream." So simple. So easy. Just the two of them in this place.

"I'm glad," she whispered. She'd wondered before falling asleep if she would dream of Nuada. If their joined hands would perhaps let him into her sleeping mind. Dylan wasn't sure if that's what had happened here or not, but she was almost positive it had. Strange. Only now did she remember that he'd done this before. He'd come into her dreams at least twice before: once by accident, that very first night spent in the cottage ("...it is better than dreaming alone," Nuada had told her then); and after the psych-eval, when drugged slumber had kept her trapped in memory. She didn't remember all of either dream, but she knew that the Elven warrior had actually truly been there with her.

But wait... why hadn't she remembered that before? Okay, the first dream, who knew. But the second dream. The nightmare. A dark hallway, brutal pain, monsters in the shadows, and Elven arms lifting her up and carrying her somewhere safe at last. She should have remembered that dream at least. Remembered, because Nuada had already left the cottage when she'd had that nightmare and yet his presence in the dream meant he'd been in her room with her that night.

Her head shot up and a cussword popped out before she could stop it. Nuada pulled back to regard her with surprise. "Problem?"

"He didn't tell me," Dylan breathed. Stormy anger brewed in the depths of her eyes. "I don't believe it. You were in my dreams before. In that nightmare. You saved me. When I woke up I thought it was just a dream but you were really there that night." She could see the instant he knew what night she was referring to. "When I woke up you were gone, so I thought I'd just dreamed it. And John didn't tell me you'd come to see me. He didn't tell me!" She smacked the rock with the side of one clenched fist. "Oh, if I remember any of this when I wake up, I'm gonna pound him into the dirt, just you watch me."

"Why are you so angry about this?" Not that he minded her being angry with the feckless human whelp who could claim ties of kinship with her. For all his lady was so wise and compassionate, her affection for her twin was entirely misplaced.

"Because he didn't tell me!" Now she wrapped both arms around Nuada and thunked her head on his shoulder. "That jerk. If he'd told me you'd come to see me, I'd have gone looking for you or something. I don't know. If I'd known... I thought it was just my own wishful thinking. I didn't know you were really there. I'd have gone to see you, tried to talk to you. Ugh! John, I'm going to murder you." Dylan paused. "Becan didn't tell me, either. Why wouldn't he tell me? Unless John told him not to. John Thaddeus Myers, you are going to die a horrible and bloody death. I'm gonna... I'm gonna... I'm gonna drown him in nail polish."

Nuada choked on a laugh, which helped to calm some of the hurt and anger suddenly sizzling through Dylan's blood. The shushing roar of the waterfall - a sound she'd always been fond of - helped, too. "Why does this matter?"

She huffed. "Because if he'd told me like a sensible man we might have hashed out our problems that day instead of almost two weeks later! I could have had you back with me that much sooner!" The undercurrent of pain in her voice surprised him. His amusement at her creative threats faded.

"Mo duinne, I was not ready to come back." Not that day. Not when he'd only discovered that morning just how deep a place she had carved into his heart. But they needed to change the subject. Things were sliding too close to that revelation that he could not afford to share with her, or even think about. Especially not here, where the dreamscape disallowed any secrets between them. Nuada cast about for something else to say. "This place holds a special place in my heart. I used to swim here as a boy."

Recognizing a rather obvious change of subject, Dylan smiled and shifted so she was back to sitting with her knees against her chest, her arms around her knees. "Really? So this is one of your memories?" The prince nodded. "I've never gone swimming in a natural body of water. I was always stuck with public swimming pools."

Thinking of such water nearly toxic with burning chemicals, Nuada shuddered.

"Yeah, didn't go very often. I was never very fond of swimming. Wasn't very good at it, either. Are you a good swimmer?"

"I am." A considering pause. "I could teach you."

She laughed. "I know how to swim. I'm just bad at it."

"I could teach you to be good." Now he shrugged, though his heart was suddenly, inexplicably pounding. "Or not. As you prefer."

Dylan pursed her lips and considered the feral-eyed Elven warrior who watched her with equal interest. There was no real expression on his face or in his eyes to tell her whether he'd be seriously disappointed if she said no. Funny, she thought, how it was so easy to know when he was upset or hurting emotionally, but little things like this were so hard for her to read off him.

