Chapter 65 - Where My Heart Should Be

that is

A Short Tale of

an Answer, a Frightened Child, a King and Queen Dancing, an Overture of Friendship, a Dance Lesson, a Challenge, and a Threat

.

.

"Dylan. My Dylan. A ghrá mo chroí... will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"

The shock of that question hit her low in the pit of the stomach, driving the breath from her without mercy. Hollow weakness flooded her body. As if from a great distance, she heard the blood roaring in her ears and wondered vaguely if she were about to faint. Her heart pounded against her ribcage almost hard enough to bruise the fragile bones. Had the king said something to Nuada while she was in her room? Or before that?

"I... did your father...." Dylan could scarcely get the words out around the thickening emotion in her throat, but the prince knew what she was trying to ask.

"No, mo duinne. My father has not ordered me to wed you. He... encouraged me to ask, but I am asking for myself. I am asking because I want to be with you." Nuada skimmed his knuckles down the length of the slashing scar on her cool, satin-soft cheek that he loved to touch. After everything that had happened, he could understand why she should doubt him. They would work through her doubts and he would prove his sincerity. "I am asking you to marry me, Dylan, because I want you for my wife."

She stared at him, unable to speak. Joy, bitter as wormwood and sweet as temptation, curled like ice-cold fingers around her heart. He loved her. He wanted her. This was just like... just like in her dreams. Dreams that had ripped her from sleep and left her desolate in the harsh face of reality. Unless she was dreaming now.

"Am I... I'm dreaming, aren't I?" She managed to whisper the words. A dark mouth quirked at the corners and Nuada shook his head. "I have to be dreaming. You wouldn't... you would never... would you? Why would you... but you can't want me. Not like that. I'm just... I'm nothing but-"

"You are everything I have ever wanted." Each word was a caressing whisper as he drew her close. "I was simply too blind to realize it for a long while. I do want you. I want the mortal with the fey eyes and the angel's heart. I want the woman who stands ever at my side, who sees the man I wish to be and always strives to help me become him. The woman who makes me smile when I thought there was no true joy left in the world. I want you. No one else. I beg you to allow me the privilege of taking your hand in marriage." He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Marry me, Dylan."

Taking your hand.... And she suddenly remembered that first night coming before the fae court of Bethmoora....

King Balor had asked, "Pray, tell Us, Prince Nuada - have you asked for the Lady Dylan's hand?"

"I-" Nuada had begun, but then it seemed that his quick wits had failed him, because he'd paused for just a moment too long. Dylan had seen the swift spark of irritation and triumph in the king's eyes and known she and the prince were heading for hot water very quickly. Only at the last possible moment, the Holy Ghost guiding her tongue and soothing her nerves, had the mortal come up with a valid reason as to why she and Nuada weren't engaged.

"We've discussed it, but... a lot would have to happen first. You see, Your Majesty, I am a Latter-Day Saint, a follower of the High King of the World. My God has commanded His followers to wed only those who follow Him in turn. And though I may love Prince Nuada with everything I am, I have loved and will always love my God more than any other, and strive always to obey His laws and edicts.

"His Highness and I have talked often of the Star Kindler and of faith, but he has not covenanted with the High King to follow Him. I know that my God would not wish the prince to be forced to become a Latter-Day Saint - in truth, such a thing would offend Him. But until His Highness chooses of his own free will to follow the High King, marriage to him is something I cannot consider agreeing to, even if all the kings of this world were to command it. I am loyal to my God first.

"But," and at that moment Dylan had turned to lay her palm against Nuada's chest, over his heart, "married or not, betrothed or not, my feelings for the prince remain unchanged."

My feelings remain unchanged....

It wasn't fair, she thought now, bringing her mind back to the present; to the half-slumbering Elven garden that had begun to awaken because Nuada loved her; to the chill winter night that was so bitterly cold; and the amber eyes watching her, waiting for her answer with equal parts trepidation and hope. It wasn't fair.

Dylan squeezed her eyes shut against the burn of tears. Felt them roll hot and wet down her cheeks to drop off the end of her chin. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Drew a breath that was nearly a sob. He was going to... he would... Nuada would... dammit, it wasn't fair.

"No," she gasped out. She wrenched back from him. Shook her head. "No."

Nuada reached for her. "Dylan-"

"No," she repeated. She didn't want to do this. Didn't want to hurt him. Not like this. Did not want to be another in a long line of those who'd cruelly rejected him, broken his heart. But she had no choice. "I can't. I can't marry you, I can't. No."

The hand reaching toward her fell back to the Elf prince's side. He stared at her, and she could see the bewildered pain in his eyes. "No?"

She shook her head again. Wrapped her arms around herself as if chilled. Her fingers bit into her arms hard enough that she knew she'd have bruises in the morning. Tears glittered like diamonds in the moonlight. "No."

Pain, actual physical pain, squeezed her chest until she could scarcely draw breath. Her knees shook; she wondered distantly how long it would be before they buckled and she fell to the snow. Would she be able to get up again?

Something black and cold flooded Nuada's body with ice as the full import of what his lady was saying registered. It took him several long moments to remember how to breathe around the sudden knifing pain in his chest.

When his mother had died, he'd thought his heart would always remain frozen, iced over by that pain and that loss. Eventually the chill inside him had begun to fade, thawed little by little under the warmth of Nuala and Wink and Polunochnaya and a very few others. Slowly, he'd begun to let go of the grief.

Then he'd gone into battle for the first time, and the frost of cold terror and remorseless slaughter had frozen his heart again. The weight of countless lives ended without mercy had dragged him down even further. The truce between the humans and the fae had hardened that ice, blackened it. That first step into exile had left him numb with the bitter cold.

It had only begun to thaw again, he realized, after meeting Dylan. The pain had only begun fading once he'd allowed her to begin healing him from the soul outward.

But this pain... this pain was a thousand times worse than nearly any grief he had suffered before, because she was the one... because Dylan was the one who....

"Why not?" He whispered, watching her tremble as if she might shake apart. Every tear streaming down her cheeks was another blade in his heart. Her hand came up to cover her mouth in a vain attempt at muffling a sob. "Why won't you even consider... I thought... I thought that you-"

He could not continue, but the words beat against her mercilessly nonetheless. I thought that you loved me.

"I can't," she sobbed. "I can't marry you, I can't." She let herself lean backwards until her back hit the icy trunk of the hawthorn tree. Her legs finally buckled and Dylan slid to the ground in a graceless heap. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I can't. Why did you have to ask me this?" In a trembling voice that was merely a breath of sound, she whispered, "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Why am I..." And the first sparks of anger flared up, burning cold in the very depths of him. "You rip the heart from my chest with but one word and without a second thought and then are cruel enough to ask why I am doing this to you? You reject me without even considering for a moment-"

"I can't," Dylan said in a hollow voice. "You know I can't marry you just because you asked. Why would you ask this when you knew I couldn't... when you knew how much I wanted...."

He knotted his hands into fists at his sides to keep them from shaking. "I knew nothing of the kind. What fool leaves himself vulnerable in such a way, knowing an attack looms on the horizon? I had thought... I thought... why can't you marry me?"

