Chapter 90 - The Depths of My Sin

Chapter Ninety

The Depths of My Sin

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A Short Tale of a Prince's Rage, a Vassal's Oath, Concern, Talk of War, a Terrible Confession, Dylan's Choice, and Plans for Vengeance

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"That bastard! That treacherous bastard!"

Cíaran and Dierdre, sitting on the sofa in the parlor of the Fomorian guest suite, jerked upright as Crown Prince Bres slammed through the door swearing. Dierdre shrank back and Cíaran's eyes widened as their prince sent the door crashing closed, and then strode six paces into the room and kicked a footstool so hard that two of the legs snapped off when the stool struck the wall. The gancanaugh siblings had rarely seen the Fomorian heir so enraged. Bres turned without a word to either of them, heading for the small table set out with the breakfast a maid had brought for the prince while he'd been gone. With a bestial roar, Bres swept the entire meal to the floor amidst a symphony of shattering glass and the chime of silver striking stone. Then the prince stopped, muscles quivering like a wild horse's after a strenuous run, and bowed his head. His shoulders heaved as he took several ragged breaths.

After a moment, Dierdre rose to her feet with a rustle of velvet skirts. Hiding her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt, she cautiously approached Bres. When she was perhaps two paces away, Cíaran quietly cleared his throat, and his sister laid a hand on the prince's shoulder. "Bres?"

With a low snarl, the Fomorian rounded on her and struck her a vicious backhand that sent her sprawling to the floor. Cíaran interposed himself between his liege lord and his sister when Bres took a menacing step toward the now-weeping gancanaugh woman. Blood leaked between her trembling fingers from the cruel cut marring her cheek. Dierdre's eyes, wet with tears, gazed beseechingly at her prince when Bres growled low in his throat.

"Bres!" Cíaran shouted. "What's come over you? What's happened?"

The prince fixed his eyes on the woman on the floor. "You. You want to rut with him? You desire him in your bed? Silverlance?" Dierdre went white as a corpse. "Answer me!" Bres roared. Cíaran's eyes were now so wide they seemed ready to fall out of his head. "Do you want him, yes or no? You want to bring him crawling over knives and broken glass to kiss your feet? Do you want the traitor to suffer?"

"My prince," Cíaran said softly. "My friend. What. Has. Happened?"

As if all the life had drained from him along with the rage that suddenly seemed to disappear, Bres fell to his knees, a hollow confusion marring his face where once fury twisted the handsome features. He slowly shook his head. "I know not," he whispered. "Cíaran…Nuada will not give us the Golden Army."

"What?" Cíaran demanded. "What…why…he told you this?"

Bres nodded slowly, as if it were almost too difficult a thing for him to attempt.

Dierdre hissed. Bres slowly lifted his eyes to her face. The disguised gancanaugh growled, "It's her, isn't it? The human strumpet. Somehow she's convinced him to betray us this deeply. She's managed to strip him of even that last shred of honor."

Bres nodded again. "He'll not aid us in any way. I knew we'd lost him—I knew he'd betrayed us by falling in love with that filthy human slut—but I thought…I thought…"

"You thought his honor would at least compel him to help us find the third Crown piece and give us another weapon against the children of Adam," Cíaran mumbled, sinking to the floor. After a brief hesitation, Dierdre slowly came to lean against her brother, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. Cíaran withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to his sister. She pressed it to the cut on her cheek. "So, too, did we all. We all thought that even if he'd been compromised, even if honor compelled us to execute him for the treachery of his heart…that he would at least fulfill that oath."

The Fomorian prince shuddered. "He was the one searching for the lost artifacts." Bres's voice was empty of anything but shock and…grief? "He had his network of agents searching for nearly all of them. He and Arawn and Zhenjin…but mostly Nuada. And I doubt it very much if he will tell us what information he has gathered."

Dierdre twisted her fingers in Cíaran's sleeve. "Will he destroy whatever findings he's managed to scrounge together?"

He shook his head. "I do not know, Dierdre…but I think it likely. We have lost whatever progress has been made toward that part of our plans for the war." Bres slumped against the leg of the table and dropped his head into his hands. "How could he do this?"

"Bres…" Dierdre's unglamoured teeth, sharp as needles, sank gently into her bottom lip as her prince's hands clenched into shaking fists pressed to his temples. One needed to walk carefully with the prince in such an uncertain temper. Provoke him, and he might strike her again, and this time Cíaran's questions might not be enough to stay his hand. But the gancanaugh felt this latest betrayal of the Tuathan prince keenly in her belly, just as the Fomorian heir did. She'd known Nuada was capable of much…but this? "Bres…"

All at once the tension drained from the prince's body. He dropped one limp hand into his lap and stretched out the other toward her. "Come to me, Dierdre." A flicker of hesitation, then Dierdre moved to Bres's side. To her surprise, he gently pulled the blood-spotted handkerchief from her grasp in order to lightly dab her cheek. "Forgive me, my sweet. To strike one's loyal followers without cause is the sign of a weak leader. I had a momentary lapse." He leaned in to kiss her mouth. Her lips trembled, and a small tremor went through her—she didn't trust this quietude—but she didn't pull away, either. "You didn't deserve to feel my wrath, my lovely one." Another swift kiss.

