Concerning Chinese Dragon-Elves in Once Upon a Time

In Once Upon A Time, do all chinese/dragon elves have the slitted eyes and scaly eyebrows/necks? Or just the royal ones? I like your story, it's very good :)

Dragon blood is what causes vertical pupils instead of circular ones, so the stronger the dragon ancestry/bloodline, the more likely you’ll get reptilian/draconian eyes and scales. 

This means all royals and most nobles have them (the emperor tends to take at least one or two dragon concubines every generation to make sure the top princes are dragon Elves), and about 50% of the common Elven population has them (although to varying degrees). 

Dragon blood tends to pop up in different ways in non-Elven Chinese fae, and also can have interesting results in fae with more than two bloodlines (can you imagine a fox-dragon vampire?). 

Someone Asked Why Did Loki Freak Out in TEODD Ch 6?

He had a flashback. The man has severe PTSD because of all that happened while in the Chitauri dungeons and after that in the Asgardian dungeons. He also has been hallucinating off and on over the course of more than a year and while his mind is slowly healing in that regard, it’s causing him severe anxiety as well. And then Thea had to go and f*** with his mind to make him stop trying to kill Steve, which stopped him, but f***ed with his mind even more.

Why I Like World-Hopping Fanfics

I think the dynamic would be more interesting if more than one person fell into another world because maybe not everyone likes the fandom? Also they may have different goals, different priorities, and they’ll definitely have different reactions to the situations they find themselves in, but then they also have to balance out how they handle everything with how it affects the group as a whole, and that makes the whole world-hopping thing so much more interesting than just one girl or one guy (it’s usually a girl) being sucked into a television or something and having just their agenda to deal with.

Why Did I Decide to Write Fanfiction?

When I found out fanfiction was a thing, I realized I’d been writing fanfiction in my head since I was about 4 years old - for Power Rangers. And I figured it would be good practice for writing a novel if I could do fanfiction. Especially since there are, in some ways, more restrictions in the sort of fanfiction people post on FF.net than there are in writing original novels.

Also because it's fun. :)

First Piece of Fan Art

Someone made a quote pic/meme/pin thing for Once Upon a Time!!! YES! They liked my Dylan quote enough to make a picture. YAY! Someone made fan art for me!

Chapter 105 - The Road Goes Ever On

Author's Note: I tried to keep this under 10,000 words...but I failed. But not horribly! It's 11,000. Which is a lot, I know. =( Me sorry. I couldn't figure out how to cut it down. I wanted to end it with them leaving for the villages, so...yeah.

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Chapter One-Hundred-Five

The Road Goes Ever On

that is

A Short Tale of Blood, Forgetting, Regrets, Promises of Aid, Words of Faerie, the Silverlance, Extortion, New Boots, Readiness, and Farewells

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Nuada caught Dylan's head before it could hit the hard, wooden floor. The stink of iron-laced blood hung heavy on the air as he slid an arm beneath her, shifting her against his chest. Crimson blood seeped onto the floor. Dylan's breath came in wheezing gasps as Nuada slowly lifted her from the floor. She clutched at him; her blood soaked into his sleeve before she hissed in pain and yanked her hand away.

"What happened, mo crídh?" The Elf asked as he set her on the counter not smeared with blood. He gently grasped her bloody hand and held it up to inspect it. To his surprise, the cut wasn’t on her wrist or forearm. A deep wound slashed across her palm, barely missing the large blood vessel at the mound of her thumb. Blood oozed, slow but steady. He glanced at the counter and saw more blood staining the edge of a kitchen knife. Looking back at Dylan, he brought her hand beneath the faucet of the kitchen sink and turned on the water. A small bottle of what looked like soap—but what he knew to be a wound-cleansing potion—glittered beside the sink on the counter. Nuada waited until the water ran mostly clear before adding a few drops of the potion. Dylan flinched and hissed at the burn before relaxing. Nuada repeated, "What happened?"

Dylan gave a shaky sigh. "I forgot to eat lunch," she mumbled, brushing at her hair with her clean hand. Pain from the water scoring over the wound in her palm made her sit stiffly on the counter. "So I was feeling a little woozy anyway, and I was freaking out about everything…I couldn’t stop crying after I called John. I was just…just a mess. I was so angry. I smacked the counter. There was a knife, I didn’t notice it, I didn’t even feel it at first…I'm sorry." She hesitated. "You thought I did it to myself, didn’t you?"

Topaz eyes flicked to her face, then away. "I remember what you told me of scars and razorblades, my love. I remember that physical pain doesn’t frighten you, but that your family possesses the power to wound your heart deeply. It was…a concern." He touched her cheek with gentle fingers. "I do not wish to lose you."

She shook her head. "I wouldn’t do that to you, Nuada. Ever." Then she looked down at her hand and sighed. "That's going to scar. Great. As if Petra and them don't think I'm crazy enough."

"They are on their way to believing and accepting, I think," he said softly. "I revealed myself to them. Wink and Becan did as well." Nuada paused to turn and pluck an apple from the basket on the opposite counter. He thrust it into her free hand. "Eat."

Obediently, she bit into the shiny, red fruit. Swallowed. Nuada examined the cut across her palm.

"It's deeper than I would like, but not wide. A clean cut. It will not require stitches. I can speed up the healing a little, as well," he added, raising her hand to his mouth. Summoning his magic, he breathed a warm breath across her palm. Magic rippled across the deep slice. The bleeding slowed, stopped. The wound shrank ever so slightly, beginning to seal at the edges. Nuada set her hand down on her lap. "It will require dressing, however. Where—"

"I can do it," she murmured, setting the apple down. "I—"

He laid a hand on her shoulder. "May I not take care of you this time? As I should have done earlier?"

Dylan frowned, obviously baffled, but eventually nodded and pointed to the cupboard where she kept one of the various first-aid kits secreted throughout her cottage. Nuada knew she kept more than one in case circumstances prevented her from grabbing the big one Becan normally brought her.

"Eat," he said over his shoulder, and didn’t move until he heard Dylan take another bite of the apple.

He pulled the smaller first-aid kit from the cupboard and popped it open on the opposite counter. Gauze, bandages, and surgical tape nestled in their containers; Nuada removed them and brought them over to Dylan. A small but long bubble of blood had welled up from the wound again, despite the small healing spell that was all Nuada knew. Deftly folding a piece of gauze, he pressed it to the wound.

Dylan tensed. Said nothing. Only when Nuada had begun to bandage the wound did she speak.

"What did you mean, as you should have?" Her voice came soft, a little slurred. "Why did you say that?"

Nuada didn’t speak for a long moment, but at last muttered, "I should have just revealed myself at the beginning. Silenced their haranguing before it had a chance to hurt you as it did. Forgive me for that."

"I didn’t want you to—"

"And sometimes it is better for me to put aside what you want and instead give what is needed," he growled, silencing her. "As you do! How often in our time together have I tried to banish you from my side, or spurn what comfort or advice you offer me, and you persist until I see my own folly? I should have done that for you!" Realizing he'd raised his voice, he clenched his teeth, shook his head, and reached for the surgical tape. "I am not worthy of you," he muttered.

"Oh, shut up," Dylan said with the barest hint of a laugh. His firegold gaze flashed to her, to the gentle smile that curled fingers of warmth around his heart. At the sight of that smile, his lips quirked the barest fraction. "You're right that I should've let you drop the glamour sooner," she admitted.

"Why didn't you?" He ripped off a piece of the thick, ivory tape and pressed it to the edge of the bandage so it wouldn’t unwind.

His lady shrugged, then stared at the white flesh of the apple. "I wanted to believe I could make them understand," she confessed sadly. "Just with words. I…I wanted them to believe me. For once, just believe me when I talked about…when I explained…" She shook her head. "Stupid, I know."