Forcing away the shards of icy fury in his voice, he murmured, "Is it because we fought?" Her head came up and she stared at him with heartbreaking eyes. "Is it because of what I said in the sanctuary? Dylan, I know I have a swift temper, I know I can be cruel, but I swear to you, I will do better. I promise I am trying. Give me but one more chance and I swear-"

"It's not that." Dylan dropped her head into her hands. Sighed. The frigid bite of the snow was slowly creeping through her jeans and her coat to numb her legs and back. She wished that numbness would spread to the rest of her. Sniffling, she said, "Don't you remember what I told your father our first night before the court?"

My God has commanded His followers to wed only those who follow Him in turn. The words echoed in his skull like the harsh crack of something precious and fragile breaking into pieces. Nuada stared at her. "I do not... do not understand. I thought that was merely an excuse to put him off so he would not press us about marrying. I did not think-" Her glance, when she looked up at him, stilled the words in his throat.

Dylan drew a shuddering breath. Pressed her folded arms more tightly against her stomach. Her shoulders hunched defensively. "You know that dream I've been having? The one where I always wake up crying even though it's so wonderful?"

After a tense silence, the amber-eyed prince nodded. Rainswept eyes met his. The trembling smile that curved a corner of her mouth left his heart bleeding.

"This was my dream. You asking... me saying yes. Our life together. Getting married. Being together. No danger, no stupid political games. No one trying to kill us. Just a simple, happy life together. There was even...." She blinked, hard, but it didn't stop two fresh teardrops from escaping her fragmenting control. "In my dream we even have children. Can you imagine that? Everything I've ever wanted for myself - everything - offered to me in a dream and snatched away when I wake up, over and over again, night after night."

Yes, he could imagine that. No wonder she had wept so bitterly when he'd woken her in his mother's garden.

"Now imagine that I can have it in the real world... if I turn my back on everything I believe in and everything I stand for. I can be with you if I basically forfeit my soul. My morals. What would you do?" And she dropped her head into her hands once more.

What would he do? Exactly as he had done in the same situation. Didn't she understand? He had faced the same choice twice before. Once during the final war against the humans, and once when he'd realized just what he felt for the impossible mortal currently weeping in the snow.

Sell his soul and accept seventy-times-seventy unforgivable sins upon it in exchange for the safety of the Fair Folk. Sell his soul and accept that he had fallen in love with one of the despised children of Adam. Both instances, he had turned his back on what he had always believed to be right to preserve something he deemed worth the sacrifice.

His people's lives and livelihood; his lady's continued safety and happiness. Was he not worth the same sacrifice in her eyes? If not him, then who? Who was worthy of such a thing in Dylan's eyes?

Nuada doesn't even have the priesthood. The words came back to him suddenly with startling clarity. He's not a follower of the High King of the World, and without those two things, we could never get married in His temple. And as if from somewhere far away, he heard her voice during one of the many conversations they'd had about religion and faith and the Star Kindler. My children - if I ever have any - deserve a father with the power of the priesthood. If I'm going to curse them with the Sight, they deserve at least that much from me by way of blessing.

"Then...." Nuada's hands convulsed into knotted fists. He had to swallow once before continuing. "Then there is no chance of a better answer? This is all the answer I am to receive? There is nothing that could convince you to accept my proposal?"

Rainswept blue eyes met glacial topaz. A tear glittered on her cheek. "If the king orders you to marry me, I'll agree then, because I know if I don't, he'll do something horrible to you. If that happens, my answer is yes."

Centuries of iron self-control allowed him to hide his flinch. So she would wed him if his father ordered? Not if he asked, not if Prince Nuada made an idiot of himself by practically begging her to marry him... but if Balor commanded it?

As she had promised weeks ago, before he had realized just what she was to him. Before she had confessed how much he supposedly meant to her.

Well enough. He had no choice but to accept that.

By now Dylan's sobs had subsided into sniffles and the occasional hiccup. She shivered in the snow despite her thick leather coat. He was fairly certain her bad knee had stiffened up. When she tried to get to her feet, it would send wicked knives of pain shooting up and down her leg.

Focusing on that instead of the dull ache squeezing his heart, Nuada went to her and, before she could even think to protest, lifted her into his arms, ignoring the flash of pain through his arm and the sudden throbbing in his chest. Dylan's damp clothes made her shiver. He tightened his grip.

Dazed, disoriented from crying and the cold and the abrupt movement, she stared up at him with furrowed brows and mumbled, "What... what are you... what?"

"We are going inside." Nuada did not look at her - could not look into those eyes of fey-like, starlit blue. Could not think of how he had thought... hoped... yearned for.... He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. Ground out, "It is too cold for this conversation to continue here."

Thinking of his still-healing wounds, Dylan protested, "But... but you're hurt."

The irony of her words seemed to be lost on her, but Nuada laughed with bitter humor. "It is nothing for you to be concerned over."

After a moment, she whispered, "Gráin agat dom anois, nach tú?" You hate me now, don't you? He had asked her that once upon a time, after the fight where he had stabbed her with a verbal knife edged with contempt and honed by fury. "Of course you do," she mumbled, voice empty. "Why wouldn't you?"

It took him several long seconds to find the strength to reply, but reply he finally did. Though he struggled to make his voice as toneless as possible, he couldn't quite manage it. "Because I love you."

She made a small sound, and tucked her face against his chest. He felt her tears soaking his shirt. Said nothing about that, or the taste of her pain on the air, mingling with his own hurt. Made no explanation to the dozen Butchers who eyed the prince dubiously, but followed him when he began to make his way back to the palace carrying his silently weeping mortal lady.

There was no sound made, except for the clanking of the Butchers' hob-nail boots and the quiet chatter of the castle at night, until Nuada stepped into their joint suites and carried Dylan into her bedroom.

As soon as he'd set her on her feet, he pulled away from her. The Butchers waited just beyond the half-open door, offering a semblance of privacy; Uaithne had taken one look at Lady Dylan's tear-stained face and made sure that while his fellow guards did their job, they gave the prince and the mortal some space.

Nuada watched her in silence. Silence that threatened to crush her with the weight of it. She didn't know what to say to him; didn't know what to say to erase that awful, brittle look in topaz eyes. Her hands shook. She hid them behind her back. Met his eyes and fought not to flinch. What could she say, that she hadn't said already, to explain why she couldn't give him what he wanted? What they both wanted so much?

Dylan took a step toward him. He jerked back. "Nuada, please-"

"You should get to bed," the prince said softly. She flinched. "And you are half-chilled from the snow. You'll catch your death if you do not change clothes and get warm. The princess would have my head-" My heart, she was almost certain was what he meant to say, somehow, "on a spike if you were unwell for your dance lesson tomorrow. Good night, Lady Dylan."

She wanted to call out to him, to beg him to come back, but why would she? How could she? Nothing would change. She would still have been one of the many to break Nuada's heart. He would still look at her as if she were some sort of haunting dream raking his heart with cruel and merciless claws.

For just a moment, a single split-second, Dylan thought about making the absolutely wrong choice. Wondered what would happen if she threw away everything, everything she stood for - her morals, her faith, her responsibilities, everything - just threw it all away... for him. Wondered wildly what would happen if she followed him into his bedroom, told the guards to get out, and just surrendered to what he wanted. To everything he wanted. Because, she had to face it, if she was willing to compromise once, if she was willing to give up on what she believed in once, why not twice? Thrice? Over and over again? And Dylan knew that would be exactly what would happen if she followed her prince and gave herself to him as completely as her heart wanted her to.

