Chapter 88 - In the Bleak Midwinter (Pt. 2)

Chapter Eighty-Eight

In the Bleak Midwinter (Pt. 2)

that is

A Short Tale of a Bad Report, a Few Good Shots, a Tumble in the Hay, a Lovespoon, a Visit with the Prince, and Talk of Torture

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"Are you ever going to tell me what's wrong?" Dylan asked as she watched Nuada stare at the weapons' racks on the far wall of the salle. He glanced at her, then glanced away. "I know something's wrong," she added, slipping her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. "Why won't you tell me?"

Nuada sighed, shoulders slumping. For a moment a look of defeat crossed his features, and then he said, "You remember the trouble the northern villages were having with bandits?" A muscle twitched in his jaw. "We've discussed it before."

Dylan nodded, daring drawing to draw close to him. "Yeah, I remember. You said it was the villages of…" She tried to remember. "Lallybroch, Etinsmoor, Fear Manach, Breifne, Laois, and Kilcommon." Six villages, Dylan thought, doing poorly since the summer, and under constant attack over the last few months by roaming bandits…and the king would do nothing.

Nuada's brow quirked. He looked…impressed. "You remembered them all."

"Of course," she said softly. "They're my people, too, now."

Her prince gifted her with a tender look of pride edged with something that might have been pain before drawing a folded paper from a pocket inside his tunic. He simply stared at it for several moments with a blank face and anguished eyes. The muscle in Nuada's jaw spasmed. Drawing a deep breath that seemed to hurt him, he handed her the paper.

It was a letter, the burgundy seal already broken. Dylan remembered Nuada saying once that burgundy wax was often used by village headmen for official missives because it was one of Bethmoora's colors. Touching the paper made ice trickle through her veins and spill down her back. She glanced at Nuada, who told her in a flat voice to read it aloud. She unfolded the letter.

"To Your Royal Highness, Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, War Chieftain of the King's Armies, Heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, Sovereign Lord of Airgíalla, Sídhe Ulster, Broch Toruch, Roan Inish, Boyne, and Renvyle, greetings.

"In your last missive you bade us write to you at any time with further developments regarding the vile human bandits that have plagued most of the northern border villages these past four moons. Your Highness, I write to you now in my position as Headman and Steward of the village of Broch Toruch, locally called Lallybroch, to beg intercession on the part of the Crown. Though His Royal Majesty King Balor (long may he reign) has already decreed that no harm is to be done to the bandits raiding our villages, we beseech you now, Sire, to speak for us at Court and Council, for just this past sevenday two-dozen children from Etinsmoor, Laois, Fear Manach, and Breifne wandered into Lallybroch, many of them ill or injured, all bearing tales of rape, murder, and destruction in their home villages. We sent what men we could spare to investigate these claims and found the aforesaid villages had been razed to the ground. As I write this missive we have sent work details to care for the dead. No man, woman, or child was spared. The surviving children from each village escaped by chance or guile and were lucky enough to find each other while in hiding. I was told by their leader, a youth named Liam, that several of the children who managed to escape who were ill or injured died of their wounds or succumbed to sickness before arriving in Lallybroch.

"Liam is certain the bandits will come either to Lallybroch or Kilcommon before the Wolf Moon. As it stands, we lack the resources or fighting force to defend ourselves from such an assault, were it to come. Sire, please—you must help us. I beg you, as your servant, as the one you set to watch over Broch Toruch and its people, to speak to His Majesty the King and make him see reason.

"Ever your servant, Iubdan mac Doyle."

Slowly, as if her gaze were heavy as lead, Dylan managed to lift her eyes to Nuada's face. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw tensed, the muscles at his temples jumping as he ground his teeth. His fists were clenched at his sides. At first, Dylan didn't understand…then she did. Make the king see reason. Nuada knew Balor would order him to stand by as his people were slaughtered.

Sudden resolve hardened her expression. "What does the king want?" Dylan demanded. Nuada frowned. "What do we have to bargain with?" She persisted. "Is there anything we have that he wants that we can give him? Something we can bargain with?"

"We," Nuada murmured. "We?"

Dylan locked eyes with him and nodded. "They're my people, too, now. I'm marrying you, aren't I? I'm going to be their princess. I'm not just gonna stand by and let them get hurt. There has to be something we can do."

"That's just it," the prince said with a sigh. "I can think of nothing we can give him that will force him to allow us to send aid of any kind. Nuala thinks if she and I go before him together, we might be able to convince him, but I doubt it, Dylan. My father clings too strongly to the old ways, to that thrice-accursed truce."

She handed the letter back and started chewing on her thumbnail to help herself think, but her thoughts whirled around in her head. For some reason, the fact that Nuada had intended to give her another gift kept intruding upon her thoughts, even though that was possibly the least-important thing going on at the moment—

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Wait a minute.

"A gift!" Dylan blurted. Heat surged in her chest. She started to pace as Nuada watched her with furrowed brows. Excited now, she gestured with one hand as she spoke. "The king was willing to delay your punishment in honor of Midwinter's Day, right? Even though he's crazy…" She trailed off, realizing someone might overhear her insulting the king. "Crazy-devoted to his honor and the laws and all that stuff," she added quickly. She saw Nuada's lips twitch. "Because you're his son and it's a time of gift-giving and whatnot. What if, as a gift for his future daughter-in-law (and backed up by his actual daughter and his son), I asked him to send aid to the villages?

"Wait, wait, listen," she hastened to say when Nuada opened his mouth. "I know he won't send military aid. I know. But someone would have to escort this non-military aid to the villages, right? Someone like, say, the future princess who needs to become acquainted with her people. The future princess people keep trying to assassinate, and since she—I—won't be in the palace with a bazillion regular guards, my guard detail and yours will probably be bumped up, right? And if we brought, say…my brother, whom your dad plans to elevate to peerage, and my sister, who are both human, they'd need extra guards, too, right? And on top of that," she added, eyes narrowing in thought, "John's had military training, and he's human, and he's not bound by the stupid treaty or truce or whatever. Not yet, anyway. And Francesca's the Home Alone spawn from Hades.

