Chapter 96 - Christmas Eve (Part 2)

Chapter Ninety-Six

Christmas Eve (Part 2)

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A Short Tale of a Painful Question, Crushing the Dreams of Nerds, Being Careful Where One Sticks Their Fingers, a Sister's Entreaty, Rash Words at a Late Hour, Waking to More than Moonlight, Talk of a Miracle, and a Timely Interruption

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Dylan leaned against Nuada's shoulder while Bat and the new kitten curled up together on her lap. The mortal still hadn't settled on a name for the little thing, but she'd only had her for an hour; there was still time. In the meantime, she would simply enjoy cuddling with her prince and listening to the friendly conversation between her siblings, Nuala, the king, and Ledi Polunochnaya. Nuada wasn't saying much, but he'd relaxed his guard enough that he'd slipped an arm around Dylan's shoulders and laid his cheek against her hair. His feral, wildwood scent made her smile; it was so comfortable and comforting. It made her feel so safe.

"So where's the queen?" Francesca asked abruptly, and the comfortable feeling was gone. Beside Dylan, Nuada tensed so tightly she thought he might snap in half. The smiles faded from Nuala, John, and Naya's faces. The king suddenly looked very, very old. Francesca, sensing she might have asked the wrong thing, shrank just a fraction in her seat and shot a panicked look at her younger sister.

Courageous as always, Nuada braved the silence and answered her. "My mother was murdered when Nuala and I were children," he said tonelessly.

Francesca blanched. "Oh. I'm so sorry."

Nuala smiled gently at the waitress and laid a hand on her arm. "It was long ago. The court does not speak of it, so it is understandable that you wouldn't have heard the story."

"What is the story…if you don't mind my asking?" Francesca asked diffidently.

After a long moment, the king said, "Humans killed her," in such a tone that everyone knew not to ask anything more about it. Eventually the conversation regained its normal tone, but Francesca had lost some of her natural vivacity. When the clock chimed midnight, she and John mumbled something about going back to the mortal realm to sleep. Even Dylan was feeling a bit drowsy.

"But you'll miss the kitchen dragons hatching," Nuala protested. All three mortals perked up. Dylan rubbed her eyes with one hand and glanced at her prince, who inclined his head in acknowledgement. "They always hatch on Christmas Eve—we've no idea why—and it should be any time now."

As if on cue, there came a knock on the door. When bade to enter, a pageboy in scarlet and gold came in. Dylan couldn’t help smiling at the sight of an Elven child missing his two front teeth. Bowing to the king, prince, and princess, he said in a lisping voice, "Master Caspar says the kitchen dragons are hatching, Sire. Prince Nuada, Lady Dylan, and Her Ladyship's family are invited to come and see."

Regaining her childlike enthusiasm all at once, Francesca swiveled in her seat to gaze beseechingly at the king. Dylan smiled. What the heck? She thought, and folded her hands under her chin and adopted the same pleading expression as her sister. It was hard to keep a straight face when John decided to join in.

"You look silly sticking your lip out like that," Dylan told her brother.

John stuck his lip out further and somehow managed to say, "Don't judge me. You're doing it, too."

"Why do you want to go?" Nuada asked the mortal man, arching a condescending eyebrow.

"Dude," John replied in his normal voice, straightening out his face. "You have dragons that live in your kitchen. You!" He pointed at his twin, feigning a look of betrayed hurt. "Why wasn’t I informed of this coolness?"

"Your nerd is showing, John-boy," Francesca said. "Only girls can like dragons. No nerds allowed."

John just looked at her for a moment. "Um, I'm sorry, but did they name a candy after you? No. They named a candy after nerds. Thanks. So being a nerd is cool. I will show my nerd proudly and go look at some flying, fire-breathing lizards."

"They can't fly," Nuada said. "Or breathe fire."

Elf and mortal locked eyes, and John demanded in a pained voice, "You just like crushing my dreams, don't you?"

His sisters exchanged glances. The king caught Dylan's eye, nodding permission for her to take her family and go on to the kitchens. She smiled her thanks before taking John's arm. "Come on, Johnny. Let's go see the dragons. No doubt they'll be cool, even if they can't fly. Maybe they have rocket boots."

"Your Disney references aren't helping, Sis," he mumbled, heaving himself to his feet. "They're cute, though. Will I be impressed by these dragons?"

"What Disney reference?" Francesca asked, following suit.

Dylan slung an arm around her twin brother. "John, they're dragons. Not only that, but they probably won't try to eat you. What more do you want from life?"

"What Disney reference?" Francesca repeated.

"I want a million dollars and some of your apple pie," John informed his sister as they made their way toward the door. "And a girlfriend would be nice. Can I have a nice Elven girlfriend? One who won't make fun of me for being a nerd?"

Nuada shot him a cold look. "You would have to work quite a bit harder to be worthy of one of our women, whelp," he said coolly. To the king, he inclined his head. "Good night, Father. Nuala, aren't you coming?"

His sister shook her head. "I'll stay a bit longer with Father. I've seen dragons hatching before; I'll see them again next year. Naya? What about you?"

Dylan tried not to feel relieved when the beautiful Zwezdan noblewoman shook her head. She really shouldn’t have been so nervous about Polunochnaya's presence, but she still felt cold whenever she thought of the woman Nuada had once…what? Loved? Or had it been just a youthful infatuation, serious enough at the time, but coals to the flame when compared to how he felt for Dylan now? Whichever, the mortal was glad Naya was staying behind.

"What Disney reference?" Francesca wailed.

"Good night, Your Majesty," Dylan called from near the entryway. John offered an interrupted bow as Francesca shoved him out the door. The mortal waitress shot the king a jaunty wave and skipped out the door after her brother. Dylan and Nuada followed.

Francesca—who'd given up finding out about the Disney reference—practically skipped down the corridor, chirping, "Dragons, dragons, dragons," with every hopping step. Every fifth step, she would randomly say, "Terrible thunder lizards!"

"Those are dinosaurs, dear," Dylan called from several paces behind.

Francesca flapped a hand at her over her shoulder. "Whatever. Dinosaurs, dragons, same thing."

John raised an eyebrow. "Not really."

