Chapter 72 - Take the Pain I Feel

Author's Note for Lorien: before you get intimidated by the size, remember that you are almost halfway through it. You stopped on this line. "By the way," Dylan added, serious again. "This one? It doesn't hurt at all. I don't know if that matters to you." So don't panic, lol. =)

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that is

A Short Tale of Realization, Tenderness, Forgiveness, More Memories, Regaining Calm, Understanding, Confessions, and the King's Words

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"Someone... Dylan, someone put a spell on us."

Dylan fought against the shivers of cold and fading fear that ripped through her, fought against the strange blurriness still fuzzing her thoughts, and tried to focus on Nuada.

That xanthous gray of despair and grief in his eyes morphed into molten copper fury washed with scarlet hatred. It took everything she had not to draw back from him. He fairly vibrated with rage.

But then his eyes settled on her face. The infuriated, crimson-stained bronze faded back to that graying gold again.

"I make no excuses, my lady," Nuada whispered. He was careful not to touch her. Careful not to shift even a centimeter closer. "Spell or not, it does not matter. I have broken my word and my honor. I..." The confession rasped out of him. "I am ashamed."

"Nuada...." She reached for him. He jerked back from the touch. Dylan yanked her hand back, tucking it against her chest. "It... it's not your fault."

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Fixed his gaze on the dewy grass. "My lady, if you would allow me... if you could find it in yourself to permit me to... to see to your injuries? I know you are hurt. I can feel your pain, and the sting of blood is on the air. The rose thorns... I... or would you rather I send for a healer?"

A thousand thoughts flashed through her mind. If she had him fetch a healer, the king would find out what had happened. The same if she left the garden looking the way she no doubt looked.

Her hair was mussed, her clothes disheveled, tears and smudged makeup staining her face. Green stained her gown from the grass, no doubt. Thorns had ripped the silk and velvet.

What would her guards do if she walked out looking like this? What would they think? What would they tell the king?

She shivered again. Hugged herself against the aching cold. Wasn't it supposed to always be summer in this garden? Why was she so cold?

"My lady?" Such uncertainty in that voice. Nuada looked at her now. Looked at her, and she saw the fear behind his eyes. Fear that she would turn against him for this. Fear she would recoil from him again. "Dylan?"

It was up to her now. An odd clarity stole over her as she realized that. Nuada had called her out of the swirling abyss of her memories yet again, calling her with love and despair and the terror that he had done something to her that could never be undone.

He had given her his strength to return to the real world. Even knowing that once she came back, she might turn on him, condemn him, he had helped pull her from the maelstrom of utter terror and slashing echoes of the past.

And now he offered himself, certain that despite all he had done - and all he hadn't - she would tear away from him, never to return.

"I think," Dylan whispered, "that I'm stuck."

She tilted her head forward just a little. Thorns caught and pulled at her hair, at her gown. At the exposed portion of her back and shoulders. Fresh blood ran. Fresh pain pricked.

"Can you help me?"

He moved as slowly as time often crawled. His hands shook, but his touch was gentle as he unhooked the vicious thorns from her braids, from the velvet and silk. From the still-bleeding cuts in her skin. The golden chain woven into her braids and the one about her throat were carefully extricated from both mortal and thorn.

When she was finally free of the thorns, crimson blood smeared his fingers.

Moving as if afraid of bleeding to death, Dylan stood on shaky legs and moved to sit at the small garden fountain. The laces at the back of her gown remained undone.

Nuada glimpsed pale flesh marred by tiny ribbons of scarlet so dark it was nearly black in the moonlight. Loathed himself for the spike of hot lust that speared him.

"I... I don't think..." Dylan bit her lip. "Um. I think I should try to... to calm down a little before we leave the garden. Uaithne and the others... they might not... they won't understand. And people... if people saw, they might talk. You'd get in trouble."

Nuada came toward her. Stopped a few paces away.

"If... if that is so," he said, choosing his words with care, "then would I be permitted the privilege of tending your hurts, Lady Dylan?"

His voice was empty and formal. Only a slight tremor beneath the words gave anything away.

"You need not fear my control. Now that I know of the spell, I can resist it. But your wounds need to be cleaned. The thorns are slightly poisonous. May I?"

She nodded without speaking. Nuada sat on the wide rim of the fountain behind Dylan. Pulled a cambric handkerchief from his pocket. A touch of magic cleansed the fountain's water to the point where it was safe to touch an open wound. Nuada wet the handkerchief.

"I need to move the material aside a little," the prince murmured. "If I may."

Dylan nodded again. When callused fingers pulled velvet aside, revealing a bleeding shoulderblade, Dylan whimpered. Nuada's hand went very still.

"It is all right," he said. His voice was strained. "Do not be afraid. Please do not be afraid."

He touched wet cambric to one of several deep and bloody scratches. Cleaned away a little of the blood.

Dylan's arms were folded tight against her stomach and chest to keep the gown from slipping down her shoulders.

As Nuada wiped away the crimson smearing her scratched skin, she pressed her arms harder and harder against her body. Nuada kept speaking. Soft words of reassurance.

It was the only thing that kept her from bolting.

The Elven warrior ground his teeth. Shoved down the lust razoring through him at the sight of Dylan's bare upper back. Even the sight of the blood and scratches and the old scars did nothing to cool the smoldering need.

It was the spell, he knew. The one aspect of it that did not quail beneath the power of an Elven royal. The compulsion-aspect of the spell was not gone, either, but his power kept it subdued enough that he could ignore it.

Not so with the part of the spell fueling his desire. Sheer strength of will kept him from giving into that. Thank the gods he knew what it was.

Branwen's Tears. Someone, somehow, had touched him with the gancanaugh poison. Had laid the spells on him then, as well, he was certain. Spells, plural.

One had hidden the physical hunger from him, suppressed it for a time, giving the venom enough time to seep into his skin so that it could not be washed away. Suppressing it to allow it to intensify until the sexual yearning was almost painful.

That aspect could have been worse, he knew. There was no pain for him, as there had been for Dylan. Just that almost-pain that centuries of iron self-control enabled him to ignore.

The second spell had been a compulsion spell. Enchantment to seduce him into ignoring his instincts, his better judgment. An ensorcelled net drawing him deeper into the miasma of poisonous lust. Turning his thoughts away from promises made. Making him forget the honor that bound him. The honor that shielded him.

Whoever had dared to lay such enchantment on him would die. Slowly. As Westenra had died, drowning in his own blood and screams. Whoever had tricked him into doing this... into desecrating this sacred place, into terrorizing and hurting Dylan....

He would rip them apart with his bare hands if that was what it took. He would shatter them and grind their pitiful bones to dust. He would.

As soon as he took care of his lady, and as soon as he figured out who had laid those spells on him in the first place.

Only a king could lay a spell on a prince or princess without being detected. Only a few kings had been present at the banquet ealier tonight.

The lesser pharaoh of Ubasti, whose power was somewhere between a monarch's and an heir's.

Roiben, who was Nuada's friend as well as Dylan's.

King Anterion of Mytikas, who had been Nuada's friend and despised humans as Nuada did, and who no doubt felt betrayed by the fact that the Elf prince loved a mortal.

Emperor Huizong, possibly still nursing a disdain for the mortal chosen in place of his daughter.

Arawn, also Nuada's friend.

Mashkaupeu, who liked humans. The Keeper of the Samhain Tree, who clearly loved Dylan.

And one other. One it hurt to think of, one it hurt to even consider. Yet consider it Nuada had to, because it was a viable concern.

What if Balor had done this? What if Balor had arranged this? Everything in Nuada rebelled at the idea, but there was one reason for such an action by his father.

King Balor would feel justified in disowning him, in stripping him of title and rank and power, if the crown prince was found guilty of a crime like rape after everything else that had happened.

And Nuada knew his father had lost patience with Dylan refusing - both in subtle ways and openly - to turn against the king's heir. Would the king consider Dylan nothing but a casualty?

"Who do you think did it?"

The words shattered his thoughts like glass. It was the first thing Dylan had said to him since he'd begun tending her. She still held utterly still. Still breathed in short, shallow breaths. Her voice was brittle, strained.

But she had spoken.

"I do not know, my lady. I have theories, but more than one choice stands before me."

"Us," she whispered.

He stopped wiping at the blood. It hurt to breathe. "What did you say?"

"More than one choice stands before us." She drew a deep breath. Blew it out. "We're a team, aren't we?"

The air was icy in his chest, but a tiny ember of warmth kindled in his heart. He swallowed. Squeezed his eyes shut. His hands shook. He ached to hold her to him, but he didn't dare. Not yet.

"Yes," he whispered. He licked his lips and tasted the sweetness of fey tears. "Yes, we are a team."

"Good."

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Nuada kept his movements slow, controlled, and exquisitely gentle as he finished with Dylan's wounds and retied the laces of her gown.

Neither of them moved after that. She still hugged herself as if trying to hold herself together.

He kept still. Waited. He didn't know what he waited for, but he did not dare break the silence that had descended between them. Did not dare so much as breathe too loudly. He couldn't bear to do anything that would break the tenuous truce between them.

Finally, Dylan spoke again.

"Can you... help me with my hair?" She touched one of the untidy braids atop her head. "I might as well just let my hair down. Then people won't notice as much if my hair's messy."

From years of dealing with his twin's hair, light and fine as spidersilk, he knew how to be careful as he loosed the three braids and trailed his fingers through the dark curls.

His fingers still caught on tangles from the thorns. Dylan flinched whenever he accidentally pulled too hard. When that happened, Nuada would apologize and make soothing sounds until she relaxed again.

After several minutes, Dylan's hair hung in a thick midnight cascade down her back. He wanted to touch it, just for himself. Twine his fingers in the softness of it. Didn't dare.

"Do you have another handkerchief?" Dylan whispered. "If I wash my face, it won't be as obvious that I've... I've...."

"That you have been crying," the prince replied hoarsely. "I have. Here."

He handed her another. She wet it and with deliberate movements washed the tear-stains and smudged makeup from her face. She drew a breath that shuddered out of her.

"I think... I think I'm okay now," she said. "Are you okay?"

He said nothing.

She twisted to look over her shoulder. Lost her balance. Slipped from her perch on the rim of the fountain. Her back smacked hard against the hard stone of the fountain.

She would've hit the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of her, and her head would've smacked against the fountain, but Nuada's swift lunge caught her.

His fingers clamped around her wrists. They locked eyes.

With exquisite care, he pulled her back up to sit beside him.