"So what if, just maybe, while we were delivering the medical aid and whatnot to the villages, we stayed a couple weeks in each one to survey how they're doing and stuff, and some random humans happened to show them better defenses and how to fight and such? Maybe a few friends of ours might be convinced to come along, too, who are strictly neutral and not bound by the treaty. Lorelei, for instance, since it wouldn't be fair to split her and Wink up during the holidays and Wink's definitely going with you." She stopped and spread her arms, flushed with triumph. "Well? What do you think?"

Nuada blinked. "I think…I think I would not have thought to look for aid from your brother or sister," he said. "And Nuala may have to be convinced, or she will suspect something. We'll have to think of a roundabout way to gain her help. But I also think that you are brilliant, my love." He drew her to him and covered her mouth with his, his fingers surging into her hair as he kissed her. She could almost taste his relief. When their lips parted, he murmured, "I do not know if it will work, but it is a better plan than I had, which was no plan at all. Thank you, mo cridh." His lips found hers again, a warm velvet slide against her mouth that made her knees weak and her stomach flutter.

"Mmm," she murmured dreamily against the heat of Nuada's mouth. "You just want me for my brain."

He kissed the corner of her mouth, the scar slashing down her cheek, the soft spot just beneath her ear. Then he whispered, "Mo cridh, your brain is not what I'm thinking about right at this precise moment. Forgive me if I've disappointed you." He nuzzled that spot with his lips and Dylan squeaked.

"Oh, too close to my neck, way too close, can't breathe," she gasped as the warmth of his breath shushed against her throat. "Butterflies…trying to kill me. Can't breathe."

To her surprise, Nuada dropped his forehead to her shoulder and laughed. When she poked him, he chuckled, "Yes, must have a care with those lethal butterflies."

"Shut up," she cried, laughing, and pushed him playfully in the shoulder. "Go…kiss a chipmunk."

"I believe they're hibernating," he said seriously.

With equal gravity, Dylan replied, "Oh, of course. Maybe in the spring."

"I shall be married in the spring," Nuada said.

"I won't be jealous," she said. "I promise." She grinned when Nuada covered his mouth and stared studiously at the ceiling with fierce concentration. His shoulders shook slightly. Good; she'd made him laugh. Even if he wouldn't admit it, it was still a triumph. "So is that why we came to the salle? Just to talk about the letter? Or was there something else?"

Nuada instantly sobered, though his eyes still twinkled. "There was," he said. "I've been considering this off and on over the last few weeks, and after last night it's decided: I'm going to teach you how to shoot."

First he helped her to choose a bow; that was why he'd been staring at the weapons' racks at first, to gather a selection of bows from her to choose from. He strung one and handed it to her, a bow made of supple yew. It was too hard for her to draw back far enough. Four bows later, Nuada finally settled for an elegant ash-wood bow with a silvery string. Dylan stared at the bowstring for a second before pointing it out to Nuada.

"That is unicorn hair," he murmured, testing the suppleness of the wood. "Soaked in hawthorn oil from the Royal Eildon Tree and then smoothed with melissae beeswax from Mytikas. It will help you aim as you need it."

"As I need it?"

He nodded and handed her the bow, which she drew easily, though not too easily; it had just the right amount of resistance. "This doesn't work in practice, but in a battle, the bow will always hit what you aim for, compensating for any lack of skill on your part. That doesn't mean we will not practice, however."

She nodded, grinning. "All right, then. Let's get to it."

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Dylan ended up losing some of that enthusiasm in the first thirty or so minutes, seeing as she rather sucked at archery. Or at least she sucked at keeping the arrow nocked to the string. Nuada watched her, arms folded across his chest, while Dylan became more and more frustrated every time the point of the practice arrow dropped away from the arrow-rest at the front of the bow. It didn't help that they'd gone outside, either. It wasn't windy or snowing, but it was cold, and while Dylan was wearing gloves, she wondered if that was making it harder to do this. If she took her gloves off, though, her hands would get so stiff she'd be useless.

"Why can't I get this?" She demanded after what had to be the two-hundredth time she'd dropped an arrow without even being able to fire it. She turned to Nuada, frustrated with herself and feeling like she might cry because she was screwing up over and over again right in front of him. "Why won't it stay? I'm doing what you showed me, aren't I?"

Her prince sighed. He'd said he'd never taught someone to shoot before, and archery had come naturally to him, so he hadn't needed much in the way of teaching. The prince glanced around. Dylan followed his gaze. Wonderful; there were servants watching. Splendid. She really didn't need any more pressure to perform to the populace's expectations at the moment.

Nuada stepped behind her and to one side and wrapped his hand around hers where it curled around the bow's grip. She wondered if he could feel the shape of the engagement ring through her glove. Squeezing gently in reassurance, Nuada guided Dylan's other hand holding the arrow to the string. The string slipped into the nock of the arrow like a key into a lock. He nudged her right arm up to position the arrow against the arrow-rest. His breath was deliciously warm against her chilled ear as he whispered, "Draw slowly; let the arrow-shaft slide across the grip like a caress. Let the fletching brush your cheek. Use your mouth as an anchor for the arrow. Keep every limb relaxed; do not get frustrated. You can do this, mo duinne. Feel the tension sing through the bowstring. It wants to be released, wants to snap and send the arrow flying, but you are in control. Hold it steady. Sight down the shaft. See the target." She swallowed hard, feeling the bow trying to escape her grip. "You have all the time in the world," Nuada murmured. He was so warm at her back, and his hands were so gentle and patient. "Take your time, Dylan. Take a deep breath when you're ready, then expel the breath as you release."