There would be joy, yes, and the pain would fade from his eyes. That guilt would be assuaged. She would have the husband, the lover, the prince she had always wanted. The handsome prince out of a faerie tale. But a deeper guilt would twist her heart, knot in the pit of her stomach, circle constantly in her mind like a hungry shark. And she could never be certain that that guilt wouldn't destroy what she'd surrendered so much to achieve in the first place.

So she watched Nuada go back to his room, though her eyes saw nothing as her guards came in to take their posts throughout her room. Fionnlagh,
Ailís, Gráinne, and Onóra took up positions at windows and bedroom door. Uaithne and Ailbho moved to go back into her sitting room, but Ailbho stopped a few feet from the mortal and cleared his throat. It echoed strangely from inside his helmet.

"My lady?" The young guard ventured. Dylan started in surprise; she hadn't realized he was so close. "Lady Dylan? Are you... are you all right? Do you need anything? I... um, I don't have much experience with humans, but my Clodagh says that sometimes the best thing for sorrow is simple joy. Is there anything at all I can get for you? To cheer you up, I mean? I'd be happy to," he added when she blinked at him. "Honestly. It's no trouble."

Uaithne wondered if he ought to stop the boy - because Ailbho was a boy, barely into his ninth century and just old enough to be in the royal guard, and so often put his foot in his mouth - but his somewhat clumsy attempts at trying to chase away the mortal's sadness seemed almost to be working. One corner of the scarred mouth quirked up a little. She shook her head.

"No, thank you, Ailbho. I'm fine. Um... is Eimh nearby? I think... I think I'd like a bath."

The faerie hounds had been waiting in the sitting room with the children, who'd been waiting for their mistress to come back in time for the bedtime story, family prayer, scripture reading and lullaby. Once again, Dylan realized she'd forgotten about A'du and 'Sa'ti. She'd have to take a bath - she was shivering hard now from sitting in the snow - and then come back for the bedtime ritual.

Dylan bit the inside of her cheek to steady herself and pasted on a smile for the children. A'du'la'di saw through it in a second.

He cocked his head and studied Dylan with bright gray eyes. Sniffed almost delicately before opening his mouth just a little. Frowned. His tail began to lash back and forth and his ears twitched. Then he marched toward the door that joined Dylan's sitting room with the front room of Nuada's suite.

"A'du'la'di-" Dylan began, startled, but the ewah boy darted through the door and closed it firmly behind him before she could even attempt to stop him.

"Where's he going?" Tsu's'di asked to no one in particular.

Dylan thought she had a fairly good idea, and knew the worst that could happen was A'du being escorted back to the sitting room by one of the Butchers at Nuada's order. She sincerely doubted the prince wanted to speak to anyone just now, much less a cougar child. As for herself, she was going to take that bath before she turned into an icicle.

.

A knock rapped smartly on Nuada's study door. He glanced up, then dropped his gaze back to the just-opened bottle and half-full glass of whiskey on his desk. It wasn't Dylan on the other side of the door - he would have felt her - and so it was no one of consequence. He lifted the glass. Took a swallow. The taste failed to cleanse the sour taste from his mouth, but the whiskey burned through him.

The knock came again, harder this time. The Elf prince scowled. "Who is it?"

"A'du'la'di," came the shocking reply. "Lemme in. I need to talk to you. It's really important."

He had no patience for children right now. "Begone."

To his consternation, the door popped open and the cougar boy darted through before closing the door behind him. Large gray eyes, wary and worried, found Nuada across the vast expanse of study floor. The ewah child came forward until he stood fairly close to Nuada's large ebony desk. Bowed smartly.

"I told you-" The feral-eyed Elven warrior began with a snarl.

"Why does A'ge'lv Dylan smell weird?" A'du demanded, folding his arms in defiance across his skinny chest.

Caught completely off-guard, Nuada blinked. "What?"

The cougar boy licked the fur on one hand before scrubbing at his cheek with it. Composure grooming, Nuada recalled distantly. The faerie page tugged nervously on the hem of his gray shirt. Swiped at his whiskers.

"She smells weird. Like... like... I dunno. Ice in summer. The really bad, cold kind that makes you fall asleep and never wake up. Like rain, but not how rain in the spring smells when the grass is all green and stuff. More like... like when the rain comes down really hard, and washes everything away, and nothing grows anymore." A'du'la'di growled in frustration and raked his claws through his tufty mane. His fur stood on end, bristling. "I don't know! All of her good smells are really little and far away now. Something's wrong with her."

He turned glistening eyes on his prince. Nuada realized the boy was... scared.

"Is she sick? That's what happened to my mama after my dad died and 'Sa'ti was born - she got sick and... and she went away and we never saw her again. Is Dylan sick? Is she okay? Why does she smell weird?"

It took Nuada a moment to process everything the boy had said. The slow burn of the whiskey had helped to dull the sharpest edges of his thoughts, but that and the exhaustion of the day and the pain of his half-healed injuries all combined to make the child's explanation difficult to decipher. "No," the prince said finally. "She's not sick."

"Then what's wrong with her?" A'du'la'di demanded. "It's like she's sad, but... but she's been sad before, and she didn't smell like this. She has bad dreams; I know she does. She doesn't think I know because I don't say nothing, but that's 'cause Tsu's'di said not to, and maybe I should've said something, or given her a hug, or... or... I don't know! But she didn't want us to know, so... so I didn't. But she always smelled sad when she woke up, but this is worse."

The boy didn't see Nuada's wince.

"It's like... it's like how she smelled when you were hurt, and you wouldn't wake up, and she was scared all the time about it, and she always looked like she was gonna cry, but it's worse than that, too. A lot worse." He scrubbed at his face with a furry hand again. In a voice that trembled, the boy asked plaintively, "What's the matter with her?"

The prince wondered if he'd gone mad when he said softly, gently to the little boy, "Come here, A'du'la'di." Nuada got to his feet and came around the desk to kneel before the boy to make eye contact. Perhaps it was the alcohol burning through his veins that made him say what he did next, that made his tongue so loose, but Nuada wasn't sure. "I asked Lady Dylan to marry me."

A'du frowned. "But... but she loves you. A lot. Why would she be sad if you wanna get married? Girls always wanna get married and have babies and stuff."

Nuada hid the second wince. Get married and have babies. Two mutually exclusive options for Dylan and I. "Because we cannot marry. I did not know that before I asked her; my asking upset her."

Furry hands smoothed over the gray canvas shirt. Claws snagged briefly in the heavy material. "So... is she mad at you? She didn't smell mad."

Nuada found that he couldn't answer. Dylan hadn't sounded angry when they'd spoken in the garden. Only hurt, betrayed, grief-stricken. Tortured.

The prince wasn't sure how A'du'la'di interpreted his silence, but the ewah child did not press him. Only asked, "Why can't you guys get married?"

