Darkness There, and Nothing... CH. 7 - A Thousand Words

Author's Note: so I'm not sure about this one, love. What do you think? Any thoughts? Oh, and I'm working on Once 96. I've got 1500 words so far.

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Chapter Seven

A Thousand Words

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They let her keep the packs because they knew she would put that crack in the wall.

Thor strode aimlessly through the castle corridors the evening after his latest conversation with Loki. He had nowhere he needed to be and much he needed to think about.

Loki had withdrawn after those final words. Something had seemed to crumble within him, and he'd bowed his head and said nothing more, no matter how Thor cajoled him. Sensing his brother was at the end of his endurance, the crown prince had retreated from the dungeons, leaving his brother to—what? Grieve for the girl on the other side of the wall? Plot his story further in order to hoodwink everyone? Thor didn't know. He needed to think.

Sometime during his constant pacing of the palace halls, a light footstep began to echo his. A slim shadow hovered beside and little ways behind him—a quiet and comforting presence.

"Hello, Sif."

The only shield-maiden in Asgard drew abreast of him when he acknowledged her. They'd been friends for a long time. She was the only woman he'd ever gone into battle with, the only woman he trusted to guard his back in a fight.Sif was his best friend, as Loki was…or had been.

"You have seen Loki," Sif said softly. Her dark hair was pulled severely back, giving her a harsher look than usual. Like his father's weathered face and his mother's somber clothes, Loki's betrayal had affected Sif, as well.

For the first time, Thor considered what Loki had said of Lady Sif and the Warriors Three, that they'd betrayed him. That his inability to rely even on his closest friends had driven him to take such drastic actions while the king had been in the Odinsleep.

But then I learned I couldn't trust any of the courtiers here, couldn't trust Heimdall or Sif or the Three. My so-called　friends. How was I to win a war, if it came to that, without soldiers I could trust? And I couldn't trust them because　you　were the one they wanted!

The prince wondered why Sif and the Three had gone against Odin's decree of exile, gone against Loki's order—the order of their ruling sovereign—and come to Midgard to bring Thor home. Had they known of Loki's part to lure the Frost Giants into the Treasure Room the day of Thor's coronation? None of them had said anything. Then why bring him back? Not because of the Destroyer; it had arrived after them. Not for what Loki had done to Heimdall, either—that had come after the Gatekeeper had allowed the four friends through the Bifröst.

Sif was waiting for an answer.

"I've seen Loki," Thor acknowledged without breaking stride. "We have struck a bargain, he and I. He will answer my questions if I help him convince the All-Father to release him."

The warrior maiden halted in her tracks. Thor paused. Somehow he knew what she would say.

"Convince the All-Father to release him? Thor, you cannot trust Loki! What madness would possess you to set him loose?"

Sif, Thor thought, was his dearest friend outside of his brothers. He could trust her to keep his words to herself, and trust her not to rush off to Loki to demand he stop spilling poisonous lies in the crown prince's ear.

"If my father releases him, I've promised to help him kill the leader of the Chitauri." He started walking again.

"Why would he want to kill Thanos? Loki is loyal to him."

Thor shook his head. "I do not believe so, Sif. Loki and I have been talking about the Chitauri, about Thanos, about why Loki did all that he did."

Sif waited. Thor knew she wanted him to simply explain to her what Loki had said…but he needed to couch his words carefully. For instance, he could not share with anyone—save perhaps Frigga and maybe Balder—about the illusion of young Sophie, and how Loki had tried to make her even younger. He couldn't give away the knowledge that his younger brother had loved this Midgardian child enough to weep for her. But there were some things he could say, if he were careful.

"And?" Sif demanded at last.

"Thanos murdered someone Loki held dear," Thor murmured after a moment's hesitation. "Loki's thirst for vengeance makes bargaining with him a bit simpler."

Dark eyes studied Thor for a long moment; the Asgardian could feel the weight of Sif's stare like the heaviness of his battle-armor. At last, she nodded. "It is just like him to focus on getting back at someone to the extent of all else…but who was this person? His woman?"

"A woman," Thor acknowledged softly.

"The woman in the drawings?" Sif hazarded.

He wasn't surprised she knew of it; she'd always been shrewd. He nodded. A large part of him itched to catch a viable glimpse of one of Loki's drawings, to be able to see Thea's face with his own eyes.

"The woman in the drawings…" The shield-maiden shook her head. "How do you know this isn't some elaborate trap of his to lure you in?"

He shrugged. "I don't, but I feel he is being truthful."

"Has he explained why he murdered your Midgardian friend?"

"No," Thor replied after a long moment where he wrestled with anger and the echoes of disbelief. It still astonished him that his brother had tried to kill him, had succeeded in killing one of Thor's allies. And Loki hadn't even admitted to the fact. Why wouldn't he admit to it? He made no excuse, either, such as with the Destroyer. Loki refused to do anything but mock and attempt to redirect when Coulson was mentioned.

Yet he'd said Thea's connection with the son of Coul would be made clear…and Thea had mentioned a man named Phil who would be angry about her capture, a friend of her family. Was that the connection? That didn't explain Loki's evasion when Coulson was brought up whenever Thor demanded an explanation. There was something there, something more. What was it? Yet another of the mysteries Loki needed to explain.

"Has he explained why he took over Asgard?" Sif persisted.

"Mother made him king," Thor said tonelessly. Seeing Sif's stunned expression, Thor canted his head. "I asked her about it. No one else could take the throne during Father's Odinsleep. The queen made him king-regent during my exile."

"Then…" Sif looked faintly uneasy. "Then it was according to the law." She frowned. "He must have known somehow when he arranged your exile that she would make him king."

Thor frowned. "Arranged my exile? What are you talking about?"

"Thor," Sif said as if speaking to a particularly dull child. "Think about it. He arranges for the interruption of your coronation, knowing it will anger you. He knows the king will not do what you wish—"

"Because it was foolish," Thor retorted. "It could have sparked a war. Father was right not to attack Jötunheim just because—"

"And then Loki tells you to go to Jötunheim, even though the king has expressly forbidden it, knowing your temper and their barbarism and arrogance would provoke you, knowing the king would punish you for what you'd done in a fit of temper egged on by none other than your so-called brother." Sif shook her head, as if dismayed by his thick-headedness. "He set you up. Don't you see that?"

I learned I couldn't trust any of the courtiers here, couldn't trust Heimdall or Sif or the Three. My so-called　friends…couldn't trust them because　you　were the one they wanted! You were the one everyone loved…And before that, what had his brother said? I　told　you to leave the Frost Giants alone. I　told　you not to go to Jötunheim, I　told　you to let it go when the Frost Giant lord tried to pick a fight with you, but you—wouldn't—listen.

The thing was, Loki had said all those things…yet Sif suspected him of arranging matters. Did the Three suspect the same? Was that why they'd gone to Midgard to bring Thor back?