"Shush it, Nerd Boy. Do not pester me with details or cloud the issue with facts. They're scaly, ancient, and cold-blooded. So there."

Keeping pace with Dylan, Nuada said, "Dragons are warm-blooded."

"John's right," Francesca lamented. "You do like crushing people's dreams, don't you? Cease your cruel torments." Turning to walk backwards down the hall, she smiled at the Elven prince. "So do you still hate me and think I'm a shrew? Or am I the adorable yet irritating little sister you wish you could hate but secretly love?"

Dark lips curled into a sardonic smile. "My, what a fertile imagination you mortals have."

She grinned. "Dylan's mortal, you know."

Nuada raised an eyebrow. "No. Dylan is herself, nothing more and nothing less." He was rewarded when his lady pressed against him, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. John made a gagging sound. Both prince and mortal psychiatrist ignored him.

"Awww, that's so cute," Francesca cooed. "I think John's gonna barf. You look a little green, Johnny, you okay?"

"Don't make me come up there," John replied, smiling. "I'm not scared of you, Cesca."

"Anymore," Dylan added with a smirk. Her twin chose to ignore her.

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"Lemme see it!" Francesca whined, trying to peer over Nuada's shoulder. He shot her a look over his shoulder and she sank down on her knees, sighing. "I wanna see the egg. Lemme see."

The four of them sat on cushions around the large kitchen hearth. In a wicker basket full of soft, clean straw near the fire sat six eggs twice as large as Dylan's doubled fists. Those six remained quiescent in their basket. The golden light of the fire danced across the textured surface of the eggs. But one egg, separate from the rest, slowly shifted from side to side in Dylan's lap, cradled by her hands and cushioned by the velvet of her skirts.

"It is my gift to Dylan," Nuada reminded her. "A dragon hatching is something special, not to be sullied by your common hands."

Francesca heaved a melancholy sigh. "She's not even going to keep it. It's staying in the kitchen, for crying out loud. Why can't it hatch in my lap?"

"Let Dylan alone to enjoy the hatching," Nuada told the mortal absently; his gaze was also riveted on the gently rocking egg. "If you cannot control yourself, there are other eggs you can look at."

"Nuada, it's okay," the lady in question murmured without looking at her prince. Her gaze was drawn as if magnetized to the large, pebbly oval cradled in her hands. Its sandy texture was almost like rough velvet under her fingertips. It rocked in her grip occasionally, but hadn't yet started shaking violently—which Caspar Kabouter had told them would mean it was getting ready to hatch. "Francesca can look at this one."

Francesca cried, "See? I can look! She said I can! I love dragons, let me see!"

"Cesca," John murmured. "Your nerd is showing."

"Oh!" Dylan cried before her older sister could make a snappy retort. Dylan sat bolt upright in front of the fire, gaze fixed on the egg now rocking ferociously back and forth in her lap. A sharp tap-tap-tapping came from inside the shell. If Dylan listened, she thought she could hear the faintest peep coming from inside, too.

Everyone leaned in, watching the shaking egg. After this, the others would hatch in order of being laid, but for now all their attention was fixed on this one dragon egg. Dylan held her breath as a thin crack appeared in the shell. Another crack spider-webbed out from it, and another, and another. The cracks crept across the shell's surface until a few of them formed a lopsided triangle. With one more sharp jerk to one side, the triangle popped away from the egg and clattered to the stone floor of the kitchen, leaving a dark hole in the egg.

Hesitantly through the hole came a pair of tiny, silver-edged nostrils at the end of a long, jewel-purple snout. John made an exultant noise. Francesca cooed. Nuada smiled, clearly pleased. Dylan held her breath as another piece of shell broke away. A silver claw poked out near the snout and flexed. A faint cheep came from the dark confines of the egg.

"Ohhh," Dylan whispered. "Ohhh, look at you, working so hard. Come on, little one. Come on out. I can't wait to see you. Come on. You can do it."

Suddenly the egg bounced several times in Dylan's lap. Then a dozen tiny pieces of shell broke off, tumbling to land on the floor with soft tinks. Three more claws and a chubby little tail thrust out of the holes. Then the dragon went limp. Dylan made a small sound.

"She is merely resting," Nuada murmured reassuringly. "Being born is difficult work for such a little thing. Just wait." He laid his hand against Dylan's back, feeling the tense excitement radiating from her. "Once she's had a moment to breathe, she'll go back to breaking out."\

"How do you know it's a girl?" Dylan asked in a whisper. Nuada pointed at the tiny claws poking out of the little holes. When the mortal looked closer, she saw the serrations on the claws' undersides.

"Male dragons are typically the hunters with mated pairs," the prince explained as the little purple tale began twitching back and forth. "Their claws are smooth, more for raking and piercing than anything else. Female kitchen dragons actually use their claws to cut up their kills, like knives. It's rather fascinating to watch, if a bit messy. Ah, here she goes, trying once more. Do not let the egg roll out of your lap or she could be hurt, Dylan."

"I won't," the mortal promised fervently. Her entire being seemed focused on the rocking egg. "I've got her."

Bits and pieces of shell chipped away as the baby began hammering at the inside of the egg with her egg-tooth. Her teeny claws chipped at the edges of the holes as she flexed them.

There was an indignant chirping sound. Then came a quick shake, and long crack spread between the holes, linking them like a chain. With another annoyed peep, the top part of the shell broke away from the rest and sailed to the floor with a clack.

A silver and purple baby dragon about the size of a six-week-old kitten sat in the plush nest of Dylan's velvet skirts, looking around as if it was more than a little confused. Tiny, iridescent lavender wings unfurled from its back and stretched out, trembling with the effort of being held open. Dylan looked at Nuada.

"Her wings are wet and very fragile right now," the prince explained. John and Francesca, also absorbed with the little baby, kept glancing between him and the dragon hatchling as he spoke. "Her instinct is to dry them out. The fire is warm; it will help rid her wings of moisture from inside the egg. If her mother hadn’t been killed by a passing stray dog, the she would clean the hatchling up and help the wings dry. As it is…" Nuada reached back to Caspar, who'd been watching the prince's lady with approval. The kitchen sprite handed the prince a very soft cloth. Nuada gave it to Dylan. "She will let you pat her wings dry, but you must be very, very gentle."