The Elf sighed. "I am not a follower of the Star Kindler, and Dylan says-"

"You guys can't get married in the temple," the boy concluded. Nuada blinked at him. How did he...? "Well... why don't you just follow the Star Kindler, then? I mean, you wanna marry A'ge'lv Dylan, don't you? You love her, don't you? Like, a whole lot. And 'cause she's mortal, so she's not gonna live as long as you, so when she's an old lady and dies, if you guys get married in the temple you'll be married forever instead of just when she's alive. You wanna be married to her forever, right?"

Nuada refused to admit that half of that hadn't made sense. Instead, he merely replied, "It is not that simple, A'du'la'di."

Indignant, the little boy replied, "It's not that complisticated, either!" The cougar noted the corner of Nuada's mouth twitch. "I know that's not how I'm s'posed to say it. I suck at talking with big words. That's not the point! You're making her sad! Why not just try it? Even if you just try, it'll make her happy. I know it! Please?"

"A'du'la'di-"

"Please, Your Highness? Please? I don't want her to be sad like this. You can come hear the bedtime story like before, and maybe just listen to family prayer. You don't even have to say anything. You can just listen. Please?"

No. No, he could not see Dylan tonight. Not when he could still feel the knife of her refusal driving deep into his chest. Not when the alcohol had loosened his tongue to the point that he was pouring out his romantic woes to a little boy. Nuada sighed.

"No, A'du'la'di."

The boy drew back from him, confusion and accusation and hurt in his eyes. His bottom lip quivered ominously.

"At least... not tonight," the prince amended.

"Tomorrow night?"

After a long silence, Nuada inclined his head. "Perhaps."

"That means no."

"It means," the prince of Bethmoora said firmly, "perhaps. Now, go along with you." When the boy opened his mouth as if to protest, the last of Nuada's patience disintegrated, and he said sharply, "Out."

A'du sighed. "Yes, sir."

Nuada waited until the boy had gone and closed the door behind him before taking the seat behind his desk again. Things were so simple to children. You love her, don't you? Yes. Shades of Annwn, yes, he did, and he hoped the gods - or the Star Kindler - would have pity on him for it. What was he supposed to do? Feign acceptance of a God he did not dare trust and could not understand, lie to Dylan and break his honor with subtle untruth and deliberate falsehood, lie to everyone around him, and all for the sake of...

The scent of summer flowers in deepest winter. Hot chocolate in a cozy little kitchen while a soft voice brought the words in a book to vivid life. Eyes like the moon over Bethmoora. Deft, elegant fingers coaxing melodies from a piano. The comfort of an embrace that offered everything and demanded nothing. Scarred lips curving into a smile. The touch of her hand at just the right moment, the taste of her kiss, the sound of her laughter.

It is better to break your own heart than to break your honor , Nuada reminded himself. His words to A'du'la'di merely a couple weeks ago. His father's words to a young prince centuries past. Better to break my own heart; I have done so often enough ere now. What is one more heartbreak?

The words echoed hollowly in his mind. He knocked back the last of the whiskey in his glass. After a moment's hesitation, wishing fiercely for Wink, he poured himself another and took a long swallow.

.

A long time ago, trapped in the isolation room at Saint Vincent's, knowing that even though the lights had been shut off and all was pitch dark, the eyes were always watching and the monsters were always listening, Dylan had learned how to cry in utter silence. She had learned to force her hitching breath to almost calm stillness, though it made her chest ache as if someone had punched through her ribs. She'd learned to silence every sniffle, every sob. It hurt physically to do it - throbbing in her skull and dull pain throughout her chest and a burn like salt searing an open wound in her throat - and so she almost never did it now. Hadn't needed to for a very long time.

But she couldn't hold back the tears after she'd had a quick bath, put the children to bed and said her prayers. Only biting her tongue until she tasted blood had allowed her to make it through her prayers and a few verses of scripture without breaking. Now, curled up under the blankets and scrunched so no one could really see her, she soaked her pillow tear by tear.

She didn't have her dolls this time. Didn't let Eimh or Sétanta sleep on the bed with her. Instead they'd been told to sleep out in her sitting room. She missed their warmth, and the comfort of their big furry bodies that she'd gotten used to in the nearly-two-weeks she'd been in Findias, but knew also that if they came into the bedroom they'd know she was crying. Then the guards would know. And then... then one of them would go and tell Nuada - if he were still awake - and then...

Then what? What would be worse: Nuada coming to comfort her, but still with that horrible look in his eyes... or Nuada not coming at all?

Dylan dozed fitfully off and on through the night. Though she didn't remember dreaming, every time she woke it was to the phantom touch of fingers biting into her skin and hot breath on her face that stank of faerie and mortal blood. Terror was ice in her veins. It choked back any cry she might have made.

Which, she acknowledged when she woke for the last time in the wee hours of the morning, was probably for the best, since her guards would have more than likely panicked at the sound of her petrified screaming. Fear-sweat had soaked her thin pajama top. Dylan sat up and shoved at sweat-dampened hair. She thought she caught the faintest odor of blood, sweat, and the thick stench of musk. What had she been dreaming? Something about... about darkness and silver, and cruel hands.

"My lady?" Fionnlagh queried from where the guard sat on the windowseat, legs stretched out in front of her. "Are you well?"

"Yes," Dylan croaked. Cleared her throat. "Thank you, Fionnlagh." But she wasn't. Her eyes were gritty from crying and from broken sleep. Her head throbbed dully, and she wondered if she really was getting sick, like Nuada had predicted. And her skin itched, prickled, crawled. The echo of dream-memory. Dylan threw back the blankets and got to her feet.

"My lady?"

"Taking a bath," she mumbled. Desperation to get rid of that itchy-prickly-crawly feeling had her stumbling towards the bathroom.

Without Eimh's help, the mortal drew the hottest bath she could possibly stand. She didn't add any of the fripperies Eimh usually did, bubble-bath and such. The only thing Dylan took out of its cabinet was shampoo and the soap that smelled of delicate greenery. The soap that carried a more feminine version of the wildwood scent that always seemed to cling to Nuada.

Then she scrubbed every inch of skin to within an inch of its life - twice. Washed and rinsed her hair at least that often. And if Fionnlagh and Gráinne thought her ragged breathing sounded quite a bit like sobbing, they said nothing about it.

Out of the tub, dressed for the day in black jeans and a black sweater, she went to the little nook-room off the sitting room - the one with the glittering chess set. The room had no windows, so she could be in here mostly alone. Her guards remained just beyond the doors.

The room was cozy enough. Tall, chestnut- and ashwood shelves lined with books covered the walls. Someone had replaced the cushy buff-colored armchair Tsu's'di had dragged out several days ago. Dylan sank into it and stared at the polished marble and gold chessboard with its white and yellow diamond armies eager to do battle. Hesitant fingers touched the king of amber diamonds - a six-inch tall, expertly crafted warrior bearing a small sword and shield and wearing a crown.

A glint of silver caught her eye and she looked down at the large chestnut-wood table. Noted that it actually looked more like a desk than a table, with five silver-handled drawers fitted into the wood. Curious despite herself, Dylan pulled open one of the drawers.