"Ow," Dylan mumbled, flexing her wrists. "My gracelessness knows no bounds; I fell off a fountain. Thanks."

"Are you all right?"

Dylan nodded. Flicked him one wild-shy glance through her hair. "Are you?"

He hesitated. Fought with himself. "I am well enough."

A brush of fingertips against the back of his hand. He sucked in a sharp breath, as if he'd been pierced.

"No," she whispered. "No, you're not. What's the matter? Inis dom - tell me." Nuada looked away. "Please? Tell me what you're thinking so I know what to do."

"You need do nothing, my lady," the prince said. "I deserve no mercy from you."

Cool, gentle fingers touched his jaw, and a soft inexorable pressure turned his face toward her so that he had no choice but to look into her eyes.

The depths of the compassion and love in those eyes nearly undid him. She could not look at him that way. Not after what he had done. She could not possibly....

"I've had flashbacks before," Dylan said. "You've triggered them before. So why does this one upset you so much? Help me to understand."

Why did it upset him?

Because he'd betrayed her trust. Desecrated this place, his mother's garden, with his carnal selfishness.

Because he had frightened Dylan so badly that his touch, his voice, had done nothing to pull her from the nightmare of her past. He'd had to call her with his mind in order to bring her out of it.

Because her fear had been so great that she hadn't realized the wicked rose thorns were gouging into the pale, vulnerable flesh at her back, drawing tiny trickles of blood.

Because he'd told her she was safe, and for the first time, she had not believed him. Had not been able to believe him.

Because... because when she'd told him no, when she'd pulled away, for just a moment he'd been tempted to ignore her protests. Tempted to kiss her quiet. Tempted to seduce her to the point where she wouldn't have wanted to protest anymore.

How much further might he have gone under the influence of that spell? Would he have simply broken down all resistance with gentle ruthless until she was helpless in his arms?

Or, if she had kept pushing him away, kept struggling, would he have forced her to the ground, clamped a hand over her mouth to silence her screams, shoved her skirts out of his way, and simply taken her like some mindless, rutting animal?

The Tears in his blood stirred the embers of smoldering lust at the thought. Nausea threatened. He shuddered - with disgust or desire, he didn't know, and that sickened him further.

Her hand against his cheek burned through the molten ice in his blood. "Tell me. Help me understand."

So in a choked whisper, nausea churning like viscous poison in his belly, the Elven warrior confessed everything. All of it. And when it was done, he waited for Dylan's condemnation.

She had to condemn him. Had to repudiate him. He wondered if he would shatter when she did, or if it would take time for the full import of that severence to come crashing down on him in full.

"I love you, Nuada," Dylan whispered, only truth in her voice, in her words, and with those four simple words she broke the legendary Silverlance completely.

He turned to her fully, almost blindly, and pressed his face against her neck, his arms sliding around her to hold her tight against him.

Dylan stroked back his hair. Whispered, "Shhh. It's all right. I'll be all right. Shhh. You would never do that to me, Nuada. Spell or no spell. You stopped. Even with that spell riding you, you stopped when I said to stop. You would never hurt me like that. Shhh. I'll be all right. We're all right."

"I frightened you," the prince whispered against her shoulder. "You were so frightened. I have never seen you like that. You did not know me. Your fear nearly choked me. You were not even that afraid of Eamonn. I have never felt such fear in you, and it was my actions that caused it. You were afraid of me."

"No," she contradicted. "Not of you. It was a flashback. I was reacting to that. Not to you. I'm not afraid of you."

"I betrayed your trust," he insisted. "I tried to... I was not thinking of you. Of what I wanted for you. Of what you wanted for yourself. I was only thinking of what I wanted. To touch you. To take. I had no thought for your pleasure; only my own."

He lifted his head to meet her eyes. "You deserve better than that from me, my lady. For so much of your life, you have been used by men who cared only for their own twisted desires. I profess to be better than them, but then I-"

"Don't you dare." She framed his face between her hands. "Don't you dare compare yourself to them. You are nothing like them. This wasn't you. It was an accident. Okay?

"Granted, we should have been paying more attention. The Spirit warned me and I ignored Him. That's my fault. But the spell was mostly responsible.

"Listen to me," Dylan said when he tried to look away. "Look at me. I love you. I do not blame you for this. You didn't mean to scare me. You didn't know that would happen. And we're both at fault for how far things went. I asked you not to stop, so you didn't. When I did ask you to stop, you did. That's what matters."

He shook his head. "You are too forgiving of my sins. You always have been. You do not understand the depths of my transgression, my lady."

"Nuada-"

The Elven warrior was on his feet, pacing across the dew-laden grass, then back again. His breath rasped in his throat. "Don't you see? You asked me, begged me to stop. And so I did. But I did not want to."

"That doesn't matter. You did stop."

"It does matter! Shades, Dylan. Don't you understand? For just a moment, I considered not stopping. I considered it. I thought, 'I can seduce her. I can kiss her, touch her, until she loses the will to say no. I can make her crave my touch so that she never refuses me again, and then she'll be mine. Forever.'

"What sort of beast looks at the woman he loves and thinks that if he moves carefully, he can tumble her into bed, willing or no? What kind of monster sees the woman he loves pale with terror, shaking with fear, the scent of her blood on the air, and feels desire so vicious it is nearly despair?"

He closed his eyes. Clenched his fists. "All I wanted in that moment was to feel you under me. I did not care how I got you there. What say you to that, my lady?"

"But you didn't, Nuada. You didn't."

"But I wanted to." The despair in his eyes, in his words, left her bleeding afresh from the newly-opened scars on her heart. "My father was right." He leaned against the trunk of the Fomorian rose tree and let his eyes slide closed. "My father was right, Dylan."

She was on her feet, in front of him, jabbing a finger into his chest before he'd registered she'd even moved at all.

"No. No! He was so wrong about you. He is wrong about you. You are a good man. Forget your father. Forget everyone else. What about me? Don't you care what I think?

"Someone basically mind-raped you. You're not the monster here. You're the victim, just like me. Even your father can't condemn you for this."

He opened his mouth, and she snapped, "If you feel that bad, pray for forgiveness. Always makes me feel better."

The hot anger cooled a little, leaving smoldering embers behind. Dylan thunked her head against his chest.

"You don't get to say that about yourself. How dare you say that? How dare you? After everything you've done for the people around you, after everything you've done for me, how dare you call yourself a monster? How dare you believe that?"

She thumped him on the chest with a fist.

"You jerk. You're amazing and incredible and wonderful and I'm so lucky to know you, I love you and you are a good man, do you hear me? You are one of the best men I know. I am so sick of everyone saying you're not. I'm sick of it.

"I hate this place! I hate these people! I hate all of this political... stuff. I just want to go home with you so we can be safe. So everyone will leave you alone. Leave us alone! I want to go home."

She swallowed a sob. "I just want to go home."

Nuada enfolded her in his arms. Felt her melt against him and didn't bother suppressing the utter relief that she would still do that, that she would trust him that way.

"As do I, mo duinne," he confessed. "I long to go home." Back to her cottage. Back to warm memories and the comfort of her just down the hall while he slept.

He swallowed hard. Forced himself to say words that twisted inside him like snakes.

"I actually think it best if you went home, and I remained here. It would be safer if-"

She wrenched back from him. "What?"

"It would be safer for you, Dylan. Safer to send you away from here. Send you somewhere safe. You could have guards, and I can rework the wards around the cottage, just in case Eammon-"

"You want to send me away?"

There was no understanding, no gentle compassion in her eyes now. There was only incredulous hurt and a betrayal so deep and fathomless it was like peering into a deep chasm.

"But... but I didn't... no!" She stepped back. Her hands slid up to her face, and Nuada tensed, waiting for her to cover her eyes in that familiar defensive gesture again.

Instead, her fingers tangled in her hair. She whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to panic, I didn't, it won't happen again, I-"

"Dylan-" He didn't want her to apologize! Not for this, of all things.

"Don't go away, you promised. You promised you would... that I could... you want me to leave? You're sending me away. I'm sorry, Nuada, I'm sorry. Please. I won't freak out again, I swear, no matter what you do. I won't flashback, I promise. Just don't send me away."

She was trembling again. When he gently grasped her shoulders, she flinched.

"Please don't send me away. I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything this time, don't send me away."

"It would be better for you, Dylan. Safer."

It would be better for you. Her parents' voices in her head. Trying to reassure. Trying to explain why it was all right for her to be sent far away where she would never see them again. Where she would never see her sisters or her friends from school or John.

John, her twin. John, her other half. Never see John, never see Mommy or Daddy, not ever again because it was better.

And now Nuada trying to send her away, too. Never see Nuada again. Never see John or Nuada or the children or Mommy or Daddy because she was being sent away, far away, where the monsters were, because she'd been bad, she'd upset them, upset everyone, and it was better this way, better to send her far, far away.

Dylan's fingers bit into her upper arms until she felt the joints creaking from the strain.

"Don't send me away," she pleaded. Her voice held just a touch of child's terror.

Fresh guilt churned in Nuada's stomach.

"I'll be better, I promise. I'm sorry, I won't flashback anymore, I won't, I'll be better. I won't do anything. I didn't do anything. Nuada, don't, please don't. Please don't. Don't send me away, I can't, don't, just don't, please, I'll do what you want, I promise."

"Shhh," he soothed, gently tugging her into his arms again. Memory screamed from her eyes. He could not bear to see it there. Not again. Not so soon. Despair and fear saturated the very air, leaving it heavy and dark, almost choking.

"All right, sweetheart. All right. It is all right. I'll not send you away."

Safer if he did, stars curse it. Safer if he sent her back to the mortal realm with guards instead of allowing her to remain here with him, where he could protect her but also be the greatest danger to her safety.

Yet if he sent her away... what would it do to her? How much strain would one more rejection, one more abandonment, put on her? Especially following on the heels of such a brutal flashback?

"Shhh. It is all right. Hush, now. Hush."

"Don't send me away." A quiet, desperate whisper. Her entire body shook with minute tremors. "I'll be good, I promise. I'll be good. I won't do anything bad. Just don't make me leave.

"I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be alone in the dark again. I won't do anything bad, I promise. Just don't send me away. Don't put me in the dark."

He laid his cheek against her hair. "You are not bad."

Nuada wished her parents were still alive, so he could kill them himself for these emotional wounds. Filthy human monsters. He yearned to hear their blood singing over Elven silver.

"You are one of the best women I know. I would never leave you in such a terrible place. You are my lady. My place is at your side. Do not be afraid anymore. Do not be afraid. Hush, now, beloved. It is all right."

