Chapter 61 - Red as Blood and Bright as Gold

that is

A Short Tale of Work, a Warning, Super-Secretaries, a Prince's Confession, Tender Farewell, Battle, Assassins, Heart's Blood, and Deathly Cold

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How Dylan managed to get through her morning appointments that day, she would never know. Most of them were the short, standard fifty-minute sessions, and thankfully most of her patients were doing well, so it was really more a series of progress reports than crisis counseling. She also had sessions with both Neil and Simon, who told her as they were walking out that the envoy from Roiben's court to Bethmoora would be leaving in a few days' time and would include Kaye, Val, Mallory Grace, and Lady Peri (as well as Bean and Kate, who were anxious to see 'Sa'ti and A'du again).

One of her patients, Varen Nethers, was one of those rare individuals who not only possessed the Sight, but possessed the raw creative power to create nocs. Unlike most other fae, nocs were created by humans, born from mortal imaginations. Usually male imaginations, as far as the psychiatrist knew. Edgar Allen Poe, so she'd heard, had been the creator of the Blue Murder, which was led by the midnight mazarine prince of the raven fae, Scrimshaw - one of the laziest, most laid back carrion eaters Dylan had ever met.

Pinfeathers, prince of the Red Murder - the group of about thirty nocs with blood-red hair and plumage - was Varen's noc counterpart, and the reason why the raven faerie and his minions couldn't truly harm her or another of her patients, Isobel Langley, Varen's girlfriend; nocs shared the emotions, the loves and the hatreds, of their mortal creators.

Dylan had never met a noc prince from another murder. Had never even seen a noc that wasn't red or blue until the attack on the Chariot of Annwn by the purple nocs. She had no idea to whom those raven fae might belong, or who might lead them. That ignorance made her twitchy whenever she heard a raven caw.

Varen had a session with her that morning as well. It seemed run-of-the-mill until the end. As he was walking out, the college freshman turned to her and chomped on the silver ring hooked through his lower lip for a minute. Then he pinned her with eyes like pale malachite. "The Queen seems distracted lately. No one's talking to me per se, but it seems like the closer we get to the winter solstice, the more distracted Her Majesty gets. Thought you or the Old Geezer might wanna head's up."

The Old Geezer was Varen's nickname for the Keeper of the Samhain Tree, whom he had met a couple times by virtue of being born at midnight on Halloween, and therefore under Moundshroud's purview. "The Queen" was Varen's euphemism for Ligeia, queen of the fey forest kingdom of Weir and Moundshroud's estranged wife.

"Thank you," Dylan murmured. As an afterthought, she added, "Are you and Isobel all right? She's not bothering either of you, is she?"

Varen shrugged. "We've got it covered. Don't worry, Doctor D. Gotta go. My fair princess waits for me; needs a ride to her early-morning flying practice." And he sauntered out, doffing his shades, strangely making almost no noise in his hulking black boots. As he walked toward a golden-haired girl in an NYU cheerleeding uniform waiting at the end of the hall, Dylan's secretary bustled in carrying a crinkly brown paper bag.

"Before you even attempt to dissuade me," Ariel said briskly, "I have to tell you that you look as pasty as His Dark Lordship back there," jerking a thumb over her shoulder at Varen's black-clad retreating form. "Which, considering he never goes outside and you're more outdoorsy than a Boy Scout, is more than a little worrisome. And you've lost at least ten pounds in the last two weeks. Not healthy.

"That said, eat this, you vampiric zombie doppelganger that has replaced my boss." Ariel plopped a go-cup of orange juice and the paper bag down on the coffee table in Dylan's office. "It's donuts. Cinnamon-dusted apple-jelly filled. I bribe you with sugary badness; eat it. Or I'm calling your sister."

Dylan smiled despite herself. Threatening her with Petra? That was just low. "You have a mean streak, Ariel."

But the cinnamony, apple-filled goodness was calling to her with a siren song too tempting to resist. So she caved and ate the donuts. After the first bite, her appetite woke with a vengeance and she realized she couldn't remember the last time she'd sat down and eaten anything since the night of Zhenjin's challenge. She'd nibbled on stuff, she was sure - granola bars, maybe some fruit. Otherwise she'd have collapsed some time ago. But the fact that she couldn't actually recall eating meant she hadn't been eating enough over the last few days.

Maybe that was one of the reasons she'd been feeling so sick and run-down - not enough real sleep and not enough food. With that in mind, she made sure to eat the sandwiches and extra bottles of juice someone (probably Ariel, the super-secretary) had packed in her mini-fridge in her office between appointments. Nuada had enough on his mind right now without having to worry about her fainting from hunger or low blood sugar.