Had Loki told Thor all of that, knowing how Thor would react, in order to bring about the outcome he'd wanted?

Thor, stop and think, Loki had cautioned when he'd wanted to launch his fist—or his hammer—straight into the disdainful Frost Giant's big blue face.

Know your place, Brother! The crown prince had snapped back. He'd seen the moment of hurt on Loki's face, a fleeting break in the mask of courtly politeness and carefully-veiled urgency.

In the Gatehouse of the Bifröst, Thor remembered suddenly, Loki had yelled, I never wanted the throne! I only wanted to be your equal!

That was the thing about not only being brothers, but being as close as they'd once been, Thor thought. Frigga had revealed that Loki had come to Asgard as a newborn babe—barely a few hours old—the very night Thor had been born. The question of who was older had been a matter of perhaps an hour, if that, so Healing Mistress Eir had told the king and queen; Eir, the only person besides Odin and Frigga (and of course Heimdall) who'd always known Loki wasn't the son of Odin. Everyone else had thought Loki not only Thor's brother, but his twin—born on the same night in the hour after Thor, pale and dark-haired against Thor's golden looks and blue eyes; the shadow to the golden prince.

He hadn't wanted to be Thor's shadow anymore. Because he'd tasted the power of kingship? Because he'd discovered he and Thor weren't two sides of a coin, two halves a whole? Or because of something else?

"Thor?" Sif ventured after he'd been silent for some time.

The crown prince shook the troubling thoughts away and focused on his friend. He offered her a smile.

"I've always valued your friendship, Sif. It's good to know you're watching out for me," he said, because that was all he really could say. He didn't know whether to deny her allegations or not. He simply didn't have enough information. Thor had learned, after everything that had followed his exile, never to make assumptions…especially where his little brother was concerned. "I must ready for dinner. I'll see you there."

"Of course," the shield-maiden replied hesitantly. "I will see you later, then."

Thor headed for his rooms, still keenly aware of the weight of Sif's gaze on his back. Just before he turned the corner, he decided that it was better to be safe than sorry, so he turned back.

"And Sif? Do not speak of this to anyone, please. That includes Loki."

She offered him a short bow; her silent way of communicating her displeasure, but also her promise to obey. "As you wish."

No, he thought as he strode away. Not as I wish. If things were as I wished, my brother would not be in prison, half-mad with rage and grief, after murdering my friend, trying to kill me, launching an invasion on a realm I've sworn to protect, trying to decimate Jötunheim, and working behind my back to do…whatever he was trying to do.

But Thor said none of this aloud.

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Lady Sif was not a sorceress by any means, but she had a little seiðr of her own. Just enough to get her hands on something she—and Thor—desperately wanted. The only trick would be keeping Odin's foster son from discovering her presence.

Feet silent as the velvet paws of a cat, Sif crept down the dungeon corridor toward Loki's cell. Subterfuge was not her first choice when confronting an enemy; she preferred a face-to-face attack. In this instance, her fist in the traitor's pasty face. He deserved worse, the shield-maiden thought, for what Loki had done to his family. To the queen, especially, and to Thor. The crown prince had been devastated by Loki's loss, and then to find out he'd turned traitor and was planning on making war on Midgard…

Thor had been different since his return from Midgard when he'd gone to retrieve the treacherous prince. Only later had the court learned that Prince Loki had murdered a friend of Prince Thor's in cold blood, stabbing him in the back like a coward when the mortal attempted to prevent Loki from killing Thor.

Sif didn't know why the idea of Loki attempting to kill his foster brother surprised everyone. He'd done it before. Did no one remember Loki's treachery? Usurping the throne while Thor was banished? Yes, Frigga had made him king while Odin slept, but the slimy little rat had known she would. What about sending the Destroyer to butcher the golden-haired prince? Could no one else see Loki's jealousy, his hatred for Thor because Thor was crown prince and Loki wasn't?

But it seemed no one had until Loki's attempted coup…no but Asgard's lone shield-maiden, friend to both princes, and one who was unquestioningly loyal to the heir to the throne.

Sif paused at the bend in the corridor just out of Loki's line of sight and peered around the corner.

Loki was bent over the table in his cell, a charcoal stick clutched in one white-knuckled hand. The charcoal practically flew across the paper while Loki muttered under his breath, "No, no, no, no." He paused for a moment and he stared intently at the paper on the table.

A shiver of unease whispered down Sif's back. Perhaps Loki was mad after all. He certainly looked it. Dark brows knotted together above glassy, absinthe green eyes burning with some emotion Sif couldn't name. Chewing his lip viciously until a tiny trickle of red appeared to spill down his chin, Loki practically panted for breath, eyes wide and nearly bulging in his skull.

"I cannot bear this," he rasped. His chest heaved with the effort of drawing breath. "Thea, I cannot do this." He lowered his head so that strands of black fell around his face, obscuring his tormented expression. A long, agonized shudder ran through his entire body. The charcoal fell from his fingers to clatter against the tabletop. "I know I promised," Loki half-whispered, half-moaned. "I know, but I…Thea, I can't bear it. She was only a child. She was only a baby. And you..."

Suddenly he lunged to his feet, whipped around the chair, took four savage paces toward the wall, and rammed his fist into the merciless stone as hard as he could. There was a muffled crunch. Loki's entire body spasmed. Shoulders hunching, he dropped his forehead against the wall and cradled his hand to his chest. Blood dripped scarlet from his hand to pit-patter on the bare stone floor.

"Damn you," Loki hissed, thumping his forehead against the stone again—a little harder this time. "Damn you, damn you, damn you. Damn you, Thanos. Damn you, Thor. You stole them from me. It's your fault, it's all your fault. If not for you, they would still be with me. I'll see you pay for it, Brother. I'll see you twisting and writhing on the ground like a worm for every sin you've committed against…against…

"Oh, Thea." He drew a shaking breath. "I would have followed you. If they'd let me, I would have followed...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, alskling. I should have been there. I should have been with you. Forgive me. Forgive me, I…"

Loki trailed off, muttering under his breath so softly that Sif couldn't hear what he said. He fell quiet, still shuddering. Then, with excruciating slowness, Loki straightened up, forcing his injured hand back to his side. His head remained bowed as he drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. His shakes gradually subsided. Then he turned, to reveal a haggard face gone ghastly pale. Without another word to whatever entity he might've been speaking to in his madness, he sat back down. Picking up the charcoal stick with his good hand, he set the point to the paper.

"I must do this. I must not forget this. I must never forget. I won't forget Sophie, Thea. I swear to you, I'll not forget her. Not one moment of…of her time with us, short though it was. And I'll not forget you, either, and our time together…I swear to you." Loki began to sketch again.