"Don't let go. Don't send me away."

"Never," he whispered, stroking her hair. "Never."

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After a very long while, she grew calm again. Stopped shaking.

Once she was calm enough, he stepped back to finger-comb the tangled hair from her face. Brushed a caress against her cheek.

The gentleness of the gesture belied the turmoil within him. What he had done to her... what he had wanted to do to her... gods, it did not bear thinking about.

Yet he would have to tell the king. Honor demanded at least that much.

But for now, he owed Dylan more. She needed him now. Until she no longer needed him, he would remain at her side.

So with great care he settled her new cloak around her shoulders. Donned his own cloak. Offered his arm and held his breath.

Instead of taking his arm in the formal escort's pose, she wrapped both her arms around his. Cuddled close. Her hands were icy through his shirt. He could feel her heartbeat thudding so hard it pulsed through her entire body. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder.

"I won't let anything happen to you," Dylan whispered. "I won't let them hurt you or punish you for this. I won't let them."

The Elf prince did not tell her that he, himself, would go before King Balor at the first light of morning and make his report before offering himself up to the king's justice.

In Faerie, intent was nine-tenths of the law. He had wanted to hurt her - or rather, hadn't cared if he did. That he hadn't was thanks only to some miracle. He had harmed her in other ways.

Even now, the memory of her terror thickening the night air into noxious poison clogged his throat. For breaking his oath - the oath of the crown prince of Bethmoora - and for all the vicious things he'd wanted to do, for all the things he'd almost done, he would give himself over to his father's mercy.

And if Balor had been the one to cast the spell... Nuada did not know how that could be, but he could certainly think of reasons why the king would do it.

If he went to his father, and his father was the one who'd done this, how much mercy would the king show him? How much of the prince's sentence would be justice and how much would be vindictive cruelty?

Nuada shoved these thoughts aside and prepared himself to step out of the sanctuary of his mother's garden. Once beyond these walls, he would face no-doubt infuriated Butcher Guards. The king. Nuala. How many others?

The door swung open. He stepped out with Dylan.

As he'd expected, the Butchers were waiting beyond the garden walls. Their swords were drawn. Nuada tensed, but though it spoke against every warrior's instinct, he did not move to draw his own weapon.

Instead, he met Uaithne's glittering eyes through the slit of the guard's helmet.

"Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance," Uaithne said. His voice frosted the already-bitter winter air. "What-"

"Uaithne," Dylan said softly. Her grip tightened on Nuada's arm. The guard fell silent. "Please. Don't. I can't... just please don't. Okay?"

There was a long moment of silence. Then the guardsman asked, "Are you all right, milady?"

Dylan shook her head. "Please don't make it worse, okay?"

"Milady...." Uaithne hesitated. "Did the prince-"

Nuada bit back a snarl. It was a valid question, stars curse it. But Dylan shook her head. "Nuada didn't do anything. Please, can we just... can we just go back now?"

The six guards assigned to the mortal offered her the fist-to-chest salute of the Butcher Guards. They stepped aside.

After a moment, Nuada's guards stepped aside as well, giving the prince and his lady room to proceed.

Even as Nuada escorted Dylan past the guards and down the path through the royal gardens, he noticed the fact that where once his retinue had included eight guards, now there were only seven.

So. One had already been sent to the king, it seemed. Well, enough.

.

Just outside the door to Dylan's suite, Nuada caught a page and whispered instructions in his ear while the guards entered the suite to ensure it was safe. The page scuttled off down the hall.

At Uaithne's nod, Nuada and Dylan entered the suite. Found the children sprawled across the furniture in the sitting room, sound asleep. The hounds snored where they stretched out on the floor. The sight of them eased some of the tension in both Elf and mortal.

With softly murmured words, they parted - Nuada to his room, Dylan to take a bath.

She moved almost mechanically. Her thoughts tumbled around in her head, so she ignored them and focused on what she was doing.

Lavendar oil. Chamomile bath salts that made the water foam with palest violet. Vanilla-scented soap. Shampoo and conditioner with the fragrance of lilacs.

She even found fat pillar-candles scented with a comibation of aloe, almonds, and lotus, which she lit and placed at different intervals around the tub. All of them soothing scents that would, hopefully, help her relax.

The moment she slid into the bath, the last knots of panic dissolved. She sucked in a breath. Ducked beneath the water. The heat seaped into her body, chasing away the chill. Every muscle loosened. All the tension faded.

And beneath the water, tears mingling with the scented bath, only surfacing every now and then to breathe, she opened her heart to the Star Kindler and begged for forgiveness for everything she could have prevented, and asked for His help in healing the wounds caused by everything that had happened that night.

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In Nuada's suite, the nearly-scalding water of the shower pounded down on his body. He braced both hands against the marble wall of the shower and bowed his head beneath the heavy spray, letting his dripping wet hair fall around him in a curtain to hide the rest of the world.

He imagined the blood no longer on his hands staining the water with pink swirls. Dylan's blood. He'd washed it off in the fountain, but he could still feel the salt and iron of it stinging his fingertips.

Nuada closed his eyes.

Perhaps Dylan simply did not understand how sickened he was by the thoughts running through his mind. Did not understand how repulsive he found himself, that he could see her in such pain and it did nothing to quiet the lust he felt.

Even now, a part of him still hungered. Still yearned. He could not keep his mind away from the silkiness of her skin. If he'd let his hands wander, he might have been able to revel in the softness of her body under his hands. The way her lips had parted for him and he had finally drunk deeply of-

Enough! His fist slammed into the marble hard enough to send biting sparks of pain sizzling up his arm. Need burned in his belly.

Snarling under his breath, Nuada made the water ice-cold.

Gods, what was wrong with him? Even now, even now, knowing she was so shaken and knowing one wrong move would send her spiraling back into all those dark memories, he could not stop thinking about her. Wanting her.

Why wouldn't it stop?

He let his forehead touch the cool marble. Did not flinch as water stabbed down on him like icy needles, cooling his ardor a little. He closed his eyes. Drew a shuddering breath.

Help me to do what it is right, he thought. Prayed, though he was unsure if anyone heard him. Help me to do what I must, for my honor and for her. Help me be the man she sees when she looks at me.

How can I protect her if I am the greatest danger? How can I be the one she turns to if I am most likely to do her harm?

Please... please. Help me. Help me to be worthy of her forgiveness. Help me to protect her. Help me to be as I must for her and for my people. Help me regain my honor. Please.

An odd sense of peace settled over him. The guilt remained, gnawing viciously as a starving wolf, but a soft peace helped dim his ardor. Nuada kept his eyes closed and allowed the water to warm again as the carnal desire slowly, slowly faded.

Once out of the shower, dried and dressed in sleeping trews, he took an unnecessary hour to comb out his hair in front of the fireplace. It didn't actually take an hour, but once the knots had been combed out, he kept going to give his hands something to do.

Hair finally finished, he donned a shirt of blended lambs' wool and silk. Straightened the collar. Swallowed. Acknowledged he was being a coward and stalling.

What would he find when he walked into Dylan's room? Would she have come to her senses and repudiated him by then?

Nuada drew a breath. Knocked on the door joining his bedroom to Dylan's. Heard his lady's voice, muffled by the wood, saying, "Enter."

Fionnlagh opened the door. Nuada was surprised when the guardswoman did not challenge him as Uaithne had, but merely bowed and gestured to where Dylan curled up on her massive bed, staring absently at nothing.

The prince said nothing as the guards shuffled out of the room. Only when they were gone, the door shut firmly behind them, did Nuada stride to Dylan's bedside and kneel before her.

She wore a black undertunic with capped sleeves - a common pajama top for her, since magic and the fire on the hearth warmed the room - as well as loose sleeping pants and no socks. One slender arm stretched across the blue velvet coverlet. The other curled tight to her chest.

Topaz eyes took in the sight of blue and purple bruises marring the pale skin of her upper arms and her delicate wrists. A vicious bruise painted part of Dylan's throat in rust, dusty blue and violet. When she shifted, a couple inches of too-pale flesh showed above the waist of her pajama bottoms, and stark against that flesh were purple smudges. A small cut graced her cheekbone.

Nuada felt sick. Had he done all of that to her?

He took Dylan's hand in both of his. Pressed it to his lips.

"Forgive me," he whispered against her fingers. "I know I do not deserve it, but please, Dylan, forgive me." He closed his eyes against the sight of those dark smudges marring her skin. "Do they pain you? Do you wish me to fetch a healer?"

"No," she said. Her voice was a mere whisper. "They don't hurt. And you didn't cause all of these. In fact, only the one on my neck is from you. And the ones on my wrists, from when you caught me when I fell off the fountain. Don't be upset." The gentleness in her voice caressed him. "Are you all right?"

"I am... I... why are you being so gentle with me? Why do you not despise me for-"

Her palm against his face was just as gentle as her voice. "Haven't you suffered enough guilt, Nuada?"

He stared at her, uncertain. Not daring to hope.

"No amount of sorrow can erase sin. Only God's love and forgiveness can do that. And you have it. Just as you have mine. Do you think I can't see that you would give almost anything to erase tonight? I can see it in your eyes. It's okay." She squeezed his hands and stroked his cheek. "It's okay."

"The bruises-"

"Hush," she said firmly. "Hush."

They stayed that way for a time, Dylan stretched out on her bed and Nuada kneeling at her bedside. She could see the torrent of emotions in his eyes, shifting and twisting.

For a long while, he merely clasped her hand in both of his and pressed his lips to slender mortal fingers. When he finally seemed calm enough, she squeezed his hand one more time. Sat up.

"Okay. I want to ask you something." Dylan waited for his nod before continuing. "The bruises. When you saw them, you almost looked like you were going to be sick. What were you thinking about?"

He swallowed. Fought for control.

"I have never harmed a woman, save in execution of justice as ordained by law," the prince murmured. "I have never allowed my physical needs to control me that way. I have never physically hurt a woman I cared for, either. Not in the bedroom and not out of it.

"Yet you walk away from an encounter with me covered in cuts and bruises, shaking with fear. I have never... I never wanted to... what does that say about me, Dylan?"

"That Elves are at least ten times stronger than humans?" She shrugged. "That I need to stop squeezing myself so hard? That I'm really heavy, and that's why you grabbed me so hard when I fell and almost gave myself cranial hemorrhaging?"

She reached up and touched the dark love-bite at her throat. "Or that you are really good at neck-kissing, which is why I didn't notice you giving me a hickey.

"By the way," Dylan added, serious again. "This one? It doesn't hurt at all. I don't know if that matters to you."