With Nuada's supervision and softly-spoken instructions, Dylan carefully dried the baby's fragile wings while she lay in the mortal's lap and rested from the laborious effort of hatching. Once the wings were dry and she'd dozed for a few moments, the hatchling lifted its head and focused enormous gray eyes on Dylan's face. Opening her mouth wide, she closed her eyes and warbled mournfully.

"Don't stick your fingers in her mouth," Nuada cautioned when Francesca reached for the baby. "She wants food. She has to learn she can't eat humans."

"So what do we give her?" Dylan asked softly, smiling at the little dragon.

Nuada sighed. "She's too small to catch mice yet, so she needs meat from somewhere else. Caspar, do any of your boys—ah. Good man." The prince accepted a plate of meat scraps from a waiting kitchen boy and handed it to Dylan. "Be careful. If she bites you, the kitchen staff will have to spend weeks teaching her not to try to take bites out of helpless scullery maids and pot boys."

While Dylan carefully fed the little beauty some scraps of Christmas ham and turkey, John turned to Nuada. "You guys use dragons to catch mice?"

The prince raised an eyebrow. "Of course. Every well-to-do household has at least one mouser, one ratter, and one kitchen dragon."

John just looked at Nuada for a moment. "I understood the kitchen dragon part. What's a mouser and what's a ratter?"

"A cat and a dog that catch and kill vermin," Dylan supplied, still intent on feeding the baby dragon. "A palace like this would have a ton of cats and rat terriers to deal with it. Dragons are new, though." She smiled at Nuada as the baby snatched a strip of ham from her fingers. "Is your father's carriage pulled by pegasi or bicorns or anything like that?"

Nuada smiled. "Phookas, actually."

Dylan matched his smile with her own. "Why am I not surprised?"

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It was on their way back to the royal suites that Nuala caught Nuada's attention, calling to him through their rarely-used link. Nuada stopped short at the familiar touch against his mind like a flutter of butterfly wings. Sister?

Brother, you must go and speak to Father.

Why? Nuada asked silently even as he escorted Dylan through the door of her sitting room. Is he all right?

Nuala hesitated, sending uneasy whispers down the crown prince's spine. He focused on reading his sister's mental well-being. She was worried, but not frightened; unhappy, but not morose. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t too serious. But she'd reached out to him on their well-worn telepathic link, which she hadn't done willingly in a long, long time. Why would she do that now?

Father sorrows, Nuala murmured, breaking his thoughts. He mourns for Máthair, and he will not speak to me, will not let me comfort him. Can you do it?

You think he wants me? Nuada asked incredulously. What makes you think so?

You two have become so much closer since Dylan's arrival, was the astonishing reply. Surely you can reach him where I cannot. Perhaps he feels that, as a warrior, he cannot show me his tears. Perhaps as my father he feels he cannot mourn in front of me. I don't know. Talk to him. Please, Brother.

I do not think it wise, my sister. His father wouldn’t welcome his presence, especially if Balor was thinking of Cethlenn. Didn't Nuala realize how much the king resented the fact that Nuada had survived when the queen had not? Nuada had thought it obvious to anyone with eyes. Perhaps not. Father has not asked for me. I would not wish to intrude—

Must you be asked before you will help someone who loves you? Nuala demanded.

The prince stopped at the threshold of Dylan's bedroom as his lady walked in and sank onto the bed, reaching for her hairbrush. The sting of his twin sister's words scorched him like a flame. Put that way, he sounded callous and uncaring. He loved his father, didn't she see that? But Balor wouldn't welcome his presence.

Brother, please. Father is so sad.

Nuada carefully avoided Dylan's questioning eyes as he turned to gaze at nothing. Swallowing, he murmured, I think it ill-advised to impose my company upon our father…but for you, Sister, I will do nearly anything. I will go.

Thank you, Nuada.

Nuada approached Dylan, who watched him with obvious curiosity. He leaned down and brushed his lips across hers, a chaste sweetness that made him wish he'd refused his twin's request. Then he said, "I will return shortly. In case you fall asleep, I bid you goodnight, my beautiful one." He kissed her forehead.

"Goodnight, Prince Charming."

He closed his eyes briefly as he walked out of the room. Prince Charming. She loved him so much. That in and of itself was a small miracle. He would hold onto that love and let everything else occur as it willed. He would need to remember that love if his father was in a dark mood over memories of the queen.

Máthair, Nuada thought as he strode down the corridor toward the king's suite. Máthair…Áthair misses you so. We all miss you, all three of us, but Áthair most of all. He is a broken man since your death. Máthair, can you ever forgive me for what happened? Can you ever?

Perhaps the queen already had forgiven him in whatever afterlife had been given to her. Nuada didn't know. He only knew his father hadn’t forgiven him. He doubted Balor ever would.

.

Nuada found his father leaning heavily against the desk in his private study, breathing hard. A shudder ran through the king. Nuada knew what Balor was thinking of—Cethlenn, her smile and her laugh, the sound of her voice, the fragrance of her perfume…the way she'd looked when Wink had brought her body back from the spot of horror where she'd been butchered. Nuada hadn't been conscious when the troll warrior had carried queen, prince, and princess back to Renvyle, but he'd picked up the memory during a brief, accidental mind-touch with his father sometime later.

"Áthair?" Nuada ventured cautiously, uncertain whether the king would spurn him or not. That had been Balor's habit the entirety of Nuada's recollection, ever since the queen's death…but Nuala had asked him through their link—something she was normally loath to do—to go to their father, to make sure he was all right. And even now, he could deny his twin sister almost nothing.

Balor straightened abruptly. Passing a hand over his face, he turned to his son and offered a wan smile. "My son, you should be celebrating the holiday with your lady, not worrying about an old man."

"Nuala was concerned," the prince murmured. "Are you well?"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course," he replied. "I was simply…thinking, that's all."

Wondering if it was a mistake, Nuada hazarded, "About Máthair?" After an excruciating moment, Balor nodded. "Because of what Dylan's sister said earlier tonight?" Another nod. "I do not think Lady Francesca meant to cause you pain, Father."