Sif waited, every nerve on the alert, as Loki sketched. When that drawing was finished, he set the paper aside and began another drawing, and then another when he'd finished the second. At some point during the third, Loki dropped the stick of charcoal. It hit the table and rolled until it dropped off the edge to clack onto the floor. Loki didn't seem to notice. He simply stared at the drawing for a long moment, throat working convulsively. Then he swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a brief moment.

Opening them and wiping his blackened fingers on a piece of cloth, he stood and trudged toward the door in his prison that no doubt led to a privy—a private one, an accommodation most prisoners weren't afforded. Sif suspected Odin had provided this and other unusual amenities for Loki in order to console the queen. Just the thought of what Loki had put Queen Frigga through sent a fresh wave of anger boiling through Sif.

The moment the door clicked shut, Sif made her move. Twining seiðr around her, she thrust out one hand. The strands of magic wove around her arm and out, down the corridor toward Loki's cell. She saw them as ribbons of iridescent light, but unless another magic-user was looking for magic being worked here, no one else would see. This was a simple enough spell, but difficult for someone to which seiðr didn't come naturally.

When Sif felt the tendrils of magic slip under the door of Loki's prison—a prison designed to keep Loki's power in, not out, and porous enough for small magics to seep through—the shield-maiden grinned. Like a breath of wind, her magic swept the three drawings off the table and onto the floor. Another whisper of power whisked the sketches toward the door and under it before swishing them in a tiny whirlwind down the hall toward Sif. The guards glanced at her; she puta finger to her lips, and they nodded. They wouldn't tell the traitor that she'd been there.

Quick as a snake, she grabbed the drawings. She knew Thor wanted to see them. Perhaps they would give some clue as to what Loki was planning.

Sif glanced at the first sketch and frowned. What was this? Why would Loki draw such a thing? She went on to the second drawing, then the third, frowning harder all the while. It made no sense. Why in the nine realms would the traitor be drawing—

"Where are they!?"

The anguished demand jerked Sif from her reverie. Peeking back around the corner, she saw Loki braced against the table, panting like a dog again, eyes wild. He swept his hand across the tabletop, sending quills and sticks of charcoal skittering across the smooth surface and to the floor. Blank paper whooshed overhead before settling to the floor with faint fluttering sounds. Loki's eyes raked over the tabletop.

"Where are they?!" Loki cried, turning that half-mad gaze around the room, scanning for the missing drawings. His face had gone nearly gray. He shoved his fingers through his hair before clutching cruelly at the ebony strands. Sif frowned. What was wrong with him? "No! Where are they?" He roared the question, bellowing like a wounded beast at the impassive and unresponsive guards. They didn’t even so much as glance in Sif's direction.

Suddenly Loki hurled himself at the glass window. His body collided with enough force to knock the wind out of him, but he didn't stop to catch his breath. Instead he hammered at the ensorcelled window, hard enough that Sif's hands ached in sympathy. Humming power filled the air. A dull ache throbbed through Sif's teeth as Loki gathered seiðr to him, straining against the bonds of his prison, and hurled his power at the ensorcelled glass.

The guards reacted to this. One leveled his bladed staff at the window, barking at the prince to cease his attack, while the other shot a glance at Sif, who knew exactly what the Asgardian was trying to communicate.

Fetch the king and the crown prince.

Hugging the mystifying drawings to her chest, the shield-maiden turned on her heel and raced silently away, leaving Loki raging nearly incoherently at the guards far behind.

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Anxiety was a living, breathing shadow in Thor's belly as he and his father strode through the dungeon corridors side by side, Odin's heavy tread echoing off the walls in counterpoint to Thor's own. Frantic thoughts raced through Thor's mind with every step. What was Loki doing? Why would he try to escape after accepting Odin's bargain? There was only one possibility that made total sense to Thor, but he didn't want to consider it…yet.

If Loki had been lying all this time, if his desire to avenge Thea and Sophie was all an act, he would have no reason to fear Odin rescinding the bargain to aid Loki if seeking his revenge. He could simply lull them all into a false sense of security, then escape.

Yet mad as Loki was, he was still cunning enough and clever enough to know things weren't there yet. None of the Asgardian royal family trusted him enough to make this prison break make any sense.

Thor thought of Sif racing into the informal sitting room where Thor and his parents had been discussing Loki, discussing whether he would or would not accept Odin's bargain—and whether Odin would or would not accept Loki's story—when the shield-maiden had rushed in, crying that the prison guards needed both king and prince, that Loki seemed to be trying to escape.

Now the king and crown prince found the other prince on his knees in his cell, forehead and palms pressed to the window, fingers curled into claws against the glass. Thin smears of crimson marred the otherwise pristine window. Thor saw Loki's fingernails had splintered and cracked, and blood seeped from beneath the nail-beds. His fingertips had been scraped raw . He shook as if with a palsy, and his labored breathing echoed in the dungeon. Even as Thor and Odin approached, Loki thunked his head against the glass.

"Where are they?" Loki snarled without lifting his head. "Who stole them? Who stole them? Tell me, curse you! Tell me what you did with them!" Those clawed fingers skidded down the glass with an eerie skreee sound. "I'll kill you if you do not tell me now!"

Odin opened his mouth, but Thor laid a restraining hand on his father's arm, gesturing him back where Loki couldn't see him. Odin glanced at his heir, but Thor's gaze was elsewhere. Keen warrior eyes took in the prison cell at a glance: the scattered paper, the quills and charcoal pencils everywhere, the blood smeared on the glass and on one wall.

"Loki?" Thor stepped into the light and spoke gently to his brother. Slowly, as if his head were an almost-impossible weight upon his shoulders, Loki looked up at his foster brother with a face eerily blank. "What's the matter?"

Something flickered in the depths of that emerald gaze—a flash of electric blue, there and gone—before the other prince closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the glass again. "Where are they?"

"Where are what, Loki?"

Wearily, the prince replied, "You know what." An even wearier shake of the head. "Why, Thor? Why did you take them?"

"I took nothing, Brother, I swear to you," Thor said. "What have you lost?"

Why was it so hard to breathe? Something about the sight of his little brother looking so despondent, and the words they both spoke, struck a chord in Thor. There was something about this...

The storybook; Thor remembered now. They had had a similar conversation that long ago day when Tyr had stolen Loki's favorite storybook, utterly destroying it to get Loki back for some petty, inconsequential thing. At the time, Loki hadn't known who'd done it. He'd come into his bedroom to find the ripped-out pages scattered across the chamber floor, done a frantic search for the elaborately-tooled leather binding, and found it in the midden pile. That was one reason Loki had refused to speak to anyone about the event; he hadn't known the identity of the culprit. Just like now…

"Brother, I would never deliberately steal something from you," Thor murmured, using that memory as a weapon to cut down the walls of ice around his little brother. "What have you lost? Perhaps I can help you find it."

Silence stretched out between them, strained with the weight of centuries and the betrayals Loki still hadn't explained, but at last the green-eyed prince raised his head again and whispered in a voice heavy with bitter defeat, "Someone stole my drawings. I need them back. I promised…I need them back. They are part of my penance. I have to get them back."