He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. "No. Not stupid. Never regret being true to someone, believing in them, just because they betray your trust. Regret what they do, perhaps; regret the consequences of their unkindness, their betrayal. But never regret being as you are—compassionate, hopeful, forgiving. It is one of the things I love most about you. If you forgave less, I would not have the privilege of wedding you in six weeks."

Dylan grinned. "Six weeks. I can't believe it. I'm so excited."

Dark lips curved into a bright smile. "As am I, love…for a variety of reasons." He grinned when some color came back into her pale cheeks. Then he tapped a finger under her chin and admonished, "Eat."

It was while Nuada was cleaning up the rest of the spilled blood and Dylan was beginning a second apple that Becan entered the kitchen. Clearing his tiny throat, he said, "Milady, Your Highness, Mistress Pet…my lady!" Becan scrambled up onto the counter and rushed to Dylan. His small hands stretched out toward her bandaged one, hovering as if unsure where to put them. He cried, "Oh, my lady, your poor hand. Why did you not send for me? My poor mistress…"

A light laugh arrested the brownie's fretting. "It's okay, Becan. I just had a little accident. I'm all right, the prince took care of me." She wiggled her fingers at him in a childlike little wave. "See? Everything's fine. What's up? What did you need?"

Becan hesitated. "It is your sisters, milady. They wish to speak to you."

Immediate tension ratcheted through Dylan's body. Nuada felt it, and laid a gentle hand on her knee in silent support. Dylan swallowed. Glanced at the prince. He inclined his head. Whatever she wished, they would do. If she wanted him to roust her sisters out of the cottage, never to allow them to return, he would do that. If she wanted to speak to them, he would remain at her side.

Dylan cleared her throat. Nodded. "Go ahead and send them in, Becan."

The wee fae bowed low to his mistress and the prince, then vanished from sight. The fingers of Dylan's uninjured hand curled around the lip of the counter, tightening until her knuckles blazed white against her skin. Wide eyes fixed on the far counter. She bit her lip hard enough to draw a single drop of blood.

"Dylan," Nuada murmured. She immediately stopped. "Dylan…my honor dictates I must tell you something."

Her eyes jumped from the opposite counter to his face. "What?"

"Petra and Mary exhibited true remorse when I revealed the truth in its entirety," the prince murmured. Dylan's brows rose in startlement. He nodded. "Petra wept. I think we may be able to rely on her for aid regarding the northern villages. Mary defended you to Pauline; I think she, too, may be coaxed into showing less venom toward you."

"I told you," Dylan replied with a small smile. "My sisters love me. They really do. It's just hard for them to deal with how I live my life because they don't understand why I live the way I do. But they love me."

Nuada hesitated. He…didn’t know how to answer that. To his way of thinking, if they truly loved her, they should have trusted her to know what she was doing. To have good reasons for all the things she did that they didn’t understand. And then there was the fact that they were human. Humans didn’t understand love, kindness, honor, loyalty. Dylan did…but she was more than human. Of course, there was also her uncle…and her aunt, who'd tried to help as well. Her two cousins with the Sight. Francesca and Victoria. And John, who was unfailingly loyal to Dylan.

The prince bit back an oath. Dylan's family, instead of proving everything he'd always believed about humans, was beginning to countermand everything he'd learned in his forty centuries. One mortal—his Dylan, his lady, incomparable—behaving this way was acceptable, but the others…confused him.

Pushing that aside for the time being, Nuada added, "I am uncertain about Pauline. She tried to cast the blame for her ignorance…elsewhere."

"On me, you mean," Dylan replied. The prince canted his head. She sighed. "It doesn't matter. I can work with her, I think. And the others. Petra will help me, too. And Pauline really does love me. She wasn’t always like this, you know," she added. Nuada raised an eyebrow. Dylan shook her head. "I don't know what happened. I mean, she was always…stern. Like the others. But in the last few years…well, her husband left her. He was a creep. And then she just got…bitter, I guess. Maybe this will help. You know? One less thing for her to worry about, now that she knows I'm not crazy."

Her prince cupped her cheek, smoothing his thumb across the delicate arch of her cheekbone, back and forth in a velvet caress. Dylan smiled more warmly at him. Her breath shushed warm against the edge of his palm. He murmured, "You forgive so easily. It awes me."

Dylan laughed. "Not that easily, if you recall. But I try. I…" She trailed off, tensing a little again. "Hey, guys."

Petra, Pauline, and Mary stood in the kitchen entryway, hesitation in every line of their bodies. But then Pauline saw the bandage on Dylan's hand and rushed forward, grasping it gently. Petra and Mary came forward, too, but stopped when Nuada shot them a withering glance. The message was clear: one at a time.

"What happened?" Pauline asked her little sister, cradling the injured hand. "Are you okay?"

Dylan merely shrugged. "I cut myself on a kitchen knife by accident. What about you?" Dylan added. "Are you okay?"

Pauline stared at Dylan for a long moment. She swallowed. A muscle twitched in her jaw. Her chin quivered, and her lips trembled. She squeezed her eyes shut, and Dylan laid a hand on her shoulder. Pauline burst into tears. Dylan hugged her, drawing her sister's head down onto her shoulder.

"It's okay," Dylan whispered. Nuada had to practically chew on his tongue to swallow what he wanted to say; it was not okay. Dylan needed to stop saying that. But he remained silent as Dylan continued to soothe her sister and stroke her hair like a child. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry," Pauline sobbed into Dylan's shirt. "Oh, Gawd, Dylan, we're all so sorry."

"I know," she said. "I know. It's okay. It's going to be okay now. Shhh, it's all right." She held out her free arm to Petra and Mary. The other two women shot fearful looks at the too-alien prince before rushing forward and enveloping their sisters in a massive hug.

Feeling more than a little out of place and wondering if this outpouring of regret and love was all too good to be true, Nuada leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. Eventually Dylan and her sisters let the embrace drop. Pauline opened her mouth, glanced at Nuada. Closed it. Petra shot him an uneasy glance. Irritation skittered through his veins like insect legs. This was the mildest form of prejudice he'd experienced at the hands of humans in his long centuries, the fearful stares and suspicion simply because he was alien, other. Perhaps Dylan's sisters were no different in that regard from any other children of Adam.

Petra cleared her throat. "You said you needed my help," she murmured. "Whatever you need, hon, if I can do it…I will. What do you need?"

Leaning forward, arms draped across her knees, Dylan said, "First, a little history lesson so you understand what's going on and why I need you. So back in the dawn of whatever, before recorded history, humans and Fair Folk lived together, no real problems, everything working fine between them. Didn’t last long. The humans and the fae ended up going to war again and again, and a lot of people got killed."

"That sounds familiar," Petra muttered. Nuada remembered suddenly that she'd been a member of the human military. Had she ever been in a warzone? Dylan had never said one way or the other.

Dylan nodded. "Yeah. Eventually the loss of life was so great that the sovereigns of Faerie and the mortal rulers they'd been warring with forged a truce that forbade a lot of stuff. This is important because in Bethmoora, the king interprets the treaty pretty strictly. No matter what a human does to a fae, the fae does not have the right to fight back. Right now, the provinces Nuada is responsible for are being hit really hard by human bandits, and things are bad. We're going out there tomorrow to try and help, but the fae aren't supposed to fight them, right? So we need humans to do it. So—"

"I'm in," Mary said. Dylan blinked. Stared at her. "What?" Mary demanded. "I may not have combat training, but I'm a born-and-bred city girl, and I know Tae Kwan Do. Maybe I can teach some fairy girls some basic self-defense or whatever. Keep these bandit jerks from doing…stuff. Like what happened to you."

Pauline swallowed hard, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. I may not know much about fighting, but I can help you with whatever you need." When Dylan just stared at her, too, her sister shrugged. "Your guy just told us that you've spent most of your life fighting for other people. It's a pretty thankless job, and we've made it so much harder for you, but you've never complained. I want to do something that worthwhile with my life; if I help you, maybe that'll do it."