"I know," the king murmured, still with that sad smile. "She dislikes me, but not that much. It is simply…very difficult to think of your mother. She would have been proud of you," he added, startling the prince. "For abandoning your vengeance. For adhering to the treaty, choosing honor over selfishness. She would have been so proud of you, my son."

Conflicting slices of pain slashed across Nuada's heart at his father's words. It hurt that his father still believed he'd wanted the war for revenge, not out of necessity. How could Balor believe that of him? And it hurt to think that his mother would have been just as horrified and sickened by his hatred for and disgust with the children of Adam as his father was. It was one of the things that haunted him late in the night—would his mother have been ashamed of him, of the man he'd become? Now that he'd forsworn honor to be with Dylan, his father claimed Cethlenn would have been proud. What if he'd had the courage to defend the Fair Folk as they needed to be defended? Would she still have been proud? Would his mother have understood why he felt he needed to go to war?

They needed to get off this subject; thinking of Cethlenn fogged Nuada's mind with regret, with grief, with rage and sick horror that churned in his belly like poison. He'd never spoken of what had actually happened that day with his father. They'd danced around it, skirting it like a pool of acid in the middle of their conversations, but the king didn't want to hear a first-hand account of his wife's murder. Nuada couldn't blame him. He would have given nearly anything to forget the sight of his mother screaming and struggling beneath the weight of a rutting human beast.

"Father," Nuada managed to say, somehow keeping his voice steady despite the nausea suddenly twisting in his gut. "I need to speak to you about something."

Balor raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"It is about Nuala. She cannot be allowed to marry Bres."

Aged amber eyes widened and the king's brows rose nearly to his hairline. "I see. Have you spoken to your sister about your concerns?"

Nuada shook his head. "Dylan wished me to speak to you first. I thought it a wise course."

Now those pale brows furrowed in confusion. "Dylan? What has your lady to do with it?"

How to explain Dylan's sixth sense to his father without giving away one of the advantages they had over the old king? He would have to couch his words carefully. Speaking with caution, Nuada said, "Dylan possesses almost preternatural instincts for danger. For evil. She recognizes evil when it draws near. She has sensed this in Bres…the same sort of evil as the men who murdered Máthair."

Balor leaned against his desk and folded his arms across his chest, eyeing his son sternly. "That is a grave accusation, my son, especially against a man who has always been our friend and ally. Take care you do not speak with undue haste."

"Father, I'm not a child," Nuada said sharply. "I am not a fool, either. If I was not certain, I would not speak to you about it. Bres is evil. He cannot be allowed even a foothold in this kingdom. He cannot be allowed to have Nuala. Bres cannot be trusted with the well-being of either our people or their princess."

"What proof do you have, other than your lady's 'instinct for evil?'"

Remembering the terrible cold that had clamped down around Nuada when he'd read Dylan's memory of her confrontation with the prince of Cíocal, the prince replied, "I need nothing more than that."

There was a measured pause, then the king said softly, "Forgive my cynicism, Crown Prince, but you claim your lady possesses an innate sense for evil when it comes before her, that she can recognize evil when confronted by it…yet she has given her heart completely and utterly to you, even before you gave up your quest for the Crown piece."

Nuada felt his eyes widen as the word evil echoed in his skull. His father still thought that of him? Still? After all the concessions he'd made, after all the ways he'd compromised his honor and integrity by capitulating to the king's wishes, Balor thought him evil?

"You still condemn me," Nuada said softly, surprised his voice didn't shake. He didn't bother to mask the hurt underlying his words. "Why?"

"You sought the slaughter of countless innocents," Balor said gently.

Nuada shook his head. "I gave up my quest."

"But you still desired that outcome in the first place, abandoned or not," the king replied. What made it all worse, Nuada thought, was that the king's expression was gentle, almost understanding, like a parent telling their child a hard truth they were sorry for. "How can I trust your lady's instincts when they seem so skewed?"

What was he supposed to say, when he'd wondered the same thing? Why didn't the Spirit warn Dylan of the darkness in Nuada's heart? Or had it, and she'd simply ignored it out of love for him?

"You would have to ask Dylan about her perception of me, Majesty," Nuada said eventually. "I cannot speak for her in all things. But my king, I implore you…for the sake of this kingdom and my sister, Nuala cannot be allowed to marry Bres. You must break her engagement. It is not as if she is formally, publically betrothed; surely you can simply have a quiet word with Bres."

Balor quirked a brow at his son. "Why should I do this based on nothing more than your word?"

A brief pause, then Nuada asked softly, "Do you not trust my judgment in this, Father?"

"No," Balor replied, not unkindly. "When it comes to your sister, your judgment can rarely be trusted, my son. And I know your lady has her own prejudices against Bres for what happened at her dance lesson with Cíaran—"

"That has nothing to do with this," Nuada protested. "Dylan has no prejudice against Bres; she's afraid of him. He threatened her. Threatened both of us. Why shouldn't she fear him?"

Balor shook his head. "She simply misunderstood," the king said. Nuada's jaw went slack and his brows rose. "Crown Prince Bres spoke to me of his conversation with Lady Dylan already. He merely intended to warn her that her choice to wed you may not be looked upon favorably by all of our people. You have known this to be true for some time yourself, Nuada. She needed to be warned of the dangers that will arise once you are wed. I confess, I was surprised you hadn't appraised her of them before this."

How was it that his father could treat him this way, make him feel like a little boy in need of chastisement? Struggling to maintain his dignity and refusing to let Balor put him on the defensive, the Elven warrior replied, "I have. She knows the danger. She is neither foolish nor blind; she knows that the path we have chosen is a difficult one, but that has nothing to do with what Bres said to—"

"I shall not break your sister's betrothal," Balor interrupted. Nuada's mouth snapped closed with an audible click of teeth. The first whisper of real anger slithered through his blood. "The match is a good one politically, uniting our kingdom with Cíocal upon my death and the death of King Elatha. Nuala is happy with the match. She and Bres are fond of each other. There is no reason to disrupt your sister's happiness."

"Father," Nuada protested. He wondered if this sharp edge of frustration had afflicted Dylan the night before when she'd tried to explain to her prince just why she was so afraid of the Fomorian crown prince. "Father, Bres is evil!"