Cíaran held himself as still as a serpent waiting to strike. Bres rarely apologized for anything. Perhaps he hadn't meant to strike Dierdre. Perhaps he'd merely lashed out in his fury. The prince did consider such a thing weak, and he abhorred weakness, especially in himself. Using fury and hatred to further one's goals was admirable; allowing your fury and hate to use you was simply pathetic. Bres stroked a fingertip over the curve of Dierdre's unmarred cheek.

"You know who does deserve my wrath, sweet Dierdre?" The prince asked softly, his lips grazing hers with every word. Cíaran thought absently that if he'd been in the same position with Lilè or Fiona, his sweet little hob chambermaids, there would've been something tender in it. There was very little tenderness in the pose of his sister and the prince who bound her to him with an arm about her waist and his touch at her cheek. Menace smoldered in the glacial sapphire eyes of the Fomorian. Cíaran's sister shook her head, a look of mute pleading and dread on her face. Cíaran wondered suddenly just how long he would live if Bres tried to kill Dierdre and Cíaran drove a knife into his chest to protect his kin. The thought shook him; was he truly considering betraying Bres? After this latest cruel blow from a man they'd both once considered a friend? But Bres's next words alleviated any fear for either Dierdre or himself in Cíaran's mind. "Silverlance. Silverlance and his whore."

The gancanaugh lord relaxed the merest fraction. "We already planned to kill the little harlot."

Bres shook his head impatiently, his features twisting into something akin to a snarl. "It's not enough. I want to shatter him with her death. He betrays us to the last for her sake? Let him see where it will lead him. And when we're done with her, Silverlance will beg me to kill him."

Even Dierdre was shaken by the venom oozing from his words. She whispered, "And will you, my prince?"

Hate was an icy, brutal thing. It seemed to flood Bres's blood with ice, to frost over the bitter rage and hurt within him until there was nothing but the deathly cold of his freshly-laid hate. He'd been disgusted by Nuada's previous betrayal. Enraged by it. He'd been set on avenging their cause against him. This, however, was different. For some reason, this knife in the back felt strangely personal.

Would he kill Nuada after destroying his precious little human tidbit? When Nuada offered his throat to Bres's knife—and when the Fomorian was done with Lady Dylan, Nuada certainly would bare his throat and even offer Bres the knife to cut it—would Bres kill him? Or leave him a shattered remnant of the man he'd been, to live out his many centuries in soul-killing grief?

The answer came to him, and he smiled. Dierdre whimpered, but self-preservation prevented her from drawing back from her liege and lover. Even Cíaran flinched at the madness edging Bres's smile.

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"I will ask you one last time, my prince…is this the path you wish to take?"

In another part of Findias, Nuada gazed back at the silver cave troll he loved as a father, brother, friend, and vassal. Wink's face was unreadable in the candle- and lamp-lit study. Nuada's heart threatened to fragment his ribcage as it sped ceaselessly in his chest. He kept his palms pressed hard to the polished ebony surface of his desk, fingers splayed to keep them from tapping or fidgeting in any way.

Did Wink see the pulse jumping spasmodically in his prince's throat? Did he see the pleading in Nuada's eyes, the only part of his prince's face not kept carefully blank? Did Wink even consider Nuada to be his prince anymore?

"It is," Nuada said firmly. Then, his voice softening, but never taking his eyes from his vassal, he added, "I'm sorry, Brother."

He could read nothing in Wink's Cyclopean gaze, nothing. What was his friend thinking? What was occurring within his canny mind and great heart? Did he feel as Bres did? Would he now forsake Nuada, as Nuada had forsaken his people in their plight? A muscle in the prince's sword-hand twitched twice before subsiding. He didn't look away from the troll's gaze.

At long last, Wink sighed—a mournful sound that seemed to strike Nuada like a massive bronze fist in the chest. The cave troll shook his head. Slender, ebony back-bristles drooped. Nuada tensed, waiting for his vassal's verdict regarding the prince's decision. It would've been pathetic to beg, to plead with his friend to stay by his side, to please not abandon him as so many others would for this. As Bres, once his friend, already had. Yet the crown prince would not beg. Never. Not to avoid the consequences of his own cowardice, his own weakness. He merely waited.

"I feared this path," the troll murmured at last. The words were like knives thrusting beneath Nuada's ribs to draw vital blood. "Though I care for her, when I saw your mother's ring on the lassling's finger, when I saw the way you looked at her as if she were your own life's blood and the breath in your chest, I feared you had lost touch with your convictions. I feared she'd stripped your strength from you."

"Wink…" Nuada trailed off. What could he say? Hadn't Dylan done just that?

The troll shook his head slowly. "No, my prince. There are no words you might say to explain."

Nuada's eyes burned, and a deathly cold seemed to steal over him at his vassal's words. He half-rose from his seat, the implacable mask disintegrating under the weight of Wink's sorrowful gaze. "Wink," he managed. "Wink, we will still fight. We will still wage our war if it is necessary. The humans will not crush my people beneath their heel again. I swear to you." Then he broke enough to add, his voice almost child-like in its pleading, "My brother…I would never abandon the fae. Surely you know this of me."