Her last appointment ended right at eleven-forty-five. With a hasty goodbye and a "sorry, gotta go, I'm late for something" tossed over her shoulder, Dylan rushed out of the office, almost slipping on the icy steps leading down to the sidewalk. She ducked into another little convenience store and dashed into the bathroom so no one would see her randomly disappearing into thin air. Just in case the spell laid into her ring didn't include glamoring her invisible.

The spell took her to the sanctuary again, and from there to her room in Findias. That meant Nuada was in his suite, as the ring was supposed to bring her to wherever he was without dumping her right on top of him. She dropped her stuff on her bed, realizing absently that the servants had already made it up again after she'd wrecked it by dragging the comforter into her sitting room the night before.

She dashed over to the door connecting her room to Nuada's. Felt like an idiot when her hands automatically flew up to straighten her hair. This wasn't a date, for heaven's sake. But for some reason she really didn't want to look windblown and frowsy when he saw her.

Dylan knocked. A muffled "enter" had her cracking the door to peek in.

Nuada sat tailor-fashion in the center of his large bed, dressed in his familiar sable and scarlet, his hands draped loosely atop his knees with his eyes closed. One eye slid open to regard her for a moment. Dark lips quirked into a wan smile. Dylan felt an answering smile curve her mouth when she saw Nuada wore his typical black socks. She would really have to do something about the distinct lack of footwear color at some point.

"What are you doing?" She asked, coming in and shutting the door.

"Meditating," he murmured. Closed his eyes again. "Trying to clear my mind a little and find some measure of calm. I often did so before battle when I was in the army." His expression warmed a little. "I find it a bit easier now that you are here."

Surprised and more than a little touched that he would confess even that small "weakness," she widened her smile for him and perched on the edge of his bed. His straight-backed pose relaxed and he opened both eyes. Trying to go for casual, Dylan asked, "So... what's going to happen today, exactly?"

Nuada sighed. "The sun will be at its zenith in a little more than an hour. Zhenjin and I will fight then." He hesitated. "Will you... be there? To watch?"

"Of course." Then she had a rather nauseating thought. "Wait a second. Are other people going to be there? Spectators and such?" She frowned. "Is this going to be a court event or something?" He inclined his head. "That's disgusting," she replied flatly. "This is supposed to be a fight to the death and it's going to be some sort of... of... entertainment?"

The prince chuckled. Shook his head ruefully. "I forget sometimes that you are mortal. What?" He asked, puzzled by the sudden change in her expression. "What is it, Dylan?" Had he mistepped already?

She looked down at her lap. Flexed her fingers. He could tell she wished for her medallion to give her hands something to fiddle with, but knew she didn't want to take it off and possibly forget it somewhere. "It's just...." She brushed ineffectually at her hair. "It's just, I think that's the biggest compliment you've ever paid me."

He caught her hand in his. Touched his lips to the backs of her fingers. "If that is the case, I have been remiss in my duty to you, my lady. I should have paid you many far fairer compliments by now." He pressed her hand to his cheek. "If you were any other woman, and you were as dear to me, I know what I would do in the time we have left. As it is, that is denied us. So-"

"What would you do?" She asked, and he smiled at the kitten-like curiosity in her voice. Dangle a brightly-colored string in front of Bat or even one of the cougar cubs and their interest would be just as piqued. "If I were someone else?" Nuada merely raised his eyebrows and let his gaze flick from her face to the bed and back again. Dylan blushed. "Oh. Right. Um...." She was clearly flustered now. "You were saying?"

"As that is denied us, I know what I would wish in its place." He shifted closer, until he sat right beside her. Callused knuckles skimmed light as a breath over the satin curve of her cheek, along the delicate line of her jaw. Dylan drew a shivering breath. Her heart jolted at the warmth and the nearness of him. "If I may."

Her voice was barely a breath when she murmured, "Yes."

His mouth touched hers, a soft press of warm lips and the caress of his breath against her skin. It felt as if he hadn't kissed her in so long, yet it had only been a few days ago, hadn't it? In the garden, beneath the rose tree, in the wake of a dream that had left her hollow and aching. She hadn't realized how much she missed such a little thing until now. Hadn't realized just how much she missed Nuada, his gentle touch and his smile, the golden warmth of his eyes and his lips against hers.

Nuada broke away, and she made a small sound of disappointment. His eyes were soft and warm, a beautiful honeyed gold when they moved over her face. There was something there. Something behind his eyes that was sad, and torn, and uncertain. He leaned in to press close to her, to breathe her in and let his lips trail along one of her scars. She reached up to slide her fingers along the back of his neck. Felt the pulse beating against her palm.