Nuada noticed Dylan eyeing her sister with a look of puzzled concern, but she didn’t press it, so neither did he. Why was Dylan worried? Did she not trust Pauline? Because Nuada did not; he didn’t trust any of them. His lady was generous with her forgiveness, though. She wouldn’t look for a knife in the back, which meant the Silverlance would have to be the one to keep an eye out for her. But then, what had Dylan looking so concerned for her sister? The mortal said nothing, however—simply looked at Petra.

Petra nodded. "I'm in. I'll have to get a sitter—"

"Oh, crap—me, too," Pauline chimed in.

Mary said, "Simone and Gardenia can watch the midgets. Not like they're doing anything, really. Simone's got her dance studio and Gardenia's got her job at the library, but they're between boyfriends at the moment and they love the kids."

"What are we going to tell them, though?" Petra asked. "They're going to want to know what we're doing, why we're leaving. What are we supposed to say? That we're running off into Fairyland?" Then Petra seemed to realize what she'd said, and looked at Dylan. Nuada frowned. Then comprehension dawned: Petra had just hit on one of the problems Dylan had always faced when dealing with her sisters. Sadness flashed in Petra's eyes. "We've got to come up with something."

Dylan said, "Tell them you'll owe them an explanation—and a favor—and you'll give it to them when you get back. They trust you three; they'll do it for you. And when we come back, that'll be when I tell them about the fae. They're the last of the family who don’t know, so then you'll all be in on it in time for the wedding."

Petra raised an eyebrow. "Cesca and Tori already know?"

"Cesca's dating a guy who makes Nuada look quote-unquote 'normal,'" Dylan said dryly.

Mary asked with equal dryness, "Why does that not surprise me?" The sisters all laughed. With Francesca, anything was possible. "So, when do we leave?"

At that, Dylan hesitated before murmuring, "Tomorrow at dawn." It came out almost as a question. The three shrews glanced at Nuada, who offered them a tight nod. Petra pursed her lips. Considered. Dylan added, "We got a report this morning that things are getting worse. The villages need our help. The king is willing to send non-military aid as a gift to me as his future daughter-in-law, but they need it ASAP."

"What do we need to bring?" Petra asked.

"Your weapons," Dylan replied. "None of you should go anywhere unarmed. I never do. And you're probably going to have to shoot someone."

The three exchanged a glance. The Elven warrior knew they were surprised at how calmly Dylan discussed killing. Pauline ventured, "Dylan…honey…killing someone is a big deal. I mean, are you sure you can handle this? Because if you're going into a situation this dangerous, you might have to kill someone. Are you sure you can do that?"

Dylan's smile was soft and humorless. "I've killed at least seven people in the last forty days," she whispered. Her sisters stared at her. Keeping her voice even, she added, "The day before Nuada and I went to Findias to stay, back in November, we were attacked by assassins. I killed three of them. We were attacked again a couple weeks later; I took out two. On Midwinter's Eve, during our engagement ball, we were attacked again. I dealt with a pair of assassins attempting to hurt me, Nuada, and a friend of ours." She gazed at her sisters with a carefully blank expression. "I know what killing does to a person. I can handle it."

Silence reigned for a long stretch of minutes. Dylan waited for condemnation, for horror, for whatever inane judgments her sisters might make. Nuada waited for them to stab her in the heart again. But they didn't.

"You love him a lot, don't you?" Pauline asked in a subdued voice. Dylan nodded. "Figures. Why else would you put up with…with assassins and having people staring at you—I know you hate that—and going places at oh-dark-thirty? You love him." She smiled wistfully. "I'm happy for you."

"I'm…" Petra trailed off, bit her lip. Sighed. "I'm a little concerned, to be honest. No offense, Your Honor or whatever you are," she added, eyeing the prince, "but it seems like you're getting my sister into big trouble. I get to worry about that."

Dylan laughed mirthlessly. "Actually, if it wasn’t for me, most of these people wouldn’t be after Nuada. It's because he's with me that this one group is coming after him now." She shrugged when her sisters frowned. "A lot of the fae don't really like humans. They think we suck. Since, you know, we do. You're actually going to need to be prepared for that. And there'll be a lot of hate and mistrust in the villages when we get there, especially because of the bandits, but also because of that ingrained prejudice. See, back when Nuada and I were just friends, people already thought we were sleeping together, and Nuada got a lot of chuff from the anti-human supporters. I've earned him a lot of enemies."

Nuada's casual shrug caught their attention. "You are worth it, mo duinne."

Mary cocked her head. "What does that mean? 'Mo duinne?'"

Another quick, light laugh from Dylan. "It literally means 'my brown one.' It's a pet name in Gaelic for a girl with brown hair." She smiled at her prince. "Mo airgeadach."

A grin tugged at Nuada's dark mouth as he rumbled in a voice that was almost a purr, "Mo crídh."

"Mo phrionsa."

"Mo ghrá," he replied.

Dylan grinned when Pauline made a gagging sound. "Seriously," Pauline said with a teasing grin of her own. "I have no idea what you guys are saying, but I can tell whatever it is would make me nauseous if you translated it into English."

"We can be pretty sappy sometimes," Dylan admitted with a fond smile for her prince. "But that's neither here nor there. We need to figure out what we're gonna do about the kids."

Petra nodded. "I'll call Simone."

"I'll call Gardenia," Pauline added.

Mary said, "I'll go order a pizza. This might take a while. I'm buying," she added. "You need to eat. These old-fashioned guys like women with meat on their bones, not those heroin-chic supermodel types." Dylan just smiled and shook her head; Nuada knew she would give her sister her way. His lady was simply happy to have the secret of the fae off her shoulders at last.

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Hours later, in Findias, Nuada sat behind his desk in his study and considered.

Dylan's sisters—Petra, Pauline, Mary, Victoria, and Francesca—as well as John were all settled into their guest rooms for the night. Petra and Pauline's children were in the care of the ignorant middle sisters, Simone and Gardenia. All five women had packed for the journey to Dylan and Nuada's specifications. The only extra things any of them carried were weapons.

Petra and Victoria both carried guns: Victoria a single, personal hand-weapon known as a Browning Hi-Power; and Petra with a small arsenal (Dylan's only explanation had been that Petra liked guns)—two hunting rifles, a shotgun, two handguns, and something Dylan said was basically a sniper-rifle. To Nuada, it had looked like the other two, except the grip was different, the barrel was a touch longer, and Petra had mounted what Dylan called a "hunting scope" on it to help her aim at things from a distance. She'd bought the scope and mounted it that night before coming to Findias.

While the sisters had made plans at Dylan's cottage—Francesca and Victoria had come at Dylan's behest, brought from Findias by Becan—most of them had devoured an entire disgusting, greasy, human thing known as a pizza. The stink had been distinctly unappetizing. Dylan and Mary, though, had settled for something called an "organic pizza." That had been a bit more tolerable. Nuada had eaten apart from the women, merely maintaining a presence to prevent them from reverting to their harpy-shrewish ways and hurting his lady in some way or other.

Dylan had finally been able to unburden herself of everything to her sisters. The years she'd worked to help the fae. How she'd met Nuada, and they'd saved each other (though she kept quiet about the location and exact nature of the underground sanctuary; that was no one's business, and the new noblewoman understood that), and then how they'd been brought together again and again by oaths, loyalty, debts, and fate. He still remembered how it had surprised him to hear Dylan speak of him this way…

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"He sounds dreamy," Mary said with a swift glance at the taciturn prince, sitting as far away from the women as possible while still remaining within earshot. "Is he really like that?"

Dylan nodded, sighed. "He's wonderful."