Wink sighed again. "And if simple warfare is not enough?" He asked softly, peering into his prince's face. "I do not seek to wash your soul in innocent blood, my prince. You know this of me. Yet you have sworn oaths, and you have a duty to fulfill: your people before your own happiness; your people before her happiness. If we go to war, and the humans begin to bear down on us like a plague as they've done so often in the past, what will you do then? Will you stand as the sword and shield of your kingdom, of your subjects? Or will you retreat, offering up your people to the slaughter for fear that she will spurn you if you do not?" The troll's slumped shoulders came up, and he lifted his hands in a weary gesture. "Where will you draw the line, Nuada? How much innocent blood is too much, and how much is too little?" Wink dropped his hands. "Think on my words."

He turned to walk out of the study, but just at the door he stopped. Without turning back to the stricken prince, he added in a low rumble, "And know this also, Nuada—no matter what you decide, you are always my son, my brother, my friend…and my lord." He touched one massive hand to his heart, though he still did not turn. "Sire, I am your servant—until my lord release me, or death take me."

With those words, Wink left Nuada's study. Nuada sank into his chair and dropped his face into his shaking hands, unsure whether the taloned hand squeezing his heart was merely a sick sense of relief, or the cruel twisting of guilt.

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When Dylan woke the day after Midwinter, the day before Christmas Eve, she didn't go to check on Nuada right away. He needed to sleep, and she didn't want to risk waking him. He'd been so tired and rundown lately. Not even lately—he was always rundown, never sleeping enough. But after the exhausting time this morning, he would've gone to sleep. Right?

She paused in the middle of brushing her teeth and wondered. Would Nuada have gone to bed like a smart man? Or would he have stayed up all night and all day worrying about everything that was going on?

She'd almost made up her mind to look in on her prince when Guardsman Ailbho knocked on her bedroom door and informed her she had a letter. Since she was dressed—though she wore the bathrobe for extra warmth—she opened the door, taking the letter and cracking the gold-flecked blue wax seal with a word of murmured thanks to her young bodyguard. It was from Nuala; the princess had agreed to speak to the king this afternoon, giving the king the impression that his daughter wanted to help the villages herself as well as offering the aid for the king's tenderhearted future daughter-in-law. Nuala signed off the short letter with the final admonishment to "take care of my brother," as well as a reminder that wedding preparations for the prince and his future bride would begin fairly soon.

I wonder how much work I'll actually have to do, Dylan wondered as she asked Ailbho to have a page send up a breakfast tray. On a hunch, she added a request for a second tray for Nuada. He was still mending thanks to the spells laid into the healing stab-wounds and his cracked ribs from the assassination attempt and would need the extra food. I mean, my demands aren't very…demanding. I've got my preferences. Maybe I should write them down and give them to the royal wedding planner. Or Nuala. What if the wedding planner doesn't listen to me because I'm common-born? Or pulls the "interfering mother-in-law" routine, minus the mother-in-law part, and just bulldozes over me?

Am I really going to let them do that? Ugh, whatever. As long as my dress is white and modest. I can talk to Themba later today. Who knows how long it'll take him to make a royal wedding dress? Plus, don't I need a coronation dress, since I'm being made a princess? Dylan rubbed her temples. Why was she thinking about this? So Nuada didn't have to think about it. With everything else on his plate, he didn't need to be worrying about their wedding on top of it all, and she knew that if she didn't take charge at least somewhat, Nuada would worry that she wasn't happy with the preparations. Why did we agree to get married in less than two months again? She wondered a bit wryly. Out of control hormones?

Dylan took a few minutes to write a quick thank-you to Nuala and to ask her opinion on whether she ought to take Nuada with her to see the royal wedding planner whenever they happened to meet with them. Then, since she had a moment, Dylan made a quick list of "must-haves" and thoughts about her wedding on a piece of scratch paper.

- Modest white dress (Temple-appropriate)
- Flowers: snowdrops, white rosebuds, baby's breath, something gold?
- Sisters and John in attendance
- Invite Uncle Thad, Aunt Niamh, cousin Renee
- CAKE!
- The children? Bridal attendants/groomsmen?
- Find out Bethmooran royal wedding customs
- What's Nuada wearing? Wanna find out
- Don't panic!

At the last second, as she was perusing the list, Dylan added, "Want Zhenjin, Roiben, Kaye, and Moundshroud there." Smiling at the thought of Moundshroud at her wedding—and a little worried that her Dilong friend wouldn't want to come; he'd been acting a little weird since the announcement of her betrothal to Nuada—Dylan put the list in a drawer of her desk in the nook-room and went to go see whether Nuada had actually slept or not.

A page arrived with the two breakfast trays just as she was leaving the nook-room. Dylan asked the page to set up the breakfast in the nook-room, so that she and Nuada could maybe play chess while they ate. She knew, instinctively, that he needed to take a break and relax. Even during their "break" that the king had given them from all the politicking and court events, Nuada hadn't actually rested. His mind had been engaged with so much, most of which he wasn't sharing. Perhaps he didn't want to burden her. Maybe he was still struggling with the problem of Lady Dierdre and whatever trouble she was in. But there was something else, too. Something that was hurting him, and Dylan had no idea what it was. At first she'd thought it was about the villages, and maybe that was part of it, but there was more to it than that. And she was going to find out what it was—hopefully over breakfast. She was starving, and Nuada probably was, too.

She poked her head into the front room of his suite, where his guards all posed in various states of attention or relaxation. When she asked Lorcc about Nuada, the young guardsman informed her that the prince had been in his study most of the day. Dylan frowned and knocked on the study door. Like the previous morning, no one answered. When she tried the knob, however, the door wasn't locked, as she'd half-feared. She poked her head in.