Don't go, she wanted to whisper. To plead with him. Please, Nuada, don't go. Stay with me, please. I love you, I need you, please stay here. Be safe with me. Forget the fight. Forget politics. Forget everything. Just stay. But it was impossible for her to speak those words. She knew him. Knew he could never give her that one thing.

"Dylan," he breathed, nuzzling her temple. "I must tell you something, mo duinne." Her breath caught in her throat. "I cannot meet this challenge knowing I might not survive without telling you this. Perhaps you know it already. Perhaps you suspect, or perhaps you doubt - and rightfully so, after all I have said and done. I do not know for certain. But I have never said the actual words to you, and I cannot meet death without having done so."

He shifted to meet her eyes. The wintry sunlight coming in through his bedroom window glinted off the gold of his lashes. He stroked a fingertip down her cheek as if committing the feel of her skin to memory.

"Dylan, mo calman gheal, mo cridh... you must know that I lo-"

"No," she said sharply, pulling back. Nuada stiffened. Pain flashed behind his eyes. "No," she said. Pleaded. "Don't tell me that now. Not now. You said you can't meet death without telling me what you want to tell me. So if you don't say it, you have to tell me later. You have to come back." The hurt faded from Nuada's gaze as fear and sorrow filled hers. "You're going to win, you're going to come back to me, and then you can tell me. I'll listen, I promise. You just have to come back. That's all."

"Dylan-"

"I need you, don't you get it?" She pressed against him, burying her face against his shoulder. "I can't do this, any of this, without you. Before you, I could do anything, handle anything, but now... now I need you. You made me need you. I can't... you're the only one... you're the only who... I can't do this without you. Please, you have to come back. Just promise me you'll come back. I'll do anything you want, just please... Nuada, please."

And because he could do nothing else, he wrapped his arms around her and murmured against her hair, "I will do my best, Dylan. I promise you that. I will do my best to come back to you, I swear it." And then he would tell her just what she meant to him, so that she would never doubt again. So that she would always know how much he loved her.

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They parted for the last time in a small antechamber attached to a forked corridor that Nuada explained would lead to the dueling field, or to where those who would witness the fight were waiting. His touch against her cheek was a soft goodbye. The leather of his black glove was cool on her skin. "You must go with the Butcher Guards to where my father is waiting, mo mhuire."

Dylan glanced at the royal guards standing by the door. Tsu's'di and her dogs waited there, too, at a respectful distance to give the mortal and the Elf prince a little privacy. The hounds were tense beside the ewah youth. The cougar did his best not to fidget. Once again he was serving in the capacity of A'ge'lv Dylan's official bodyguard, but the tension between his mistress and the prince was palpable.

The human turned back to Nuada. She couldn't bring herself to look at him, so she traced the curving lines of the Royal Seal of Bethmoora that gleamed at his stomach with her eyes. It was different than the one the prince wore on his sash to court functions. This was Aiglin, the great ash tree, the symbol of Bethmoora at war, and not the peaceful Eildon Tree of hawthorne she was used to seeing.

"Why do I feel like I'm never going to see you again?"

Topaz eyes softened to amber, but they lacked the honeyed warmth she wanted to see just then. "Everything will be all right, Dylan."

Her expression told him she struggled to believe. She knew his doubts, so it was impossible to quell her own. Instead she thumped her forehead against his chest. For once, he wore armor. Smooth and cold as the blade of his sword, glittering golden in the dim light of the antechamber and etched with elegant and elaborate scrolling Celtic knotwork, it was supposed to protect him from Zhenjin's blade. Keep Nuada safe for her.

Greaves to protect his legs, shortened breastplate, shoulder-guards, and vambraces of engraved Elven gold; light as a feather, so he'd said, but stronger than mortal steel or even Elven silver. Beneath that, a long-jerkin and trews of hardened black leather embossed with a similar scrolling design as his armor - just in case. In case of what, she didn't want to think about. Hidden by all that, she knew, was his crimson shirt. A golden helm waited on a bench behind him, etched with the symbol she'd seen on his lance-blade.

Dylan wondered if it would really help, all that armor, or only serve to slow him down. She wondered if Nuada had worn this or similar armor into battle before. Wished he could have his lance back; knew her prince longed for his favorite weapon. Wondered if Zhenjin really would attempt to kill the other Elf. Wondered if Nuada could really bring himself to cut down his friend, even in the heat of battle....

A small sound escaped her as she stepped closer, desperate to push away her thoughts with the warmth and the solid strength of the prince. The slightly-ridged golden breastplate felt icy against her forehead. Trembling fingers ghosted over the thin gap between breastplate and shoulder-guard. Touched smooth leather. Could a sword-point get through there?

Dylan suddenly thought to wonder how women who were married to soldiers or police officers dealt with this - the gut-wrenching fear that the one you loved the most would step onto a battlefield and might not come back to you again. With a shuddering breath, she hooked her fingers around the breastplate's metal edge. Tried to draw comfort from how solid the Elven gold felt in her grasp.