"Yet he is your friend," Balor said softly.

Nuada shook his head. "My friend no longer, Sire. He is my enemy, and knows it."

"Your enmity should have no bearing on your joy for your sister's upcoming nuptials," the king said sharply. "She is happy. Bres is happy. I and Elatha are both pleased with the match. You and your lady are the only ones distressed by these events. You claim Bres is your enemy, that he is an evil man, yet until only a few days ago, he was one of your dearest friends. Is your loyalty such a flimsy thing, then?"

Stung, the prince drew himself up and forced himself to meet the king's golden eyes. In a voice devoid of any emotion, Nuada said, "My loyalty is first and foremost to my king and my country, then to my family, and then—and only then—to my friends and comrades."

"If you are loyal first to your king, then we have nothing more to discuss, do we? I have said Nuala and Bres shall marry. That should be all you require." When Nuada opened his mouth to protest again, Balor added, "Of course we both know your first loyalty is not to me, don't we?"

The stinging words bit even deeper now. Baffled by his father's hostility, Nuada shook his head in confusion. "Why do you say these things? I am only trying to do what is best for Nuala. For our kingdom. I am trying to protect her."

With a sigh, the king moved around his desk to sink into the plush chair. "Protect Nuala? Just as your desire to protect the Fae led you to go against my orders, abandon your kingdom to your foolish exile, and seek out the means to slaughter an entire race? Your wish to protect what you profess to love led you to seek the deaths of countless innocents? And when you acted to protect your lady, you broke the treaty that honor holds us to, murdered humans after I expressly forbade such an act, and expect your supposed intentions to excuse you?"

Nuada stared at his father, who gazed impassively back. "You're…still angry about the human assassins?"

"Yes, I'm angry," the king flared. "Your pride and temper have put me in bad positions many times in the past, and still you have yet to learn to control yourself. That same pride and temper have brought you into my study now. You are a man grown, not a feckless child! It is time you began acting like it!"

He could have spat back words at the king about how if he was a child, then Balor was an old man, a fool, a coward. If Nuada hadn’t learned to act like a man, it could have been said that his father was to blame for failing to teach him honor and duty. But it was Christmas Eve, and Nuada loved his father. He didn’t want to hurt him.

Fighting for a calm tone, he said only, "Father, this has nothing to do with pride—"

"Oh, no?" Balor demanded. "Bres upsets your lady, the woman bound to you, and then you come to me and say your sister cannot wed him because his heart is tainted with evil, when mere days ago you told me that Bres was a good man? And I am to believe that your pride has nothing to do with it?"

All of Nuada's good intentions were being forcibly set at naught, it seemed. Raking a hand through his hair, the prince growled, "You cannot possibly be serious."

The king settled back in his chair. Nuada noted with distant unease when Balor rubbed his left shoulder as if it pained him. "I am serious. I'll not allow you to interfere with your sister's happiness. I have heard the rumors, Nuada."

Cold fury washed through the prince. Gossip again. He loathed gossip. He'd been at its center in the palace since his mother's death; he despised rumor-mongering. "What rumors?" He demanded icily, though he already knew. Rumors of unnatural desire of various sorts had followed him throughout his life, his enemies' way of discrediting him. And didn't his betrothal to Dylan only confirm such things? Many Fair Folk considered a fae consorting with a human to be worse than rutting with farm animals. What were other unnatural appetites compared to lusting for a human?

Balor's gaze didn't waver as he met Nuada's infuriated copper gaze. "You know what rumors."

"They're not true," Nuada said immediately, voice quaking with rage. "I love Dylan, and no other. This gossip has nothing to do with my objections to Nuala's betrothal. Bres is not our ally. Nuala cannot be happy with such a man."

"I have already made my position clear, Crown Prince."

"With all due respect, Majesty," the prince replied in a voice carved from jagged ice, "it is your duty as Nuala's father and king to protect her—from any threat, including—"

"How dare you speak to me of duty!" Balor suddenly shouted, surging to his feet. Nuada was so startled he actually took a step back from the desk. Slapping both hands onto the desk's surface—the wooden hand making a hard thwok against the hawthorn—Balor raged, "Do not speak to me of my duty to protect your sister! My daughter! I know my duty in that regard, Crown Prince! I have not forgotten it!"

Cautiously, well aware that somehow the ground beneath his feet had shifted seismically so that every step in the conversation could well be his last, Nuada said, "I did not mean to imply that you—"

"I need no reminding from you!" Balor snarled, eyes flashing molten bronze.

The words sliced away the rest of what Nuada meant to say, leaving him in stunned silence. No reminding from him. No reminding of a man's duty to protect his family…as he, Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, had failed to do that long ago day when his mother had been murdered and Nuala so badly hurt. Was that what his father meant?

Nuada took an involuntary step back. He swallowed. It felt as if his heart were hammering in his throat. He tasted blood and wondered vaguely if he'd bitten the inside of his cheek or his tongue somehow.

"From me?" Nuada echoed.

Balor's narrow-eyed glare was like an iron dirk in Nuada's belly. In the back of his mind, as if from a great distance away, he heard his mother screaming. He smelled the phantom odor of Elven blood and fought not to retch. Gods…gods, no. It hadn’t been his fault, it hadn't…

"I will not, tonight of all nights, sit here and listen to you tell me how I should protect Nuala from a man's predations. I will not. Not when I have had to listen to you speak of my wife and how she was butchered by human animals as if no one was at fault, when we both know that you—"

"Don't," Nuada whispered, the word sharp and cold in his mouth. "How dare you? The fault was—"

"We both know who is to blame for your mother's death," Balor said savagely, looking away. "There is nothing either of us can do about it."

There were no words Nuada could find to shove away what his father was saying. It was one thing to know that Balor blamed him for Cethlenn's murder, but something else entirely for the king to actually say so. Something sick and vicious rose up in the prince's throat, and he found he couldn't swallow it back. His eyes stung, a thousand needle-pricks, and moisture gathered in his eyes, as if the wind were blowing into his face.