She closed her eyes and took that breath, imagining the smooth grain of the bow, feeling the heavy tension in the string. The target was a big, black dot in the center of a crimson ring painted on a piece of canvas flung over a bale of hay; that target was her world until she finally shot the stupid thing. She opened her eyes. Then she let out the breath and she let go of the arrow, letting the bowstring fling it forward across the snow and wintry air.

With a satisfying thunk, the arrow plunged into the black heart of the target.

Dylan let out a delighted shriek a cat would've envied and threw her arms around Nuada, bouncing up and down in the snow and crying, "Did you see that? Did you see me? I did it! I did it!" Then she shook out her arm. "Ow."

Nuada grinned. "Well done," he murmured, smoothing a hand over her hair. "Very well done. Now, can you do this?" Plucking the bow from her hand and nocking an arrow, Nuada fired off a shot. Right in front of Dylan's eyes, the arrow thunked into the center of the target, the point wedged right beside her own arrow.

"Wow," Dylan said. The Elven warrior let off another arrow. This one split her arrow in half. She slanted him a look. "Okay, now you're just showing off," she said.

He offered a negligent shrug. Eyes fixed on the sky as if he hadn't a care in the world, Nuada drawled, "Well, I would hate to see you get cocky from a single good shot."

Dylan pegged him in the face with a snowball. He spat snow and decided that, witnesses or not, retaliation had to be swift and certain, or she would never learn to stop doing that to him.

Eventually they got back to the archery lesson.

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After archery, he took Dylan to the stables so she could visit with Shang. The lóng mâ colt butted his head against her side and made that bamboo-flute sound, stroking her wrists with his catfish-like whiskers when she petted him. She was surprised by the enthusiasm of his greeting, and even more surprised when he ignored Nuada for the most part to nuzzle and cuddle with her. They played tug-of-war with the silk rope-toy in his stall, and she fed him, and they left the stall after the baby dragon-horse had settled down for a nap.

Since it was warm in the empty stables—and there was some privacy, if one ignored the horses and other mounts, since the stable-lads were all down in the village for Midwinter's Day—Dylan and Nuada reclined on a thick bed of hay, leaning against a straw-stack, in one of the empty double-stalls. The sweet smell of the straw and the warmth from the dozing animals helped ease some of the tension in Nuada's body. He loved the stables; his father had often taken him here as a boy; and often in the weeks and months after the queen's death, he'd slept in a stall next to Lòman or another of the mounts he was friendly with—including the fat little pony-mare he'd had as a young boy, that his mother had named Lady Fair. Even now, the stable was still a place of refuge for the prince.

Dylan dropped her head to his shoulder and cuddled close. The prince laid his cheek against her hair; the soft, dark curls smelled of ice and snow, fresh air and sunlight. Dylan draped her arm across Nuada's chest, cupping his shoulder, and made a soft sound of contentment.

"I love you," she whispered sleepily. He shifted to look down at her, and she smiled dreamily. "I really do."

The words warmed him like hot mulled cider on a cold day, like the first glimpse of sunlight after the long dark night of the solstice. He cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb over her skin. In that instant emotion welled up inside him like a flood. It threatened to choke him, to undo him, as he thought of everything this woman meant to him, every way he needed her and everything that threatened to tear her away. His conversation with his father about Dylan and the Golden Army, his conversation with King Rennan mac Dela about the same thing, echoed in his skull. He thought of the gifts this morning, the archery lesson, the snowball fight in the practice field as if he were a carefree child again. She had given him so much. So much. What would he do without her? The breath escaped in a sharp exhalation as he leaned toward her.

"Gods," he whispered, voice trembling a little. "Gods, I love you so much. I cannot lose you, Dylan. I cannot-"

"You won't," she murmured gently. "I'm here. I'll always be here."

It took him a long moment to regain his composure, to erase the pleading in his eyes. When he was sure he had control of himself, Nuada settled back against the straw-stack. Drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Closing his eyes, the Elf murmured, "This is your fault, you know."

"What is?" Dylan demanded tartly. "The fact that you're madly in love with me?"

He slitted one eye open, feigning superiority and indignation. Let this become just another bout of playful teasing; it would help him forget the constant dread gnawing at his belly.

"How am I to resist when you look at me that way, temptress?"

"What way is that?" The mortal asked. Nuada could hear the smile in her voice. "Like I'm about to smack you like a boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar?"

Nuada allowed a lazy smile to curve his mouth. "Cookie jar, is it? Is this mockery I hear, my lady?" Dylan offered a prim little smile. "I think punishment is in order," the prince said with mock-severity. Without warning, he rose to his knees, reached out and grasped Dylan's ankles, yanking her away from the support of the straw-stack. She landed in the bed of straw with a gasping little shriek. Before she could escape, Nuada pinned her, one arm on either side of her shoulders, careful to keep his weight off of her and to keep his body from touching her. This was pushing his control a little, but he wanted to try something. "If you beg for mercy, I may show some leniency, my lady," Nuada murmured.

Dylan screwed up her expression in a condescending scowl and turned her face away, with a hmph sound. "Do your worst," she replied with mock-hauteur. "I'm not afraid you, Silverlance."

"Oh, you are asking for it, my lady," he growled, and shook his head rapidly from side to side, so that little bits of straw-chaff rained down on her while the strands of his hair tickled her cheeks and nose. Dylan shrieked with laughter and tried to wriggle away, but she was trapped by Nuada's arms as he continued to tickle her. Only when she was breathless and gasping did he let up. "Mercy, then?"

"I will never surrender," she gasped, giggling.

He grinned. "Mo cridh, I have you surrounded. You may as well give in now."