"I know that you have something to tell me when this is all over," Dylan murmured. The fingers of her other hand curled around the back of his neck, which felt strangely exposed with his hair tied back in a silver braid in an attempt to keep it out of his eyes. "So you've already got some incentive to win. But I want you to hold onto something for me, okay? Until the fight's over. You have to promise to give it back to me. I know," she added in a small voice, "I know that you always keep your promises. If you promise to bring it back, I'll believe you."

Nuada looked down at her, unable to speak. He could not lie to her. Much as he wanted to soothe her with what might be empty promises, he could not. Not even now, when she fought to keep from breaking. She deserved better than untruth from him.

She must have seen it in his eyes, because she nodded. "Okay. I... okay. Hold onto this. I expect it back. I won't make you promise, but I expect you to give it back. Do you understand, Your Highness?" Sliding her hands to his armored shoulders, Celtic scrollwork pressing against her palms, she rose up on tiptoe and lightly laid her mouth against his.

Something about this kiss, unlike all the others they had shared in the hour before the duel was set to begin, set every nerve tingling. Set his heart pounding. Without thinking, Nuada wrapped his arms around her slender waist and held her to him as tight as he dared. He could forget for a minute. Just forget what was to come. It was washed away by the slide of her lips against his, fire and silk. Drowned out by the way Dylan managed to make his breath come short and his senses reel, even now. He nipped ever so gently at her bottom lip. Tasted her sigh like honeyed mead and summer strawberries. For just a moment, everything was simple. There was nothing but Dylan, the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her, the taste.

But then it was over far too soon. He caught her against his chest, holding her without her having to ask, for a few more seconds. Her breath was soft against his throat. Her lashes tickled the exposed flesh above the collar of his breastplate and shirt. She wasn't trembling, but she clung to him as if he might disappear like smoke on the wind. He let his forehead touch hers. Closed his eyes to savor the warmth of her skin. Breathed her breath and felt her heartbeat against his chest.

Then it was time for her to go.

"I have one last question," she said from the entryway. He watched her, saying nothing. She was like a shadow in her borrowed gown of black velvet and champaigne silk, her face so pale, her rainswept eyes shadowed with dread and her hair a dark waterfall tumbling to her shoulders. "If you... when you win," she amended firmly, "does that mean that we'll be officially engaged?"

A lazy half-smiled surprised him by spreading across his face. "Would you like to be?"

Her tremulous smile eased him more than he would have thought possible. "Let me think about it. I'll tell you afterwards."

The prince offered her a formal bow from the waist. Dylan rolled her eyes and bobbed an insolent curtsy. "Off with you now, mo duinne," the prince said, waving a hand at her. "I will look for you in the stands."

Only when the sound of footsteps had faded to nothing did he close his eyes and let his smile slip away. One hand rested on the pommel of his sword. The other curled into a fist at his side. He could still smell her perfume, the tantalizing sweetness of lilies.

Goodbye, my love.

After that, it was just a waiting game. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours later when a Butcher Guard came to fetch the Elven warrior to the dueling ring. His stride was slow and measured, his breathing carefully even, as he walked behind the royal guard down the short hallway leading to where he would draw swords against one of his oldest friends. The wintry light might have blinded a lesser man, but Nuada merely waited for his eyes to adjust as he stepped out onto the hard-packed earth.

Zhenjin, in the Elven bronze armor of Dilong, waited across the way. The onyx leather and bronze and emerald brocade uniform of a Dilong military general showed in the occasional gap between the polished metal of his armor. The crest of Dilong - two sinuous five-clawed imperial dragons of dark green and amber jade twining together into the form of a double orobouros - glittered in the center of his breastplate. Similar dragons had been shadow-etched into the Elf prince's polished bronze greaves, vambraces, shoulder-guards, and the armored half-skirt that protected his upper thighs.

A traditional Dilong topknot kept most of his jet hair well out of his face. His engraved bronze helm was tucked beneath one arm, just like Nuada's. Zhenjin looked, the Bethmooran prince thought, much as he had when they had gone to war against the humans centuries ago.

Nuada glanced to where his father sat in the place reserved for royalty and their guests, regal behind the mask of his court facade. Before Dylan's return from the mortal world earlier that day, the prince had made a request of his father regarding Zhenjin. Balor had granted it... on one condition. That condition sent dread and anticipation and hope knotting in his belly. He would have to fulfill that condition when - if - he won this battle. He wondered what Dylan would say.