"Are you one of those guys who believes in shoving the person trying to learn how to swim right into deep water and letting them flail around? Because I am so not okay with that. You're not going to shove me into the water, are you?"

The smile that curved those dark lips was not at all reassuring. "I might," the prince replied mildly. "If the water wasn't too deep or shallow." His smile widened when she drew back from him and eyed his suspiciously. Instead of offering her any reassurance, Nuada drew off his tunic and shirt and laid them on the rock to make sure they stayed dry. Then he removed his boots and socks. It was a dream, but who knew how long it might last?

"What are you doing?"

So suspicious, mo duinne, Nuada thought with a flash of amusement. And quite right to be. "Making sure I can rescue you from drowning, if it comes to that."

"Rescue me from- hey!" And he pushed her off the rock into the water. She came up sputtering. "Oh! Oh, you... ugh! Get down here! You are so dead, buster." She continued to snarl at him while wiping water out of her eyes. Nuada ignored her. Instead, he made his way across the rocks to one large boulder that jutted over the deeper water. Was he showing off? Perhaps. Would it make Dylan less annoyed with him? Probably not. But it would give him one advantage. So he executed a graceful dive into the deep end of the spring and swam quickly to the bottom.

He expects me to be impressed, Dylan thought waspishly as the Elf prince knifed cleanly through the water. Well, I'm not. A beat of mental silence. Two. Okay, yes I am. Darn it. She waited for a few moments for the prince to surface. A little sliver of worry niggled at her when he didn't. How long can he hold his breath? Dylan took a few steps away from the relative safety of the rock they'd been sitting on. Scanned the water. Nothing.

A hand closed around her ankle and yanked her under again. When she shot back to the surface, it was to find Nuada sopping wet and grinning at her like a mischievous boy.

"You are dog meat!" She shook the wet hair out of her eyes and glared at him. "I will have my vengeance, Your Highness. And you will not like it. At all." She wanted to go back to the rock, but the Elf was between it and her. She didn't want to risk going around him. He might try to duck her again. So she turned and began half-bouncing, half-wading through the water away from the man who'd dared to soak her. Twice. "And stop smirking at me," Dylan called over her shoulder. "I'm scary and fierce, remember?"

"I remember," Nuada said. He managed to keep pace with her by doing a very lazy backstroke. When she shot him a frosty look, he grinned. "You're quite terrifying."

"You think you're so cute."

He stopped swimming and stood. The water came to a few inches beneath his breastbone. On Dylan, it rose until only the tops of her shoulders showed above the water. "You might not want to keep going that way," the Elf prince said. Her look was half inquiry, half aggravation. He offered a negligent shrug. "It was merely a suggestion. Snapping turtles, you know. Not very friendly-" He broke off when she squeaked and threw her arms around his neck. "Afraid of a few little turtles, Dylan?"

She scowled at him. "Oh, bite me."

He'd like to. Especially because the way her hair curled so darkly against the paleness of her throat added to the allure of that smooth, soft skin. But Nuada pulled his mind away from such thoughts.

"I was only teasing," he assured her. Keeping his face perfectly straight, the Elf prince added, "As far as I know, the only thing you have to worry about in this spring are leeches-" This time she screamed and clung to him even more tightly. Nuada obligingly lifted her into his arms so her feet were nowhere near the bottom of the spring. "I thought you were a healer."

She thumped him on the chest. "Keep up with the times. Healers don't use leeches anymore, you barbarian. Erm, well... okay, they do, but not usually."

His look was one of Elven superiority mixed with masculine pride. "I would have you know that I am not a barbarian, my lady. And if you stay away from the mud and keep to the sand, you won't have to worry about leeches." When she gave him a pitiful look, he sighed. "There are none on you, if that's what you're worried about."

"Why do boys like shoving girls into bodies of water?" She murmured plaintively. "It's mean."

Boys? He didn't snarl. Didn't growl. But he didn't appreciate her referring to him as a boy, either. Retribution had to follow. "You're asking why boys and men alike enjoy seeing a beautiful woman soaking wet?" When silver-swept blue eyes met his, color began swirling across Dylan's cheeks and she ducked her head again. The prince smiled. Her blushes were always so amusing.