Inside were quills edged with a faint shimmer of gold, bottles of different-colored ink, slender candles for creating wax seals, and a small knife she vaguely recognized as being used to sharpen quill pens. In another drawer she found a stack of soft white vellum stationary. Dylan realized with a start that the stylized silver and metallic blue crest at the top of the stationary-heading was the one Nuada had designed for her. In yet another drawer she found regular white writing paper, with merely her initials in a sort of gold-gilt monogram at the top, meant for more personal correspondence; rough paper for initial drafts; and envelopes. One of the drawers was empty except for a large letter-sorter.

But the final drawer held a royal blue velvet ring-box a little bit larger than the standard box. With shaking hands, Dylan drew it out. Her heart seemed intent on pounding right out of her chest. She opened the velvet box. Nestled inside gleamed a signet ring of white gold. Her personal crest glinted in the amber glow of the lamplight. When she slipped the ring on with fingers that trembled, she found it settled nicely on the middle finger of her right hand.

She closed her eyes. A sob rose up in her throat, thick and salty. Dylan just barely managed to swallow it. She yanked the ring off her finger, carefully put it back in the box, and put the box back in the drawer. Let her eyes settle once more on the chess set.

"You know, if you wind the kings and queens, they dance," said a soft voice from the doorway. Dylan's head whipped around to see one of the female Butchers standing there at loose attention. From the single thick braid draped over one shoulder that fell to her waist, Dylan knew it was Ailís. "The prince is quite skilled with clockwork. I think all of the pieces move, though I am not certain about that. But I have seen the king and queen dance when wound properly."

Dylan swallowed, unsure where her sudden hesitation came from. Maybe it was that, for the first time in two days, Ailís was speaking in a voice that was not empty and toneless. "Would... would you show me how to do it?" The mortal asked.

Ailís stepped into the room and lifted the white king. Ran the very tip of her forefinger around the two-inch base of the chess piece with the faintest click-click-click sound. A tick-tocking followed as she placed it in the middle of the marble and gold chessboard. She did the same to the queen, but not the white queen. Instead, she wound the slender queen of aurulent diamonds and set it in the very center of the board. And as Dylan watched with bated breath, the two chess pieces came together and began to dance.

To her surprise, Dylan recognized the Old Word dance. Heartsease. It involved a lot of touching of the palms and turning, side-stepping and barely-a-breath-away closeness. It was her favorite dance to participate in at the Ren-Faires. And although it was a bit complicated - though nowhere near as difficult as the Entwine - it was also easy on her bad leg. Heartsease possessed an intimacy and a breathless sort of innocent romance that a lot of contemporary dancing lacked. And unlike "modern" classical dancing, like the waltz, it didn't demand more than she could give. And now her thoughts were drawn once more to Nuada, and her eyes stung and burned, and she dropped her face into her hands.

She'd forgotten about Ailís until the Butcher Guard laid a tentative hand on Dylan's shoulder. She jumped in surprise and looked up to see dark eyes watching her from behind the slitted visor of the iron helmet.

"If I may... what troubles you, milady?"

A sigh shuddered out of her on a ragged exhale. She shook her head. "Nothing." Then, as if her tongue had run off without her, she blurted, "Everything. I... I don't think I can talk about it. But thank you for asking. Really."

"Should I fetch the prince? I think he is still awake. Or woke early; I am not quite sure which. At any rate, he is in his study."

Dylan frowned. It was five in the morning. What was he doing awake at five in the morning again? And when had he moved back into his own suite? Had Chief-Healer Somhairle said he could do that?

But she shook her head. For one thing, if she asked him anything he would brush off her concern as he had the night before. What had he said? It is nothing for you to be concerned over. "That's all right; thank you."

"Do you wish to be alone?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. "No, actually. If you don't mind staying, maybe we could talk or something. I'd like to get to know you, if that's okay."

Ailís inclined her head. "As my lady wishes. Perhaps you would care for a game of chess?"

"I'm not very good." To Dylan's surprise, Ailís laughed.

"Nor am I," said the guardswoman. "Together we shall make a fair job of it, then."

.

By the time a servant came to tell Dylan it was time for her dancing lesson with the princess, the mortal healer and the faerie warrior had played ten games, and won an equal share of each.

At
Ailís's pointed suggestion during the third match, Dylan had remembered she hadn't had breakfast, and Ailís had sent a young page to the kitchens for the morning meal - warm raspberry and vanilla-cream pocket pies and boiled eggs sliced on buttered toast.

To Dylan's surprise, it had come on a tray with a nosegay of white poppies in a small crystal vase. The kitchen boy who'd brought it, Rórdán, had offered the tray with a bow and a shy smile before scuttling off with a diffident tug of his curly brown forelock. Dylan hadn't known if whoever put the poppies on the tray knew they stood for consolation, but it hadn't mattered. It was the thought that warmed her.

Before the dancing lesson she changed into a simple black leine and soft, supple boots. Lady's slippers probably would've been better for learning a waltz or something, but considering she'd learned Heartsease and the Entwine in sneakers, she wasn't too concerned. Besides, wearing slippers made her feet sweat. And unlike with boots, she wouldn't have been able to wear socks.

'Sa'ti and A'du were awake at this point, and begged to come with their mistress and maybe learn how to dance, too. A'du'la'di even offered to be her partner if the dance instructor couldn't find another guy. Looking at their excited faces, Dylan decided, What the heck? And made them promise to be on their best behavior.

They made quite the entourage moving down the palace corridors - six Butcher Guards, three cougar-shifters, and one scarred and slender mortal woman. Ailís knew where the lesson was to be held, and led the way.

At the door, a sudden spill of chill dread down Dylan's spine made her pause. She remembered what Nuada had said the night before - to send for him when the lesson was to start and that he would come. She wondered if the prince really would come if she sent for him now. Didn't want to try calling for him, only to have him refuse. Not unless she absolutely had to. And why would she?

The door swung open and her heart stilled in her chest. Standing with Nuala and a redhaired Elven woman was none other than the golden-haired Prince Bres. And beside him, thin lips curving into a smile as eyes of dark malachite slid over Dylan from toes to crown in a violating caress, stood Lord Ciaran.

"Good morning, Lady Dylan," the Fomorian lord murmured. "You cannot imagine what a pleasure it is to see you."

I am in big trouble were the only words she could force through her brain. She didn't notice when Tsu's'di slipped back out the door and padded silently down the corridor.

.

Nuada studied the scribbled message that had been waiting on his desk. It was brief, the handwriting crabbed and a bit sloppy, but the sight of it filled him with such intense relief he barely managed to make it to his chair before he collapsed into it.

Attacked by Butcher Guards. Am all right.
Will be in Findias before Midwinter.
Bringing Lorelei and Erik. Be careful.
Beware the king. Stay out of trouble.
Take care of the lassling.
- W

Wink. Wink, safe and alive and soon to be on his way here. Shades of Annwn, what he would not give to have Wink here at this very moment. To counsel with, or to simply unburden himself to. Even knowing that the moment the burly cave troll found out what all had transpired in the last two weeks, he would give his prince and brother-in-soul a good smack alongside the head for so many reasons: getting attacked by dipsa serpents, nearly getting killed in a rather foolish duel, falling in love with and proposing marriage to a human...