Dylan sat rigid beside the king. Even from this distance, the amber-eyed prince could see her face was pale with worry. Her fingers twisted together in her lap - no doubt to keep them from shaking. Behind her stood Tsu's'di in formal storm-gray and sapphire livery, his face blank of any emotion, but one hand rested lightly on his mistress's shoulder.

On his father's other side sat Emperor Huizong. An Elf maiden of perhaps fifteen centuries, Princess Yin-Mei Redbird, watched with jade eyes from beside the emperor. On her other side sat the other two visiting Dilong princes, Gaozu and Hou Junji.

In Yin-Mei's lap sat an Elven child in pale green silk that must have been Princess Ming Xian. Had the Dragon Emperor really brought his toddler daughter to witness her brother killing her former almost-betrothed - or being killed by him? The little princess looked confused and perhaps a little sleepy. Nuada wondered absently if she was missing her nap. Didn't children her age need naps?

Zhenjin moved toward the center of the ring, drawing Nuada's attention back to the Dilong prince. The other Elf glanced to where his father, siblings, and aunt sat watching. Something flickered across Zhenjin's face, there and gone too quickly for Nuada to truly understand it. Zhenjin raised his hand in a casual wave. A rustle of movement from the stands showed Princess Ming Xian propping herself up on her knees and waving wildly at her brother with studious concentration on her small face. Nuada blinked in surprise when Zhenjin laughed while Princess Yin-Mei resituated the other princess back into a proper position. The emperor merely rubbed the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a headache.

A herald stepped up and began to speak for the benefit of the crowd, but neither prince acknowledged the fae servant. They merely gazed at each other. Neither could miss the regret in the other's eyes. Nuada drew his sword at the herald's bequest. Zhenjin drew his chokutō. Weak winter sunlight glinted off both blades. A chill wind raised puffs of dust from the ground of the dueling ring.

The herald stepped back to a safe distance. Nuada inclined his head. "Are you ready, Azurefire?"

Zhenjin drew a breath. "If you are, Silverlance."

As if receiving a silent cue from some invisible source, both Elven warriors lunged forward. Their swords met with a clash. The battle began.

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Dylan wrapped her arms around herself and forced her eyes to remain locked on Nuada as he blocked a wicked slice from Zhenjin's sword and countered with an attack of his own. Sunlight flashed off Elven silver with every strike. There was a lethal elegance inherent in every move either Elf made - when Nuada ripped across Zhenjin's upper arm with the edge of his sword, when Zhenjin got in a vicious slice across the outside of Nuada's thigh, when Nuada flipped and spun out of the way of the Dilong prince's next brutal attack.

She'd been right - the armor didn't seem to be doing much. Or maybe it was, and she was simply too inexperienced with weapons and combat to know. Maybe the two princes just knew how to inflict serious damage around the armor. All the mortal really knew was that both swords gleamed with wet amber already. She was suddenly very glad that she had ordered A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti to stay in her suite.

Nuada did not dare take the time to dash the sweat out of his face as Zhenjin darted in for another attack. Didn't dare spare any attention for the burning gash along his thigh. Merely kept blocking, kept slashing, kept pressing forward. He and the Dilong Elf were equally matched. He'd known it. The knowledge churned in his stomach as he tried to find a way, any way, to keep from cutting his friend down and leaving him to die in the dust. He had a plan, but he would need both skill and luck for it to work....

Time passed out of his comprehension with every blow of silver on silver, with every lancing breath of icy air. Despite the frigid bite of winter, sweat soon soaked the shirt and tunic he wore beneath his armor. Blood dripped onto the dirt from his wound and Zhenjin's.

The Elven warrior leapt out of the way of the other prince's chokutō as it arced downward. Managed an acrobatic flip over the prince's head that landed him behind Zhenjin's back. Nuada whipped his sword toward the back of the prince's thigh. Hamstring him, cripple him, get him on the ground. The words pounded through his skull. But Zhenjin twisted and blocked the attack with enough force to send tingles of half-numbing pain sizzling up Nuada's arm. Damn.

Before the Bethmooran prince had time to recover and either dance away or move in for another strike, Zhenjin's sword flashed forward. Only a quick dodge kept the chokutō from piercing him. It still managed to bite deeply into Nuada's side through the black leather jerkin, just beneath the edge of his breastplate.

Damn!

"Do you... need... a respite?" Zhenjin panted. He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword, hoping to work some feeling back into them. "Can you continue?"

Nuada swallowed. Took swift mental note of the hot wetness seeping into his shirt. Nodded curtly to Zhenjin.

The Dilong prince muttered, "Very well."

Their swords met with enough force to send biting sparks rocketing up both of their arms. The clash of swords sent hot pain ripping through the amber-eyed prince's side. He winced inwardly, but his face remained blank. Warm blood continued to soak his shirt. How deep had that slice been?