"Tell us about him," Petra requested softly. "What's he like when it's just you two? 'Cause obviously he hates our guts—and now we know with good reason—so this isn't how he is normally, right? All quiet and grouchy? He takes care of you, right? Looks after you out there in Faerie?"

Nuada shifted once. The five sisters all glanced at him, though Francesca and Victoria didn’t look as worried as the other three. But he said nothing. Merely waited to hear what Dylan would say.

"He does. Always. He makes me feel…safe," Dylan whispered, her voice distant with a thousand memories. Nuada frowned. That hadn’t been what he'd expected her to say. Safe? After all the danger he'd put her in thus far, he made her feel safe? Her sisters all leaned in to hear better as a small, dreamy smile curved Dylan's mouth. "He's honorable. Gentle." Her smile widened a little. "He's so gentle. So strong, but so careful of me. Brave." She shook her head slowly, and a strange sort of sadness filled her face. She looked over at him. "He is so very brave."

"Nowhere near as brave as my lady is," Nuada murmured. Dylan blushed and dropped her gaze to the fire. Nuada smiled ever so slightly.

"So…" Francesca broke in, grinning—though the prince had no idea why. "What kind of fairy are you, exactly, Your Royal Hotness?" At the nickname, Petra dropped her face into her hands and sighed.

"I am an Elf."

"Like in The Lord of the Rings?" Victoria piped up.

Nuada's gaze could have been carved from stone. "No." Not that he knew anything about whatever that was. It was some form of mortal entertainment, a movie, from a little less than a decade ago, that was all he knew—he'd seen the millions of advertisements plastered on everything. "I am one of the Tuatha dé Danaan, an Elf of Bethmoora—a Son of the Earth."

The five blinked at him. Francesca said, "Okaaay. And what's that in English?"

At that moment, Dylan stepped in. "There are a lot of different kinds of Elves. Depending on where they're from, they look different. Nuada's one of the three Irish-type Elves. The Faerie counterpart of Ireland is broken up into three different kingdoms—Cíocal on the southern coast, Eìrc on the northern coast, and Bethmoora in the middle. The Elves of Cíocal are the Fomori, and they're called the Children of the Sea. They tend to have golden skin, brown or golden-blond hair, and green or blue eyes. The Elves of Eìrc are called the Fir Bholg, or the Children of the Hills. They tend to have ruddy skin, red or brown hair, and brown eyes. Oh, and disproportionate limbs. And then there are the Bethmooran Elves, the Tuatha dé Danaan, who look like Nuada."

Dylan went on to tell them about the Elves from around the world—the ebony-skinned Children of the Spider from Nyame; the silver-eyed Children of the Stars from Zwezda; the Children of the Silver Forests from Eathesbury; the scaled, reptilian-eyed Children of the Dragon from Dilong; the oddly-colored Children of the Phoenix from Onibi; the long-haired warrior tribe from Hyborea, the Children of the Sword; the ljósálfar and dökkálfar of Álfheim, called the Children of the Hammer and the Children of the Wolf, respectively; the cat-like Children of the Jaguar in Iara; the Children of the Waves from Menehune, the Pacific Islands kingdom. Then there were the Children of the Lioness in Ubasti, the Egyptian-like kingdom; the Children of the Sands in Shahbaz; and the constantly-warring Children of Thorn and Children of Mist in the bisected realm of Kithkin, whom Dylan had never seen. She'd seen a few half-human children with an Elven parent from one of the two provinces, but never a "pureblood."

"Jeez, it's a whole new geography and culture and…jeez," Pauline muttered. "How do you keep it all straight?"

"Necessity," Dylan replied with a shrug. "And that's not counting the non-Elven kingdoms, like Mytikas, Orang, Annwn, Alaka, Saami, Gevaudan, Weir—"

"Ahhh!" Francesca moaned, flopping onto her back. "My brain! My brain! It's leaking out of my ears!"

Dylan and her other sisters laughed, but Nuada noticed the five all began to look at Dylan a little differently after that. As if their respect for her had gone up a little. And no wonder—keeping all of that information straight was a task that took royal children a couple of centuries to master.

Then again, they were children, and it wasn’t a matter of life or death for them.

The talk went on for a time, and Nuada rose and left the room, prowling the hall and the kitchen for a moment's peace from the humans. Yet the absence of Dylan by his side hung over him like a shadow, pressing on him almost like an ache. Tomorrow would be the beginning of a dark time. He wanted to spend the few remaining hours beforehand with his lady. Once their journey to the north began, there would be no more precious moments alone. No more late-night conversations, kisses stolen from smiling lips. Not until they arrived in the nearest of his provinces and took lodging there. And even then, things were so dangerous, so desperate…did he have the right to spend any time not consumed with sleep or eating on anything so frivolous as romance when his people needed him?

And there was so much else that required attention besides the northern villages. He had yet to convince his father to break Nuala's engagement to Bres. There would be little time to do it before their departure tomorrow. While he and Dylan were gone, Bres would have time to ingratiate himself both to Nuala and the king. Then there was also the question of Dylan's mortality, their journey first to Avalon to retrieve the silver apples—if those were in fact the ones King Tethra and King Mannanan of the island of Mag Mell actually wanted, and not the poisonous black apples—and then to Mag Mell itself to petition the two cruel kings to make Dylan immortal. And of course the wedding…

A prickle at the nape of his neck and the soft shush of footsteps alerted Nuada to the presence of another—another not his esteemed lady—approaching his kitchen refuge. A polite knock against the wall served only to prick his temper even further. He turned to see Petra waiting in the kitchen entryway. Did Dylan know the shrew had followed him out of the living room? What did the harpy want now?

"Excuse me, Your Highness," Petra murmured, rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if to ward off a chill. Nervousness seeped from her every pore. Nuada stood like a statue carved from ice, eyes like shards of frozen topaz, disdain etched across his features. He said nothing; merely waited. "I need to speak with you about something."

A knife-thin blond brow slowly inched upward.

Petra sucked in a breath. Let it out slowly. Her gaze dropped to the clean, wooden floor as she said, "I understand now why you hate us so much but…but we honestly didn't know, okay? We didn't realize Dylan wasn’t—"

"You should have known," Nuada snarled. Petra flinched as if he'd slapped her. "You should have trusted your sister instead of locking her away in the dark and refusing to believe her when she spoke of needing your help. I only tolerate your presence in this house because my lady believes you can be of use to us in our endeavor over the coming weeks, and because she has asked me for my patience. She claims you love her. Perhaps you do, though I doubt you are capable of it. Do not make excuses to me. I will not hear them."

"That's not why I came over here," Petra snapped. "Jeez. I want to talk to you because of Dylan! I want to make sure you…that you know what you're getting into. So you don't…you know, spook her."

Incredulous ire rippled through the Elven prince, followed swiftly by a wash of ice-cold rage that frosted his blood and seared him to the bone.

"What?" The word could have been carved from a jagged piece of ice.

Petra swallowed, obviously sensing impending danger. But still she said, "Look, Dylan's been through a lot. I mean a lot. And you seem like…like a really physical guy. From what she's said, anyway. And I'm no psychiatrist, but Dylan always tries to please the people she cares about. She always tries to do what she thinks will make people happy, even at the expense of herself. She really loves you…but as her sister, I'm just warning you that maybe getting married isn't the best thing right now."

Nuada's head tilted slightly to the left, giving him that alien aura that never failed to unnerve even other Fair Folk. Only Dylan was immune to it, and it had taken months for her to be able to simply brush off the effect. Petra shrank back a little as Nuada's eyes began shifting toward that savage bronze that signaled a spike in his already smoldering temper.

"How dare you? How—dare—you? What my lady and I do is no concern of yours," Nuada hissed. He wanted to sling a sharp word for a she-hound at the woman like a stone, but he would not. He'd promised Dylan he would be civil. So he simply glared at her.