Someone had stolen Loki's drawings? No charred paper in the fireplace, Thor reminded himself. But how had anyone gotten into the enchanted prison without the guards seeing the intruder? Unless…

A sliver of memory pierced Thor's brain. When Sif had come in to pass on the guards' message, she'd been holding papers in one hand. Thor had glimpsed elegant lines and shading, but he'd been distracted at the time. His only thought had been that he hadn't known Sif could draw. Now the thought nagged at him. Sif couldn't draw. He would've known; they'd been friends long enough. Where had she gotten those pictures?

But she'd promised not to speak to Loki…

Loki didn't know who'd stolen his drawings…if they had been stolen, and he wasn't slipping further into madness. If Sif had come to speak to him, he would have suspected her right from the beginning. The trust, friendship, and affection that had existed between Loki, Sif, and the Three had been irreparably shattered, and Loki knew it. He would've suspected her if she'd come to see him.

Unless she hadn't spoken to him, thus keeping her word to Thor, but had somehow gotten her hands on the drawings anyway…she would have seen nothing wrong with taking them, to use them as a tool to get more information about Loki—whom she considered a threat to her prince.

"I will see if I can find them," Thor assured his brother. This wasn't the Loki he'd spoken to earlier that day, nor was this the one he'd battled on Midgard. This was…he didn't know this Loki, broken by madness and guilt and rage. Loki's face had been emptied of any emotion by his exhaustion. Didn't he feel his injuries? His hands were shadowed violet and blue, bruised raw in places, smeared with blood. He didn't seem to notice at all. "Or," Thor added, "I'll find whoever might have taken them. In the meantime, you need a healer."

"No," Loki hissed. Sapphire sparked in his eyes before being swallowed by jade once more. "No healers. I want my drawings back, Thor."

"Loki, your hands—"

"It's nothing," he snapped, looking away. One damaged appendage came up to tangle in a thin chain around the pale throat, to clutch at the gold and emerald ring hanging from the thick chain. Thor had never seen that ring before. "Forget it. Someone stole from me. They have to pay."

Thinking of Sif, Thor made no promise to that effect. He merely said, "I will do what I can, Brother. In exchange, I want more of your story when I return."

Emerald eyes snapped to Thor's face. "Find what was stolen and I will give you what you want."

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Thor stood outside Sif's door, swallowing back the anger surging up in him like the tide. Her door was open, and she sat in a chair, staring at a piece of paper in her lap. Two others rested near at hand. Instinct told the crown prince that it was exactly what he was looking for.

"Sif," Thor said softly. Her head snapped up, the firelight sheening the spill of her long, dark hair. The moment she saw Thor, a tinge of unease colored her features. "Where did you get those?"

After a moment, she sighed. "You said once that you wished to know what he was drawing all the time, so I endeavored to find out."

"You shouldn't have taken those," he growled, striding into her sitting room and kicking the door shut behind her. "Do you have any idea what you've done to Loki? My brother is frantic—"

"He's not your brother, Thor!" Sif cried, bringing him up short. "Why do you care what happens to him? He betrayed you. He tried to kill you more than once! He's dangerous, he's evil, and he's attempting to manipulate you. Loki cannot be trusted! Forget about him!"

A thousand thoughts and emotions clamored inside the Asgardian warrior, each one raging to be heard and acknowledged. He shoved them all down and away, where he could deal with them later, and held out his hand. "Give me the drawings, Sif."

Hesitating only a moment, she handed him the three sketches. "I can make neither heads nor tails of them," she said softly, without looking at him. Thor gazed down at the topmost drawing and frowned.

It was an angled drawing of Loki…and a woman.

Sketch-Loki settled into the comfortable cushions of a plush Midgardian couch, legs stretched out before him. He wore Midgardian garb, as well—the heavy, durable blue trousers known as jeans, a sleeveless shirt, and a plaid overshirt. Thor remembered Jane had said they were called "lumberjack shirts." The woman lay draped across the couch, her head pillowed on her arms on the arm of the couch opposite Loki, her hair tumbling over the couch-arm to touch the floor. Unfortunately, the angle obscured her face. Her feet were in Loki's lap; Loki seemed to be in the middle of rubbing them.

The drawing was composed so that the emphasis was on the woman. The prince was in the background, more an implied shadow than anything else, but Thor recognized him nonetheless. The focal point of the piece seemed to be the jeweled ring on the girl's finger, one Thor thought he vaguely recognized. In front of the pair was something Thor was surprised Loki knew about—a Midgardian device known as a television. The sketch was angled so that the viewer could just see the television screen. To the crown prince's surprise, he realized the smaller image there was of a man dueling with a horse, the horse armed with a sword in its teeth and the man armed with a skillet.

Loki smiled in the drawing, but it took a moment for Thor to realize that the smile was gentle, joyous, not cruel or malicious, and that he wasn't looking at the screen of the television. He was looking at the girl. Was this Thea? What was this drawing of? A futile wish for the future…or a memory?

Thor skipped to the next drawing, of the same girl splashing in the rolling ocean surf in a knee-length dress. It was almost as if Loki had caught her in the act of twirling in a circle amidst the sea spray, frozen her in time. Her hair fanned out around her, obscuring Thor's view of her face, but joy radiated from every line of her body. Her arms were flung out on either side of her as the waves crashed over her feet. There was no one else in this picture.

When he reached the final drawing, Thor sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

Loki stood beside a window. The curtains were filmy with the moonlight pouring in through the window, gilding the dark hair and sharp cheekbones. Curled up in the window-seat with her back to Loki's chest, feet pressed against the side of the casement opposite herself and Loki, sat a woman with the back of her head to the viewer. She wore a night-robe, but that didn't hide the gently swelling curve of her belly where her hands rested…over Loki's. Thor's brother wasn't smiling in this picture; his face was shadowed by anguish and dread.

Something clicked into place. Thor was fairly sure of something about Thea—she'd been married, probably. Had a husband, been with child when she was captured by the Chitauri. Poor girl. Had that been part of why Loki had fallen for her? Her obvious distress, her need for an ally and a friend under such circumstances? Or had it been something else?

Or could it be that this was not a memory, but another futile wish of Loki's? Loki, wishing for a child with a Midgardian? It didn't make sense.

Whatever these drawings meant, Thor would have to ask his brother…but since he'd managed to retrieve them, Loki would have to answer his question. He would have to explain to the crown prince the exact meaning of these sketches, especially the third.

And then Thor would find out just what had happened to his little brother while imprisoned by the Chitauri.