That last thought had Nuada's hands closing convulsively around the edge of his desk. What would his old friend say when the Elf prince told him what had transpired between the amber-eyed warrior and the mortal woman? Would Wink understand, or condemn him for betraying his people and his birthright? Would the troll advise him on what to do... or turn away from him for the treachery in his heart?

Wink, I wish I knew what to do. My father approves of a union with my lady, but I know most of my people do not. I doubt you would, either, for all you are fond of Dylan. And she... she will not have me. She will not have me, and it seems I need her more than I ever imagined. And then there is my father. Is he my enemy or no? I wish you were here, old friend.

Pounding at his study door jolted Nuada from his thoughts. Slipping Wink's note into a drawer in his desk and locking it, he called, "Enter."

Tsu's'di burst into the room fast enough that the Elven warrior's hand was on his sword and had it half-drawn from the sheath before Nuada truly registered who had entered the room. The cougar youth practically skidded to a halt a few feet from Nuada's desk. Nearly fell face-first into the ebony.

"I will say this once and only once - never rush into a room where an armed warrior is waiting. I could have had the head from your shoulders before you could blink. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sire, I'm sorry, but it's Dylan, she-"

Nuada was on his feet in an instant. "Where is she? Is she hurt?"

"No. She's fine. I mean, she's not fine, but she's not hurt. She... they...! Them!" The ewah took a deep breath and tried again. "We went to her lesson, and they were waiting for her, those Elves!"

The prince eyed the nearly frantic youth before sinking back into his chair again. "What Elves?"

"I don't know their names, I can't remember them. They're from that kingdom. The one near here. I heard A'ge'lv Dylan talking about them to you last night...." He trailed off when the feral-eyed warrior jerked upright and pinned him with a molten gaze. "I... I heard her say they scared her. And when she saw them just now, I could smell her fear. It was stronger even than when she faced off against Cuan and Conri. I remembered you saying you would come to her lesson if she sent for you, so I... came to... get you?"

Nuada was already through the door and striding past his guards before the boy had finished. Tsu's'di hastened after the prince. The cougar youth had to sprint to keep up with the prince's long stride as Nuada left his room and moved down the hall. One pale hand rested on the pommel of his sword. The other was clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

The closer he drew to where Dylan was, the faster his heart hammered against his breastbone. A strange and terrible but distant panic - Dylan's growing fear - pulsed just under his skin. It fueled the sparks of anger that had been smoldering inside him since the previous night. Fed on the savage hurt that had yet to fade, turning that and the anger into a fiercely driving need to protect.

He didn't wait for his guards or for Tsu's'di to open the door. Taking a moment to put all of his court masks in place, he pushed the door open and strode into the room.

.

Dylan had done everything short of begging Nuala in order to avoid having to partner with Bres or Ciaran. The princess had insisted that no one could teach Dylan one of the three dances she would more than likely have to perform with Nuada at the Midwinter Ball better than the Fomorian lord, who smiled and canted his head in a show of modesty before taking Dylan's hand and pulling her into a position that she recognized from television as the beginning form for the waltz.

She didn't have the presence of mind to appreciate anything about the dance itself. Only knee-jerk reactions to Ciaran's instructions - "Step back on your left foot, follow my lead; do not be so tense, milady. It does you no credit to move so stiffly" - kept her from tripping over her own feet more than once or twice.

Fear-sweat trickled down the back of her neck and along her spine. There was something so alien about the way the Fomorian lord looked at her. Even glancing into his eyes like midnight malachite made pain spike through her temples and sent her skin crawling. And his voice slid over her like something primordial and dark. She bit her tongue until copper blood stung the inside of her mouth to steady herself.

"You seem... tense, milady," Lord Ciaran murmured, leaning in so he could speak softly. Her eyes darted to his before dropping down to fixate on the pale expanse of his throat above the collar of his black tunic. Weren't Fomorians supposed to be tanned, like Prince Bres? "Relax. I'll not hurt you... today."

Eyes wide, she tried to pull back from him. His hand against her back held her in place. His touch was icy against her hand and through her dress.

"Now, now. Do not be rude. I mean no harm to you this day, but no fae is foolish enough to make a promise he cannot be sure of keeping. One day we may find ourselves enemies. Then again, we may not. I suppose it depends on what the Fates have in store for us, no?"

Those thin, pale lips curved into a smile.

"Besides, as His Highness Prince Nuada has surely warned you, I despise humans. So while hospitality forbids me from taking you apart piece by bloody piece, I must confess that if I found you somewhere without your protectors - say, in the mortal world, perhaps, once Silverlance had tired of bedding you and thus would not begrudge me the sport - and the opportunity safely presented itself, I would enjoy breaking you to pieces, drinking your hot mortal blood, and then killing you very, very slowly."

She jerked away from him now, stumbling back, and smacked into a very solid someone standing a couple feet behind her. Whipping around, she looked up into a pair of hot copper eyes set in a pale, emotionless face. Dylan couldn't decide whether to cry or bury her face in Nuada's chest until Ciaran left. Or until Nuada killed him. Something. Anything. She didn't care.

The prince must have seen something in her expression because he pulled her a touch closer and then fixed his eyes on the Fomorian lord. "Perhaps I did not make myself quite clear last night when we spoke, Lord Ciaran. I thought Bres and I were explicit, but it seems not. Let me try this again. Lady Dylan is to be left completely alone."

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but when Her Highness the princess asked me to help teach Lady Dylan the waltz-"

"You should have declined," Nuada replied, all iciness. "You are declining now. Take your leave."

"But, Brother-"

One slashing look from that molten bronze glare silenced Nuala and had her going pale. Bres merely inclined his head to Nuada before gesturing with a lift of his chin towards the door, a clear sign to his friend to precede him from the room.

Ciaran should have bowed and left. Instead, he arched a knife-thin black brow and smirked. "You guard your toys so jealously, Silverlance. It was merely a bit of good fun. You have staked your claim on the human; well enough. I meant no disrespect to Your Highness."

The Fomorian lord's eyes settled on Dylan. She fought against the urge to show fear by backing up. She knew Ciaran would only enjoy that kind of display.

"I merely intended to...." A gaze of midnight emerald slid over her in a lazy caress that made her skin crawl; sudden tension thrummed through Nuada's body, "teach the lady a few things about being... handled by a man. On the dance floor."

Sunlight flashed on silver. Dylan yelped as Nuada jerked her by the arm to one side and flicked the notched tip of his sword just under Ciaran's chin. She hadn't even seen him draw it from its sheath.

"You go too far, Lord Ciaran macAengus. I suggest you guard your tongue more carefully or lose it. Now apologize."

"I am sorry if I offended you, Your Highness."

Nuada didn't seem to really move at all, but the edge of the sword dimpled the flesh at Ciaran's throat, just above his Adam's apple. A paper-thin line of amber blood slid down his neck to stain the collar of the white tunic he wore. Nuala made some sound. Nuada spared her but a glance before returning his molten gaze to the Fomorian.

"Do not test me, Ciaran. Apologize to my lady now, or I will face the sad task of explaining to my father the king why I cut off the head of one our guests; that would be a shame, would it not?" Those feral eyes narrowed. "Now get down on your knees and beg my lady's forgiveness."

That dark, slender brow winged higher. "On my knees? To a common mortal? To the Silverlance's latest whore? I think not. Even what sweetness there is to be had between her thighs is not worth that." Ciaran made as if to reach forward, possibly toward the human woman at Nuada's side.