Dylan's fist shot up and she cried, "Never!"

"You should not have said that," he growled low in his throat, and proceeded to tickle her again.

Finally, though, they had to leave the stable. After dusting themselves off as best as possible—which wasn't much—and knowing quite well how they looked, covered in bits of straw-chaff and with their hair disheveled, they made their way back to the castle. At least their guards knew they hadn't been doing anything of that nature while tumbling around in the hay, save a few kisses.

After Dylan had taken a quick shower and washed her hair to get rid of the straw, 'Sa'ti helped her comb it out while Dylan sat in a clean dress and her new ladybug socks and opened the last of Nuada's gifts.

It was an intricately-carved wooden spoon the length of her forearm, the width of three of her fingers. Dylan recognized it immediately from her college studies as a Celtic lovespoon, a courtship gift for a woman a man was either planning to marry, or planning to ask for her hand. The spoon was carved with obvious care from oak wood, polished with oil to make the grain of the wood smooth and shining. It felt like satin under her fingertips. The sweet scent of almond oil emanated from the silky-smooth oak. Oak for the strength of his love, Dylan thought, feeling tears sting her eyes, and almond oil for promised devotion.

Dylan knew that each symbol etched into the slender wooden handle meant something, but she didn't know what. Her fingertips caressed a wooden padlock carved with two little keys on its base; beneath that, an old-fashioned ship's wheel, with tiny compass roses, stars, and anchors etched into the otherwise smooth grain of the outer-wheel through which thrust the slender wheel-spokes; a bell covered in intricate details, the tongue carved as if the bell were ringing. There was a heart, a blooming rose surrounded by leaf-bound vines so lifelike Dylan expected to feel the silk of petals and leaves, and the whole length of the handle edged with a delicate Celtic knotwork pattern, culminating in an elaborate knot in the bowl of the spoon. Dylan caressed the gift, tracing the masterful carvings, knowing that Nuada had made this for her himself.

She was so enamored of the spoon that she missed the little slip of paper that came with it until 'Sa'ti picked it up. Surprised, Dylan scanned the note. It was an explanation of the symbols on the spoon.

Padlock—I Will Ever Be Faithful
Keyhole—My Heart Is Always Open to You
Keys—You Hold the Key to My Heart
Ship's Wheel—I Will Keep You Safe
Stars—You Are My Guiding Light
Compass Rose—You Hold Me Steady In This Life
Anchor—My Devotion Is Eternal
Bell—I Look Forward to Our Wedding
Heart—I Love You
Rose—My Love Blooms Always
Leaves—My Love Will Grow and Remain Ever Green
Knotwork—We Will Be Together Forever

When Nuada entered the sitting room and saw her holding the slip of paper and gazing down at the spoon in wonder, and then Dylan raised her eyes to his face and he saw the joy and love in her expression, he knew in that moment he had done well with his gift.

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Dylan knew there were other things to do on Midwinter's Day, but she'd spent the majority of the day with Nuada, and there was someone else she wanted to see today.

When she rapped gently on the door to the healing chamber, she heard Zhenjin's muffled invitation. Poking her head in, Dylan smiled at the prince, who looked better than he had when she'd seen him that morning. The mortal came in and took a seat in the empty visitor's chair. Zhenjin's smile was warm as it spread across his copper-tone face.

"My lady," the Dilong prince murmured. "Happy Midwinter."

She grinned. "Happy Midwinter, Prince Zhenjin."

He waved a hand in dismissal. "Zhenjin, please. We're friends, remember?"

"You started it with the 'my lady' thing."

The injured prince chuckled. "Very well, then. Happy Midwinter, Dylan. How are you?"

She leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees, and said, "I'm fine. How are you, though? Are your injuries healing properly? Any sudden stabbing pain or numbness or…" She trailed off when Zhenjin laughed. "What's so funny?"

"Always the healer," the prince replied, still smiling. "I am mending well, Dylan; worry not. I will be well enough to travel when it comes time for my country's envoy to depart."

A stab of disappointment slashed through her. "When are you leaving? Not soon?"

Zhenjin shook his head. "My father is still trying to badger King Balor into forcing Nuada to marry Mïng Xiân. Never mind that you and Silverlance are betrothed. And judging from the kiss he laid on you last night—in front of witnesses, I might add—there is no hope of the prince ever forsaking you." Zhenjin winked at Dylan, who blushed hotly when she remembered the way Nuada had kissed her after receiving her public acceptance of his marriage proposal. "My father wastes his time trying to woo Silverlance away from you, but he refuses to accept that. He fears no one will wish to marry my sister if Silverlance refuses her."

"He can't be serious," Dylan replied. "She's only a baby. It makes sense for Nuada to say no, even if I wasn't in the picture." Suddenly Dylan snapped her fingers. "Hey, I got an idea. If the emperor is so desperate to marry into the Bethmooran family, why doesn't he wait a few decades and betroth Mïng Xiân to one of mine and Nuada's kids? Won't that work?"

A shadow flickered across Zhenjin's brilliant jade eyes, but he smiled and murmured, "Now there's a thought. If Silverlance gets you with child quickly after your marriage," another shadow passed behind the prince's eyes, "and no doubt he will, if that kiss was any indicator of his ardor, the age discrepancy between my sister and your child will be quite small by fae standards. I will suggest such a solution to my father. Of course, then he'll wish to speak to you and Nuada about it. Can you handle negotiations with the emperor of Dilong? He can be quite intimidating, even to mortals."

"Even to mortals? You make it sound like he likes humans. If I remember correctly, he called me a 'human slut' at the duel."

The prince sighed. "True. That had nothing to do with you being human, actually. He was merely angry that you were attempting to interfere with my duel."

"Is he over it yet?"