The prince nodded. "And the ones on your wrists?"

"They twinge a bit. No big deal. Honest," Dylan added when Nuada's eyes flashed. "I'm not lying to spare your feelings. If you had really hurt me, Nuada, I would tell you, because we would have to talk about it. Heal those particular wounds and move past them. So I'm not lying."

"Move past them?" He echoed, voice soft with incredulity. "How can we move past them? How do I shed this guilt for your broken heart and my broken honor?

"You tell me you are well, but the evidence to the contrary is written in violence all over your body. Who would forgive me such transgressions? My father would not. My sister would not. Spell or no spell, neither would show mercy."

Dylan took both of his hands in both of hers.

"Who cares what they think? You didn't transgress against them. Forgiveness is not in their hands. It is in mine, and in Heavenly Father's.

"I forgive you. I forgave you even before we left the garden. If you still feel guilty, maybe you should ask the Star Kindler's forgiveness, too.

"I can see that you're sorry for this. I can see you're grieving for it. He sees that, too. Let Him shoulder the weight of your guilt. Let Him carry that burden. He's all-powerful - He can handle it.

"You'll feel better," she added when he began to look away. "You've done or are willing to do almost anything to get rid of this guilt you feel. I see it in your eyes. So why not try this?"

"It is not that simple-"

"Yes, it is," she whispered. "It is. If you've tried everything else, why not try this, too?"

Nuada bit back a sigh. "I have not yet attempted all forms of atonement. There is one more thing I must do. I wished only to see you once more beforehand."

A chill whispered down Dylan's spine. She frowned. "What are you going to do?"

"I must report this to my father."

"No!" She was off the bed and on the floor beside him, her hands fisted in his shirt, before he could blink. "You can't! Nuada, you can't tell your father, you can't!" She yanked on his shirt. "He'll hurt you. He'll torture you. He might even kill you.

"You can't tell him this! Please don't tell him! I forgive you, please don't tell him, please."

Her head thunked against his shoulder. "Please, please, please don't. Please. If you love me, then don't do this. Don't tell him. Please, Nuada, please."

He held her against him. Ignored the hot tears soaking through his shirt. "I must, Dylan. I must, if for no other reason than to alert him to a potential enemy. And he is my king. It is his right to punish my transgressions."

"No." Her protest was almost a moan, muffled by his shirt. "No. He's not fair. He won't be fair. He'll hurt you just because he can. You can't do this, Nuada. Please don't do this. I'll do anything you want. Anything. Just don't do this. It's not fair."

"I am sorry, mo duinne, but this is what it means to be honorable."

"No! No, no, no! He'll hurt you," she whispered. "You almost died last time. There was s-so much blood and you almost died. He'll hurt you. I don't want you to get hurt. I just want you to be safe. Please, Nuada, don't. Don't do it. He doesn't have to know."

"He already knows, sweetheart."

Nuada felt her go still in his arms. Even the tears and the sobbing breaths stopped. Her heart, thudding hard in her chest against his arm, seemed to cease beating.

"One of my guards went to him already to report what they'd heard from outside the garden walls. And I sent a message to my father as well, that I would see him whenever he chose to summon me about what the guard had reported."

Her eyes were almost accusing when she pulled back a ways to look at him.

"Why? Why would you do that? He is going to torture you. How can you just let him...."

Dylan pulled away from him. Got to her feet. She stormed to the window and stared out at the winter night spangled with stars. For a long time, there was only silence.

Then, "If he hurts you... if he does anything to you... I will never forgive you."

She must have seen him jolt from the corner of her eye, because she whirled on him and snapped, "If you get hurt because of this, I won't ever forgive you for just throwing yourself to him!

"You'll do the hard thing but not the easy thing? That doesn't make any sense! You'll just hand yourself over, knowing he's going to rip you to pieces, maybe even kill you?

"You promised we would stay together and he's going to kill you for something so stupid and you don't even care! I... how could you... why would you...."

Dylan made a sound halfway between a growl and a scream and turned back to the window. She thunked her fists against the glass. "That's stupid! That is so stupid! He's a monster, and you're just... you...."

Her forehead touched the icy glass. Her shoulders slumped. "He'll kill you. He's been looking for an excuse and now he has one. He'll kill you. I'm never going to see you again."

Nuada went to her. Slid his arms around her from behind. Pressed his cheek against her temple.

"You do not know that for certain. Do not despair, mo cridh. It will be all right."

Dylan drew a shuddering breath and simply shook her head.

"I do not do this to hurt you, beloved. I do this because I must. My honor demands it. You cannot ask me to abandon my honor, not even for you."

The breath hitched in her chest. "Nuada... I'm scared."

He tightened his hold.

"I'm really scared. You'd think I'd be more worried about Eamonn possibly being alive and those Elves that tried to kill us and the shoggoth and whatever, but I'm not. I'm scared of your dad. I'm scared of what he'll do to you. I'm just really, really scared."

"I know," he murmured, cuddling her close. "I know."

After a moment, the fae prince said, "I will make you a bargain, my lady. Be brave for me, as I know you can be, and I will speak to your God about what has happened before I go before my father."

"You will?" She asked in a small voice. He nodded. She swallowed. "Okay. I... okay." She covered his hands, where they rested on her arms, with her own. His skin was cool beneath her touch. "Okay."

.

True to his word, Nuada found himself kneeling beside the bed in his own chamber, feeling incredibly foolish, but folding his arms and bowing his head nonetheless.

He had promised Dylan that if she put on a brave face, if she stopped trying to prevent him from seeing the king, he would do this. A crown prince of Bethmoora kept his word.

So Nuada closed his eyes. Sighed.

I do not profess to follow any God or gods, he prayed. I know of Thy existence, Star Kindler, and I know that she worships Thee with her whole heart. I do not claim such devotion, though I acknowledge Thy power.

Yet I promised her I would come before Thee as one of Thine own to confess my sins and seek absolution for my transgressions against her. For what I have done, it is the least I can do. So here I am.

He hesitated, unsure what to say. Dylan had merely told him to "say what felt right."

The Elven warrior was a reticent man by nature, rarely confessing weakness, and to do so now seemed more than strange. It spoke against nearly every instinct. Nothing "felt right." He was only doing this because Dylan had asked him.

Not that he doubted the High King could hear his prayer. He merely doubted that Dylan's divine Master cared about Nuada's repentant confession.

But she had asked it of him, and he had promised her. So what to say now?

I hurt her. The words sprang into his mind without warning. He forced himself to allow them to keep coming. I broke my word to her. I frightened her. I resurrected the ghosts of her darkest memories. I sought to use her with no care for her well-being or her mental state, with no care for what it would do to her spirit.

I promised her that I would never force her to do anything she was not comfortable with, and then I sought to seduce her in a place sacred for its memories, uncaring of what it would do to her.

She walked away from that encounter with cuts and bruises. With shadows on her heart and in her eyes. Even now, she struggles to hide from me just how fragile I left her. My lust, fueled and twisted by enemy spells, did this to her.

And even now, I cannot seem to escape that lust for long. It is not so bad as it was, but that I should yearn for her, ache for her, when I have hurt her so badly... what does that say of me? What kind of man does that make me?

Dylan says that the spells mean I was not responsible, that no sins lie on my conscience. If that is so, why do I feel this way? This guilt burns as cold as iron.

She says to surrender it to Thee. To beg Thy forgiveness. My own father will never forgive this; why should Dylan's Heavenly Father do so?

She says that divine forgiveness is a gift from God to those who repent. I repent, High King of the World, though I doubt Thou would forgive one such as I, one who does not even follow Thy ways.

Still, I would give anything to erase this night. Anything, to erase the fresh wounds I have put on Dylan's heart. I am more sorry than words could ever express, that such evil was done by my hands, spell or not.

Dylan says Thou wilt take my guilt from me. If that is true, and if it is just, I would beg Thee to do so, though I know I do not deserve such mercy from her or from Thee. But this guilt and this grief... I cannot bear the weight of it.

If she is right - if Thou art listening to my words now - then do as she has promised, and take this guilt from one who sorrows beneath the weight of his transgressions.

And if Thou art listening, please... heal the hurts I have done her. Help her in whatever ways she requires. Give her peace from her past. Please.

.

The night was quiet and still as it dragged on towards a wintry dawn. Just as the gray unlight of false dawn began to soften the night sky, a knock sounded at the door leading from his bedroom to the front room of his suite.

Nuada forced the tension from his shoulders and went to answer the door.

As expected, Guardsman Siothrún stood on the other side of the entryway. He saluted the prince and said, "His Majesty King Balor demands His Highness's presence in his receiving room immediately. He also demands the presence of Lady Dylan of Central Park."

So. Siothrún had been the one sent to inform the king of what had transpired. Well enough.

"Lady Dylan is in her room," the prince replied. "She may be asleep. Tell Guardsman Uaithne what you have told me so that her guards may awaken her if necessary."

Dylan was, in fact, asleep. While Uaithne relayed information between Siothrún, who was not allowed in Dylan's sleeping chamber, and Guardswoman Fionnlagh, Nuada dressed quickly in his customary sable and scarlet.

He met Dylan in the corridor. All fourteen Butcher Guards accompanied them. Siothrún had been kind enough to allow the children to remain asleep, guarded by the hounds.

Nuada studied Dylan as she stepped out of her suite and into the cold stone corridor. Siothrún had given word that Lady Dylan was to come as she was. The guardsman's only concession had been to allow her socks. Dylan had chosen the penguin socks Nuada had bought for her almost a month ago.

She'd also exhibited a stubborn streak and donned a black flannel overshirt that only emphasized her wan pallor. The sleeves fell well past her fingertips. The overshirt hid the bruises on her arms and wrists.

"The king commands that the Lady Dylan appear as she was when summoned," Siothrún said in an empty voice.

Dylan glared at him and folded her arms across her chest. It would have been comical, with six inches of excess sleeve dangling at the ends of her fingers, making her look like a child playing dress-up, if not for Siothrún's next words.

"Any disobedience or act of defiance will be punished."

The mortal managed to pale even further. She shrugged out of the overshirt without a word and stared at the bundle of black flannel in her hands, as if she didn't know what to do with it.

Uaithne, after drawing in a single shocked breath at the myriad of savage bruises so dark against Dylan's arms and wrists, offered to take the shirt. She thanked him quietly and handed it over.

At the guardsman's gesture, they started for the king's receiving room.

Dylan could feel the eyes on her as they traversed the various hallways - passing pages and maids, guards on duty, message-runners and the like.