Chapter 7 - Many Nights Gone By

Many Nights Gone By

that is

A Short Tale of Absences, Friends and Enemies, Dylan's Words, New Blood, and the Beginnings of a Truce

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Nuada jerked awake with a start. Whispers of dreams clung stubbornly to his brain. Rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes to brush away the cobwebs of sleep, the Elf stretched, spine cracking as his back arched. He sat up slowly, mindful of the tightness in his limbs and the dull ache in his body. Pale amber eyes alighted on the chair that the human had fallen asleep in the night before. He knew without being told that the day had slipped away and night had fallen across the world above.

Without meaning to, the warrior had fallen asleep near dusk, exhausted from the day and the sickness spreading through his body from his wounds. The mortal had watched him practice with his gleaming silver blades all the day, pursing her lips but saying nothing, eying him with disapproval, reminding him so strongly of Nuala as a child that he'd almost smiled. The fair-haired fae knew she was concerned that he would do himself harm, but he'd been unworried. He knew how far he could push his body.

Or so he had thought.

Without realizing it, however, he'd managed to exhaust himself, and had fallen asleep upon his bed for the seventh day in a row without meaning to. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Nuada realized that there was an extra bedcloth draped over him. He had fallen asleep atop the golden quilt. Now he lay beneath a thin cotton blanket. Puzzled, he looked around for Dylan, to see if she could account for this. Somehow, the Elf prince knew the mortal woman was responsible.

He did not see her.

Getting to his feet, the Elf lord stifled his groans as stiff muscles protested. He scouted the room, in case Dylan was hiding, perhaps frightened of him now that he was awake. All the past day, and the six days prior to that, even as she cast him furtive, irritated looks, she had made a point to stay far away from him. As far as possible, in fact. The argument - if one could call it that - was no doubt accountable for this.

Having spent more than two weeks in the Elf prince's sanctuary, the unlikely pair had fallen into some bizarre habits – Nuada training under Dylan's disapproving eye, trying to sweat out the virulent poison and iron sickness that pervaded his blood and rendered him nearly weaker than a mortal, and Dylan doing the chores usually reserved for the lowly elementals bound to the sanctuary. The iron in Dylan's blood – a trait the Fey Ones did not share – slowed the healing magic's effect on her body. Sixteen days of healing had sped up the process, but not by much. Three weeks, perhaps, of magical mending, had been packed into a little less than two.

As for Nuada... the contamination of his wounds, though combated by magic and medicine, still kept those injuries laced with infection from healing properly. The slash at his ankle, the stab wound in his shoulder, and the gunshot wounds in his thigh and arm refused to close properly. They oozed a noxious-smelling fluid that looked and stank like sour milk. Once the seepage had begun, Nuada had refused Dylan's aid. The injuries continued to worsen. That fact pricked the Elven warrior's temper like a needle.

What honed said temper was the realization that, upon discovering his mortal caregiver's absence, his first feeling had been a brief stab of concern – not for his own safety, or anything centered around the Elf prince at all, but a fear for Dylan.

Curse that loathsome human. Somehow, she was corrupting the blond warrior. Entirely against his will, he found himself beginning to almost... to almost like her. The way one begins liking a stray cat or dog that stays around long enough to ingratiate itself to people.

The idea made him grit his teeth.

"Where is the human?" Nuada asked of the sylph, the salamander, and the crinaeae. The fire elemental and the little nymph in the well did not speak. Neither did the air sprite. This silence, and Dylan's absence, Nuada's own physical weakness and the persistent ache throughout his body, honed his already knife-sharp temper to a razor edge.

"Well? Where is she?" He demanded, his voice a beast's growl. The blond warrior glared at the empty room. Irritation tingled in his blood. Something, a shimmering voice like wind chimes, murmured the answer in his ear. Nuada muttered, "Another bath? That mortal indulges herself far too often."

Hiding.

"Hiding?" The prince echoed, forcing the odd twinge in his chest to fuel his irritation. "From what? There is no danger here. I will not harm her so long as she is in my care. From what does the human hide?"

Everything. Water make her feel safe. Much water in her blood. She know sister-water.

Indeed. She knew of Sister Water, how water is the life giver, and the daughter of Mother Earth? How did she know that? Aloud, he asked, "What makes you say this, Ariel?"

She move like selkie, sing like mermaid.

"I very much doubt she moves so gracefully or sings so beautifully."

No, no, no! Not graceful or beautiful, Highness. Love. Full of love. She love it all.

"I do not understand," Nuada murmured, frowning absently. He felt his rage fading away as he continued to regard the flickering wisp of fairy in front of his face. "What of love? What do you mean?"

No explain. You see. Someday. Human in bathtub.

"Well... I care not. At any rate, she was beginning to smell."

Smell? No smell. Human smell.

Moving to work the stiffness from his limbs, he went to one of the trunks lined up against the walls of his sanctuary and retrieved a fresh change of clothes. The Elf had some errands he wished to attend to, and he wanted to run them in clothes that did not stink of human female. The Elf knew he needed to make his escape from this place quickly. The stones of the floor and the walls themselves oozed mortal stench. It sickened him.

Nuada hastily donned black trousers, tunic, and boots – a very casual ensemble for him – and made his way to the entrance of his healing sanctuary. Stopping only long enough to grab his spear (only a fool went around unarmed in these times), the prince pressed his palm to the chamber's entryway as a soft voice made its way through the door to the bathing chamber.

"... The mermaid weeps blood red pearls
While Bluebeard beheads his lovely girls,
And Rapunzel's deceitful braid unfurls
To lure the prince to his death.

"An Arabian night burns like a star,
And Cinderella drives a fancy glass car.
But Little Red can only run so far
Before the Big Bad Wolf can find her..."

Nuada glanced back over his shoulder at the wooden door to the bathing room. What was this? The words reminded him of the old, mortal children's tales he'd heard long ago, but the melody was dark and bitter, melancholy. These words, just like Dylan's words from that dark night a week ago, somehow resonated with something inside the Elf prince. Dylan's voice shuddered down the Elf's spine, making him shiver. Her voice tasted of bone-deep loneliness, black despair. Again he thought of Nuala, of the grief in her during the wars against the humans all those centuries ago. Yet how could a mortal feel such grief? They felt nothing except the base emotions of an animal - fear, hunger. Nothing more.

"Someone cut down the fairy wood.
Crying about it won't do any good,
And Goldilocks won't do what good girls should,
But she does what works for her.

"Odile hides and Odette cries.
The Goose Girl weeps over her maiden lies.
Dwarven hearts shatter when Snow White dies.
And the child won't listen anymore.

"Dolls are dying while Clara dances.
Secrets are lost behind magic mirror glances,
And the Lass has lost all four of her chances.
It doesn't matter anymore...
The stories don't matter anymore..."

The resonance reached a pitch that made some dark, long-suppressed emotion rise up in Nuada. How did a human understand such pain enough to sing about it so convincingly? What if... what if....