Zhenjin pursed his lips. "I do not know. He is generally fond and forgiving of mortals, but my sister is his favorite child, and if he's taken offense because of some perceived slight against her…I simply don't know what he thinks of you at the moment, Dylan. But I can find out for you. I'm certain it isn't anything too harsh. It would be impossible for him to hold a grudge against you overlong."

Dylan's gaze flicked to Zhenjin's. For a split-second something warm and gentle smoldered in their depths, and he smiled at her. Dylan smiled back, warm as sunlight, but then the warmth in Zhenjin's eyes vanished, leaving chilly blankness in its wake. Dylan flinched at the sudden frost in the prince's gaze. Seeing her slight recoil, the Dilong prince tensed, closed his eyes, and looked away. Cleared his throat. Suddenly the mortal wondered if Zhenjin wanted her to leave for some reason.

"I…do you want me to leave? You're probably tired," she mumbled, feeling inexplicably self-conscious. A weight on her chest made it hard to breathe. Why did Zhenjin suddenly seem as if he were angry with her?

His fingers twisted in the blanket covering his legs, knotting into a white-knuckled fist, and then relaxed. He opened his eyes and looked back at her, offering a wan smile.

"Forgive me, my lady; it is merely my…wounds…paining me. I would never wish you gone." His smile brightened slightly. "I've only just noticed—you look as if you've been outside. How is the wild winter world beyond my healing chamber? What have you and Silverlance been doing with your holiday? You're dragging him away from his work, surely, yes?"

She smiled back, and this time nothing strange happened, no cold glance or sudden look of pain. They spoke of nothing and everything—the diamond-crystalline beauty of the snow beneath the sun, the archery lesson, the sweet crispness of the winter air, the snowball fight in the practice field, and the beautiful gifts Nuada had given her (and the sweet gifts from the children). When she mentioned the lovespoon, that shadow returned to Zhenjin's gaze for a brief moment, and Dylan asked if his wounds were bothering him.

With a tight smile, the Dilong prince said, "Yes. This wound, I think, will be a long time in healing. Don't let it worry you, my…lady. Well, Silverlance gives wonderful gifts. Of course, he has always been one who loves with his whole heart. I am glad he has found someone to love again."

Startled, Dylan murmured, "Again?"

"Yes. After his time in mortal Japan…well, Nuada's heart seemed so cold, so remote from all who knew and loved him. He would tell no one what had happened, but those of us who knew him best were certain love had done him an ill turn. He threw himself into preparing for the coming war against the humans. You know of this war we all fear, of course, clever and well-connected as you are. Until his time in Japan, Nuada had thought that perhaps, just perhaps, the humans could be reasoned with to prevent all-out war. When he returned, though…" Zhenjin shook his head. "Whatever happened, it turned his heart away from any hope of salvaging mankind. We still believe it had something to do with a woman."

"Why?"

"There's a look in a man's eyes," Zhenjin murmured, dropping his gaze to Dylan's hands clasped on her updrawn knee. "When his heart is broken, shattered beyond hope of repair, there is a shadow of grief in his eyes until the wound heals. And if it never heals, a man bears that mournful shadow all his days." Reptilian jade eyes slid to meet the mortal woman's gaze, then dropped away again. "Forgive me, Lady Dylan, but I believe I am more fatigued by my own wounds than I first thought. I believe I shall try to rest a little now. May you enjoy the rest of Midwinter's Day."

As she rose to her feet and headed for the door, confused and uncertain, she managed to murmur, "And you, too, Prince Zhenjin. I'll see you tomorrow."

.

In Dylan's bedroom, seated on cushions before the fire and with their backs against the side of the bed, the Elf prince and the mortal cuddled together, watching the flames.

Nuada's mind buzzed with uncertainty. He still hadn't gone to question the final mortal assassin; not because he was loath to do it, but because he knew the king would be there, or one of the king's representatives, to ensure the crown prince didn't break the truce by torturing the human killer for information. Nuada already knew the assassin had a strong mental block, and trying to punch through it would shatter his mind, erasing any useful information to be had. There had to be another way to make the assassin spill his secrets…but short of torture or the threat thereof, Nuada could think of nothing.

"Your father's going to flog you tomorrow," Dylan murmured softly, though her voice held an edge, "for killing the human assassin."

"Yes." Nuada nuzzled his cheek against the softness of Dylan's hair for a moment, simply allowing himself to enjoy the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the way the golden light danced across her face. The fragrance of spiced evergreens, sweet apples, and cinnamon clung to her hair. Her head was a reassuring weight on his shoulder. But he had something he needed to say to her.

"Are you angry that I killed the human?"

Dylan sighed. "Did you have to kill him? And why kill him...the way you did?" She'd been momentarily staggered by the ferocity of his rage when he'd plunged his sword into the mortal assailant's chest. She'd seen Nuada kill before. Kill brutally. But she'd never seen him kill an unarmed, bound man before. "Zhenjin explained it a little early this morning, but…but I want to hear it from you."

"I killed him because I could not officially execute him. My father will not punish me too harshly for killing him, not after what the mortal did to you, what he tried to do, but he would not allow me to execute the human, either. I will not accept such a thing. I will not accept releasing a man, human or otherwise, when he attempted to kill my betrothed. As it was, I killed him as quickly as I could...to spare you."

"How would you have killed him if I hadn't been there?"

After an interminable silence, the Elven warrior murmured, "Slowly." Very slowly. If he'd had his way, it would have taken days for the wretch to die.

"You would've tortured him to death," Dylan said softly. Nuada closed his eyes. Her voice was curiously blank. What was she thinking? "For vengeance," she asked, "or because it was necessary?"

He sighed. "Both. The most effective path would have been to torture him to death, to send a very explicit message to my enemies…but I would have enjoyed killing him."