He hastily blinked the wetness away. Nodded once, because he still couldn't find any words. Without even bowing, he turned and strode quickly out of his father's private study, unable to stop his trembling. He didn't speak. Without a backward glance, he walked out of the room, out of the royal suite, and went where he could be alone. He would not fall apart in front of his father. He could not.

He could not.

.

John and Francesca, both pleasantly exhausted, looked up as Nuada strode into Dylan's sitting room.

Francesca opened her mouth to greet him, but something in her sister's fiancé's face strangled the words before she had a chance to actually make a sound. Without speaking or even looking at them, Nuada crossed the room and went into Dylan's bedroom.

"What was that about?" John mumbled when the door swung shut behind the prince.

.

Dylan somehow managed to pry her eyes open even though sleep and medicinal drowsiness dragged at her. Something was calling her back to the waking world. She had to wake up, and she had to do it now. Something was wrong. She had to wake up and fix it.

Blearily shoving her hair from her face, the mortal woman sat up. The bed didn’t so much as creak under her shifting weight. She swiped a hand over her face and yawned. She was so tired. Why was she awake? Because she had to be…for some reason. Why? Something was wrong. Dylan blinked and peered at the window. There was a shadow in front of the window. Why didn't that freak her out?

Then she realized why, and she came instantly awake. Her heart gave a lurch in her chest. An odd stinging swept across her eyes and she blinked to shove back what felt suspiciously like tears. A heavy weight settled over her, like a thick shroud of icy fog. She knew without having to stop and think about it that it came from her prince.

Nuada stood in front of the window, head bowed so that the moonlight through the window turned his hair to luminous silver. He'd thrown his tunic on the floor and stood in his shirtsleeves. His shoulders shook silently. Being careful to make the usual amount of noise, Dylan slid out of bed and approached, laying her hand on the sharp ridge of Nuada's shoulder blade. She felt him quiver like a wild horse. He made no sound, and he didn't turn to her or lift his head. He simply stood in the moonlight with his back to the mortal he loved, one hand pressed to the glass.

"Nuada?" Dylan asked softly, gently. Nuada's fingers curled and his hand against the window convulsed into a fist. He thumped it against the glass. His head drooped lower. Voice still gentle, she repeated, "Nuada? What is it?" His other hand came up to press palm-down against the window. A low sound of pain ripped out of him. Dylan's eyes widened and she drew closer. "Hey. It's okay."

He shook his head, still refusing to look at her. "No." The word was a whisper of shadow in the dark room.

"Yes," Dylan whispered, stroking down the length of his back in an attempt to soothe him. A sigh shuddered through him. "It's okay, mo airgeadach. Whatever happened, it's okay. I'm here. It's okay. Will you look at me?" When he said nothing, she added, "Please?"

At last he turned to her, and her heart cracked more than a little at the sight of the diamond trails of tears coursing down his pale, scarred cheeks. Dylan's mouth fell open slightly at the sight of those silent tears, the utter devastation twisting his features. Raising her hands, she framed his face, letting her thumbs whisper caresses over the royal scar carved across his wet cheeks. Nuada closed his eyes at her touch.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," he rasped, covering her slender wrists with his hands. He twisted his head so that his hair hung in a half-curtain between them. "Nothing. Go back to bed, dearest. It's nothing. It doesn't matter."

Dylan shook her head. "Yes, it does." Stepping closer to him, so that she could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt and her pajama shirt, she whispered oh so gently, "It matters." Dropping her hands, Dylan slid her arms around him and held him tightly. He stiffened for a fraction of an instant before melting into her embrace. His arms came up to wrap around her, holding her tight to him, and Nuada buried his face in the crook of her neck. She stroked his hair. "It's okay," she murmured sleepily. "It's okay."

His sigh shivered warm across her neck, ruffling her hair. His fingers tangled in her hair as he shifted and pressed his forehead hard against the side of her throat. He didn't weep the way he had the night of his terrible nightmare, but he clung to Dylan just as tightly.

"What happened?" Dylan asked, stroking his hair still. "Tell me."

Nuada's voice came muffled, "Nuala asked me to speak to my father. He was…grieving. For my mother. We all grieve for her still; that wound will never heal, I fear. My father is a broken man without her. We talked, we…we argued. He blames me still. I had hoped…hoped that after all this time, after all I have done to try and please him, he…he would have forgiven…but I was wrong."

"Blames you? Blames you for what?"

The words were a whisper of heartbreak when Nuada replied, "My mother's murder. It was my fault. It was my fault, Dylan. He knows it, I know it. It was my fault."

Dylan forcibly swallowed the anger that erupted in the pit of her stomach like a fireball. What in the world had Balor said to Nuada to reduce him to this? Something about his mother, about how he blamed Nuada—which was just stupid, not to mention cruel—but what, exactly? Dylan was going to find out when she went to Balor and ripped him to pieces for doing this to her prince.

Want to spend some part of the holiday with your son, my dainty little foot, she thought venomously. Oh, you are dead, you scumbag! Truce is over, I'm coming after you. You're dead, you jerk.

But now wasn't the time to lash the king with her rage. Now was the time to comfort her prince, who had loved his mother so much, and seen her so brutally murdered…and whose father apparently blamed him for it all. Like Nuada, she'd thought things were smoothing out between king and prince, but obviously they'd both been wrong.

She said none of this. She simply held him while he murmured, "I never wanted her to come to harm, Dylan, never. I loved her. She was my mother. I loved her. I would give nearly anything to get her back. How can he not know this?"

"Maybe," the psychiatrist replied gently, "Francesca's question stirred up more negative feelings than the king was willing to deal with tonight, or capable of dealing with. He may have said things he didn't mean. Family does that often, my love, you know that. We've done it to each other often enough, haven't we?"

Nuada nodded, but she could tell he wasn’t buying it. Neither was she. Even in all of the vicious arguments Dylan had had with her sisters, they'd never accused her of being at fault for things beyond her control. She'd had the option all those times of lying about the faeries, of pretending they weren't there, and she'd chosen not to; so in a way, the fallout was her fault, for doing what was right. And she'd known things would be difficult if she refused to back down. But Nuada hadn't known those monsters were waiting for him, Nuala, and Queen Cethlenn that day, and it hadn't been his decision to only bring a couple guards with them, or even venture out to the woods. Cethlenn had been the adult; it had been her choice.