Nuada sat slumped in his desk chair, his head half-cradled in one hand, fingers at his temples, rubbing as if he had a headache. Dylan could barely see him in the dimness, since—like yesterday—the candles were guttering and the fire in the hearth had died down to sullen coals and a few feeble flames. Only his proximity to the fire made him visible. Nuada didn't raise his head when Dylan cleared her throat.

"Hey," she called softly. "May I come in?"

"As you like," the prince muttered, shifting to prop his forehead in a cradle of two fingers and his thumb, still massaging as if in pain. Dylan stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. "What is it?" Nuada demanded.

Her eyebrows drew down in surprise and a little hurt. They'd been all cuddly earlier that morning. What had happened to make him so surly? Keeping her voice tranquil, Dylan murmured, "I just wanted to see how you were doing. I got a note from Nuala; she's going to talk to the king today about the northern villages."

The prince nodded wearily. "Good. Good. Was that it?"

She frowned. "Are you all right?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "I'm fine, Dylan."

"Have you slept at all?" She asked, trying to keep her voice gentle.

Nuada sighed and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, giving her a look that somehow spoke of infinite patience, though she could barely see it in the dim light. "I am not tired, Dylan. When I am, I will sleep."

Why did it feel like he was irritated with her? Probably because he was. The question was, why? But she didn't ask. She only said, "Nuada, you haven't really slept for the last…Heaven knows how many days. You need rest. You look tired."

He waved that away. If he'd been anyone else, Dylan would've been mad at this point, but Nuada never blew her off. Not like this. He would tell her he was "well enough," and then act like a macho idiot to prove there was nothing wrong, but he'd never brush her concerns aside so coldly. He seemed distracted - more so than usual. A cool whisper of concern in her chest told her there was something wrong here.

She tried again. "Have you eaten? I had breakfast brought up for us. Come on, we can eat breakfast in the nook-room and I'll let you murder me at chess."

Her prince shook his head. "I am not hungry."

The psychiatrist in her came to the fore. When an alpha male couldn't be rousted out of whatever dark mood had come over him, one way to bring him back was to ask for his help. It had worked with Nuada before; at the first Midwinter banquet, when the king had stripped him of his lance again and placed him back under house-arrest, she'd kept Nuada from brooding over it by hinting that her knee was bothering her (which it had been, since her meds hadn't kicked in yet) and she needed his help getting to her seat. But that had also been applied to surface temper, nothing as deep as this felt.

Dylan came to stand beside his chair. He lifted his eyes to her. She couldn't see his expression, but she could almost feel his mild exasperation. He didn't want her around. Why? Gently, she caressed the back of his hand.

"Is it selfish of me to tell you that…that I miss you?" She whispered. He frowned.

"Miss me? I'm right here."

She shook her head. "Physically, yes…but there's a wall between us right now, and I don't know why it's there, or what I've done to put it there, or anything. Something's bothering you; what is it?"

He sighed. "I have much on my mind, Dylan, that's all. It is nothing to concern yourself over."

"Then why won't you sleep? Or eat?"

Now there was an edge of anger in his voice. "I'm not hungry. How many times must I say it-"

"You're scaring me," she murmured, and his anger died away. He only stared at her, brow furrowed. "You say you're not tired, but you've slept maybe six hours in the last three days. You say you're not hungry, but when was the last time you ate? Was it when we went to the sanctuary? Because you didn't eat much then and your body still has healing spells in it that need fuel. You're hurt, but I have to fight you to let me take care of your injuries. You won't eat, you won't sleep, you won't let me take care of you without a fight, you look like you're chewing glass half the time, and you expect me to believe there's nothing wrong?" She shook her head. "I'm not stupid."

"I never said…" Nuada sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I did not mean to imply such a thing. I'm sorry, mo duinne." He caught her hand and kissed the back of it. "Forgive me."

"What's wrong?" Dylan asked softly. "Tell me what's wrong. Ever since the night of the ball…no, even before. Ever since I came back from work and you seemed so despondent, you've been acting strange, and it's only gotten worse since then. What's wrong, Nuada? Did something happen?" She hesitated, then whispered tremulously, "Did I do something?"

"No," he said immediately. "No, mo crídh, my heart. It's only that I've been wrestling with a grave problem, one that troubles me."

"The war with the humans?" She bit her lip, then forced herself to stop. That had just been a guess, but from the way he'd tensed, she knew she'd guessed right. "Nuada, is it the possibility of war that bothers you? Or the way I'll react if the fae go to war with the humans?" Sometimes it was a struggle to read him, especially in bad light, but not then. Dylan nodded thoughtfully. "Look, the fae deserve a part of the mortal world. Humans live in Faerie; why shouldn't you guys get to live in the mortal realm? Especially since so many of you already do? You have just as much of a right to be there as we do. I don't know about in other countries, but in America, the Native Americans are treated as a sovereign people separate from regular US citizens; why not the fae? You were there first. And if the human race declares war on the fae for demanding what is rightfully theirs…what do you think I'll do?"