A shiver went through Dylan, and Nuada cursed himself. His sister would've reacted the same way, horrified by the violence and cruelty in him. How many glimpses into shadow could he give his truelove before she turned away from him? How long could she tolerate the stain of darkness on him? Nuada clenched his teeth. He wouldn't pull away from her unless she ordered him to, wouldn't relinquish his hold on her. If she would push him away, let him have a few moments more to enjoy her warmth, the soft comfort of her in his arms.

"I know what that's like," Dylan murmured, startling him. It took the Elven prince a moment to process what she was saying and connect it back to the conversation. "To hate someone so much that hurting them is almost a relief. I've never killed anyone in the mindset, but I've tried."

Stunned, he jerked back to stare down at her. "You…have…"

"When you killed Westenra," she said, "do you remember seeing a thick red scar on his right wrist?" After a moment, the Elven warrior nodded. "That was from me. I bit him. Tore his wrist open with my teeth. I would've used something else but I was strapped to a gurney. I did my best to rip him apart, and it felt good to hear him screaming."

The savage satisfaction in Dylan's voice chilled him. He allowed himself, often, to forget how vicious she had been toward her tormentors as a child. But then, she was entitled, was she not? After everything those human monsters had done to her? Drugging her, hurting her, raping her…

"But it's not just about vengeance for you," Dylan murmured softly, cuddling close to him again. After a moment's hesitation, Nuada slipped an arm around her slender shoulders and tried to relax. "It's about making a statement."

"Yes," he said, forcing the tension out of his muscles.

"What statement? Why did you have to send it by killing him that way?"

He pulled away from her to look down at her expression. There was no condemnation in her gaze, no disgust or fear. Only a curious uncertainty. A desire to understand. So he sighed and said, "I am an Elven warrior, Dylan, trained through centuries and honed in battle. My country and my people are more dear to my heart than anything else. Next to that is my father and my king, my sister...and you. There are others—Wink, Lorelei, Zhenjin—who are dear to me as well, but there is always, always you.

"I care for you, Dylan. I love you. You are one of the only things in this world I fear I cannot do without, and my enemies know it now. Perhaps I was wrong to ask you to wed me. Perhaps I was wrong to ask you to step into a life filled with so much danger and uncertainty...yet I'll not allow my enemies to believe they can threaten you, hurt you, or the gods forbid, kill you, and that by my father's order I will stand for it. I won't. I can't.

"It is better to be loved than feared, but in this, I think fear is the stronger. I'll let no one harm you, Dylan. I'm sorry; I had to send that message. But you were right there, so I was as merciful as I could be, because I did not wish you to see the monster in me-"

"You're not a monster," she said sharply. "When will you see that? It was necessary. I understand that." Dylan touched his cheek. "I'm not looking for a reason to condemn you. I'm not like them." No need to ask who she meant by "them." Never looking away from those carefully blank eyes, she added, "I trust you. I trust you. It's all right. I just wanted to...I wanted to understand. I want to understand you. How it is for you."

Nuada moved as carefully as an old man when he settled his forearms atop his updrawn knees. He closed his eyes and listened to the snap and crackle of the fire, the gentle shush of Dylan's breathing. If he listened carefully enough, he could hear the soft drum of her heart beating and, beyond the walls of her bedchamber, the sound of the children lightly snoring. Crimson and gold danced like shadows across the backs of his eyelids.

For a moment, all the prince could see was battle-fires glowing red through the bars of a prison cell. How it was for him? She wanted to understand him. She understood him so well already, but...but perhaps she would understand even better if he told her...

He opened his eyes.

"You know I fought in the wars against the humans," Nuada said softly.

"Wars? There was more than one?"

"Dozens over the centuries. We'd been at war with the humans since I was a youth, off and on through the years until the final treaty when I was in my twenty-first century. I began taking part in the battles after my fourteen-hundredth birthday." Seeing Dylan's horrified expression, he shrugged. "Other young men were joining the fighting much earlier. When things grew desperate during the final war, children as young as A'du'la'di were forced to fight to protect their homes and their families. Many lives were lost."

When silence descended between them, Dylan laid her hand on his arm. So many things, left unspoken, but conveyed with that gentle touch: I'm listening. I won't judge what you tell me. Take your time. I'm here.

The prince cleared his throat. "I was captured," he said, and felt the sudden stillness in Dylan's body. "It was only my second battle. I'd gone into it with a few guards disguised as soldiers, to appease my father. They were killed in the fighting. I was captured by the human captain. I wasn't an officer, the humans could tell that easily enough, but they'd already learned to recognize the royal scar. They knew I was a prince. They decided to hold me for ransom."

Her voice was hesitant when she asked, "Did your father pay the ransom?"

"He did. I don't know how much it was. I only know that the men my father sent with the ransom died that day. The humans had no intention of handing me over once they received their blood money."

"It was a trap."

"It was a slaughter," he said bitterly. "I was still young enough that iron, salt, and elder-wood could bind me, and I was weak from lack of food and water. I could do nothing but watch as my father's men, my rescuers, were butchered before my eyes. Thirty-three men for one boy."

A feather-light touch against his cheek as she whispered, "Nuada-"

He twitched away from her. "Don't." Her hand fell back to her side and she simply waited for him to speak again. "When I wasn't returned, my father ordered the human camp raided in order to have me rescued. Wink was the one who found me at last. He and a few of my father's Butchers managed to get me home again. My father sent two hundred men to retrieve me; at least half of them died in the attempt."

"That's not your fault, though."

Topaz eyes flicked to her face and then away. "Isn't it? I wasn't skilled enough to avoid capture. I wasn't skilled enough, strong enough, to fight alongside the men of my country and defend our people from the predations of our enemies. My weakness resulted in the deaths of nearly one-hundred-fifty men." He paused, then said, "When I'd recovered, I told my father never to do that again."

"Do what?"