A dull ache had begun to whisper through her bad knee; she'd been on her feet a lot today already, and standing made her damaged joint twinge. When Dylan shifted, however, Nuada tightened his grip on her.

"Let me hold you a few moments longer," he murmured against her throat. He hadn't pulled his face away from the hollow between her neck and shoulder yet. A soft flutter tickled the inside of Dylan's stomach at the caress of his breath on her skin. "I cannot bear to go back to my own suite alone just yet. You comfort me…and my sister presses me for answers I cannot give her."

"So just tell her to buzz off," Dylan replied with forced lightness. "If you don't want to talk, she shouldn't force you."

"She can feel my emotions," Nuada said. "She knows I am upset, knows it has something to do with our parents, and wants to make it right. I think she will abandon that desire once she finds out I attempted to break her engagement to Bres tonight."

Dylan winced. "I take it that didn't go very well." Nuada shook his head. "Wonderful. You know what? Don't worry about the thing with Prince Bres." At that, the prince jerked back to stare down at her. Moonlight poured through the window, illuminating his baffled expression. "I'll take care of it," she added. "Things are tense between you and your dad right now and we don't need him getting madder at you just because…just because. So I'll talk to him tomorrow."

"Mo duinne, I would rather you left it to me—"

"I can handle it," she interrupted. "Besides, your dad has a soft spot for me, being human and all. Let me try in the morning. And you know if you don't want to be alone, we can stay together. You can stay with me for a bit. I don't mind just snuggling with you on the couch in front of the fireplace until dawn, though I might fall asleep before then. But it's tradition in my family that we stay up all night Christmas Eve to wait for dawn on Christmas Day. When we would visit my aunt and uncle in Pennsylvania, it was even better, because they had a small farm and livestock."

Nuada's brows furrowed and he cocked his head, bemused. "Why would that make it better? Did you not have chores and such, even on Christmas morning?"

"Oh, yeah, we did, but that wasn't so bad. No, the fun part was staying up to wait for 'the miracle.' Our parents told us about it when we were little and we always wanted to see it, but we never did—I think because it's bogus, but it was fun to watch out for, like Santa Claus."

As she'd hoped, her words turned Nuada's mind from the king and his cruelty. The prince asked, "What miracle do you mean?"

A fond smile curved her mouth. "Here, why don't we sit down?" Taking his hands, she drew him toward the bedroom door that led to her sitting room. "Just to warn you, I think Eimh and Sétanta know there's something up with you." She pointed at the crack of light under the door. Two doggy heads pressed to the carpet so woeful eyes could peer under the door. Nuada smiled as the hounds whined mournfully. "They're probably out there with squeaky balls because they're worried about you and want to cheer you up."

Nuada nodded as if this made perfect sense. "They are very good dogs," he murmured. "That is why I chose them for you."

Dylan frowned. His voice was soft, melancholy. She wouldn't be able to take away this pain his father had inflicted on him, she knew that, but even helping him to forget it for a time would be hard. And perhaps she wasn’t in the proper frame of mind to do so anyway. At the moment she wanted to drop-kick the king over a cliff.

Instead of committing regicide, she slid her arms around Nuada's arm and hugged him. "I love you," she said. "You are my favorite person in the history of ever."

A brief but warm smile appeared on his handsome face. "A fact that continues to humble and astonish me every time I am reminded of it," he replied. Caressing her cheek, he added, "I adore you. Now tell me of this miracle."

They made their way through the door and toward the sitting room couch. Eimh and Sétanta sat on the floor in front of the sitting room hearth, both of them holding rubber balls sporting obvious chew-marks in their mouths. When the prince and his lady walked into the room, the hound pups dropped their balls and heaved themselves to their feet, trotting over to the prince with lolling tongues and wagging tails. Nuada knelt, oblivious to the risk of dog hair on his holiday finery, and rubbed Eimh's silky head and the side of Sétanta's neck.

*Oh, Master,* the she-hound said, bouncing on her hind paws a little so she could get her pale upper body draped across Nuada's bent legs. *We love you so much.*

*Yes,* Sétanta added, pressing his head against Nuada's knee in a shameless entreaty for even more pets. *We love you a lot. You are the best master in the world. Do you want to play Ball with us? You can throw it and we will fetch it. And we will be careful because we are inside.*

*Or should we sit on you?* Eimh asked diffidently, laying her head on the large white paws on Nuada's knees. *We can do that too because we love you.*

Nuada sighed and laid a hand each on Eimh and Sétanta's heads. "Sit with me and my lady awhile."

*Yes, Master,* the puppies chorused, wagging their tails even harder. They walked to the couch, then looked back at Nuada and Dylan expectantly as if to say, "Well, come on!"

Smiling a little, the mortal and her prince sat together in the center of the couch. Eimh bounced onto the cushions and dropped her head in Dylan's lap. Sétanta took a more aggressive approach, plopping his entire body across Nuada's legs, then rolling onto his back to offer his belly for a scratch. Then he fixed the Elven warrior with a look of such potent pleading that the prince laughed.

"Cheeky little beggar," Nuada murmured, rubbing Sétanta's black-furred stomach. The dog made a happy noise, but said nothing, only rolled and writhed in canine ecstasy while Nuada petted him.

"So, the miracle," Dylan said when Nuada began to relax into simply petting the hounds. "So you know the story of the birth of Christ, how there was no room for Mary and Joseph in the inn, so they were in the stable when He was born, right? Which means the very first to lay eyes on him, aside from his mother and her husband, were the animals in the stable. The story goes that because they made obeisance to Him, and loved Him, they were blessed with the miracle—that all the animals everywhere in the world kneel down and pray in human voices at midnight on Christmas Eve.

"It's nonsense, of course, but we didn't know that when we were kids. We always wanted to catch the cows talking. Never happened, though. We always fell asleep too soon. There are all kinds of lovely stories about it, though. Like The Stable Rat, I've always been fond of that one, and Annabelle's Wish. That one's sweet."