They could see in the torchlight that dark finger-marks bruised her arms. That sickly-looking smudges shackled her thin wrists. Some of them might have even been able to see the rather... enthusiastic hickey on her neck.

Was that why Balor had insisted she come in the clothes she wore? So that her injuries would be on display?

Only her hair hanging down her back hid the shoulder-bruises and cuts from the thorns in any way. Only Nuada knew about those. Would he tell the king? Why was he willing to tell Balor anything? Why did he feel so guilty?

Once they reached the door to the king's receiving room, Dylan received a surprise that left her feeling half-sick with confusion and fear.

Balor wanted to see her first.

She shot Nuada a stricken look as the chamberlain grasped her hand in a gentle but unbreakable grip and tugged her toward the door. Her prince gave her a soft, warm look. Nodded encouragingly.

He believed she would be safe. Believed she could handle this. Whatever this was. He wasn't worried, at least not for her. It would be all right.

Barely a quarter of the way convinced when the door closed behind her, Dylan caught her tongue between her teeth and fought against the dizzying hammer of her heart as she met Balor's shadowed, unfathomable topaz gaze.

"Have a seat, Lady Dylan."

The king himself presided over the room from a large, high-backed armchair of crimson-dyed leather situated near the crackling fireplace.

A long sofa, done in antique-gold velvet and covered in a smattering of crimson, bronze, and pale gold pillows had been set so that the full light of the hearth fire would fall upon whoever sat on that sofa. The king would remain at least partially in shadow at all times.

She didn't want to sit, but after the conversation where Balor had informed her that disrespect would result in Nuada being badly hurt, she didn't dare refuse.

Shaking legs brought her to the gold couch. Her feet sank into the rich burgundy and pale copper rug on the floor between the sofa and armchair. She perched on the edge of the sofa. Clasped her hands in her lap. Kept her eyes on the intricate pattern of the Persian-looking carpet beneath her feet.

For several minutes, neither Elf king nor mortal commoner said anything. Dylan could feel Balor's eyes on her. Feel his gaze raking over her from crown to toes and back again.

Even though she knew he could see all of her "tells," the things she did that made it obvious she was nervous (if not absolutely terrified), she couldn't seem to stop herself from doing them.

Her toes scrunched and relaxed, scrunched and relaxed, a clear sign of her agitation. It was plain as a campfire in the dark that her knees shook. Despite keeping her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white, her hands trembled as well. Her breath came in short, shallow almost-gasps.

She couldn't stop her eyes from darting to and fro, despite her resolve to keep them focused on the rug. Every so often she would flick her gaze toward the king, then look away again.

"How badly are you hurt?" The king asked finally. To her surprise, his voice was astonishingly gentle. Even compassionate.

Her eyes darted to him, then away. Was this a trap? She was so tired, and the fear skittered up and down her spine like insects. She couldn't think. Didn't dare answer him. Would he just misinterpret whatever she said or did, twisting it to suit his own purposes?

"Do you need a healer?" He added. She shook her head. Bit her lip until she tasted blood. "You are certain? Those bruises do not pain you?"

"No, Your Majesty," she whispered. "Thank you."

Fear mimicked the coppery taste of blood on her tongue as Balor shifted in his chair. Something like electricity crackled in the air. Sizzled along Dylan's skin. The hair at the nape of her neck prickled with static. She wrapped her arms around herself and hunched down instinctively.

"Lady Dylan... Dylan. You need not be afraid. I will protect you from him. My son has a great deal of power, but I am a match for him. He will not be allowed to harm you for revealing his crimes."

Her heart rate spiked. She shook her head. "No, Your Majesty. Nuada didn't do any-"

A fist seemed to close around her throat. She choked on the words. Her mouth moved soundlessly as her hand flew to her throat. What was going on? Why couldn't she talk?

Panicked blue eyes flew to the king, who watched with a mixture of compassion and pity in his ancient gaze.

"I have ensorcelled this room so that you cannot speak falsehoods within these walls, my dear. You will not be compelled to speak, as that would be a gross misuse of my power, but you will be prevented from lying, prevaricating, or dissembling.

"Now tell me what happened in the Queen's Garden tonight. I promise you, I will protect you from the prince's wrath."

Dylan shook her head. "No! He didn't-" The words dried up in her mouth. She clenched her fists. Tried again. "He's not ang-" The spell cut her off without mercy. "Stop that!" She cried. "You don't understand!"

"I understand that my son attempted to force himself on you tonight, and yet you defend him still.

"Which makes me wonder," the king added, an odd look in his eyes, "how often he has attempted to hurt you or succeeded in hurting you, only to be defended by you to me afterward."

"Nuada has never tr-" Magic prevented her from saying Nuada has never tried to hurt me.

Balor raised one eyebrow.

"I suppose that answers that question. How many times has my son forced you to accomodate him, Dylan?" He asked in a voice that was terrible for all its gentleness.

"Or has it not yet escalated quite that far yet? Has he not managed to force you to his bed yet?

"All you must do is tell the truth. No one will blame you. No one will hurt you."

Yes they would, they would hurt her, hurt Nuada, hurt them both because Balor wasn't listening, no one ever listened to her.

They hadn't listened about the garbage in the creek, hadn't listened about the demi-merrow, or the sick leshii living in the tree by her window. They hadn't listened about any of the fae, hadn't listened to her.

No one listened at the institution, no one listened when she tried to tell them about Patrick and Xander pushing people and hitting people and touching the girls and saying scary things and no one would listen about what they'd done in that basement or afterwards, or about their father, or how some of the grownups knew and would look the other way, or worse, would watch, or take a hand themselves.

No one listened. They only hurt. Only hurt for telling the truth, only pain because the ones in power never believed. Balor wouldn't listen, she didn't know what to say and every time the spell stopped her from speaking it just made things worse.

She tried to get some semblance of sound past numb lips and a tongue petrified into stillness and couldn't. She could only stare at the king of Bethmoora with desperation in her eyes.

"What does he make you do, Dylan?"

Dylan shook her head. "N-noth-" She struggled to force the rest of nothing out of her mouth, and failed. All she managed was, "Please don't hurt him."

"My dear, he must be punished for his crimes."

"No! No, he didn't do anyth-" Her fists smacked against her legs hard enough that she knew she'd have bruises in the morning. "Stop it," she said. "Stop asking me these questions. Leave us alone."

"If he has done you no harm, if he has not forced you into anything, then there is nothing for the prince to fear. Yet you and I know that is not the case.

"Did he promise you something in exchange for letting him hurt you? Has he threatened you? Your family? Has he hurt your family?"

"N-!" Horrified, she covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Was Balor lying? Why wasn't the spell letting her talk? Nuada had never threatened her or her family.

Except, she realized, he had. He'd threatened John before. Hurt him. And he had threatened her, and hurt her, during the first few tenuous days in the sanctuary over a year ago.

Was that why the king's enchantment kept preventing her from speaking? Not that it prevented her from lying, but that it prevented her from speaking anything other than the absolute literal truth?

"I understand, my dear."

Balor's expression was grave, his eyes empty. Dylan began to shake.

"I see the whole of it now. You need not fear harm coming to you or your family by Nuada's hand. I will make sure that he never hurts you again. You have my word."

A sob strangled out of her. "No, you don't understand! You don't, you don't, please!"

"Then explain it to me."

"He didn't do any- that is, he didn't try any... he's not ang- I mean, we were just kis-"

Another attempt at speaking was thwarted by the king's spell. Dylan gritted her teeth. Closed her eyes. Drew a deep breath. After letting it out slowly, she opened her eyes and looked at the king.

"Nuada is angry, but his anger is not directed at me. He's angry with himself and whoever put the spell on us."

Balor straightened in his seat. "Spell?"

"That's what he said, that someone had put a spell on us. And it made sense because everything felt... strange. My head felt fuzzy and I couldn't think. Everything was...."

Heat flooded her face.

"It was like being touched with just a tiny bit of Branwen's Tears, on top of not being able to think straight. I felt disconnected from my body. Like being drugged."

Oh, she knew a lot about being drugged. Knew quite a lot about poison in the vein, opium-whispers seducing in sedated sleep so that monsters could come in the night and touch you, hurt you, while the venom kept you quiet, kept you helpless, kept you shrouded in darkness and pain while they touched you, while they gave you more pain, while they used your body and muffled your screams....

Dylan made a small sound and hugged herself, ignoring the way the bruises protested her uncompromising grip. No, she wasn't going to think about that. Wasn't going to go down that path for a fourth time tonight. She wasn't. No.

The king sat back and studied the mortal who fought against tears. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. What the mortal had described sounded a lot like a compulsion spell.

No compulsion spell was strong enough to trap a crown prince without being detected, unless laid upon him by a fae monarch. And which such powerful faerie royal would have done so?

The Great Nanook, known for his compassionate nature and his love of mortals?

Moundshroud, clearly fond of the human girl?

Roiben, a friend and ally to both Nuada and Dylan, and an honorable warrior and king besides?

Anterion, who was Nuada's friend?

Huizong, who had no grudge against the children of Adam and whose son and heir seemed to have struck up a friendship with Nuada's mortal lady?

None of those options made sense.

Which left only one other, one that sickened Balor. One that threatened to shatter his heart into jagged pieces. Had his son cast the spell on Dylan himself?

Nuada was a prince - he was not bound by the chains of other fae that prevented them from bearing false witness. He could lie to his heart's content.

Only Nuala would know if her twin spoke truth or not, and only in shared dreams, or through their link, or if she bent all of her will upon him.

So Nuada could tell Dylan an enchantment had been laid on them both, when in fact he had been the one to bespell her.

But if he'd bespelled her to acquiesce to his demands, why hurt her this way? Why leave her with such vicious bruises? Had his lust simply been too much for the prince to keep leashed? Had his control finally snapped? Or had he developed a taste for bedroom cruelty during the other encounters with the mortal?

The king even had to wonder if somehow the prince had managed to modify Dylan's memory in some way, at least to an outsider, so that on the night when the princess had walked through Dylan's mind to prove the truth of her testimony on Nuada's behalf, Nuala had not seen what her twin had been using the mortal for all this time.

Had Nuada been toying with the poor thing this entire time? Playing with her, using her, hurting her, to fulfill some sadistic need? What did he get out of such encounters? What did tormenting and brutalizing this woman do for the prince?

Clearly his son loved Dylan, at least as much as he was able to love anyone, so why use her like this?

Unless that love was too weak to combat this lust for degradation and violence against the mortal woman.