A wave of disgust and fury suddenly threatened to swamp him. Red descended over his eyes. His hands balled into white-knuckled fists. The pounding tide of his blood roared in his ears. Nuada snarled something vile under his breath. Muttering the spell that allowed him to leave the sanctuary, the suddenly furious Elf warrior strode quickly from the chamber. The air tasted of hatred and pain.

.

Dylan sighed and closed her eyes. Wavelets lapped at her bare skin, and candlelight danced across her face. She allowed her body to float on the surface of the bath water as she breathed.

The song she had sung burned the inside of her mouth, but she'd felt compelled to sing it. It was... a brutal piece, something one of her patients had written after his parents had forced him into the teen psychiatric ward at Saint Vincent's Hospital. Apparently, the youth - a boy named Henry Swan - wrote "violent and disturbing poetry," and had already been suspended for a piece submitted to his high school newspaper.

After hearing the song, and talking to the young man, Dylan had fought to get him out of that place. She knew what mental hospitals were like. For children who knew they were sane, it could numb the soul.

Even kill it. How well she knew that.

Sighing, the brunette ducked beneath the water, wetting her hair, and tried to capture the feeling she'd had as a kid. How many times had she pretended to be a mermaid – although a very clumsy mermaid – playing in the ocean with imaginary fish and other, more mystical water creatures? It had been real to her, and bright and brilliant, back then. Not so anymore. Maybe her imagination was deserting her.

Maybe the wolves had devoured it.

At the thought of the wolves, she kicked off the bottom of the tub and thrust through the surface of the water. Gulping air, she let the water half-carry her back to the shelf-seat carved into the wall of the tub. Her eyes stung. Blood from her bitten lip stung her mouth with its salt-sweet taste. Water cascaded over wet skin, dripping hair, upturned face. The current soothed, cleansed. Another sigh found its way into her lungs and out of her mouth.

"When am I going to leave this place?" She asked herself softly, aloud. "Do I even want to?"

Dylan glanced around, blue eyes taking in the huge, candlelit chamber. There was something otherworldly and timeless about this room. About the whole sanctuary. It made her feel safe. If dark dreams plagued her, she remembered nothing of them. No harm – well, very little harm – had come to her since passing across the sanctuary's threshold. The healing magic of the place soothed her pain. Nuada fed her, clothed her, gave her a bed and a place to bathe. If no responsibilities could be claimed by Dylan Myers, she might have asked her rescuer if she might stay in this place outside of time forever.

But she had patients. She had family - John and her sisters. She had her commitments at work and at church. In short, she had responsibilities. So of course, whether she wanted to or not, she had to leave someday. The thought made her heave another sigh.

I'm so melancholy today, Dylan murmured silently, somewhat surprised. It's my birthday - I'm twenty-nine today, and yet I'm so melancholy. Well, at least the urge to beat Nuada over the head has dissipated, she added gratefully. That idiot Elf... he insisted on beating himself to exhaustion, barely healed as he was. It made her want to scream. Or rip him a new breathing hole.

"Men are stupid," she muttered, and pulled herself out of the bath.

Dylan had never quite been able to see the invisible servants who attended to her and Nuada's needs, no matter how she strained to catch them. Somehow, in the three hours she'd been in the beautiful, steaming hot bath, her old clothes had been replaced, fresh towels had been laid out, and a particularly fragrant lotion that smelled of hyacinth blossoms and roses in a green glass pot had been left for her use.

She toweled off her hair, dried herself, and slipped on the pale shift the color of rose petals. Somehow, in the time it took for her to pick up the tiered, dark green skirt from the pile of folded laundry, the laces that ran from sleeve hem to elbow of the shift had been tightened and tied by an invisible attendant. Hastily donning the knee-length skirt and the leather vest, she tied it tightly. Then she arched her spine, trying to relieve some of the strain from not wearing a bra. Her back was beginning to have this constant ache near the shoulders – dull compared to the rest of her injuries, but irritating nonetheless. Trying unsuccessfully to ignore it, the mortal glanced at herself in the glass. Dylan always found the clothes in front of the full-length mirror in the bath chamber. Now, when she glanced at herself in the silvered looking glass, it seemed like some gypsy princess out of a storybook gazed back at her.

Her face ruined the image.

Bruises faded out to purple and green still couldn't hide the angry slashes, now a raspberry maroon instead of black, that sliced across her face. Dylan counted more than twenty lacerations to her face. One of them wrenched at the corner of her eye, dragging it sideways. Another slash did the same to her ruined mouth. The cuts twisted her features. Even as she scanned her reflection, the eyes in the mirror were blank and glassy, empty of recognition. Around her neck was a circlet of ugly yellow rosettes, a souvenir from her rescuer's brutal grip. The sight did nothing for the emptiness in her gaze.

We've been hiding too much, her little inner voice muttered. Sometimes, under stress, the battered woman lapsed into her childhood habit of referring to herself in the plural. It was a thing she and John had done since learning to speak. It had taken their parents several years to get them to stop. Too much time in the bathroom, the voice continued. Need to face reality eventually.

Not right now, she murmured back. I know it's not healthy... but not right now. I just want to go to sleep. I don't want to deal with it.

Coward...

Yes, I am. Sue me. It's my birthday gift to me.

Ignoring the voice as a yawn overtook her, the human sank to the floor and began smoothing the pale-rose cream over her skin. The delicious perfume of summer flowers danced in her nose. If Dylan closed her eyes, it was almost as if she were home, in her garden, among her flower beds and herbs. Chewing her bottom lip – already shredded like ragged bits of silk – to keep from sighing again, she got to her feet and pushed her way through the bathroom door and into the main chamber.

It only took her a few moments to notice the absence of pale amber eyes and a dark, brooding form with moon-white skin. It took her some longer moments to realize that this meant Nuada was no longer there in the chamber. The mortal, eyes wide in her face, pressed her ear to the door opposite the bathing chamber, but heard no movements from within the privy. She began to shake. Sinking to the floor, Dylan stared in numb disbelief at the entryway to the sanctuary, wondering what she was supposed to do now. The Elf was gone. Never in the sixteen days she'd been in this place had he ever left her. Now she was alone – helpless, defenseless, prey for the wolves.

The blood drained from her face. There was no protector anymore. It was only herself, ensnared in the dimly lit stone room that was now a prison. Only herself. No Nuada. Certainly no John. Only herself. The enemy was coming. The wolves prowled. She must not stay out here, in the open. She could not.

Finally, Dylan found it in herself to be able to move. Hastily rising to her feet, staggering a little, she made her way to the bed. When her fingers touched it, the golden quilt warmed her suddenly cold skin. It smelled of wild forests and faerie glens. The scent of an Elven warrior prince. Snatching it up, the human carried it, the pillow, and one of the little books from her last vacation back into the bathing chamber, locking the door behind her.

Wrapped up in the blanket with the pillow between the cold stone of the wall and her bruised back, it took very little prompting for the tired, terrified woman to fall asleep sitting up.

.