Nuada said nothing, merely stroked Sétanta's belly while the dog drowsed in the prince's lap. Dylan rubbed between Eimh's floppy ears. Both dogs' tails wagged slowly; they were only puppies, and were starting to drift off into sleep after the long night.

Dylan kept her eye on her prince as the hounds fell deeper and deeper into sleep. Just the presence of the hounds seemed to soothe him. She remembered him saying once that the kennels and the stables had always been a refuge for him.

They'd been sitting in silence for almost half an hour when Nuada reached over and gripped Dylan's hand. She glanced over at him and offered a smile. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to each of her knuckles. Fluttering warmth flooded her stomach. She ducked her head, suddenly feeling oddly shy. Sometimes he did that to her. Just being with him made her feel like a girl on her very first date. Dylan smiled at her prince.

"Dylan, I have something for you for Christmas. Do you want it at midnight, or do you want it in the morning?"

Anticipation shivered through her. "What is it?"

"That would be telling, my love."

"Cheater," she muttered good-naturedly.

Nuada feigned outrage. "Cheating? I? You have impugned the honor of the crown prince of Bethmoora, my lady. Such insults shall not go unpunished."

Smirking, she replied, "You have a dog on your lap, hot shot. What are you gonna do?"

The prince's lip curled into a smug smile. Without looking at either hound, he said in a commanding tone, "Sétanta, Eimh!" Both dogs' heads lifted sleepily from their respective laps to focus on the prince. "Down." The puppies rolled off their humans to plop on the floor. Pointing at the door, Nuada added, "Guard." They trotted to the door leading to the hall and plunked themselves in front of the threshold, pointedly looking away from the two-leggers in the room. Nuada smirked at Dylan. "You were saying, my lady?"

"I was saying that I should never have said anything that could be taken as a slight against your honor, Your Highness—" In the middle of her statement, Dylan launched herself off the couch and darted across the room…or tried. Unfortunately, Nuada was clever, and knew his quarry well. Before she could rise more than a few inches off the couch, his arm was around her waist and the Elven warrior was hauling her back to the cushions.

"I have you fast, milady," Nuada informed her, holding her tight against him. Dylan could feel the muscles in his arms tensing as he locked her in place. "You'll get nowhere without first offering me some token of apology for your insults."

She twisted around to look him full in the face. "Um, 'scuse me, but don't you owe me for pardoning A'du'la'di earlier today?"

"You would have done so anyway," Nuada said. "My offer was merely a formality."

"Uh-huh. Cheater."

One slender blond brow rose. "Say that again," the prince commanded in a dangerously low tone, bending his head to her. His hair brushed against her cheek, tickling.

Dylan smiled. "Cheater."

"I do not believe I heard you correctly, my lady," Nuada murmured silkily.

Looking him dead in the eyes, Dylan smiled wider and enunciated very carefully, "Cheat-er."

"You'll pay for that," he growled and captured her mouth. The tension of the past half-hour caught up to her then as Nuada's hand came around to cup the back of her head. His fingers tunneled into her hair as Dylan pressed close. His mouth was velvet and warmth as it molded to hers, pressing in just a little.

Nuada never asked for more than she was willing to give, but he always offered all of himself. Dylan could taste that in his kiss as his lips moved leisurely over her own. Pulse pounding, lips tingling, she sighed into the kiss as warmth and golden light flooded beneath her skin. Her fingers tangled in the collar of his silk shirt as she yearned toward him. He was warm, so warm, and solid and strong against her. His hair whispered against her cheeks and neck as it fell around her in a silvery curtain.

Dylan felt herself being tilted backward and clung to Nuada for balance. The arm of the couch braced against her back as Nuada moved over her, fingertips caressing the side of her neck, mouth so gentle against hers. Dylan made a small sound and Nuada groaned against her lips. Her hands slid over the plush velvet of his tunic and the silk of his shirt-sleeves glided over her skin.

Too fast, she thought even as his lips moved to the corner of her mouth, the fragile line of her jaw. How did it always happen? They loved each other so much, wanted each other so much, and there was so much at stake…it was hard not to seek solace with each other.

Velvet kisses brushed along her jaw and Nuada murmured her name. She let out a shaky sigh as his lips touched just underneath her ear. He whispered, "Dylan, stop me. Please, I do not think I can…I want…I love you, Dylan. Please, you must tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this."

But she did want it, didn't she? His kisses. His arms around her. So why…but then she felt the first gentle pressure of his weight above her as he began closing the distance between their bodies. Panic and longing twisted together, flooding her veins with fiery ice. She couldn't…they couldn't...they had to stop. Her body didn't want to, and neither did his, but they had to. She tried to focus on that, but the thought fled her mind when he kissed the side of her neck.

"Nuada…" Her entire body trembled at his nearness, the solid strength and heat of him. After what her sisters had done earlier, after waking to his obvious pain, she didn't want to push him away. She wanted to hold him and comfort him. But then they would—

*What are you doing, Master?* Sétanta called, shattering the tension between Elf and mortal. Dylan actually jumped and squeaked. Nuada sighed as the tension eased out of his body. They'd forgotten about the dogs.

Good dogs, Dylan thought a little hysterically. Good dogs.
"Nothing," Nuada mumbled, pushing back to give Dylan the opportunity to sit up. She did, trying not to blush under the intensity of Nuada's gold-kissed ivory stare—and failing miserably. "Nothing, Sétanta." To Dylan he added, "My lady, I fear despite sticking to most of your rules about chastity, your virtue is not safe with me in my present mood. And it is late; you should get to bed."

She shoved at her now-disheveled hair. "I'm sorry. I wanted to comfort you, I didn’t think things would go this far. It's like…one chaste kiss from you has the knockout power of a make-out session."

To her relief, he smiled. "I will take that as a compliment. It is the same for me with you. One touch from you, no matter how innocent, threatens to be my undoing." Clearing his throat, he rose to his feet and took her hand. "You should sleep, beloved. Good night." He kissed her knuckles and turned away.

At the door leading to his suite, he stopped when Dylan asked, "And what are you going to do?"

"I?" He raised an eyebrow. "I am going to avail myself of the shower. It has been a long day and I believe the cold water will help clear my head."

Furious heat flooded Dylan's cheeks. "Oh. That…makes sense. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, mo duinne."