Petra folded her arms across her chest. "Uh, it's my concern if my baby sister spends her wedding night sobbing hysterically because she tried to be what she thought you wanted and couldn’t do it." The steely gray eyes challenged him to refute the possibility of Dylan's memories forming a barrier between them in such a way. A dull ache throbbed through Nuada's jaw and he realized he was grinding his teeth.

"You think I would force myself on her?" He demanded too softly. From far away, the memory of that old battle with John scraped at Nuada's mind. John had thought Nuada capable of hurting Dylan for sick enjoyment, too…once. But no longer. "You think I would ever ask her to give more than she can or is willing to give?"

The odious human lifted her chin. "I think she'll offer because she thinks it's what you want, and you might not realize she can't handle it until you've pushed her too hard, and she's already cracked."

"I—would—never," he growled. No, never. Not to her. He would be careful. He knew he had to take care with his betrothed's memories. He'd seen that for himself before. But when their wedding night finally came, he would be gentle and patient. If she wasn’t ready on that night, he would wait until she was. Simple as that.

And if she was never ready? If her nightmarish past couldn’t be overcome? Then he would be satisfied with what she could give. He loved her. Always. Eternally.

Strangely, Petra gave a satisfied nod. "Good. Because I want you guys together. You make her happy. I want that for her." Biting her lip—a gesture like a ghost of what Dylan always did when she was nervous—Petra added, "We owe her. We know that. Maybe we can never make it up to her. Maybe we can. I don't know. But tomorrow's the start of something big. Something dangerous. If anything happens to us, it'll be nice knowing you're there to take care of her. To give her the happiness we never thought she'd have. You understand her; she needs that. Thank you for giving it to her. That's all. Excuse me." And she walked away, leaving him staring after his lady's eldest sister, baffled by humans all over again.

.

Pulling himself back to the present, Nuada got up and checked his own packs one more time. He had learned in the army that one could never be too careful about the things needed for a journey. Lifting one satchel, he made to grab a second when a soft knock sounded at the door to his study. A brief flick of his power told him it was Dylan…with his father. Unable to separate the happiness and unease twining in his chest at the thought that his father had come to see him, he set the bag back on the floor and called, "Enter."

Balor preceded Dylan into the room, a tired smile on his face. He wore a simple shirt and breeches instead of more kingly garb; he must have been relaxing in his own suite when the mortal noblewoman suddenly pounced on him for something. But since both king and mortal were smiling, Nuada doubted the outcome had been unpleasant.

In fact, in Dylan's hands she held…

Nuada's gaze shot from the impossible prize Dylan carried, only its outline visible against the gold-embroidered scarlet cloth that wrapped around it, to his father's weathered face. His father smiled. Nodded.

"Your lady informed me that, as you will not have the full contingency of every Butcher Guard in the palace to call on if more fae assassins attack you, and since you will have some of her mortal kin with you, it would…behoove me to give you back the Silverlance." He shot an amused glance at Dylan. "I agreed." With careful, deliberate movements, Balor drew back the folds of the crimson silk to reveal the ensorcelled spear of Elven silver in Dylan's hands. Fire- and candlelight caught on the smooth lines of the long, silver blade etched with Nuada's personal crest. The gold embossing on the ebony hilt reflected the auburn glow of the flames in the hearth. Balor gripped the haft of the spear and lifted it from Dylan's hands. "Kneel."

His heart swelled in his chest as the prince knelt before his father and king, bowing his head so that his hair spilled in a curtain that began as palest starry silver before fading to antique gold around his face. His hands shook, so he pressed one against his left thigh and the other rested atop his right knee. The breath hitched in his chest as he felt the blade lightly touch first his left shoulder, then his right. He swallowed hard. Prayed he wouldn’t shame himself.

King Balor said, "Crown Prince Nuada, you have been found worthy to wield the weapon of the Bethmoora heir, the Silverlance. Bear it well as you seek to serve your kingdom and your people."

Hoping he'd quelled the shaking in his hands, Nuada reached out and took the lance from his father. The weight was at once familiar and strange; he hadn’t carried it in over a month. So little time, and yet so long. The sense of being incomplete, of being almost naked amidst a roomful of vipers and wolves, slowly faded as the prince rose to his feet, sheathed the spear, and bowed to his father.

"You have my thanks, Your Majesty," he murmured. "I will make you proud."

To his utter shock, his father replied, "I know. Good night, my son. I shall see you in the morning before you set off on your journey." Before Nuada could do more than stammer a goodnight in reply, the king left the study. Dylan clasped her hands in front of her and smiled. Nuada's heart thumped hard against his breastbone.

"You are brilliant," he said, and before either of them really knew what he was doing, he had her in his arms. She slipped her arms around his neck and cuddled against him, grinning wide enough to match his own broad smile. He touched his forehead to hers. "You wondrous woman," he added. "How did you ever convince him to give me a weapon, much less the Silverlance, before heading into what will most likely be a battle against humans?"

Dylan's eyes sparkled. "Just what he said: I reminded him that you were responsible for protecting not just me, but John and the girls." Then her smile slipped away. "And I reminded him of what he told me Christmas Day—that it would have broken him to lose you the day your mother died."

Nuada gazed down at her, so many emotions twisting and tangling in his chest he could scarcely sort through them all. He cupped her face between his hands. His thumbs brushed over the delicate curves of her cheekbones, feeling the warmth in her skin as she blushed. "I adore you," he whispered. "So much." He kissed her, a kiss that tasted of the sparkling grape juice she and her sisters had shared before returning to Findias, but with a faint but pleasant crispness of mint. Toothpaste. She was going to bed after this, he realized. She needed to. She seemed tired.

"Did you take your medicine?" He asked softly when the kiss broke. She nodded and laid her head against his shoulder. "When?"

"Right after I talked to your dad, just before he arrived. A few minutes ago, five at most. I think." She yawned.

"How long before you succumb?"

"Ten minutes," she mumbled. "Maybe. I took half the dose for my sleeping medicine so I could get up when we needed to." She smiled up at him. It was only then that he saw how her pupils were dilated, the black nearly swallowing up the stardust-silver and celestial blue of her irises. He wondered if missing her medicines for two straight days would have any strange effect on her. Dylan added, "Can I have ten minutes of goodnight kissing?"

Dark lips twitched, but he answered back gravely, "My lady, I hesitate to make accusations, but…could it possibly be that you arranged for the return of my spear so that you might extort carnal favors from me?"

She laughed. "Do kisses count as carnal favors?"

A slim, blond brow quirked. "When one does it right," he replied in a black velvet voice, "then yes."

Fresh color flooded Dylan's cheeks and she dropped her gaze, pressing her forehead into his collarbone. "Oh, boy. Um…" Then the faintest ghost of a wicked grin tugged at her mouth. "Actually, you know what? I don't believe you."

"I beg your pardon?"

The ghost of a grin began to appear in full. "You heard me. I don’t believe you. I don't think kisses done right count as carnal favors. I wouldn’t count the kiss you just gave me as one. That had about as much heat as a glacier."

He blinked once. Twice. "I believe I was just insulted." Dylan made a noncommittal noise and shrugged. "As much heat as a glacier, was it?"

A sleepy blink. "Yeah. Nothing carnal about that." She giggled tiredly, nuzzling his shoulder. "You think you're so big and bad—prove it. I don't think you can." She yawned. The fingers of one hand smoothed over his shirt before curling around his collar the way she often did when half-falling asleep.

"Challenge accepted, my love," he said softly. Setting a curled finger beneath her chin, he tilted her head up and fastened his mouth to hers.

Something about this kiss made it…more. Almost as if he'd never kissed Dylan before. As if he'd never known the pleasure—or the peace—kissing her could bring. He closed his eyes, the better to taste the fire of her. The better to drown in her taste, the feel of her mouth, her scent. She'd had a shower; he could smell the fragrance of spring lilies and summer roses that nearly always clung to her hair, and underneath that, the crispness of her soap. Her skin smelled clean. Sweet. He wanted suddenly to bury his face in the warm hollow of her shoulder the way he did whenever she would comfort him.