Blades flashed in the sunlight. The clang of metal on metal sang through the winter air. There was no other sound for the two battling princes except the thunder of their hearts, the blood roaring in their ears, the harsh rasp of their breathing.

Nuada suddenly lunged. Dodged another attack, ducked low, and brought his sword ripping across the back of Zhenjin's thigh just above the knee - a rare opening in the other prince's armor. Elven silver sliced through cloth, muscle, and hamstring. The other prince stumbled. His leg gave out, but as he fell he snapped his blade out in a lightning strike that left white-hot agony searing Nuada's sword arm. Only centuries of training kept the Bethmooran prince from dropping his weapon.

Zhenjin swore in Chinese and eyed the other prince warily, waiting for Nuada to recover and move in for the kill. Topaz eyes met a gaze of draconic jade.

"Fight me with all you have, Nuada, or you stand no chance of winning," the other prince snapped. One hand pressed against the back of his thigh. When he drew it away, it was slick and dripping with golden blood. "I told you I will not hold back for the sake of our friendship. I must obey my emperor."

"I am not going to kill you if I do not have to, old friend," the Bethmooran prince rasped, just loudly enough for his opponent to hear him. "I will not kill a proud and honorable warrior at the whim of a mad sovereign. He is not my emperor. I need not obey him."

"Damn you," Zhenjin spat, adjusting his stance. His right leg would hold none of his weight. It served as nothing but dead-weight, dragging him down, but Nuada knew the Dilong prince was not about to give up merely because of a lamed leg. "You would condescend to me this way? Shame me this way?"

"Don't be an idiot," Nuada snapped. Zhenjin swung. Nuada blocked, dodged, countered. The wounds in his side and arm sent shards of pain screaming through him. "There is no shame in being spared by one you consider a friend. I would be ashamed to kill you." The feral-eyed Elf barely managed to block a swing aimed at his throat. "As my lady would say, get over it."

"Bastard," the other Elf growled, but there was a rueful half-smile playing about his mouth. "I really do not want to kill you, Nuada."

Nuada allowed himself a small smile despite the pain of his wounds. "I do not want you to kill me, either."

He'd let his guard down because this was Zhenjin. His friend. Because they had sparred together often. So he had forgotten for just a moment that banter had no place in an earnest battle. As a result, when next he dodged an attack, Zhenjin feinted to the left. Nuada ducked right before realizing it was merely a feint. Too late. There was a lightning-flash of sun on silver. The screech of metal ripping through metal. The sensation of being punched in the chest. Someone screamed. Nuada dimly recognized Dylan's voice. The prince of Bethmoora stumbled. Swallowed. Looked down.

Zhenjin's chokutō pierced the right side of his chest. Nuada wondered, when his friend withdrew the blade, if his heart's blood would pump hot and wet onto the dirt or whether he would drown in the blood that might have been simply waiting to flood his lungs. Had Zhenjin hit anything vital? It seemed impossible that he had not.

Swallowing again as pain began to make itself known, he reached up with his free hand and gripped the blade. It wouldn't stop the Dilong prince from running him through, but instinct warred with intellect. Blood speckled the ground when the chokutō bit into his palm through his glove. Amber ran down the slender sword blade. Nuada felt the other prince tense. Regret burned in Zhenjin's dragon-slitted gaze. Nuada knew the prince was about to thrust his sword all the way through his body. There was nothing the Bethmooran Elf could do to prevent it.

Brother! Nuala's voice rang out in his head. Gods, she could not be here, could she? His father had sent her away, hadn't he? Brother, you cannot die! You cannot! Fight back! Do something, you must, you cannot leave me!

Nuala....

His sister pleaded frantically through their distant link, Brother, please! I beg you, please, do not leave me!

Nuala... my sister.... He felt Zhenjin's grip tighten on the hilt of his sword. Nuala, forgive me. For everything... please forgive me. I love you... Sister....

Brother, no! Brother!

"No! No, Zhenjin, don't! Please!" Startled jade and amber eyes jerked to see Dylan on her feet, being held back by two Butcher Guards. Indecision held Tsu's'di and the hounds immobile; the guards were not hurting Dylan, merely keeping her from getting where she desperately wished to go - right into danger. The mortal strained toward the two princes, eyes wide and frantic. "Zhenjin, don't! Please don't! You can't, you can't, Zhenjin, please!"

The emperor lunged to his feet. He ignored Ming Xian, who currently struggled just as desperately as Dylan to reach her brother and the Bethmooran prince. Only the restraining arms of Princess Yin-Mei kept her pinned to the older princess's lap. Huizong snarled, "You filthy human tramp, how dare you-"

It was all Nuada needed. He jerked back. The sword-point slid free with a spatter of blood. Even as Zhenjin moved in to press his advantage, instinct and centuries of battle and training had Nuada bringing up his sword to block the next strike.