It took him a moment to speak. "I do not know, Dylan. I don't know what action you would take if I demanded you go to war and sanction the potential deaths of your sisters—"

"My sisters are civilians," she replied, "and I doubt they plan on enlisting in the military." It seemed to be an understood fact that Nuada wouldn't allow assaults to be made on civilian locations. And as far as she'd seen, the fae didn't go in for terrorism or suicide bombing. Some of the fae were dishonorable—she'd seen that often enough—but Roiben and Nuada and Zhenjin and the royals like them were men, lords, of honor. They would never break that honor with soulless bloodshed. War between humans and fae would be terrible, but it would involve warriors, and no one else.

"Your brother?" Nuada asked, voice carefully neutral. The mortal woman looked away. "Would you allow me and my people to go to war against your brother, your twin, the other half of your heart and soul, knowing he may be cut down in the conflict? And if he did die?" She flinched. "If you lost him, how would you ever be able to love me after that? Knowing that I had your brother's blood on my hands?"

She shook her head. "I would talk to John before it came to that. He would never fight in an unjust war, which is exactly what it would be."

Nuada stood in one swift movement and gripped her shoulders, but lightly. "And if women and children were killed? If the blood of innocent mortals stained my hands, would you love me then? Would you look into my eyes with love in your heart? Would you be able to bear my touch, knowing I was responsible for the deaths of your people? Could you lie beside me as my wife, night after night, and bear my children, and be my princess, when all the while the lives of your kind mark my soul with the sins of their deaths?"

"What are you talking about? Nuada, you would never hurt innocent people. Where is this coming from?"

"I…I…" He jerked back from her and turned toward the fire. His hands closed around the top of the chair's back with a violence that made the leather creak. "Gods. Gods."

The first sliver of fear whispered down Dylan's spine and she stepped back, demanding, "What? What? You're really scaring me. What's wrong?"

It seemed almost as if the words were torn from him when he confessed in a whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." The words drove her back several steps. "I can scarcely bear to look at you as I say this. The words are like stones on my heart. When I first met you, the world stood before me in simple black and white. There were the fae, and there were humans, and that was the end of the divide. It was us, or them.

"Then I found you that night in the subway, so brave, so strong, everything I had thought humans could never be. You fought for me, you healed me. You broke through all of my defenses. The world was no longer black and white, but stood before me in shades of gray. You've shown me that some humans are not the scourge I once thought them—your brother, who loves you so much; you spoke to me of your aunt and uncle, who helped you when you needed them; even your sisters have shown that they can, at times, act as if they possess hearts."

Dylan shoved at her hair, leaning back against the door, chilled. She hugged herself. "I don't understand. Why is that bad?"

"Because of the war that is coming," he whispered. "Because of what I meant to do when it came." He drew a sharp breath. "I would have slaughtered every last human in the mortal realm, and in Faerie, once the war began. Every man, woman, and child." She saw him hunch his shoulders, bow his head. In a voice tight with some emotion she couldn't name, Nuada continued, "It seemed the only way. We have the means…and it seemed the only way to ensure the safety of my people."

Sick horror stole into Dylan's throat, stealing her voice and her strength. She staggered back until she hit the door. Her knees buckled and she slid to the floor, staring at the dark shadow that was her prince, her love. Dylan's fingers were like slender threads of ice when she pressed them to her trembling mouth.

"How many more wars could the fae survive? Only this one," he said. "Only the last. Either the humans would all die…or the fae would. There was no hope in any path but that one. The humans would fight us to the last man, they would butcher us all...and if we didn't kill those who didn't fight at first, they would rise up, and fight as well, and we wouldn't survive." His voice, already choked with horror of his own, twisted with disgust and despair when he added, "And the children…when they grew up, they would rise against us as well, to seek vengeance for their fallen ones. They, too, had to die."

"No," she whispered, finding her voice at last. "No. You would never…" Dylan had seen the prince with A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti. She couldn't imagine the man who could handle them so well, who loved them so much—even if somewhat distantly—ordering the merciless butchering of innocent children. She shook her head. "No. You wouldn't…you couldn't…"

And then Nuada laughed; a terrible sound without humor, like the rattle of a final breath in a dying man's chest. He said, "No. No, I could not. I thought I could. I thought I could sacrifice the love of my family. I thought I could bear the weight of that hideous guilt for the rest of my days, endure an eternity suffering in Hell or the barren wastes of Annwn or whatever afterlife the gods saw fit to punish me with, if only my people were safe. I thought I could be the monster who saved us, who could bring about the end of our slow creeping death. I thought I had the strength to cut out my own heart and destroy my own soul for the sake of those I am sworn to protect."

Tears, she thought. He's crying. I know he is. I can hear it…feel it. Why is he crying? Because he can't kill children? Innocents? Or because he once thought he could? Why is he crying?

She'd seen Nuada cry only once, tears of grief after a nightmare where he'd lost everything and everyone he loved; the nightmare had climaxed with her death in his arms and Nuada's vengeance upon his father for killing her. She'd seen him shed a single tear of heartsick pain once before that…but she'd never known Nuada to weep silently, as she often did, the guttering candlelight catching on the diamond tracks on his face, his voice husky with suppressed sobs.

"But I do not have that strength," Nuada rasped. "I don't have the strength to shame my mother's memory with slaughter, or to lose my father and sister forever, separated by a chasm filled with innocent blood. I don't have the strength to uphold my honor and protect my people. I do not have the strength…" He drew a breath as though it pained him to do it. His hand crept toward his chest, toward his heart. "I do not have the strength to look into your eyes and watch the love you bear me wither and die like a blush rose in the first cruel grasp of winter, to see it replaced by loathing and betrayal. I may be strong, but I am not that strong, my darling, my love, my own dear soul, my solace and my heartache. I cannot do it…and so my people are condemned to this slow execution, and I have lost you after all." And the tall shadow that was Prince Nuada sank to its knees and did not speak again.