Dylan opened her mouth. Closed it again. Nuada set her down on the sandy bottom of the spring and tilted her chin up. Crystalline droplets of water clung to the delicate line of her jaw and glittered against her cheekbones like jewels. Glistened along the slender column of her throat. Water plastered her dress, that so pale blue, to every curve of her body. The material was just dark enough to be decent. And Dylan was pressed tightly against the solid wall of Nuada's bare chest.

In that instant of awareness, for the first time there was no whisper of heat, no simmer in his blood. Instead there was desire, hot and swift, burning in his belly. He reached up with a hand that shook slightly and cupped her cheek. His thumb brushed away one of the diamond droplets gilding her fragile cheekbone.

Usually the urge to kiss the mortal in his arms came whenever that enticing mouth came too close or he could no longer resist the urge to touch her lips with the pads of his fingers. But now it wasn't either of those things. Just the softness of her skin beneath his stroking thumb. The sunlight on her hair. Her eyes like stardust, shining with trust and an impossible emotion he did not dare name because to name it was to break himself against it.

His settled his hands at the small of her back because he didn't know where else it would have been safe to place them. Dylan felt the heat of that touch burning through her. Her arms twined hesitantly around Nuada's neck. The blood was humming under her skin and she knew she was about to do something very, very stupid. Very, very dangerous. And very, very right.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, almost as if the confession hurt, and Dylan knew he hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to say anything. Knew that every instinct was clamoring at him to step back from her, to shove her away. Instead Nuada pulled her closer. Let his forehead rest against hers. Carefully untied the ribbon that held her hair up in a ponytail, so that those dark curls tumbled down around her shoulders and cascaded down her back. He tossed the ribbon aside.

Nuada could feel her every soft curve against his body. Feel every beat of her heart, every shallow breath she took through those slightly parted lips. Honey-gold eyes shifted to palest sun-kissed ivory. He wanted... he wanted so much... no. No, not wanted. He needed to kiss her. Kiss her here, lay his mouth on hers here in the sanctuary of this dream and his own memory. No one would see. No one would know. Not even Nuala, because the Elf prince had stayed heavily shielded against his twin since that brutal nightmare and his sister could not break through such shields.

No, no one would ever have to know about this. Except Dylan. Dylan would know. Unless she forgot because this was a dream. He didn't want her to forget. Would she push him away? Gods, he hoped not. Didn't know if he could bear that. The thought was almost enough to stay him. But his hand moved of its own accord, sliding up her back, whispering along her spine, over the delicate ridges of her shoulder blades, to the nape of her slender neck. His fingers tangled in her soft, thick hair. His fingertips just barely caressed the side of her neck, small tickling caresses that he was almost certain were causing the little shivers down her spine.

Her own fingers, the ones not playing with his damp hair, brushed gently against his neck. Right above where the pulse beat hard. His heart was suddenly pounding. Did she know it was for her? That her softest touch made his pulse race? Nuada could feel each of her touches down to his very bones. There was no fear in those incredible eyes. Only a welcoming softness. An unfathomable something in the depths of those oh so very lovely blue eyes like moonlit lakes. Nuada could drown in her gaze. Drown in her. He wanted to drown. Wanted nothing more in that moment than to sink into her and lose himself, just for a little while.

"Nuada," she whispered. "It's... I... it's okay if... if you want to..." Dylan nervously licked her bottom lip. Saw when eyes like gold-dusted ivory sharpened and focused on her mouth. The delicious heat of his body embraced her. His feral eyes caressed her face, her mouth. The fingers of one hand threaded through her hair, exerting the tiniest amount of pressure. Surprisingly, that pressure didn't scare her. She was safe with him. He would never hurt her. His other hand against the small of her back held her against the hard sheltering strength of his body. It left Dylan lightheaded and tongue-tied. "If you want me to..." A slightly embarrassed laugh escaped. "I don't even know what I'm trying to say, I just-"

"Hush," he commanded, but in the gentlest voice he'd ever used with her, a voice like velvet. Nuada pulled her closer, reveling in the softness of her against him. She was so very soft compared to him. So small and fragile against him. The prince studied her face for a moment. He had to make sure there was no fear in her. Not in this moment. Nuada leaned in to breathe softly in her ear, "Dylan. Mo duinne. Don't be afraid." Her breathing hitched. When he pulled back to look at that beautiful face again, those lovely lips had parted a little. "It's all right. Do not be afraid, a chumann."