Balor closed his eyes and fought to will away the horrifying images of his only son as ravisher, monster.

Would it stop at rape? Or would the day come when Nuada's lust was only sated through more and more violence? How long would Dylan survive with him?

The king knew he would have to wait for the healer he'd summoned to see to Dylan before he could pass judgment on his son. He would have to learn the full depth of her injuries.

Just the thought made him ill. How bad were things, really?

A quiet knock at the door made Dylan jump. Wide eyes darted to the door as the king bade the knocker to enter.

Healer Táebfada stepped into the room, closed the door, and bowed to the king. Her smile was gentle and kind when she looked at Dylan.

"His Majesty summoned me to examine you, Lady Dylan," the Elven healer murmured in her velvet-soft voice. "Please do not be afraid."

"I'm not-" Dylan began, and found the words snatched from her mouth.

She shot a look of sharp loathing at the king. Pulling her anger around her to smother the fear enough that she could think at least a little bit, Dylan tried again.

"I do not wish to be examined by anyone, if it pleases you, Your Majesty."

"I do not recall giving you a choice, little mortal," Balor replied, unruffled. "Remove your outer clothes."

"No!" The denial was out of her mouth before she could censor it. "I am not undressing in front of you!"

Táebfada touched Dylan's forearm, on one of the rare pieces of unbruised flesh.

"The king must know the extent of your injuries in order to properly pass judgment on the one who attacked you. Have you garments beneath these?"

Well, yes, she did - a half-cami with a shelf-bra, since she'd known Nuada might come to see her and she hadn't wanted to fall asleep in her actual bra, and a pair of spandex shorts over her underwear for a little extra warmth - but that wasn't the point.

"I'm not going to-"

"Are your injuries so grievous, then? I can only imagine how brutal your attacker must have been. How careless of your delicate condition." Balor's eyes bored holes in Dylan as she started to shake again. "Or are you attempting to hide older injuries? Are you protecting your attacker, Lady Dylan? A man who preys on defenseless women?"

So she got to her feet, turned her back on the king, and drew her pajama top over her head, tossing it onto the sofa.

Gritting her teeth, she shimmied out of her pajama pants and tossed them on the sofa, as well. Forced herself to stand with her hands loose at her sides instead of in tight fists shoved in her pockets.

When Táebfada pulled Dylan's long hair over one shoulder to reveal her back and the backs of her shoulders, the mortal didn't protest.

The short, flimsy black half-camisole bared several inches of Dylan's back, as well as most of her upper back and her shoulders. The shorts reached mid-thigh. Balor bit back a snarl as smoldering copper eyes took in all of the damage and all of the scars.

Dark purple bruises ran from Dylan's shoulders down her arms to her elbows. More bruises circled her wrists, as if someone had pinned her hands to stop her from fighting back.

Deep cuts etched across the bruised flesh of her upper back. A nearly-black bruise darkened a wide stripe across the small of her back before fading into purple and disappearing beneath her shorts.

Because of how Táebfada had set Dylan's hair, the brutal mark at the mortal's throat was plainly visible. Purple finger-marks marred the backs of Dylan's thighs before vanishing under the shorts.

And the scars... he had never seen so many on one person before.

Claw marks. Knife scars. Smudges from human bullets. Burns that left smooth, shiny skin behind and burns that left scars like melted wax. Jagged marks where broken bones had perforated fragile human flesh. Bite marks left by a very humanoid set of teeth - one at the base of her neck, another just above her hip, and a final mark on the back of her left calf.

And those were nothing compared to the sprawling mounds of ice-white scar tissue at the bends of her elbows and dripping down the insides of her thighs almost to her knees, and the one covering nearly half of her upper chest.

What, in the name of all the gods, could have left those?

Balor could scarcely believe his son had done even simply the bruises to anyone, much less the woman he claimed to love. How many of the scars were at his hands, as well? And what other injuries might she have?

Dylan fought against the urge to be sick. She tried to remind herself that she was twenty-nine years old, not twelve. Tried to remember that she was in Findias, not Saint Vincent's. That this was King Balor and not Westenra, or Ivan Blackwood.

Ivan Blackwood, Patrick and Xander's father, who had told her what a pretty girl she was, and wasn't it a shame that she was so badly behaved, since it left her with hospital scrubs instead of the pretty clothes that pretty girls should wear.

Ivan Blackwood, who'd used the excuse of making sure she wasn't hurt by her "tussles" with his sons to force into taking off those scrubs and-

No! She clenched her fists until her nails drew blood. No, no, no!

She wouldn't think about that. She wouldn't! Not now! She wouldn't think about him, or Patrick or Xander, or Westenra. Westenra was dead. He was dead. And they couldn't hurt her anymore, they couldn't!

Her teeth sank into her lip. Blood trickled down her chin. Dripped from her now-bleeding hands.

No. She wouldn't think about this. She wouldn't. No.

"Is this everything, Lady Dylan?" Balor's voice was dangerously soft. He had to repeat the question three times before the mortal responded with a tersely muttered affirmative.

The king settled back, eyeing the tiny drops of blood dripping onto his very expensive Shahbaz rug from the human woman's trembling, white-knuckled fists.

"You may put on your clothes."

Once dressed and seated on the sofa again, with Táebfada having retreated from the room, Dylan pressed her stinging palms against her black pajama pants to soak up some of the blood.

The material pressing into the cuts stung. Helped keep her grounded at least a little in the present. She sucked on her bottom lip to hide how deeply she'd bitten it from the king.

"What are you thinking at this moment, Dylan?" Balor asked softly.

Couldn't think. Couldn't let herself think. Not about anything. She'd remember. She'd be forced to remember and Nuada wasn't here and she was so tired and Balor was here, the king was here, and if she let herself remember, if she panicked now, what would the king think? What would he do to her prince? So she only shook her head.

"Mortal child, daughter of Eve, of the race of Adam's flesh, I command you to look into my eyes."

Sheer terror spilled down her spine as she found her gaze forced upward, found herself pinned by a pair of ancient eyes the color of darkly glittering topaz.

For only an instant, she saw something in his eyes that reminded her of Nuada. A suppressed grief. A quiet torment. Despair.

It was the only thing that kept her even partially anchored in the present, instead of spiraling back into the past.

"I will ask you this once and once only, and you will speak the truth. Did my son rape you tonight?"

"No!" Dylan cried. "No, he didn't! He didn't do any-" Magic cut off her words. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she found herself unable to look away from those eyes.

"Then what happened?"

"He didn't rape me. He didn't even try to," she said, struggling to choose her words carefully while fighting down panic. "And he didn't even do most of this! I did!

"When I get nervous or scared, sometimes I don't pay attention to what I'm doing. I've bruised myself lots of times. Okay? The only ones that are from him are on my wrists and my neck. I swear."

A flicker of hope taunted the old king. "When you are frightened," he echoed, wanting to believe but not daring to trust just yet. "Nuada frightened you?"

"N-" The spell snatched the protest right off the tip of her tongue. She flinched when the king's eyes flashed in chilling warning. Those eyes, so cold, so lethally cold, just like... just like....

"Yes, he did. He... things got a little... we went too far, but it was consensual. Sort of. I mean, I didn't protest, or tell him to stop until I had a flashback and then I panicked and he stopped. He did."

Disbelief. She could see it, feel it. No one believed her, no one would listen, and hands touching, pain, darkness all around her, the eyes always watching, always looking for just one moment of weakness, and she couldn't do this now, she couldn't, she couldn't!

He would hurt Nuada, he would kill Nuada, she couldn't let him, but those eyes, icy topaz knives, and the monsters breathing in the dark and they were coming, they were coming for her, for them, she had to... had to....

Get a grip! Blood flooded her mouth as she bit down savagely on the tip of her tongue. Stop it, stop it! You can't do this now, you can't! Stop it!

"He stopped when I asked him to," she whispered, struggling to keep the present in place around her. "He stopped. He feels so guilty still, but he stopped, I swear, he stopped.

"He never meant to scare me or hurt me, he didn't," the past slipping through, fingers of shadow wrapping around her wrists, rough hands forcing her legs apart, teeth in her neck, suffocating on someone's tongue shoved into her mouth, but not Nuada, not Nuada, never Nuada, "it was an accident.

"Please, please don't hurt him. Don't punish him for this. I'll do anything, anything you want, just don't hurt him. Please!"

Balor watched in shock as her composure crumbled. Dylan dropped her face into her hands and wept.

"Please," she whispered through her tears. "Please, please, don't hurt him, please. Don't hurt him, don't take him away," because they would, they took everyone, leaving her alone, all alone in the dark, she didn't want to be in the dark again, not again, "I'll do anything you want, I swear, just don't hurt him again."

Startled, wondering just what she thought he would do to the prince, Balor said tonelessly, "My dear, he must be punished for whatever crimes-"

"No!" Dylan slid off the sofa and went to her knees before the king. "Please, no. Please! Spare him, please! Don't hurt him!

"What can I do? I'll do anything you want, I swear, just please, please have mercy. He's a victim, too. He didn't mean to hurt me. Please, I'm begging you, please, don't hurt him. Don't kill him, please. I'll do anything. Anything. Don't, please, just don't punish him. Please, please, please! Please!

"I'm sorry I was disrespectful before and I'm sorry about all the things I said and I'll be good, I swear, I'll do whatever you say, anything, I'll be good, I won't make trouble, I'll be good, I'll be good, I will, I swear, I swear I will, but please, please, don't hurt him.

"Don't kill him, please. Please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just please, please, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!"

The king watched the nearly hysterical mortal sobbing where she knelt upon the floor, her hair hanging in her face and tears slipping down her cheeks to splash the burgundy and gold carpet

.

What sort of horror stories had Nuada been whispering in her ears, that her terror was so overwhelming? What sort of monster did she believe the king to be? What atrocities did she believe him capable of?

The part of him that was just an old man wanted to comfort her. Wanted to ease her tears and offer her some assurance.

Instead, he allowed the part of himself that was Bethmoora's king to use her promise to his advantage. She would do anything, would she? All he need do was show mercy to the prince. All he need do was not order Nuada to be executed.

That promise, given to a king of Faerie on her knees, was as binding as a sworn oath. He would hold her to that... later. Once things were resolved tonight.

After all, he might have to execute Nuada. If the full weight of his suspicions proved correct, he would have to.

In the end, Táebfada was called back in to escort Lady Dylan into the antechamber beyond the receiving room door.

The moment Nuada saw the misery and terror on his truelove's face, the crown prince was on his feet and striding across the small room to Dylan's side. He pulled her into his arms and simply allowed her to sob into his chest while he stroked her hair and whispered soothing nothings in soft Gaelic.