The coming dawn, hours away yet, still pressed on him with the knowledge of what they had to do when it came. They would be leaving Findias and its relative safety to venture across the kingdom into darkness and pain and desolation. Into death. So many of his people had died…The shadow of such thoughts hung heavy on him. Nuada shoved them away and focused instead on Dylan's mouth, lips like silken fire and the delicate touch of her breath against his mouth when her lips parted.

It would be so easy to coax a deeper kiss from her, he thought. So temptingly easy. Those soft lips parted as she struggled to breathe evenly, but he could part them further with skilled caresses, gentle nips. And she wouldn’t be able to remain awake for long, so taking things too far wouldn’t be a problem. Just one kiss to drown out the looming shadow of the morning. One kiss to sweep away thoughts of all the horrors he knew awaited them on this journey. One kiss…

Somehow he restrained himself. He would be satisfied with the heat of her throat and the satin curve of her cheek as he laid a hand against them. Satisfied with the contented sigh that brushed his lips as he slowly broke the kiss. And when Dylan's head dropped trustingly to his shoulder and she curved her arms around his neck again, pliant as a sleepy kitten, his heart jerked in his chest. She trusted him. Despite all that had happened between them, she still trusted him. Much as he desired her, much as he yearned for her in the depths of the night, no ardor could make him betray that trust.

Nuada scooped Dylan up in his arms, her slight weight no issue for an Elven warrior. She still wasn’t as well-fed as he wanted, but she was getting there. Dylan smiled and cuddled closer. He kissed her forehead. His lips brushed her skin when he murmured, "You're tired, a ghrá."

She nodded. "Mmm-hmmm."

"To bed with you, then," he added, kissing her forehead again. Reveling in the way she sprawled against him, her fingertips caressing where his pulse beat hard at the base of his throat, Nuada carried Dylan to her room and tucked her into bed. One last fleeting brush of his lips against hers served to somehow both assuage and stoke his longing. He touched her cheek. Whispered, "Goodnight, my princess."

At the door that joined his bedchamber to hers, he stopped for a moment when she mumbled, "Goodnight, Prince Charming."

He smiled. Things didn’t look quite so dark just then.

.

The ghostly gray of false dawn came too soon. Nuada was up, dressed in black leathers and crimson wool in place of his usual silks and velvets, lacing up his black riding boots when a hesitant knock sounded at the door adjoining his bedchamber to Dylan's. He didn’t look up as he called, "Enter."

Yawning, rubbing her eyes, Dylan came in. She was already dressed in one of the riding outfits he'd given her for Christmas—ensorcelled wine-dark silks, sparsely embroidered with golden thread, worn beneath charcoal traveling leathers to prevent discomfort. Her boots were of rich burgundy leather and reached her knees, the same style as his own. Nuada stared at the fitted leather molding to her calves. His bootlaces hung limp in his suddenly loose fingers. He blinked. Noticed the way Dylan's dark leather trousers skimmed down her legs to tuck neatly into the turned-down tops of her boots. Why had it never occurred to him how devastatingly lovely she would look wearing riding leathers?

"G'morning," she mumbled. Absently brushing at that one rebellious curl always hanging in her face, Dylan held up her arms and spun in a slow circle. "Well? What do you think?" She asked, her smile an invitation to go ahead and laugh if he thought she looked silly. Nuada took a moment to look her over from top to bottom and back up again.

The traveling clothes had included a long, silk tunic and trews to be worn beneath a leather jerkin and riding trousers. The jerkin was embossed in gold with the Eildon Tree, the crest of Bethmoora in peacetime. Over the jerkin, Dylan wore a knee-length vest of burgundy-dyed lamb's wool that matched the color of her boots. When she rode out with him in less than an hour, she would wear over all of this a pair of charcoal leather gloves to protect her hands and a fur-lined gray cloak of thick, but incredibly light, enchanted velvet, to protect her from the bitter Bethmooran cold. Around her neck hung her medallion on its simple golden chain, as well as the chain that bore the gold-and-ruby traveling ring he'd made for her. On her finger glittered the betrothal ring that had once belonged to Queen Cethlenn. Her hair had been braided tightly but deftly by Francesca; the thick braid hung over one shoulder. She wore no makeup. She needed none.

She looked, he thought, every inch the future Bethmooran princess. Every inch a woman worthy and able to be his wife. She looked…

"You look beautiful," he murmured. Quickly tying his bootlaces, he got to his feet and went to her. "You look like a princess," he added, taking her hands in his, "ready to visit her people and help them in whatever ways they stand in need of. You cannot know how proud I am of you, Dylan. For being willing to do this. For protecting and helping my people."

Dylan shook her head. "Our people. You're the one who always tells me," she said with a smile, pressing a hand to her chest. "Human blood; fae heart."

A small smile tugged at his mouth. He canted his head. "Indeed, my lady. Human blood, perhaps…but most assuredly a fae heart. Now." He stepped back from her a pace so he would be less tempted to kiss her. He could fill every minute between now and the dawn with the softness of her lips and the warmth of her breath if he allowed himself to do it. But he was a prince, and he had responsibilities. Even if he wanted to stay hidden away in this chamber with her until the end of his days—and oh, how he wanted that—they had places to go. So he cleared his throat and said, "You are packed?"

"Yes. Clothes, meds, weapons, everything. Fionnlagh and Gráinne helped me pack. And I remembered to take my meds," she added with a sheepish smile. "So I just need to eat breakfast and then we'll go. Or are we eating in the saddle?" Dylan made a face when Nuada arched an eyebrow. "Well, we're on a schedule."

He couldn’t help it—he had to kiss her again. Just once, swift and sweet. Dylan blinked at him, baffled.

"What was that for?"

"For being nothing but yourself," he replied. "And yes, we're eating in the saddle. For one thing, hot food will help fight off the cold for a bit. I've already arranged matters with Caspar. Are the children ready?"

She nodded. "All packed, dressed, and ready to go. And I checked with John—he and the girls are ready to go, too. Everything's packed."

Nuada pursed his lips, considering. He glanced out his bedroom window, noted the stars in their courses, and decided they had a few minutes before leaving the haven of his room. With a wolfish smile, he snagged Dylan's wrist and drew her into his arms, pressing her to his chest. She smiled, laughing softly and shaking her head at him.

"You're such a man," she murmured, still laughing.

"Well," he replied, lowering his head. He brushed his knuckles down the length of slashing scar gracing her cheek. "For your sake, I hope so."

Dylan simply rolled her eyes and laughed until he silenced her with a kiss.

.

Bitter wintry wind cut through Dylan's wool vest and leathers as she and Nuada stepped into the main palace courtyard. The supply-wagons were already laden and had begun the slow process of heading out of the Elven stronghold. Now the prince and his retinue, and his lady and her retinue, approached the horses the stable-hands held in readiness. While the Butcher Guards mounted the tall, shaggy, coal-black phookas that looked like Clydesdales, Wink helped Lorelei mount a horse with a sleek, ivory coat…and two horns protruding from its disproportionately wide head—horns as black as ebony, as long Dylan's arm, and as sharp as spears. Dylan's jaw went slack when she saw the rhinemaiden's mount. Her mouth fell open even wider when she saw the huge thing Wink was going to ride.

It looked like a bull, its hide shifting in shades of black, crimson, and amber like coals. Its horns and the fangs it bared seemed to glow like molten bronze. It stood taller than Dylan at the shoulder, with a body wider than the breadth of Nuada's shoulders, and a cow-tail that ended in a small, sullen flame. It bore a saddle of soot-stained leather and a bronze-chain bridle. Wink hoisted himself atop its back with ease. The creature pawed the steaming slush under its bronze hoof and snorted a blast of steam that made the air shimmer with impossible heat.