The prince of the Tuatha de gritted his teeth. Sucked in an agonizing breath. Risking a gamble, he smacked his sword against Zhenjin's, startling him. A quick twist of the blade dragged it across the back of the Dilong Elf's hand. Zhenjin yelped and his blade dropped from suddenly limp fingers. He lunged to catch it.

Nuada punched him in the face. Blood spurted from what was likely to be a broken nose. Zhenjin staggered back.

Dizzy, the world spinning around him, Nuada dropped to one knee. Dylan yelled his name. He blinked away the blurriness in his vision. How much blood had he lost from that final strike? What had Zhenjin hit? It was so hard to draw a full breath. He tasted the fey sweetness of his own blood on his tongue.

A shadow moved overhead. A sword blade arced downward. Nuada knew he couldn't dodge that strike completely. Instead, he twisted and reached, knowing he had one last strike to make before he could safely say he'd won the battle. Zhenjin's chokutō sliced downward. Nuada twisted so the blade missed the weak points in his armor and clanged against the Royal Seal protecting his stomach.

Triumph entwined with pain to flood Nuada's veins with fiery ice as he twisted, slashing his own blade across the back of Zhenjin's ankle. The Elven silver sliced through the Dilong prince's leather boot. Through flesh and muscle. Severed the tendon.

Zhenjin fell with a hollow cry. His sword, clutched in his uninjured left hand, clattered to the ground. Nuada rolled onto his back and tried to breathe.

For a long moment, both of them simply lay in the dust, panting for breath. Blood soaked the ground. Soaked Nuada's shirt and oozed steadily from the wounds in his chest, side, and sword-arm. He could scarcely draw breath. But he managed to struggle to his feet and point the tip of his sword just beneath Zhenjin's chin.

Jade eyes locked with amber. Nuada refused to let his sword tremble, though his arm shrieked at the abuse.

"That... hurt," the Dilong prince mumbled. "Bastard."

"As I said before," Nuada wheezed, "get over it. At least neither of us is dead." He wiped his blade against his thigh and sheathed it. The Elven warrior knew he would have to clean it thoroughly later, but for now it was all he could do to keep on his feet. "And at least there will be no senseless war between our kingdoms over this."

With hands that he refused to allow to shake, the prince removed his helm. His former weapons' tutors would have had fits if they saw what he did next, but the exhausted prince did not care - he let the helm drop to the dust at his feet. Nuada swayed on his feet as another wave of dizziness struck. It took him a moment to work up the saliva to wet his desert-dry mouth enough to speak. When he was sure the assembled fae would be able to hear him, he finally spoke.

"I will not kill an honorable opponent who cannot even stand, much less fight. By the dictates of His Imperial Majesty the August Jade Emperor, Crown Prince Zhenjin Azurefire was to fight me, and his victory would be ensured by my death. My victory, however, requires no such sacrifice. By the dictates of His Royal Majesty King Balor One-Arm, I have won this duel. I am no longer bound in any way to Princess Ming Xian." Swallowing against the sudden urge to laugh - he had won, he was free of this ridiculous "betrothal," and Zhenjin still lived; relief threatened to make him giddy - he turned toward where his father sat beside Huizong and added in a voice that managed to ring with royal authority, "I declare myself to Lady Dylan of Central Park for all to hear and bear witness."

After what felt like several small eternities, the One-Armed King of Elfland inclined his head. Relief and exhaustion warred within the prince until they were nearly indistinguishable. He closed his eyes and just breathed for a minute. There was still more to what he owed his father for letting him end this battle this way, but for now this was enough. Thank the stars, it was enough.

Things grew just a bit fuzzy then. Nuada knew that healers came to carry Zhenjin away. They could heal the damage Nuada had inflicted - that was the request he had made of King Balor earlier that day. Without that healing, a crippled Zhenjin would be removed from the line of succession for the throne. With it, he would be back on his feet in only a few days, and still be the crown prince.

The Bethmooran prince turned on leaden feet and stumbled toward where his father sat rigid, watching him approach with fathomless eyes. It took him a moment to know if he could do it without collapsing, but Nuada managed to kneel before his father and king.

"Majesty," he rasped. The world was swimming. Every movement sent wicked agony throbbing through his body. He heard Ming Xian sobbing for her brother, nearly hysterical. The sound of childish fists striking Princess Yin-Mei in desperation thudded against his skull. Childish weeping buzzed in his ears. Nuada strained to make his voice strong and clear above the sound. "Is it finished to your satisfaction?"