A flash of brutal heat pierced Dylan's chest as she felt Nuada tense beside her. Without quite thinking why, only that she had to do it and do it now, she twisted out of his grip. Drew her dirk from its sheath at her hip and, bracing it with the palm of her other hand, smashed it down on the blade of Nuada's sword as he moved to attack Ciaran, just beneath the crossguard.

The shock reverberated up her arms. The sharp edge of the dirk cut a shallow line across her fingers. As the Fomorian dodged backwards, only her interceding strike and Nuada's lightning-swift reaction to it kept the sword blade from drawing across Ciaran's throat.

"Dylan-" Nuada began, voice like thunder.

"Not for this," she whispered. "He's part of the envoy. You can't."

The hot copper fury in his eyes was all for her now. "Oh?" His voice was dangerously low, so low she had to strain to hear it over the distant roaring in her ears and the pounding of her heart.

He spared her one more glance before fixing his gaze on Ciaran a few feet behind her. Everyone else, Dylan included, watched Nuada.

"Can't I?" Nuada hissed. The anger lashed out like a whip. "Can't. That seems to be a word you enjoy employing of late. I can't do this. You can't do that. A convenient word, can't." She opened her mouth, unsure what to say, and the fae warrior snarled, "Now step back and stay out of the way, by order of the crown prince."

"Your Highness, I am asking... I am begging you not to do this. The king may get angry-"

There was no sneer on his moon-pale face, but there was something hotter and more venomous than that in his eyes. "As I have begged a recent request of you and you have denied me, I feel no shame in denying you this much smaller request."

The hurt in her eyes dulled the sharpest edge of his temper, but the smirk curving Ciaran's mouth kept the embers of his rage stoked.

"Get out of my way."

Dylan hesitated. Nuada's gaze hardened.

"Lord Ciaran," a sharp voice snapped through the tension, catching everyone's attention. Bres stepped forward. His usually summer-sky blue eyes were glacial sapphires. "You shame our kingdom with your behavior towards Prince Nuada, who is your friend and mine, and your behavior towards his esteemed lady."

Dylan almost felt sorry for the Fomorian lord when his mouth dropped open and he stared at his coldly furious prince.

"You further shame me, your prince and friend, by behaving so in front of Her Royal Highness Princess Nuala and your sister, Lady Dierdre. Enough. Apologize on bended knee to Lady Dylan at once."

"Y-Your Highness... Bres, you must be joking-"

"On your knees, Lord macAengus," the glacial-eyed prince commanded in a voice that brooked no argument. "Now."

Dylan watched, trying to keep her jaw from dropping, as Ciaran sank to one knee. His eyes burned into hers with a savagery that froze the breath in her throat. With an expressionless face that was all the more terrifying because she couldn't read it, the fae noble recited a bland apology that Dylan accepted with a stammer. All the while, those eyes burned with a tenebrous fire. A promise of retribution soon to come.

When it was over, Bres hauled his "friend" up by the scruff of the neck and walked with him out the door, stopping only to nod to Nuada and Nuala. The redheaded woman that was with them blinked large, silvered green eyes at Nuada and swept into a deep curtsy before following the Fomorian prince.

Nuala opened her mouth, and Nuada snarled, "Not a word, Princess. Get out."

"I most certainly will no-"

"Get out!" The crown prince roared.

Nuala went whiter than milk and backed out of the still-open door, followed by her guards. A vicious look from the prince had his retinue of guards following their comrades. Only Dylan's guard and the children remained. 'Sa'ti was pale and shaking, her fur bristling and her face pressed into A'du's chest. A'du'la'di had one arm around his sister and his free hand on a sheathed knife at his side. He, too, was pale. Tsu's'di glanced at Dylan, then at Nuada.

In a voice like a rumble of thunder, Nuada snarled, "All of you."

They left at a nod from Dylan. The door clicked shut behind A'du's retreating form bringing up the rear. Feral eyes landed on Dylan's face. She swallowed hard. She wasn't quite sure who she was dealing with right now - an angry Nuada, an angry Silverlance, or an angry Crown Prince Nuada. To hide her nerves, she wiped the edge of her dirk on her skirt to clean it and sheathed it again before meeting his gaze.

"If you ever step in the way of one of my strikes against an enemy again, you will be punished," he said without inflection. "Severely."

She folded her arms and tried not to shiver. "Don't make promises you can't keep." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "What would you do if I did, anyway? You're not the kind of man who would hit a woman."

"Sometimes," he growled, "you tempt me with more than that."

She arched a brow. "Not impressed, Your Highness. Even at your worst, you've never hit me."

"You have not seen my worst."

"I'm sorry," she said, catching him off-guard. He stared at her. "Could you sheathe the sword, please? And I'm sorry I stepped between you and Ciaran. That probably freaked you out, but I had to. I felt a prompting from the Spirit that if I didn't intervene something really bad would happen. At least I didn't literally get between him and your sword, though. Not like last time, with Oisin. Does that earn me any points?"

His glare did not lessen by an iota.

"Guess not. Look, I'm sorry if I upset you, but if you'd actually attacked Ciaran, even if it was warranted, something really bad would've happened."

Nuada raised a slender, mocking brow. "Indeed? And what, pray tell, would that have been?"

A shaking hand raked through her hair. Reaching into her pocket - unlike a real leine, this one had been bought at a faire a couple years back and possessed the modern luxury of pockets - she yanked out a scrunchie and twisted her hair into a ponytail.

"I don't know," she muttered as she tamed her hair. "But you trust that 'innate warning system' I have enough that you let us stay in the forest after the dipsa attack when I said it was safe; enough that when I said Wink wasn't dead, you believed me. So you should trust it enough that when I say you were about to make a huge mistake, you believe me."

The Elven warrior muttered something savage under his breath. Sheathed his sword with a hiss of edged silver against leather. "Very well; say that I do believe you. What, then, would you have me do in the face of such blatant disrespect? He called you a whore."

"So you try to cut his head off?" She demanded, exasperated. "Who cares if he calls me that? It's just a word! And everyone and their dog seems to think it, anyway! Zhenjin even called me your whore. Who cares?"

"I do!" He snapped. "You are not my whore."

Baffled, Dylan protested, "But you know that's what at least some of them all think-"

"I do not give a damn what they think, Dylan. You are not my whore, do you hear me? You are my lady, and the stars as my witness, I'll not stand by and hear slander against you." In his mind's eye he glimpsed the memory John had shown him, the wreck of Dylan's spirit after Nuada had been the one to say such things to her. "I'll not hear it. And anyone else who thinks to use that word against you had better guard their tongue or lose it.

"Ciaran was warned to treat you as he would a noblewoman of the Fair Folk. He agreed. He broke faith by frightening you - and do not tell me you were not frightened, I could see it in your face. He further broke his word by insulting you. Such disrespect cannot and will not go unpunished."

Dylan opened her mouth to protest again, and the prince snarled, "I am the crown prince of Bethmoora. I am the king's heir. I am the second most powerful political entity in this kingdom. I demand respect from those subordinate to me and I will have it. And knowing what I know of Lord Ciaran macAengus, he frightened you with threats, didn't he?"