"Lorelei rides an indrik," Nuada said in Dylan's ear. His breath warmed her cold ears. "Why aren't you wearing your cloak?"

"I didn't think I could get on my horse with it on," she replied with a shrug. "I figured I'd put it on after I got in the saddle. What's an indrik?"

Nuada shook his head in exasperation. "Put it on," he ordered, smiling despite the vicious cold. "You'll freeze out here without it, my love." As she shrugged into her fur-lined cloak, Nuada added, "An indrik is a beast from Zwezda, a sort of horse-bull hybrid in human terms. Notice the hooves." He pointed at the cloven ebony hooves of Lorelei's steed. "They're razor sharp. You do not want an indrik to kick you."

"What's that?" Dylan pointed to Wink's beast. Even at a dozen paces away, it gave off an odd sort of heat. The snow around it had melted to slush, but the grooms in charge of the creature seemed to be able to touch it without harm.

"A bonnacon," Nuada replied. "From the wild forests of Eathesbury. Another horse-bull hybrid. They're wonderfully warm—pleasant mounts in cold weather. They can be a bit wild, but I hand-raised that stallion from a foal. He's as gentle as a lamb with those he's fond of. He'll like you, never fear. Bonnacons have the intelligence of small children, and they understand speech, though they cannot speak themselves. I've already told him who you are. And this," he added with a wealth of pride in his voice, "is Maeve."

A white mare stepped away from the group of fae horses and approached Dylan and Nuada shyly. Her eyes gleamed like emeralds, and the firelight caught in the silky banners of her pearlescent celadon mane and tail. Lòman, Nuada's black stallion, came to stand beside the mare. The stallion nuzzled her shoulder before bowing his head. Maeve bowed her own head.

*My lady, I am Maeve,* the mare said in the voice of a woman close to Dylan's age. *I am an arion mare, and I am honored to bear you on this journey.*

Dylan's mouth started to fall open again, but then she remembered that arions—fae horses with green manes and tails, native to Mytikas and Shahbaz—could speak the same way Nuada's wolfhounds could. She smiled at the mare. "It's nice to meet you. I'm not a great rider, but I'll try to sit up straight and pretend I know what I'm doing."

Maeve whickered, the horse-version of a laugh. *Thank you, milady.* The mare gently touched her nose to Dylan's shoulder. *We will be friends, I think.*

"I'd like that."

"A'ge'lv! A'ge'lv! Look at my pony!" The enraptured shout dragged Dylan's gaze over to 'Sa'ti perched on a black-haired pony, its mane and tail such a dark black they carried blue and green tints, like dark water. The ends of both mane and tail dripped water on the snow. Jet-black eyes gleamed and the pony tossed its head. A'du sat on the back of an identical pony next to his sister. Tsu's'di rode a horse with the same coloring.

Glashtyn, Dylan thought. Eathesburian water-horses malevolent to humans but friendly to the Fair Folk. She knew Nuada had dozens upon dozens in his stables. He loved horses of any kind. And she knew Nuada would've made certain everyone's mounts were safe before arranging for them to carry any of their party on this trip. Dylan waved to her servants before turning back to Maeve. Time to get on the horse's back wearing a very long cloak.

Somehow she managed it without any help from Nuada. Maeve stood still, only shifting her weight to help Dylan settle in the saddle. When she was set, she smiled at her prince. Maeve blew against Lòman's neck, and he whickered. Nuada patted the white mare's neck in silent thanks before turning to scan the group. Dylan's siblings all rode arions, because the horses could speak and understand human language—perfect mounts for inexperienced riders. Erik Ashkeson, who would be accompanying them as part of Nuada's guard—just as Lorelei had agreed to come in order to watch out for Dylan and, to a lesser degree, Francesca, since the rhinemaiden and the mortal waitress had a friend in common—Erik rode a wülfsvað, a shaggy black wolf-horse creature from Álfheim with sharp, stone hooves and impossible strength. The children and Tsu's'di had mounted their glashtyn, Wink was mounted, the guards were in the saddle. Packs and saddlebags had been packed and stowed where they belonged. Everyone was ready.

Nuada turned to see his father, bundled up in velvets and furs against the bitter cold and the dark, standing with Nuala…and Bres. The Fomorian prince held Nuala's hand and gazed at her with obvious tenderness. Another pang sliced through Nuada's heart when he saw his sister gaze back with equal adoration. Nuala would never forgive him for breaking her engagement.

But he put that out of his mind as his father and sister approached. Bres strode beside them, and when they reached the crown prince, Balor nodded to the Fomorian. Nuada frowned, tension singing through his shoulders, but said nothing. Bres cleared his throat.

"Luck be with you on your journey, my friend," he said, and he sounded as if he meant it. But then, Bres loved his people. Loved the Fair Folk. He was loyal to them and no doubt considered what Nuada intended to do to be a less shameful thing than what Bres assumed Nuada currently occupied his time with—enjoying the dubious pleasure of a mortal in his bed. Nuada inclined his head in taciturn acknowledgment. Bres added, "I would like to speak with your lady for a moment, if I may."

The Tuathan prince opened his mouth to snap no when Dylan's voice broke through the cold night. "I would like to speak to Prince Bres, if it pleases you, Your Highness."

He shot her a sharp look. She met it with cool equanimity, a silent plea to please trust her. After a moment, he inclined his head to her, then looked back at Bres. He felt his eyes shift to icy topaz tinged with the faintest hint of copper fury. "As my lady wishes."

Bres nodded to him and moved past, toward Dylan. Immediately everything in Nuada's body tightened in protest. Unease churned in his belly, but he forced it down. Dylan wouldn’t have asked to speak to Bres if it wasn’t safe. And what could he do, with her guards so close? In front of Balor, whom the Fomorian heir wished to impress? Nuada tried to force himself to relax as he turned back to his father and sister.

Nuala threw her arms around him. He stiffened in surprise, then relaxed into the embrace. She kissed his cheek. Whispered through their link, May the gods watch over you, Brother. Be careful. Come home to us.

Have no fear, little sister. I will be all right, and I will make our father proud.

Áthair is already proud of you, Nuada.

It seemed, as the prince turned to his father, that his sister was right. Balor set both hands on Nuada's shoulders and smiled. His father yet looked tired. Nuada pushed aside the worry slithering through his skull. Balor seemed to grow wearier and wearier as time went on. He looked almost ill. The Elven warrior wished he could stay to look after the king, but his people needed him. He simply couldn't. So he forced a smile to his lips for his father's sake and nodded to him. "Áthair."

"My son, be well on your journey." A wry twist came into Balor's smile. "I trust I needn't tell you to look after your lady; I know that you will. And she is one who can take care of herself…for the most part. When you return, we will speak further about many things. You will of course be back in time for the Frost Moon."

Nuada grinned. "Of course, Father. It would be poor form indeed for me to miss my own wedding. We should be back well before then. And if not, Arawn has promised to send the Chariot of Annwn to fetch us home again in time for everything."

Balor nodded and clapped his son on the shoulder. "Good. It will do the people good to see and hear of your lady before your wedding. You have my blessing to travel through the royal forest, using the army roads."

The prince blinked. The army roads were enchanted, and could only be walked with the king's permission. It would take a day, perhaps two, to get nearly anywhere in the kingdom, even if the trip would've normally taken a week or more. The spells laid into the royal forest and the army roads had saturated trees and earth, brush and stone since before Balor's grandfather's grandfather's time. None knew who had laid them; the unicorns, perhaps—dozens of unicorn glories had made their homes in the royal forest since time out of mind, and gave aid to the kings of Bethmoora in exchange for royal protection from hunters, human and fae. It was a crime worthy of execution-by-slow-torture to kill a unicorn in any fae kingdom. Travel through the royal forest was permitted rarely, and usually only in times of crisis. If the king was giving it to him now…

"Thank you, Áthair," Nuada murmured.