She couldn't move. Could barely breathe. This…was…impossible. Utterly impossible.

But Nuada wouldn't lie to her.

Heavenly Father, she prayed silently, what do I do? How am I supposed to feel? What am I supposed to think?

Because she was numb. Numb with shock and uncertainty and fear. She wasn't afraid of Nuada—even now, somehow, Dylan knew he would never harm her—but she was afraid of what this meant for her, for them. The sapphire ring sat heavy on the heart-finger of her left hand, the final link in a chain tethering Dylan to the man kneeling on the floor in the shadows.

Slowly Dylan managed to get to her feet, her back sliding up the smooth wood of the study door. The doorknob brushed her shoulder as she rose, and it rattled. A low sound issued from the kneeling shadow—a sound of bone-deep anguish. Dylan froze. Why…? Then it dawned on her: Nuada thought she was leaving. He thought she was abandoning him, now that she'd learned the truth of what he'd intended to do to her race.

And was she? Was she going to leave him for what he intended?

Had intended, she thought. What had he said? I cannot do it. The words echoed in her head, a loop of despair and tenderness. I cannot do it. I am not that strong, my darling, my love, my own dear soul, my solace and my heartache. I am not that strong. I cannot do it.

How easy would it be to leave him? To abandon him as he'd abandoned his plans for genocide? For genocide, Dylan thought with a roll of her stomach. Her Nuada, willing to commit genocide!

Except he wasn't…couldn't. Except the decision to do so had been eating away at his soul like a cancer, and for how long? How much of the despair she'd always seen in his eyes was a result of that decision to throw away honor and conscience to save his race? How long had he been living under that shadow? How long had his spirit slowly been crumbling, piece by piece, under the weight of it? Damned if he abandoned the plan that called for the massacre of billions, because his people would die and he would break his vows as prince of Bethmoora…yet damned if he went through with the decision to murder innocent people, because it would be murder.

He'd chosen not only to be damned for forsaking the path of genocide, for abandoning his people—in his eyes, anyway, for she knew him, and knew that was how he viewed it—but not just for those two things. He believed himself damned because he thought she would leave him for even considering…

Heavenly Father, what's the right choice? Do I stay, or do I leave him? I…I don't want…

She tried to move her hand toward the doorknob and found her fingers frozen, pressed to the polished rowan wood of the door. She tried to flex them, tried to shift them just a millimeter toward the knob, but it felt as if they were glued to the cool wood, held there by the weight of the engagement ring on her finger and the merciless heaviness in her chest.

I cannot do it…my love…and I have lost you after all.

When Dylan tried to take a step away from the door, toward Nuada, she seemed only to have shifted her weight the merest increment, and suddenly she was across the room, rushing to him, and for one wild moment she didn't know if she meant to embrace him or attack him. Her heart thundered wildly in her chest and she tasted the salt of tears on her lips. Then she collided with Nuada's shoulder.

He turned, caught her, and overbalanced so they both went to the floor. He sprawled on his back, the breath knocked out of him; she half-landed on the broad expanse of his chest. She pushed herself up on her hands, placed on either side of his head, and looked down at him. This close, she could see the paleness of his face, the shadow of his eyes, the moonbeam glimmer of his hair. Something that twinkled like a diamond slipped off the tip of her nose to splash his cheek—a tear. Nuada took a shuddering breath and reached up as if to touch her, but he curled his fingers into a tight fist at the last moment, as if afraid.

"Oh, gods, don't cry," he whispered. "Please."

Dylan tried to breathe, to speak, but she didn't even have the strength to move. A strangled sob rose in her throat, and she dropped her forehead to Nuada's shoulder, twisting her fingers in his tunic, and soaked it with the hot tears he'd begged her not to shed.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She demanded through her sobs. She felt Nuada shudder against her, and his fingers curled gently around her upper arms, as if holding her in place. Yet she knew if she struggled away from him, her prince would let her go. Another sharp sob rose in her throat. Her fist struck his other shoulder weakly. "Why? Dammit, Nuada, why? Why? Why would you lie to me like this? How could you? Why wouldn't you just tell me?"

His fingers convulsed against her arms through the sleeves of her gown and bathrobe. He whispered, "Tell you? Tell you I am the monster my father has always named me? Tell you that I meant to betray you? Tell you that my duty demanded I sacrifice your family, your friends, all you hold dear to the blades of war and genocide? How could I? When should I have told you, Dylan? When would you have had me shatter everything between us, shatter the world under our feet? When should I have spoken those words and broken your heart?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know, but…but if you'd told me, then…"

"Then what? You would have left me that much sooner?" His fingers around her upper arms tightened fractionally at the words. "Refused my love and turned me away, thrown me from the haven of your heart and never looked back? What would you have done?"