"I tried, I tried, he wouldn't listen, they never listen," she wept, trying to burrow closer, trying to thaw the brutal chill around her with the heat of Nuada's body. "He's going to kill you, he's going to kill you, he's going to take you away, don't go in, don't, please, he didn't listen, Nuada, don't, don't leave me, don't leave me alone in the dark, please...."

"Shhh, shhh. Mo duinne, shhh. Mo mhuire, mo duinne. Amhain a chara, hush, now. Hush, now. Shhh. It will be all right. There, now. Shhh. It's all right." Nuada nuzzled her temple as he rubbed soothing circles along her back. "It is all right now. Shhh. Easy, beloved. Be easy. It will be all right."

"Prince Nuada," Táebfada said softly. Nuada glanced up from Dylan to pin his gaze on the Elven healer. She gestured to the half-open doorway. "His Majesty will see you now, Your Highness."

Nuada dried Dylan's tears with the edge of his sleeve before gently setting her aside. She snagged his shirtsleeve when he tried to move past her.

"No," she whispered. "No. Don't. Don't, Nuada, don't, please."

"It will be all right, my love," he murmured, caressing her cheek. He wiped a fresh tear away with his thumb. "All will be well. Do not fear for me."

"Let me go back in with you-"

"No," the prince said, his voice gentle but firm as steel. "No, Dylan. This is what must be."

Stricken, she watched him walk through the entryway and shut the door behind him.

She had just enough strength left in her legs to get her to one of the cushioned benches lining the antechamber walls before she collapsed onto it.

"Uaithne," Dylan whispered brokenly, gazing beseechingly at the leader of her personal retinue of guards. "Uaithne, do something. Can't you do something?"

The Butcher shook his head. "Nay, milady. Not I. I am sworn first and foremost to the king, as are we all. Yet have no fear. King Balor is a wise and just ruler. You have vouched for His Highness. The king will show mercy and compassion to the prince. Do not be afraid for Prince Nuada."

Dylan could only drop her head into her hands. Ailís laid a comforting hand on the mortal's shoulder when she began to cry again.

Heavenly Father, she prayed, struggling to swallow her tears, struggling to keep her head above the memories, help him. Just please, help him. And though she didn't know why, something prompted her to add, Both of them.

.

The prince knelt before his father and king. Bowed his head.

"Whatever punishment you deem just, I will accept, Athair," he whispered. "Yet I would beg you not to send Dylan from my side. It would break her heart and her spirit as nothing else would. Anything else, my king, I will accept without protest."

"Will you?" Balor's skepticism was obvious. "And why is that? You have never simply accepted my judgment in such matters before. Why do so now, Crown Prince?"

Nuada raised his head and met his father's cold gaze. What Balor saw in the depths of his son's eyes staggered him.

"Because you were right," the prince rasped. "Because I have at last earned the disgust and enmity you have heaped upon me all these years. I clung to my honor, thinking it would save me, and in the end...

"Father, whatever you think of me, you must know I never meant for this to happen. It happened, and I accept the consequences of this dishonor, but I never meant this to happen!

"I have dishonored myself. Our kingdom. You. Mother's memory. I have broken my vows. Shamed my bloodline. Dylan seeks to defend me but I would not have it so."

He bowed his head once more. Unsheathed the sword at his side and laid it upon the floor before Balor's feet.

"I surrender my blade to you, Majesty. I surrender my life and my will. Do what you deem just with me - I deserve no mercy from you, my father and my king. Punish me as you see fit."

For a long moment, Balor could only stare at him. Finally, he managed to ask, "Gods, Nuada... what happened?"

Nuada raised his head to meet his father's eyes. The concern in their depths robbed him of breath. There was no condemnation anymore. At least, not yet. Why?

He could only stare at Balor for an interminable silence before the words tore out of the Elven warrior, leaving him raw with fresh guilt.

"I hurt her."

It had been one of the hardest things he had ever done, to confess that sin on his knees to the Star Kindler. It was just as painful now. The words were as ash in his mouth.

"I frightened her. I swore I would never... I swore to her that she was safe with me. That I would never harm her, and I... gods, Father, I..."

"Tell me."

The words spilled out of him like blood from a wound. He told the king everything - how he and Dylan had danced in the garden, how simple kisses had turned into a greedy fire that consumed his mind and his body.

How the need had festered within him like a cancer. How she had responded to him, wanting him in return, only to fall into a brutal flashback worse than any he had witnessed from her before.

He confessed how after all of that, after seeing her terrified and bleeding and nearly broken, the lust had refused to abate. How even though it had ebbed now, it had only ebbed, not faded.

It smoldered within him still, an insidious whisper urging him to claim Dylan for his own, whether she wanted it or not; even speaking of it now heated his blood and made him want her all the more fiercely.

The prince told his father about recognizing the combination of spells that had been placed upon him, on them, and knowing that somewhere he had an unknown enemy. How even that knowledge hadn't stopped the need.

Only sheer force of will and Dylan's terror had allowed him to keep the lust at bay enough to take care of at least some of her injuries and make sure she was at least emotionally stable enough to make it back to the palace.

Remorse was a hot weight in his belly as he laid his conscience bare for the third time that night and waited for his father's inevitable condemnation.

Balor gazed down at his son, his boy, and wondered how he had missed such pain in Nuada's eyes. Dylan had seen it. Dylan had been swift in her defense, nearly desperate. He understood why now.

She had been right. Nuada was just as much a victim as the mortal herself.

His son was closer to breaking than Balor had ever seen him since that day beneath the hawthorn tree mere weeks after Cethlenn's death.

Balor had not been able to look into his young son's eyes that day, knowing that he had failed Nuada and Nuala as their father. Knowing he had failed his wife.

So the king had retreated - from his children, from his court, from his people, from his duties, unable to bear the constant reminders of that failure.

He would not retreat now. Not in the face of a mortal woman's pleas and his son's grief.

Balor reached out and laid a hand on his son's shoulder. A tremor went through Nuada at the contact.

"My son." He gripped Nuada's shoulder. The king could feel the spells twisting and twining around the prince like thorny brambles. "My poor boy. It is all right."

"Is it?"

"She does not hold you responsible, Nuada. Surely you know this."

The prince's soft laugh held a bitter edge. "Of course she does not. She never would. She would forgive me nearly any sin, so long as it was only against her and no other. She learned such forgiveness from her God, I think."

"Perhaps the rest of us could learn to forgive as your lady does."

Flexing his power, the king sent a hot pulse of magic along the tangled vines of the spells, burning them out. Ridding his son of their dark influence.

As the magic moved through his body, Nuada's tension eased a little. One pale, shaking hand reached up to cover the king's hand of flesh where it rested on his shoulder.

"Thank you," Nuada whispered. "Thank you. I... I... thank you, Father."

"It is all right, my son. It will be all right."

"How do I fix this, Father?" He whispered. "How do I heal the damage I have done? She has forgiven me, but... you did not see her. She was so... she is so young. So fragile in some ways. I forget, because she is so strong in others, but I think...."

The prince remembered Dylan's terror, the unseeing despair in her gaze as she'd pleaded with him not to hurt her. She'd returned to the present at last, but the fragility had not left her. It had only been worse when he'd held her just before entering the king's receiving room.

"I fear I may have broken something within her-"

Balor's grip on Nuada's shoulder was a gentle, reassuring weight that cut off the words heavy with dread.

"Bruised and battered your lady may be, my son, but broken? I doubt that very much. She is strong, as you say. Though troubles may lay her low for a time, always I find her on her feet again, ready to challenge the next threat to either of you.

"Do not borrow fears without cause, Nuada. She will recover. And her faith in and love for you has not waned. If anything, it has only been strengthened by the trials the two of you have faced.

"We will find these beasts that dare to move against my son and his lady," the king added in a voice thick with fury.

Nuada met his father's gaze, surprise on his face.

"I will find them, and I will break them like crystal beneath the blow of a dwarven hammer for what they have done.

"You are guilty of nothing, Nuada. Nothing. Neither is your lady. When we find those who are guilty, I will see them punished. They will rue the day they fixed their eye on my son for their twisted games."

Stunned by his father's vehemence, Nuada asked, "Then... then you do not blame me?"

You do not hate me for this? Words unspoken, yet felt nonetheless by a father who could feel his son's expectation of disgust and punishment.

The king closed his eyes. "No, my son. No, I do not blame you."

The relief that swept over Nuada at his father's words would have driven him to his knees if he'd been standing. Only once before, since the final war with the humans, had Nuada walked away from a conversation with Balor where anger and hurt and mislaid blame had not festered between them.

Balor continued, "You have done no wrong here. You have acted with honor by coming before me without hesitation, without guile. You have given me the truth and nothing but. Of course I do not blame you.

"And I... for the accusations I have made regarding your behavior toward your lady... I am sorry, Nuada. Perhaps I should have known better. I can only offer my apologies.

"Now come, sit," the old king added briskly. He felt his old eyes stinging, and blinked, for he would not shame himself before his son and heir by weeping. "I will have a page fetch your lady from the other room."

The moment Dylan came back into the room, she was at Nuada's side on the couch, her arms around him, her face pressed to his shoulder.

"Are you okay? Are you okay?" She asked over and over again, her fingers twisting in his shirt. "Are you all right? It's okay. It will be okay, I promise. It's okay. It'll be okay. I won't let them hurt you. I won't. It'll be okay."

"Yes," Nuada whispered against her hair when he laid his cheek against the dark curls. "Yes, it will. I am all right, mo duinne. Do not fear. My father removed the spells from me. I am all right." He felt her shivering beside him and frowned. "You are cold."

"N-"

The word cut off abruptly. She flicked a glance at the king, who inclined his head and made a sharp cutting gesture with one hand.

Dylan sighed as the feeling of strangling on her denial faded away. "A bit," she admitted. "Snuggle me?"

Nuada pulled her tight against him. She laid her head on his shoulder.

Balor wondered if the mortal realized that the tension had drained out of her the moment she'd touched Nuada and realized he was not only unharmed, but for the most part emotionally and mentally unscathed as well.

It was interesting, and a bit surprising, to watch the way the Elf prince and the mortal woman reacted to each other without realizing it.

When Dylan's hand touched palm-up on Nuada's knee, the prince clasped her hand. When Nuada shifted his weight just a little, the human shifted hers, too, to fit her body more comfortably to his.

Balor watched with some amusement as his son blew a wisp of Dylan's hair away from his mouth. The mortal actually managed a smile.