"I'm never afraid with you," Dylan said. Sweetheart. He'd called her sweetheart. And he was so very close. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her mouth, feel his heart pounding against her own chest. His hand against her back trembled slightly. Burned her through the thin material of her dress. "I trust you."

"I know," Nuada whispered just before his lips brushed against the soft silk of hers. Just the barest touch. A hint of taste. Eamonn had been right, Nuada realized with a jolt of utter shock. She tasted of strawberries and honey. So sweet. Dylan offered him a soft sigh as his lips caressed hers again. Once. Twice. She did not push him away. She pulled him closer, making a little kitten sound low in her throat. He loved that sound. Loved that she'd made it for him.

Then he couldn't hold himself back anymore and his mouth came down fully on hers with a generous hunger that shook him. Rocked him. Nearly undid him. Her mouth was like hot silk beneath his. So perfect. Was he drowning yet? Nuada didn't know. Could not find it in himself to care one way or the other.

But careful, he had to be careful of her. Gentle. He did not want to scare her. Didn't want to bring back dark memories. Wanted this moment to be for her. For them. Even if they never had another moment like this again.

Weakness flooded Dylan's knees and her stomach somersaulted. Absently she reminded herself to breathe or she'd faint. The only way she was still standing was because she clung to Nuada with a desperation she'd never known before. His mouth on hers was everything Dylan could have ever imagined. There was no hollow ache inside her at the touch of his lips. No chill icing the blood in her veins. No bruising hands or cruelty. There was a sweet joy that shimmered through her like sunlight. Easy heat that warmed her from the inside out. Gentle touches at her back with all the strength of steel and all the softness of butterfly wings. Tenderness. Sweetness. A sense of being cherished. Rightness.

He made her feel all of that. All with a smoldering kiss that he managed to keep chaste and undemanding while still turning her blood to molten gold. Nuada held her as if she were something precious. As if he never meant to let her go. She had never been kissed like this before. Never been held like this. Never. Until now. Until Nuada.

He was shaking now. Could scarcely draw breath. He had to stop, or take this too far. Had to pull away from the silken fire of her mouth. Dylan made a soft sound of protest as he moved back. Blue eyes lit with sweet moonglow met his gaze. Nuada swallowed. Tried not to lick his lips to catch the taste of her on his mouth. Then Dylan murmured in a breathy voice like pure temptation, "Tabhair ná cuir cosc, Nuada." Her voice was soft as a dream when it slid over him.

Please don't stop, Nuada.

A ragged breath shuddered out of him. The hand tangled in her hair slid around to cup her face. Callused fingertips rasped like rough velvet over her skin. And he suddenly remembered Dylan murmuring only a couple weeks ago, Do with me what you will. Nuada shuddered again. Tried to push back the sudden desperate need searing him. He had to be careful with her. Had to be gentle. Had to resist the urge to coax those petal-soft lips apart and deepen the next kiss until he could finally sate the hunger for her.

"Please," she whispered, trembling, and the Elven warrior knew then that his hunger would never be sated. "If it's a dream don't let it be over yet."

And then his mouth was on hers again, so hungry, and once more he tasted honey and summer strawberries. Exquisite. When he pulled her even closer, desperate to feel her, tentative hands slid over his shoulders, his chest - not to push away or to stay him. Just to touch him. Just to touch. Could she feel his heart pounding under those caressing fingertips? He had to remind himself to go slowly. Remind himself that in the most important ways, Dylan was still an innocent and although this was not her first kiss, it was close enough.

But the ember of lust nearly always smoldering in his belly was catching fire and it was so hard to maintain control. He trembled with the effort. Don't stop, she'd said. Pleaded. Please don't stop. Ah, never, he would never stop, so long as she kept making those soft little kitten sounds in her throat and pressing against him. Nuada nipped gently at her bottom lip and shivered when she sighed into the kiss. He nipped again. Those lips parted for him and he groaned against that perfect mouth. At last, at last he could-

No. Too fast, he was taking her too fast. Things would go too far here in the dreamscape. So he gripped her fragile shoulders and pulled back, struggling to keep his breathing even. Her eyes were slightly glazed with desire, her lips kiss-swollen and so very tempting. Nuada closed his eyes. Tried to calm his galloping heart. Tried to reclaim his breath. Tried to remember his honor. "Gods, mo duinne..."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He felt the inward retreat before she pulled her hands away. "I'm sorry, I-"

"No," Nuada said softly, and framed her face so she was forced to look at him. "No. Do not withdraw from me. Do not pull back from me. Not here. Please." He leaned in. Feathered gentle kisses at the corner of her mouth, along her cheekbone, the line of her jaw. Tasted the drops of water clinging to her skin. Careful, had to be careful. He brushed his lips over hers once more. Breathed in Dylan's soft sigh. "Do not regret this, Dylan. Do not be sorry for it."