Wandering the subway tunnels, the Elf prince made his way carefully back to the chamber he usually called home. He had several sanctuaries throughout the tunnels, in case of a need for a place to retreat. Several lairs also, in case he needed to travel or lay low. But he had only one pseudo-home in his exile, a place made extremely comfortable over the last century. The warrior found himself there now. Tension drained out of him as the magical wards woven into the stones washed over him, welcomed him.

Home. He was home. Of a sort, at least. He could relax a bit.

"Nuada!"

The blond warrior jerked around, wincing as the stitches in his wounds pulled at him. Sweat broke out on his forehead, but he wiped it away. He did not want Wink to see the extent of his injuries. The troll might smell the blood. That was all. He would not know of the sickness spreading through Nuada's veins from the poisonous iron in the human weapons. Would not realize that the dipsa venom had not worked completely out of his system yet, even after almost four moons. And hopefully he would not catch the scent of the mortal woman on his skin.

"How long have you been here, my friend?"

Mr. Wink lumbered up out of the large bronze chair he had been resting in and heaved his massive bulk over to the Elf prince. The troll took in his friend and prince, eyes missing nothing. The loose clothes, the thinness around the Elf's face and the gauntness of his frame, the way the prince limped, favoring his left leg: the silver troll's sharp, dark eye saw it all.

"Since you left. Where in the gods' names have you been? What happened? You go to rescue a human woman and you disappear for more than two weeks."

"Worried, Mr. Wink? I am touched."

The troll felt no compunction about whapping the Elf prince across the back of his head. Lowering his guttural voice to an even deeper growl, Wink grumbled, "Prince or no prince, I will not take sass from you. You would do well to remember that I was the one to save you and your sister and-"

"And avenge my mother's death. I know. You have been father, brother, and friend to me when my own family betrayed me. I know, Wink. I am truly grateful for your concern. There have been... complications."

"Complications?"

"The human... she is... different. Not like the others." Upon seeing Wink's disbelieving look, Nuada continued hastily, "Do not look at me that way. This human has taken it upon herself to care for me. She doctored my wounds. If not for her aid, I might very well have perished." He despised the fact that he felt the need to defend Dylan, a lowly mortal, to Wink, his oldest and most loyal friend. "The monsters that attacked her, they shot me with lead and attacked me with iron. She cared for me."

"My prince... she is a human."

"She is not like the other humans," the prince insisted. "She has honor. Compassion." Nuada had no idea where the words were coming from. But his honor demanded he defend the mortal woman who had risked her life more than once to save his. He could not let Wink believe that somehow, this human had bewitched him. "She reminds me... she reminds me of Nuala, at times. With her stubbornness, her desire to care for others. It is almost infuriating – you know how I hate that my sister will insist on caring for others when she has an equal or greater need. The mortal woman is just like that. She spent nearly eight hours removing the pieces of iron and lead from my body and stitching my wounds even though she was sorely injured herself and practically swaying with exhaustion."

Now that he was relaying the past events to Wink, he was seeing what Dylan had done with new eyes. It had been more than the Elf had realized until now. How could a human have that much compassion for another creature? Still, the mortal woman confused him.

"Is she a friend, then, Nuada? This human?"

"Don't be disgusting," the Elf snapped, rising to his feet. The prince had only come to tell Wink he was safe. That done, he surely needed to return to the sanctuary. If Dylan tried to leave, things would not go well with her and the golem that guarded the place. "Of course not. But she is different. It is well that I saved her from those men."

"Where are you going?"

"I must go back. She cannot leave the sanctuary on her own without danger, but if she believes me to be in any sort of trouble, do not doubt that she will try to come after me, to help. I will have no harm to her while she is in my care. My honor demands it."

The troll sighed. "You and your honor. You guard it so preciously. Sometimes, it astonishes me that your father cannot see you for the honorable warrior you truly are."

"My father is blinded to many things," Nuada replied, ignoring the sudden throb of pain lancing his temples. "He looks for honor where there is none, and does not see it where it resides. I may be back," he added, changing the subject, "sometime in the next weeks. I have to take Dylan to the human hospital-"

"Dylan?"

"The human," he amended hastily. "I must take the human to the hospital. Her wounds heal while she is within the sanctuary, but I am uncertain what will happen once she leaves. Is it possibly like immortality, obtained in Elfland but lost upon returning to the mortal world? I do not know. I do not want to risk her wounds returning without her being near a hospital. Then I have to remove any trace of her from the sanctuary. You know the laws, and what my father will think if he learns of this."

"Aye, I know both very well. Be careful, my prince."

Dark lips curved into an arrogant smirk. "Am I not always?"

Wink watched Nuada limp away. The troll's heart thumped, troubled, in his breast. The prince had changed in the last sixteen days. Never had he heard Nuada defend a human before. Never heard him compare his precious twin to one. There had never been a mortal to survive an encounter with the lethal Elf prince (except perhaps for a child). Now this human woman, this "Dylan," had forced the blond warrior to admit that perhaps not all of the Children of Mud were as evil as he had always believed.

"Your father is blinded to many things, Nuada. But then again, so too are you."

.

Dylan shivered beneath the blanket. The rough, red stone bit into her hip and shoulder, but she didn't wake. Instead, the human slept on, caught between the panic of a night terror and the calmer, not so strickening fear of a regular nightmare.

Dreams of pain and screaming. A knife slicing across her face. The sanguine red of clothing beneath sizzling fluorescent lights, scarlet like a woman's blood spilling onto cold concrete. Her dress ripping under careless hands. Flesh bruising. Wolves slavering. Always, always the voice growling in her ear like an animal's, "We warned you, puta. Stay away from Red girls. We warned you not to try and take one of us. We warned you." And then the sharp, thrusting, vicious pain tearing inside her and her voice shattering as she tried to scream.

Somewhere, behind all the darkness and the grasping hands, behind the sheet of blood in her eyes and the hell between her legs, was Nuada. He had saved her before. He would save her again.

Maybe.

.

The Elven warrior walked quickly. The itching between his shoulder blades, a rare physical manifestation of his uneasiness, was becoming maddening. It was in just such a spot that he couldn't reach around to scratch it. And why was he suddenly so uneasy? The Elf had no idea. If Dylan had tried to breach the wards – if anyone at all, human or otherwise, even Nuala – had tried to breach the warding spells around his sanctuary, he would have felt it, even as backlash. There had been nothing. Yet his instincts told him that danger was still stalking him, or perhaps even stalking he and Dylan both.

"Hail, Your Highness, Crown Prince Nuada, the Royal Exile."

A hearty, hail-fellow-well-met sort of voice called out to the exiled prince, and the fey prince stopped in his tracks, every nerve tingling, senses sharp as razors, muscles coiled and ready to spring. He knew that voice. He loathed that voice.

"Lord Eamonn," Nuada replied, and though his tone was cordial enough, his face blanked away any emotion as he turned to look at the Elf in front of him.