"Never to attempt to rescue me if I were captured by our enemies. He did not heed my wishes." Seeing her confused and heartbroken face, he explained, "I was captured again a little more than a century later. By then I'd made a name for myself as a savage fighter. The humans recognized me easily enough and, after toying with me for a time, they captured me."

"Toying with you?"

"Have you ever seen bear-baiting? Something humans did some centuries ago." Dylan shook her head. Nuada said, "Humans would chain a wild bear so it couldn't escape, then attack it. Not to kill it, but to hurt it. They would set dogs on the creature. Inflict painful, but never fatal wounds. When the bear was finally too weak to fight anymore, only then was it killed. I wasn't chained, but that was what the humans did to me until I was too weary to even lift my sword. Then they took me prisoner. They locked me in a cage of cold iron bars and..."

A small sound, low in the throat, jerked his attention from his memories to the woman at his side. He saw then that Dylan's face was whiter than skimmed milk. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes.

"Forgive me, my lady." Nuada's words were soft as he looked away. "I did not mean to distress you."

"No," she whispered. Clearing her throat, she shook her head and said a bit more loudly, "No, it's all right. Tell me. It's okay; I want you to tell me." She blinked as if to push back the tears waiting to fall. "What did they do to you?"

He drew a deep breath. "They tortured me. They wanted to know where the next strikes on their armies would come, and when. I wouldn't tell them. I had my own companies by then, though I wasn't skilled enough to lead them on my own; I knew that, and was blessed with superior officers under my command who taught me how to be a good leader. So I knew when at least some of the attacks would come.

"I'd never been tortured before," he murmured. "We Elves did not torture then, except to punish a crime that merits that kind of pain and degradation. Like Westenra and the men who attacked you in the subway. If I'd been able to, I'd have taken my time with them. But I had never even seen such a thing before. When Wink killed the humans who butchered my mother, I could scarcely see past the blood in my eyes. I could hear nothing but my sister's sobs and my own moans of pain, and the silence where my mother's screams had once ripped the air.

"I had never been tortured before. But the humans tortured me. For days. Weeks, I think. I lost the ability to count the days or even the hours. There was only the pain pulsing in time with my own heart. Hunger was a wolf in my belly and thirst burned my throat until every rare, precious drop of water they allowed me threatened to shatter my strength like crystal beneath a goblin's hammer. I lived with the fear that I would break and tell my enemies what they wanted, and more deaths would be on my conscience. I was so afraid of breaking. In the end I vowed to take my own life if I thought I was too close. Nuala felt my decision through our link. Accepted it. Made peace with it."

"But your father got you out before it came to that."

"Yes. A company of Butcher Guards and the survivors of one of my own companies raided the human camp in the night. Wink and his brother had to carry me out; both my legs had been broken." He winced when Dylan made a soft sound of horror. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to say that last. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she murmured after a brief silence. "I never want you to feel you can't tell me things. It's okay." Dylan slid an arm around him and cuddled close. "I'm so sorry, Nuada." She touched his cheek in a brief caress. He turned away to look into the fire. Dylan gently but firmly turned his face back to her. "You try to be so hard," she whispered. "As if you think you have to be untouchable. Do you know how strong you are? How brave you are? I am in awe of you, Nuada. I hope one day I can be as strong and brave as you. What did I do, that God blessed me by putting you in my life? Do you know?"

He could only shake his head even as he leaned down to lay his mouth against hers. A warm press of her lips to his, the smooth satin curve of her cheek beneath his calloused fingers, the heat of her breath on his lips. Nuada closed his eyes. There was no fire and shadow against his eyelids now. There was only the image of Dylan's face behind his closed eyes, the sweetness of Dylan's perfume teasing him, the honey taste of her on his lips. He whispered her name against her mouth, as if just her name were some sort of talisman against the darkness of his memories.

Dylan pressed closer. Stroked his cheek with her fingertips, the side of his neck, the place where his pulse beat at the base of his throat. Even when Nuada broke from the kiss, gasping and trembling, to lay his forehead against her neck, she continued to gently, chastely caress him. Her touch was an anchor, a soothing balm.

"Those times, all the wars and the loss, were some of the darkest days of my life," he said against her throat. She wrapped her arms around him. "There has been a great deal of darkness in my life, Dylan. Only when you came into it did I finally feel as if I'd found light again." Nuada lifted his head to touch his forehead to hers. "Perhaps I am a coward, but I cannot live in darkness again. I would rather endure what my enemies did to me a thousand times over than have to live one day of my life without you by my side. I never thought I'd find a woman I would wish to spend the rest of my life with, to make a home and a family with, but I have—in you. I want to be with you forever. For all eternity. And I know there is darkness and ruthlessness in me, I know I can be cruel, but I promise you, I will do all in my power to be the man you see when you look at me."

His eyes slid closed again when she brushed the backs of her fingers against his cheek. "Nuada, you don't have to change for me. How many times do I have to tell you that you're a good man? There's darkness in you. I know that. But there's darkness in me, too. I've never been in a lot of the situations you've experienced in your life. I don't know how I'd react to them if I did end up in them. I do know that when I was a kid and a teenager, and when I first got out of the institution, I was in a pretty dark place, myself. That doesn't make you a bad person."

"My father condemns the shadows in my soul."

"Your father's an idiot," Dylan said tartly. "I don't care what he says. We've already proven several times that he's biased where you're concerned."

A wan smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "And you are not?"

She sniffed disdainfully. "Of course not. What kind of psychiatrist do you think I am? I'm not biased at all. I just happen to know you better than he does. So it's no surprise that I know you're basically a male, Elven Mary Poppins."

Clearly yet another human reference. Still, he asked, "Who?"