She hesitated. Nuada snapped, "Didn't he?"

"Yes!" Dylan cried. "Okay, yes, he did, sort of, but... if you'd attacked him, hurt him, wouldn't it have caused problems between you and Bres? Between your two kingdoms? I mean, he's dangerous, I know, but he didn't say he was going to hurt me now. He said he might if he ran into me after you dumped me.

"It was rude and creepy and fairly psychotic and terrifying, yeah, but not enough to risk going to war over. You've got enough problems. Not that I don't think he's a problem, because he is, and he's dangerous, but he's not a royal problem. I've got guards, okay? You don't have to deal with this."

"Do not attempt to dictate to me," Nuada said, though there was little heat in the words.

"I'm not trying to," she said. "I promise, I'm not. But you're already under house-arrest, your dad can't be trusted as far as either of us can spit, and I am terrified of anything else happening to you just because the people who should have been backing you up suddenly won't!"

The prince sighed. "Come here." Her wariness when she approached was like a slap. He showed nothing. Only lifted Dylan's left hand and turned it palm-up to reveal the thin cuts across the base of her fingers.

The wounds were shallow, only lightly beaded with scarlet blood. Insignificant enough that instead of touching them to take away the pain, he raised her palm near to his mouth and blew a warm, shallow breath on the cuts. A mere flick of power shivered along Dylan's skin. Her breath caught. As she watched, the shallow cuts sealed themselves, leaving thin pink lines in their place.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Nuada inclined his head a fraction before curling an arm around Dylan's waist and pulling her against him. "Milady, you are trembling," Nuada murmured, forcing gentility into his voice. "I give you my word, you have no cause to fear me."

"Nothing you could ever do would make me afraid of you," she mumbled. "It's this place. The situation. We're in way over our heads. And I'm scared that... that...."

That you'll hate me because I rejected you, Dylan thought, but refused to say. Just like everyone else has.

Instead, she whispered, "Ciaran really scared me. No one's ever... no one has ever said stuff like that to me as if we were talking about the weather. Just matter-of-fact and... I mean... he's a psychopath. Well, okay, by human standards, most of the Fae are, but... but he just... even by fey standards, he...."

"What did he say to you?"

She opened her mouth. Tried to force the words out past the fear still choking her. She had never been so afraid in her life. Not of Patrick and Xander, not of Westenra, not of the wolves that had ripped her apart in the subway, not even of Eamonn.

Why Ciaran frightened her so badly, she didn't know, and she honestly couldn't have cared less. There was something about him. Something worse than any and all of the monsters that had hurt her before. Something that made him more dangerous to her than anyone else ever had been.

But she couldn't get the words out. Only curled her hands in Nuada's shirt.

The Elven warrior muttered something savage under his breath and lifted Dylan's chin with thumb and forefinger. "Are you all right?" He demanded. After a moment, Dylan nodded. "Are you certain? You're pale."

A laugh half-squeaked out of her. "I'm always pale. I'm Caucasian and it's winter time."

He didn't smile. Merely studied her for a while in silence. His gaze slowly cooled from molten copper to warm honeyed gold.

"You need to be more careful in how you speak to me in public, Dylan."

She frowned.

"You disrespected me in front of my sister, a visiting prince, and more than a dozen royal guards. With you, when we are alone, I am simply Nuada, but I must be more than that when we are with others."

"Then how am I supposed to stop you from doing something that might get you in trouble?"

"There are... rules of royal protocol for such things." Now that his rage had cooled, now that he wasn't distracted by the glitter of fear in her eyes or the sting of mortal blood on the air, the ache that had taken up residence in his chest the night before had begun throbbing anew. He had to get away from her. Now. Get away, before he found himself on his knees, begging her.... "We can go over them later."

"I'd like to go over them now, please," she said. Nuada clenched his teeth. "If you're about to do something and the Spirit tells me to stop you, I have to stop you, rules of protocol or not. You know me - the Lord commands and I obey. Wouldn't it be best if-"

"And of course you would know what is best!" The prince snapped, and Dylan fell quiet. "I need no reminder of how devout you are to your Christian God, my lady. You made it quite apparent last night."

She jerked back as if he'd slapped her. "I am not going to apologize for my faith. Not to my parents, not to my sisters, and not to you."

Nuada's laugh was without humor. "Your faith. I would not ask you to, for that faith is one of the things I admire most about you. But it seems that which I admire has come back to haunt me." His smile was brittle and made her eyes sting. "My father warned me once that love is a two-edged sword. It can be your best weapon, your staunchest ally... or it can cut you down without mercy in seconds, a terrible and bloodless death. What say you to that, my lady?"

"I... Nuada, I...." She reached for him, desperate to take away his pain.

He pulled away, as he had the night before. "Do not touch me," Nuada whispered. "I cannot bear it when you touch me."

Her hand fell back to her side. Her eyes were dry of tears; he might have preferred it had she wept. Did she feel the pain he felt? Did humans feel as deeply as the fae did? He had thought so before last night. This human, at least.

But if she did... if Dylan felt the heartache... how could she resist acquiescing? How had she possessed the strength to deny him the previous night?

"I... I'm so sorry. For hurting you," she whispered. He jolted. She was staring hard at the floor now, her hands clenched at her sides. "I wouldn't wish what I'm feeling right now on anyone, least of all you. I wouldn't hurt you for the world. Not ever. If I could do anything to ease... to erase..." She bit her lip until a tiny drop of blood welled up, glistening in the morning sunlight. "I would rather have you hate me than hurt you. But I can't marry you, Nuada. I'm sorry."

And before he could say anything, do anything, Dylan practically fled the room. She hurried back to her suite, followed by her guards and her children. The hounds were waiting in the sitting room. The moment they saw her, their pricked ears drooped and they hunched their shoulders.

*Are we in trouble?* Eimh quavered.

"No," Dylan mumbled. She absently patted their heads. "No one's in trouble." Except me, she thought. Ugh. I need to be alone. I need to think. Need to figure out what to do about Nuada. Yet where could she possibly go where the Butchers didn't need to follow her?

The chess-room. No windows, she realized. No need for guards. Relief swept through her as Dylan got up and went into the room. The relief was tempered when the dogs followed her. Everyone else stayed out in the sitting room except 'Sa'ti, who came in and sat on the floor with a picture book.

Dylan opened her mouth to kick them out, but the dogs merely flopped down on the floor and hunched up, doing their best to look unobtrusive. 'Sa'ti stretched out on her tummy and opened the book. None of them paid the least bit of attention to the mortal.

Dylan closed her mouth. What the heck, why not?

She sank into her chair and stared in the direction of the chess set, wondering just what she was going to do.

A glint of silver caught her eye. She glanced down at the desk drawers. Remembered their contents. An idea popped into her head. Maybe it wouldn't work. Maybe she would just drive the wedge that was between them even deeper, widening the chasm that had opened up between her and Nuada.

But maybe, just maybe, it would work. After all, Nuada writing her a letter had worked. Maybe if she wrote him one, a letter explaining everything, then maybe it would heal some of the damage. Maybe it would ease some of the hurt. Maybe she'd be able to get it all out without bursting into tears or hurting him further.

Maybe.