"So... Nuada's not in trouble? Your Majesty," Dylan added belatedly. "You're not going to punish him? You promise? And you fixed him? He's all right?"

He shook his head. "No, he is not to be punished. I think he has been punished enough, don't you?"

She nodded. Swiped ineffectually at her eyes.

"And yes, I 'fixed' him. The spells are gone from him. Do you require such assistance?"

Dylan shook her head.

"Very well, then. We three must talk."

For the most part, it was Nuada and Balor who spoke, and Dylan listened, as they outlined the list of potential enemies who may or may not have set the spells on the crown prince and his lady.

While they talked, a servant came in with a tray with three cups and two pitchers.

In Nuada and Balor's cups were hot, mulled cider with spices. In her cup was simple apple cider with just a touch of cinnamon. The larger pitcher held more mulled cider for the men. The smaller pitcher was for her.

She sipped slowly from the warm cup, allowing the heat of the cider to smooth away some of the chill while she set herself to a very difficult task.

It was all Dylan could do to slowly, over the next few hours, bring herself inch by inch back onto solid mental ground.

Nuada's warmth against her helped. So did the fact that she now wore her black flannel overshirt. Being covered up helped immensely.

So did Nuada's arm around her shoulders. The soothing timbre of his voice. The simple fact that she could hear how the weight of guilt had been removed from him at last.

So she let the king and her prince talk while she focused on coming back to the present.

Up until Nuada had walked through her mind the night of Westenra's cruel phone call, she'd accomplished this by shoving down everything she was feeling, good and bad - especially bad - until she felt nothing.

Once she got her mental center back in the midst of this emotionless void, she allowed the good feelings to come back, piece by piece. She refused to allow the negative ones to slip through again.

This wasn't healthy, but it had been the only way she'd known how to cope.

Now she had a better way.

She didn't do it often, because it was extremely emotionally and mentally difficult, took at least an hour, and usually needed another person to accomplish. At least, the particular technique she'd put together needed someone with her.

So normally she simply ignored the fear until it faded enough to deal with it. But she needed to be as in-control and emotionally stable as possible, especially now.

She could feel herself teetering on the edge. If she broke now, she wouldn't be able to put the pieces back together for days, weeks. Nuada needed her to be strong right now. He couldn't keep worrying about her sanity. Her fragility. She had to get it together.

Letting her eyes unfocus a little, she allowed Nuada's voice to wash over her like a slow, warm ocean wave. She would focus, sense by sense, on something comforting. Something special and happy, something that meant safety.

Sense by sense, she would allow that something to slowly dispel the fear and grief choking her. Dylan didn't force the dark emotions away. She simply forced herself to remember that she wasn't in the past anymore.

She wasn't in danger. She wouldn't be hurt, wouldn't be punished, simply for being who she was.

It was Nuada she used as her center, Nuada whom she could latch onto and use to anchor herself, because only at the very beginning had he ever frightened her as himself.

Sometimes he'd triggered, or exacerbated, her flashbacks, but nothing about him frightened her. Nuada was safe. Nuada was safety. He would never hurt her.

First, sound. Instead of taunting words dripping with dark malice, Dylan focused on the sound of Nuada's voice. It wasn't so much the words he spoke. Those didn't matter.

It was the rumble of the words in his chest. The tired velvet-softness of his voice. The way his accent, nearly gone after two-thousand years in exile, still managed to sharpen certain sounds and soften others. He spoke with an Old World cadence that she loved, as well.

Second, scent. His wool-and-silk shirt smelled faintly of laundry soap and a bit more strongly of pine. Probably the maids kept pine satchets in the clothes-presses in his room, just as they put lavendar satchets in hers.

There was the spicy, wildwood scent of his soap. So different from the sting of blood and the thick stench of musk, the burn of antiseptic and the choking smell of latex that always came with severe flashbacks to her time in Saint Vincent's.

Nuada smelled like forests. Not like nightmares or darkness or pain. And he smelled of feral maleness, but not in a frightening or dominating way. It was simply a part of him. Simple and easy. Fey-like.

Touch. The lambs' wool and silk shirt was soft as a cloud against her cheek. Beneath it, she felt the hard muscle of Nuada's shoulder and bicep. Strength there. Strength to fight. Strength, as she had seen, to kill. But strength to protect as well. A warrior's strength.

She could feel the warmth of him through the shirt. Feel how tired he was in the set of his shoulders, yet could tell he was paying strict attention by the way he held himself.

He held her hand and his thumb stroked lightly over her knuckles. Instead of pinches, slaps, cruel blows, biting teeth and pain, there was only that gentle touch against her knuckles, that soft caress.

The slow, cool breath of soothing magic spreading from where he touched her fingers and down along her hand into her wrist, to ease the faintest ache from the bruise.

Lastly for those senses that centered on Nuada came sight. She let her eyes refocus and studied him surreptitiously from beneath her lashes while she listened to what he and the king were saying.

Firelight played hide-and-seek through the curtain of his star-blond hair. The shadows cast by his features. His eyes, golden against the darkness that surrounded them. The royal scar etched across his sharp, feral cheekbones and the whorl gracing his temple, partially hidden by his hair.

There were no monsters hiding in the darkness. No grasping hands reaching for her. Nothing but Nuada.

Feeling more firmly in the present than she had since that first moment of fear in the garden, Dylan took a sip of hot cider and allowed the taste of it to wash away the phantom taste of blood and other, fouler things.

She closed her eyes. Sighed softly. Found herself relaxing, drifting.

Balor studied the human girl as surreptitiously as she had just finished studying his son. There had been nothing casual or flirtatious about her perusal. Nothing that spoke of a lover or sweetheart's affection.

It was almost as if the mortal had been... cataloguing Nuada's features. Making certain they were where they were supposed to be. Making sure that he was all there.

The king wondered what it meant, and why she'd done it. He would have to ask Nuada at some point. Would his son trust him with the information?

Nuada focused on the plans his father was making. The king would alert those who needed to know of this new enemy. All eyes would be on the lookout for whoever might have set such a trap for the prince.

Defensive strategies were laid. Battle plans were forged. Possibilities were discussed and given merit or discarded.

In the end, they were no closer to determining the identities of the spell-casters, but it was good - better than Nuada would have ever imagined - to have his father on his side in this.

All but the dregs of his guilt had faded under the balm of Dylan and the king's acceptance. And, he could admit, speaking to the Star Kindler had eased him as well.

"There is one more thing we must speak of, Prince Nuada," the king said.

Nuada recognized the subtle transition from worried father to concerned king. He straightened. Gently shook Dylan awake. Sometime during the conversation, the exhausted mortal had drifted into a light doze against the sturdy warmth of Nuada's shoulder.

She stirred. Blinked to bring the room back into focus. When the king repeated himself, she forced herself to pay attention despite how tired she was.

The crown prince canted his head toward Balor. "Majesty?"

The king sighed. "Word of this... incident has no doubt already circulated among the servants." Balor saw the human girl's gaze flick to Nuada's carefully blank face before returning to the king's.

"Many will know that there is more to the story than what they have heard or been told. Others will spread gossip as the wind spreads the seeds from which poisonous weeds sprout.

"What do you intend to do to combat these rumors?"

"We shouldn't have to do anything," Dylan said sharply. "Nuada shouldn't have to do anything. Sire, you said it yourself - hasn't he been punished enough?

"I mean, obviously I wouldn't still be with him if he'd actually hurt me. Once the servants and whoever else sees I'm still here, they'll know he didn't do anything bad to me."

"It does not work that way, mo duinne," Nuada sighed. "If anything, the fact that you remain at my side will only drag your reputation through the mud again."

Dylan huffed. "Nuada, you know that I don't care if those stupid people call me your whore or not. You know I don't care. It doesn't matter. We know the truth. Who cares about my reputation? They all think we're at each other constantly anyway, so who cares?"

"Yet there are those who know that you and His Highness are not lovers, Lady Dylan, and so would wonder why you remain at his side after he has so clearly abused you.

"That is what they will think, at any rate - that he abuses you. Openly. Such musings could be dangerous to you and to the prince.

"The pro-human factions of the court may attempt to move against him in some way, either through subterfuge or openly, thinking he holds you bespelled to keep you as his paramour, with no thought to your wishes.

"The anti-human factions will believe you are attempting to seduce the prince and guilt him into giving you the throne through a marriage between the two of you. They may attempt to remove the perceived threat to the Crown."

She looked to her prince. "So we're basically going to have both factions mad at us?" She asked.

Nuada inclined his head.

"Great. I know you can't please everyone, but now we've ticked off everyone, and we've gotta fix it. Our only hope is to make one of them happy, right?" She asked.

Both men nodded.

"The question is, which one? What would satisfy each side?"

Balor leaned back and steepled his fingers. "It would very much gratify the anti-human nobles of the court if you left Findias, of course, and never saw the prince again. I could send you away. Or Nuada himself could send you from his side. What say you to that, milady?"

The king's brows shot upwards when Dylan turned suddenly panicked eyes on Nuada.

"You promised," she cried. She grabbed his shirt in trembling fists and tugged. "No, you promised, you promised you wouldn't-"

"And I will not," Nuada murmured soothingly, stroking her cheek. "I promise, Dylan. You have my word. I swear to you that I will not send you away as your parents did.

"I promised we would be together as long as Fate allowed and I'll not go back on that promise for all the jewels of Atlantis, nor all the treasures of Faerie, nor even all the stars shining in the heavens.

"There, now. Shhh. Do not be afraid. There are other paths we might take. Do not despair."

The crown prince turned to face his king.

"There is another option. You have but to command it, and it will be done, but I will not be parted forever from my lady and my very heart until death or some other inescapable Fate demands such a sacrifice from me."

The king inclined his head. "There is one other option. To appease the human sympathizers of the court."

"Well, okay, then," Dylan said, brushing the hair from her face. "Let's hear it."

He forced any emotion from his face. "You have said that you will follow this other option without question if I command it, Crown Prince.

"And Lady Dylan has already sworn to forfeit whatever I demand of her if I showed you mercy this night. I believe that I have. Therefore, I will give this order, and it will be obeyed. Am I understood?"

Nuada inclined his head to the king.

Dylan, frowning, nodded. What could Balor want them to do that would make him think he had to remind them of those promises? It sent a frisson of nerves tingling down the mortal's spine.

She ignored it and focused on the king.

"Our command is but this: to mollify the pro-human faction of the Bethmooran nobles, the two of you will be married a year and a day from the winter solstice."