"You know, Mary Poppins. 'Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way.' No?" She smiled. "Character from a children's book. Not the point. My point is, you're just fine the way you are, Nuada. I didn't fall in love with you thinking, 'Oh, I can't wait to mold him like Play-Doh into something completely new.' I love you for you."

"You are the exception, darling," he said without rancor. "Not the rule."

"A'du'la'di loves you just as you are, too. He really looks up to you. He admires you; didn't you see that this morning? You're like a father to him."

He scoffed. "Quite a poor one."

"No," Dylan insisted. "No, you're not. You're wonderful with him, and with 'Sa'ti. They both adore you. And A'du'la'di wants to be just like you when he grows up; he told me so himself."

With a groan, Nuada sank back against the side of the bed and covered his eyes with one hand. "He should not wish for such a thing—to be a cold, shadowed, embittered warrior shunned by those he holds most dear."

"I don't shun you," she said softly. Nuada dropped his hand so he could look at her. Dylan added, "You remember how, in the story of Hans the grovelhog, his princess that he loved so much put on iron shoes and walked the world over three times, until the shoes were worn away to nothing? For seven years she walked in search of her husband. If you ever disappeared from my life, Nuada, I'd walk the world over three times for seven years, wearing iron shoes that would then be worn away to nothing. I'd walk the world over a hundred times for a thousand years. I'd search until I found you again."

He brushed a lock of hair from her face. His fingertips ghosted along the thick scar slashing down her cheek. "As I would for you, if you were ever lost to me. I have loved before, but never as I love you. It is like...like a fire in my belly. A fever in my blood. I cannot escape thoughts of you, and I don't want to."

Dylan laid her palm against his cheek, her thumb stroking the edge of the royal scar. The breath Nuada drew came thick and ragged. He met her eyes, twin pools of silver-misted blue.

"You know," Dylan murmured, voice distant and almost dreamy, "from the moment I first saw you in the subway, you seemed…familiar to me. Everything about you. Like I'd seen you before, like I'd known you before…all this."

A smile tugged at his mouth. "A past life? I thought the Star Kindler's children didn't believe in reincarnation."

She shook her head. "We don't. That's not what I mean. When I saw you, you were so familiar. Past the blood and the pain and the fear, I saw you and you scared me, but at the same time my heart was saying, 'There he is. I've found him. He's come to protect me again.'"

Nuada's brow furrowed. "Again?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I can't explain it," she said. "But that's what I felt—that I'd known you or seen you once, that we'd known each other once, and you'd come back into my life just when I needed you most."

And Nuada remembered the drawings—those stacks of children's drawings, some of various landmarks and denizens of Faerie, but others of him. Dylan had seen things after every session of electroshock "therapy," and been ordered to draw them so her tormentors could learn more about their young victim. When Nuada had gone to put an end to that filth, Westenra, he'd flipped through Dylan's file and seen the drawings. Including the dozens of drawings of himself. He'd meant to ask her about them, but then so much had happened—Dylan's confession of love for the prince, those first ravenous kisses in the music room, his exhaustion, the assassination attempt in the royal forest, the constant danger, dancing around the king's plans, everything—that he'd forgotten.

"Dylan," he murmured. "Dylan…your drawings."

Silvery-blue eyes blinked up at him. "My what?" Quickly, Nuada explained what he'd seen in the file in Westenra's office and why he hadn't mentioned it before. Dylan's eyes widened with every word, until a spark lit within her gaze and she snapped her fingers. "Oh, my gosh. I forgot. It's been so long…they stopped electroshock therapy when I was sixteen. I'd forgotten about those drawings. But that's why you looked so familiar. I'd seen you before."

"But how, Dylan?" The prince asked. "How could you have seen me in these visions? I never saw you before that night in the subway."

Another helpless shrug. "I don't know; God? I don't know. But I…I can't believe I forgot about you. About seeing you. Maybe we knew each other in the pre-existence."

"The what?"

She waved a negligent hand. "Our life with God before this life on Earth. Sometimes people feel inexplicably drawn to or repelled by someone they've never met before, and a popular theory is that they knew each other in the pre-existence. Maybe that's it."

"But you're not certain," Nuada said. She shook her head. "You have no other theories?"

Dylan bit her lip, then nodded. "I've got one. God." She gave Nuada a soft, loving look. "Maybe God knew that I would die in that place." A harsh pain clawed at the prince's heart at the thought of her dying, alone and abused in that hellhole, so that he would never have met her. "Without some kind of hope, some light in the darkness, He knew I'd die. So He sent me visions of the one I needed to live for." Her fingers brushed along his jaw as her eyes caressed his face. "The one who would save not just my life, but my soul."

He grasped her wrist and turned her hand to plant a kiss on the softness of her palm. Closing his eyes, he asked a question that threatened to strangle him. "Then why did the High King not send me such a vision of you to comfort me in my darkness? Was I not worthy of such a gift?" To have seen the joy, the hope she'd brought to his life and know that it was waiting for him if he only endured for a time…

"Would it have comforted you? I was—am—human; why wouldn't you have loathed me on sight? On principle? You hated the children of Adam. You still do. It wouldn't have been a comfort to you, Nuada. It probably would've just upset you even more."

Clenching his teeth, hating that it was so, he had to admit she was right. He would have spurned the very comfort he'd craved, because it came from a mortal. "Mo duinne...I'm sorry."

"For what?"

For everything, he wanted to say. For being a monster. For the pain I must bring you to preserve my honor and do what I must. But he didn't say that. He only said, "For not being all I should be. For not being what you deserve."

She shook her head. "Nuada…you are everything I could ever want or need. I love you. Okay?" Dylan retraced the royal scar with her thumb. He felt that caress down to his bones. "I love you, Nuada."

Nuada pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. How long would she love him once she learned just what he was capable of? Torture, murder…genocide?

He knew, when the time came to unleash the Golden Army—when it the war with the humans dawned—he would find out.