Dylan lifted her head from the warmth and the feral, wildwood scent—still so comforting—of Nuada's shirt. Balancing on one elbow, she wiped at her eyes and cheeks with her hands. Sniffled. She had no idea where the words came from when she spoke, but they spilled from her lips like the first rays of dawn across a windowpane. "I would've told you the truth—that I love you. I love you so much it hurts me. So much that sometimes I can't breathe or think or even stand," she added, echoing his words from their moment at sunrise. "I love you so much that it would kill me to walk away from you, and if you were going to do this…then it would've killed me. But you're not, and if you'd told me sooner, all of this anguish you feel…I could've erased it."

Nuada shoved upright, balancing with one hand on the floor behind him. Dylan nearly fell over again. Even in the shadows, she could see Nuada's eyes were wide. Then he said something sharply in Gaelic, though his voice was hoarse, and the nearly-dead embers of the fire snapped to life, giving brief light. He stared at her with eyes flickering between that sickly xanthous gray she'd only seen once before and the beauty of honey-gold flecked with jewel-like glints of sunfire and carnelian.

"What?" He rasped. His gaze roved almost frantically over her face as if searching for something. "What did you say?"

"I love you," Dylan said, and Nuada trembled. His eyes widened further. "I love you, Nuada. I love you more than anyone…than anything…ever. What you've told me, it's damaged us, but…but you were willing to risk me walking away to tell me the truth, and you're hurting so much, and I…I can't walk away from you like this. I would be killing a part of myself. If you hadn't…changed your mind, then I—"

"Then you would still have walked away," he whispered. "Walked away, carving out pieces of your own heart with every step, killing yourself little by little, spilling your heart's blood drop by drop until there was nothing left." Slowly, as though she were a mirage that would vanish away the moment he touched her, Nuada's fingertips alighted on Dylan's cheek, weightless as a drifting snowflake. "Yet I forsake bloodshed, and so you remain? You will stay with me even though I considered…though I planned to…" He shook his head. "Do not toy with me, Dylan, I beg you. If you would strike at my heart, strike true and swiftly, then leave me to die of the wound."

She met his eyes. "For as long as I may, I'm with you," Dylan said, as tears trailed warm and wet down her cheeks. Nuada's breath caught as he recognized his own words from perhaps only a fortnight ago. Though his heart had been breaking, he'd sworn to remain with her until Fate dragged him away. "Until the stars themselves fall to earth and the world turns to dust. For as long as you will have me, my prince, I am yours, as you are mine."

And then he was kissing her, his mouth sliding over hers, warm and firm and almost desperate, pressing in until she gasped and drew close. His kisses tasted of disbelief and hope, joy and remorse. His lips were so soft as they pressed to hers. The rasp of his heavy breathing, shuddering still, echoed in her ears along with the roaring of her blood in her head. She moaned softly when Nuada leaned forward, moving over her as she fell slowly back until only his arm across her back kept her from falling to the floor. Her hands slid around his neck, fingers twining through the silk of his hair, and he groaned against Dylan's mouth. He was drowning her with his taste, with the feel of his mouth, with the thud of his heartbeat pounding through him and through her. She tasted the sweetness of fey tears on his lips. Did the salt of her own tears sting against his mouth?

"Dylan," he whispered against her mouth, "oh, Dylan, I love you, I'm so sorry, I love you, Dylan," and sweet words in Gaelic, murmured as soft as falling snow while he kissed her. Then her shoulder blades touched the soft carpet and Nuada leaned over her, his lips never leaving hers as he cupped her cheek. His fingertips caught her tears, so that they slid like drops of dew along his fingers. If they burned him, he gave no sign. Tremors racked his body as he pressed close, seemingly desperate for the warmth of her. His skin felt so cold against her hands, but his lips were scorching…

It was only when she felt his weight against her that common sense snapped her back to reality. Regret and shame—how did she keep ending up in these situations with him?—and embarrassment briefly swamped the torrent of other emotions swirling through her and Dylan pulled back from him to cry, "Nuada, we're on the floor."

Dylan could see that it took her distracted prince a moment to process her words. Meanwhile he remained warm and solid against her; not lying directly atop her, no, but it was all she could do to focus on reminding him of just what they were doing and why it was a problem instead of pulling him even closer. "I…Dylan?" Nuada mumbled.

She cleared her throat. "If we don't stop, we're going to end up…" Perhaps it was childish, but she couldn't seem to actually utter the words making love while he was looking at her like that, and she didn't want to call it simply having sex, maybe especially when he was looking at her like that. As if she really was everything to him. As if he would die without her.

She still needed him to get off of her, though. "Nuada—"

He moved abruptly, rising and bringing her to her feet with a warrior's quickness. "Forgive me, my love," he said, brushing his palm over the softness of her cheek. "I didn't mean for things to go so far. I was…overcome. It will not happen again." His eyes darted over her face before fixing on her eyes. "This gift you grant me, this clemency…I cherish it. I will earn back your trust. I will do whatever I must to prove myself, I swear to you."

With a hand on his cheek, Dylan said, "I know you will."

"Dylan," he murmured, covering her hand with his and turning his face into her palm. "Thank you." Nuada shifted his weight, and his eyes slid tightly shut, as if he were in pain. The shallow lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as something that might've been discomfort crossed his features. His breathing hitched. His hand spasmed toward his injured side, but he closed it into a fist. "Ahhh…"

In an instant Dylan remembered Nuada's injuries—still mending ribs, lacerated back—and his somewhat graceless tumble to the floor under her weight. "Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?"