He didn't expect his father to get up. To come and put a hand on the shoulder of his uninjured arm. Nuada looked up through his sweat-drenched hair to see his father gazing down at him with a look that might have been pride. Nuada wasn't sure if he were hallucinating due to bloodloss or not.

"I am satisfied. As is the Dragon Emperor." Over his shoulder, the king commanded, "Release the prince's lady. Where are the other healers?"

Nuada was not sure what it was that alerted him. Perhaps the sudden tension in his father, the barest hint of old battle instincts coming to the fore. Perhaps it was Ming Xian's sudden silence. Or maybe it was Dylan's gasp. Whatever it was, it pierced the fog of pain and gave the Elven warrior just enough of a warning to shove past his father as one of Huizong's black-clad Téngshé lunged for the aged Bethmooran king.

Gritting his teeth against the sudden flare of white-hot fire ripping through his chest, Nuada drew his sword and whipped it up. Thrust the blade of Elven silver deep into the Téngshé's belly. Amber blood fountained hot and wet over his hand.

A second blade, slim as a dagger, with a glittering hilt of jade as red as mortal blood, pierced the Téngshé's shoulder. Shock hollowed his cry of agony while his fellow guards moved in on him. A young girl's voice snarled, "Got him. Now hold the traitor! The poison on my stiletto should prevent him from trying to suicide until we can question him." Then the Butchers and the other Téngshé had the maverick Dilong guard in their grasp.

Nuada allowed himself to fall to his knees once again as his strength failed him. He would have collapsed to the ground, but slender arms came around him and took most of his weight. He managed to lift his head enough to meet a gaze of impossibly fey-like blue.

Dylan....

"Stay with me," she pleaded. The world faded away around them. The weary Elven warrior let his head drop to her shoulder. "Nuada, stay with me. These wounds, they're nothing, right?" She tried to force some lightness into her voice, but it came out hollow and panicked. "You've had worse. You'll be okay. Come on, now. Stay with me, okay? Okay?"

He did not - could not - answer her. Everything seemed so far away. Something wet and hot touched his lips. Blood? Every breath was a struggle. Pain hissed beneath his skin, strangely dulled by a deathly cold that whispered oh so seductively to him.

Dylan's voice trembled when she whispered, "Nuada, don't leave me. Please don't leave me." Her hand pressed hard against the wound in his chest, a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. Slick amber seeped between her fingers. Stained the sleeve of her gown dark gold. "Stay with me. Come on...."

"Dylan, I... I...." I love you. I love you, Dylan. His lips moved soundlessly, but the words would not come. He didn't have the strength to speak. How much blood had he lost? Was he going to succumb to these wounds after all? That final strike, from the Téngshé... where had it hit him? Somewhere in the chest. Where?

He heard, as if from a long ways off, his father roaring for the healers. Tsu's'di was on Nuada's other side, helping Dylan support his weight while pressing something against the slice in his side to staunch the bleeding there. He wanted to say something to the boy - he was uncertain as to what - but it seemed far too much effort. Sétanta and Eimh pressed close, trying to help him stay at least somewhat upright. Both hounds whined low in their throats.

"Nuada? Please...."

Brother!

His eyes drifted closed. It was so hard to keep them open. He wanted to rest for a bit. Just for a bit. He'd stopped the attack, won the fight, could he not rest now?  Just for a moment. Just rest with his forehead on Dylan's shoulder, the fragrance of her hair cutting through the stench of sweat and blood from the fight. She was soft and warm, and he was suddenly so cold.

"Nuada? Nuada, no. No! Open your eyes. Come on, you jerk, open your eyes! The healers are coming, you have to stay awake until they get here. Wake up! Don't do this to me," crying now, he did not want her to cry, never that, but he couldn't seem to muster the strength to respond, to comfort her, "Nuada, don't leave me. Please. Please. Nuada, please!" In tremulous Gaelic she begged, "Tabhair ná téigh. Tá grá agam duit, Nuada, ná téigh!"

Please don't go. I love you, Nuada, don't go!

He just barely managed to scrape together the strength to whisper, "Tá bron... orm... agrá...."

I'm so... sorry... beloved....

He sagged in her arms, completely spent. Only Tsu's'di and the hounds kept them both from falling under his weight. He thought he heard his father shout his name. Knew it could not be. But there were others calling....

"Your Highness!"

*Master!*

"Nuada! Nuada!"

And then the soft weight of her against him began to slip away. He could no longer hear her voice pleading with him. No longer feel her arms around him. There was nothing but a dull cold that seemed to spread from his chest to freeze his limbs. Nuada wondered if Dylan was still crying. Wondered if she would ever forgive him for this. I am sorry... Nuala... Dylan... Father....

Then he drifted away, and the last thing he heard was Nuala screaming for him through their link, begging him not to leave her alone.