The Elves of Bethmoora, the Sons of the Earth, were pale, tall, graceful, with golden eyes and long, blond hair like gold or silver. Not so with Eamonn's kind. They were the Elves of Zwezda, the Sons of the Stars. Their skin was white, like Nuada's kindred, but their tresses were black as midnight, their eyes like gleaming steel, the pupils slitted like a cat's. It was said they were descended from Zorya Polunochnaya, the living Midnight Star. Yet if that were so, then Eamonn betrayed his noble blood with vile thoughts and viler actions. A slimy taint clung to his thoughts and his spirit. It sickened the Elf prince even to be near him.

There were thirteen Elf kingdoms among the countless fae nations, and there were others more antagonistic towards Bethmoora than Zwezda. But there was a special place, both in the most desolate plains of Annwn and in Nuada's heart, for Lord Eamonn.

Hands out in a show of harmlessness that the Elven warrior did not believe for an instant, that midnight-haired Elf grinned at Nuada with unusual warmth and drew abreast of him. Very deliberately, Eamonn took an exaggerated sniff.

"Can I help you?" Nuada demanded icily.

"Oh, no, Your Highness," the other Elf replied nonchalantly, slipping his hands inside the pockets of his black velvet trousers. The prince of Bethmoor despised Eamonn's foppishness (among other things). But the feral-eyed warrior forced himself to focus on his unwelcome companion as Eamonn continued, "It is only that I thought I smelled... but no, I must be mistaken."

A brief slice of unease, sharper than the itch between his shoulders. "Oh?"

"Yes. You see, Silverlance, I could have sworn that as I walked past you, I caught the scent of a... well, it matters not. I was, of course mistaken. After all," he replied to the raising of Nuada's eyebrow. "There is simply no possible way one would ever catch the scent of a human clinging to the Silver Lance."

Only years of living in Elven court kept the Elf prince from flinching away from Eamonn. He ought to have bathed, he realized. Then the scent of Dylan would be gone completely from him. But of course, trying to be chivalrous, he had allowed her to remain unmolested in the bathing chamber. Now one of his enemies had caught the smell of her on his skin. The very idea made the blond Elf want to shudder with revulsion. Instead, he looked into Eamonn's eyes.

"No," Nuada replied. "I do not think there is any way in this world that a human would have reason to come near enough to me that its scent would catch on my clothes. Perhaps you are ill, Lord Eamonn. Mayhap you should see a healer. As for me, I shall continue on my way. Farewell."

"Goodbye, Prince Nuada," Eamonn said. "I hope to speak with you again." And he clapped one meaty hand on the warrior's shoulder. The prince gritted his teeth as nearly a hundred pounds of force collided with the swollen, inflamed flesh around the infected stab wound in his shoulder.

Nuada walked stiffly away, with Eamonn sneering at the Elf prince's back.

.

Dylan awoke when the door to the bathing chamber creaked opened. If it had slammed open, she might have attacked, thrown the nearest heavy object at whoever was trying to get in. But instead, it was a silent opening, and there was no sound of footsteps. That told Dylan one of three things: either it was the invisible servants, Nuada had returned, or another fey creature was slowly sneaking up on her.

Since the door creaked open slowly, she had enough time to regain control of her ragged breathing and shake off the nightmare. Enough time to flick her eyelashes just enough to see through them.

When Dylan caught a glimpse of golden hair and black linen, she sat upright.

"Nuada!" Remembering who she spoke to, she added belatedly, "Erm... Your Highness. You're back. I... I was worried."

He nodded to her in greeting, ignoring the sentiment of concern. "I require medical assistance."

Any relief or – dare she say it? – joy the mortal woman had felt upon seeing Nuada's face was eclipsed now by equal parts fear and irritation. Did he have to order her around all the time? Yes, he was a prince, but still! Wasn't he supposed to act graciously? Sometimes the injured warrior could act so much like her twin brother it was strange. But the human's heart thumped in her chest as she saw that the back of Nuada's shirt was soaked. He carefully peeled it off, and she saw the damage.

The flesh around the stab wound was maggot-white, laced with angry, bright amber lines cutting across the dead-looking infected flesh into the rest of Nuada's back. The wound itself was puffy, the scab more like a thin, transparent shell over a well of toxic yellow pus and blood. She saw places where the scab had been perforated, leaking pus and blood onto Nuada's skin. Dylan gaped, struggling against the urge to throw up and the feeling that she was looking at a humongous Elf zit the size of her doubled fists.

"What. Did. You. Do to it?" She demanded, rushing over to him. "You're lucky you don't have, like, gangrene or acute blood poisoning or lockjaw or something!" The human dragged the Elf out of the bathing chamber into the main room, shoving him into the customary chair beside the single table. She grabbed her tools. "You idiot! Prince or not, you should have mentioned this to me way before now! I may just be a stupid mortal, but I'm also the closest thing you have to a healer right now. Moron." Without even thinking about it, the mortal gave him a good whack on the other, uninjured shoulder. "I'm gonna have to cut off the dead tissue. Jeez, this is why you need to do what I tell you-"

"Do you intend to henpeck me," Nuada demanded, fingers curling into a fist against the urge to strike her back, "like some shrewish dwarf wife, or do you plan on helping me?"

Anger burned in Dylan's chest. "Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but bite me." And when she lanced the wound with her silver knife (a gift from a Wiccan girl who said her therapist needed to be more in control of where her energy was going) instead of cutting gently, she sliced as if it were a piece of tough-as-leather beef pot roast. The Elf grunted in pain.

"You did that on purpose." Several very derogatory terms for females tried to jump off his tongue, but applying them to the human would've insulted the rest of her gender.

"You're right," she told him with a furious glitter in her eyes, as if she could read his mind. "If you'd listened to me, this wouldn't have happened. And you traumatized it. You hit it on something, didn't you?"

The Elf warrior opened his mouth to defend himself, to tell her of the malicious backslap from Eamonn, but he closed it as she glanced at him and murmured, "You've got to do what I tell you, or you could end up permanently damaged, okay? Please? I'm not kidding about this. I'm only trying to help, but I can't do that if you won't let me. So from now on, I check your wounds every eight hours, got it? And we put Echinacea and everything else on it at those times. I don't want your arm rotting off and I really don't think you do, either. Please, Your Highness."

He could have argued. He should have argued. He was Crown Prince Nuada, the Silver Lance, heir to the throne of Bethmoora, son of Balor the One-Armed King of Elfland. He could have won the argument with her. But as she began setting up her tools, he saw a tear roll slowly down her cheek. Dylan would have to hurt him, and the Elf knew she hated to do that. And in that moment she reminded him once more of his beloved twin, just a little.

"Very well," he replied. "I will do as you say... for now."

"Thank you... my prince," Dylan murmured without looking at him.

Silence. And then...

"You are welcome."