Nuada shook his head. "It's nothing, Dylan—"

"Don't lie to me," she whispered. His eyes snapped open and he stared at her, at the desperation plain on her face; there was nothing she could do to erase it, and she didn't try. In a voice that trembled slightly, Dylan said, "Enough lying. Either by commission or omission, enough lying. Trust me. Let me help you. Are you hurt?"

After a moment, he bowed his head in acquiescence. "My wounds have reopened."

Pushing him toward the desk—he would ruin the leather chair if he bled on it—she commanded, "Sit." He obeyed her without question. Was that because of what he'd seen in her face? Or because of the guilt she could still see plainly in his? Dylan pushed the thought away and went in search of fresh candles.

She found them in a cabinet, replaced the ones that had gone out, and lit one from a dying candle to set flame to the rest. After she built up the fire, Nuada quietly directed her to where he'd stowed the leftover medical supplies from that morning. A few words in the Old Tongue from the prince heated and cleansed cool water from a pitcher Dylan poured into one of the wooden bowls. In the porcelain bowl they'd used at dawn, Dylan poured more of the healing oils. Nuada warmed them with a murmured spell.

Once she'd helped her prince remove his shirt, she carefully unbound the blood-spotted bandages to reveal the lashes. Blood oozed from the deep lacerations. Quickly but gently, she cleansed the fresh blood and rewrapped his wounds with clean bandages. Then she focused on his side. To Dylan's surprise, the muscles over Nuada's mending ribs were swollen, warm and tender. She narrowed her eyes and relayed the information.

"Infection?" Nuada asked. Dylan shook her head.

"I don't think so. Hold on, lemme try something." She pressed her fingers hard into the flesh. Nuada jerked and bit back a startled yelp. "Not infected. There'd be a sort of give in the flesh, and it would change colors. I think when we had our little tumble," a smile curved her mouth when Nuada's lips twitched, "you strained or tore the healing tissue. The only thing is to take care with it. With the spells still on you, it should heal relatively quickly." Dylan brushed her fingers over the hard knot of injured muscle. "The oils will help release some of the tension and reduce the swelling, too."

Dylan dipped her fingers into the pleasantly warm oil and smoothed it over the injury. Her fingers tingled at the contact with both the magic and whatever herbs were in the mixture. The same thing had happened earlier that morning; she wasn't concerned. The sharp, sweet scents of mint and eucalyptus filled the air as she began kneading Nuada's side. He hissed in pain before relaxing slightly as the oils' magic—and the magic of Dylan's clever fingers—took effect. He groaned appreciatively as Dylan loosened the tight, painful knots of inflamed muscle.

She'd been working in silence for some time when Nuada asked abruptly, "Do you feel obligated to do this? Because you're a healer?" She flicked her eyes from her task to his face and back again.

"No," she murmured. "I'm taking care of you because I love you." She felt the shiver go through him. "After all this, you still don't believe me?"

He shook his head. "It isn't that. I…it humbles me that you can forgive, can love me despite…" He sighed. "Why is it that I was trained as a boy and as a youth to give great speeches, yet words fail me when I'm in your presence?"

She laughed. "You do okay," she said, still kneading. "You always manage to impress me."

"Do I?" He asked softly, earnestly. She paused, and a chill swept through him. Then she leaned in to kiss the knife-scar on his bicep. He tensed at the brush of her lips, then sighed and relaxed.

Dylan said, "The benefit I have with you is that I know you. Yes," she added when first he jolted, then winced in pain, "yes, I still feel I can say that, because I understand you, and this plan you had, and why you would…You felt you had no other choice. I've known you believed the humans had to be…dealt with…for a long time, I just never thought you'd actually have a plan to do it. But you're a slave to your people, Nuada. I've always known that. I've seen it in your words, your actions, in the breaking of your heart.

"I know what desperation is," Dylan whispered, extending her arm and rolling back her sleeve to bare the deathly white mound of scar tissue at her elbow. She met his eyes. "I know what desperation is." And she did, didn't she? A woman who was once a twelve-year-old girl, soaked in her own blood, ready to die to save herself…she understood desperation well enough.

"Dylan," he whispered, unable to look away from her. "I am so very sorry for this." For the darkness in him, for the cruelty he was capable of, but also for hiding it, for doubting her love for him. For everything.

She nuzzled his arm with her cheek. "I know. I forgive you."

They were silent for a time, and then he said, "My people…what can be done for them if war comes? What if we cannot win without…without casting aside our honor?"

"I don't know," she said. He closed his eyes, shoulders slumping in defeat. Dylan laid her forehead against the warm, solid muscle of his upper arm and murmured, "But I promise you, we'll figure it out. Together."

.

"I like your plan, my prince," Dierdre murmured, cuddling against the Fomorian's chest. Bres kissed her forehead and drew the blankets over them both. Dierdre stretched like a contented cat and purred, "I have one suggestion to make to truly break Silverlance, however."

Bres arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" He idly stroked the length of her bare arm, from smooth shoulder to delicate wrist. "And what's that?"

"Make recordings," the gancanaugh said, grinning. "And enchant them so that we can see Silverlance's poor, heartbroken little face when he watches them over the weeks and months…it will be lovely to watch him suffer for betraying you."

"Betraying us," Bres muttered. "Betraying our cause. But you're right. What a brilliantly cruel thought; well done, my sweet."

Her smile was like a knife's edge when she said, "Thank you, my prince." And she pulled him in for a greedy kiss.