Nuada could not find it in himself to regret this, either, though it was reckless and cruel of him to do this. Unfair of him. She would not remember this when she woke. Was it honorable to allow himself to give into temptation knowing he would not have to face the consequences?

Her fingertips ghosted over his chest, lightly tracing the sharply defined muscles honed by countless hours of combat training and centuries of war. She followed the short, ridged knife scar that sliced across the top of his abdomen. Brushed against his sternum, felt his heartbeat under her touch. Her fingers trembled. Was she even breathing? Dylan met eyes like palest ivory edged with molten gold. Then she leaned in. Nuada watched with bated breath as those soft, scarred lips laid a tender kiss right over his heart.

Swiftly indrawn breath. A shudder. Hunger flared, heating his blood. But he didn't recapture her tempting mouth. Just let her slide her hands over his chest. His eyes slid closed. Her voice was a mere thread of sound when she whispered, "I can feel your heart beating. It's so fast."

Dylan tried to keep her own heart from racing. Tried to keep from hyperventilating. He was so close, so warm, so incredibly solid. And he'd kissed her as if... as if... was she sharing a dream with the real Nuada? Or was this her own little fantasy dream? She didn't know what she was doing. Didn't know what to do in this kind of situation. Had never been in this kind of situation. Dylan wanted just to touch him, just to feel him and know he was really there with her, but she wasn't sure how to explain that, how to show him. So she laid her head against where his heart pounded so hard and asked softly, "What do you want me to do?"

The reckless freedom of the dreamscape dragged the words from him. "Be with me," Nuada whispered. He lightly stroked the side of her face and knew his eyes were soft in a way he rarely let her see. "Be with me. Let me hold you. Just for now, let me hold you."

"Then hold me," she said, and melted into the warmth and fiercely protective strength of his arms. A tremor shivered through him. Slight, but they both felt it. "It's okay," she murmured. "We're okay. We'll be okay."

"This can't happen, Dylan."

An eternity of silence. Then, "I know." She reached up to caress the royal scar carved across his face. "I know. It's okay."

So many things unspoken between them, yet understood. Nuada knew that Dylan understood she might not remember this. Probably would not remember any of it. He might not, either. He wasn't sure if he wanted to or not. To remember those sweet kisses and everything else would be torture. To forget would give him a moment's peace but he didn't want to forget the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms. Did Dylan know how he felt? Did she know it? Could she feel it? How could anything be all right between them again if she did? And how could he bear remembering this moment if she didn't?

Dylan had no illusions. There was something here, something between them that threatened to break her heart. She wasn't stupid enough to think it was love. At least not on Nuada's part. That was just hoping for too much. But he felt something for her and that was more than Dylan could have ever hoped for.

So she wouldn't question this. Wouldn't demand anything from him. She would just enjoy this moment. Just pretend that it would go on forever. Pretend that, if she did remember, it wouldn't break her heart to pieces because her prince was absolutely right. This couldn't happen.

Nuada caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Dylan." A gentle murmur. Almost a prayer.

"Kiss me again, Nuada," his impossible mortal lady whispered. So he laid his mouth against hers and tasted the sweetness of her again. A lingering kiss, this time. A kiss full of simmering promise and regret, a kiss that was an unspoken wish and an intangible dream. Nuada swallowed back the salt of sorrow and regret rising in his throat. He loved her. Gods, how he loved her, which should have been impossible and yet was all too true. Why couldn't he have this? Why couldn't he simply be with her?

Then it was over. Her lips no longer caressed his, her hands no longer tangled in his hair. But she smiled at him, and the sudden weight on his chest eased a little.

"So," she said. "You gonna teach me how to swim?"

Nuada huffed a laugh. She always knew what to say to him. "Aren't you worried about leeches?"

Dylan's smile widened, bright as a sunrise. She lifted one shoulder in that elegant half-shrug of hers. "You'll protect me."