The sound of a door opening briefly distracted him, and he turned to see a few of the kitchen staff coming out with food wrapped in cloths to keep the heat in. They moved toward the mounted group, dispersing breakfast. Nuada noticed a kitchen maid with a gaze reflecting the moonlight like eyeshine and hair as thick as deer hide go directly to a grinning Tsu's'di—Isibéal. Tsu's'di leaned down and began murmuring to her. Nuada smiled and turned back to his father.

"We must go now."

"Fare thee well, Prince of Bethmoora," Balor said softly, squeezing his son's shoulder one last time.

"Fare thee well, Majesty," Nuada murmured, bowing his head. He hesitated for the briefest instant, then embraced his father. Balor hugged him tightly, as he had only done once in the last twenty centuries, two days past on Christmas morning.

His father's voice sounded old and worn when he whispered, "Please be careful, my son. Stay safe."

"I shall do my best."

And then it was time for him to step away, to go to Lòman and mount up. Bres had already stepped back from Dylan and was now eyeing her as if he couldn’t quite understand what he was looking at. To his surprise, Dylan offered the Fomorian prince a tight smile and inclined her head. What surprised Nuada even more was when Bres canted his head back before returning to Nuala's side. Nuada shot Dylan a look that plainly asked, What was that about?

Dylan smiled and shook her head, as if to say, I'll tell you later.

Urging Lòman up to Dylan, once side by side the two arions walked to the head of the group. The last of the wagons had just left the castle grounds. Now it was their turn. Once they cleared the outer walls of the palace, they'd ride up to the front of the supply-train. Nuada caught Dylan's eye and nodded his head, asking silently if she was ready. She nodded.

"Look for us in the week ere the Frost Moon," Nuada called over his shoulder.

A click of his tongue urged Lòman into a slow trot. Maeve, with Dylan on her back, followed suit. The others fell in line behind them: Dylan's siblings behind the prince and his lady; Tsu's'di and the cubs with Dylan's family, Tsu's'di as close to Dylan as possible; Wink, Lorelei, and Erik behind them; and the Butcher Guards, minus young Guardsman Loén, behind them. Loén rode next to Tsu's'di; having lost his partner Siothrún to the dungeons because of Siothrún's treason, Loén was now partnered with Tsu's'di at Dylan's request, as the two were relatively close in age.

The prince glanced back only once, to ensure everyone was in place. He noticed Tsu's'di, A'du', and 'Sa'ti looking back as well. He frowned, then noticed a sleepy-looking kitchen boy waving and calling goodbye to the children. The ewah cubs waved, calling, "Bye, Rórdán! Bye!"

And Tsu's'di looked back at Isibéal, who stood with her arms folded beside Rordan, one loose fist held to her heart. Tsu's'di raised a hand in a wave of farewell. Taking a single step, Isibéal blew him a kiss. The cougar youth pretended to catch it, holding it to his chest. Nuada bit back a grin and faced forward again. Dylan caught his eye and winked. Nuada let the grin show through.

"After the township, we make for the royal forest," he commanded. They were on their way at last. 


"Unicorns," Dylan murmured, smiling in fond memory of their single night in the forest when he had brought her to see the glory. Nuada winked. She bit her lip and grinned.

Yes. If he could manage it, if the unicorns would come near with her kin with them, he would take her to see the unicorns again.

Darkness There, and Nothing... CH. 16 - The Flaws of Other Plans

Chapter Sixteen

The Flaws of Other Plans

.

.

Loki's wife. Loki's daughter.

It was too much. It was more than Thor could bear to think about. His brother's wife. His brother's child. Thor's own kin. He had to tell his father, his mother. His brothers. They had to know what wrong had been done to the fostered prince. If it had been Jane…Thor wasn’t sure what he would have done, had it been Jane in danger from the Chitauri, and he in Loki's place. And if a child had been weighed in the balance…

Yet Loki had claimed he'd killed Thea's husband, Sophie's father. He had claimed...and yet Loki's words now echoed in the crown prince's skull.

I killed the wretch. Drove a blade into his pathetic heart and watched him bleed out, watched him suffer for…for what he'd done. For leaving them there. Leaving his helpless wife and his daughter to the Chitauri. Yes, I killed him. I killed Thea's husband and Sophie's father. I watched him die, watched his heart's blood spill like a crimson fountain until there was nothing left but an empty, desiccated husk, a dead man—if he ever was a man at all…Loki Odinson is dead, and I am what's left.

Thor tried to speak to his brother, tried to say something, but Loki surged to his feet and turned his back on Thor, stalking to the fireplace. Leaning his forearm on the mantel, he bowed his head and pressed his forehead hard against his knotted fist. There would be no more words from Loki this day.

In a haze of numbness, Thor trudged back to his rooms and sank down onto his bed. His eyes traced the patters of the rug beneath his feet even as the thoughts circled in his brain. Could it be true? Could it really be true? That little girl, Loki's daughter, murdered by the Chitauri? And Thea, that effervescent girl who could always make Loki smile…his wife, murdered?

"Thor," a quiet voice called from the door of his room. He'd forgotten to close it, he realized. Looking up, he saw Víðarr standing in the entryway, watching him with furrowed brows. "Thor…what is it?"

He shook his head. "I know not where to begin. The information you gathered about Coulson was correct; he was never married. He wasn’t Thea's husband."

Víðarr came into the room, shutting the door behind him. Taking the chair near the bed, he leaned toward his elder brother. "Do you know who she was, then? Did Loki tell you at last?"

Thor nodded. "He claims…he claims that Thea was his wife."

Brown eyes widened. "His wife?"

Another nod from the crown prince. "I could scarcely fathom it myself—Loki married. Loki with a child."

"A child?" Puzzlement crossed Víðarr's features. "He has a child?”

"Had," Thor murmured with painful emphasis. "She is dead. They are both dead, the child and her mother. Loki lost them both when I thwarted his attempt to invade Midgard, or so he claims. I have no proof yet, but the grief in him…he wept, Víðarr. When he at last revealed them to me, revealed the truth, he wept openly. You know he does not weep unashamed before others."

There was a long silence, filled only by the crackling of the fire on the bedroom hearth to drive away the bitter chill. It had been almost a year since Loki had been brought back from Midgard; winter had fallen, spring had passed, summer faded, and now autumn had returned. Had Loki carried the horror of this knowledge throughout the long months since his imprisonment, and none of them had seen it?

Thor remembered the night after he'd been captured by the Avengers. The archer, Banner, the woman called the Black Widow, the young captain, the Man of Iron, and Thor himself had all gone to feast on a mortal dish known as schwarma. Loki had been left in SHIELD custody. Nicholas Fury had been confident he would be unable to escape, and Loki hadn’t seemed inclined to try. He'd almost seemed to be…waiting. Waiting for what, even his brother hadn’t known. But Loki had definitely been waiting for something.

And then, when the Avengers had returned to the SHIELD base where Loki was imprisoned, there had come the one moment Thor hadn’t understood. The moment he still did not understand. Even now, his memory tried to shy away from it.

The moment when Loki had screamed…

.

"He was pretty restless earlier," the agent called Hill informed the Avengers when they entered the observation chamber that could, when activated, give them the perfect view of their quiescent prisoner. “Pacing like a wolf in a cage. Then about five minutes ago he sat down and got quiet.”

Everyone gave the single active monitor a dismissive glance, save Thor. He couldn’t look at it at all. In the heat of battle, he'd been able to push aside the briar-tangle of emotions threatening to strangle him. Now, though…how could his brother have committed such evil acts? How? Where was the brother he knew in that madman trapped in the Midgardian cage?

"Thor," Banner said, nudging him a little. The Asgardian flicked his gaze to the mortal scientist and away again. "You okay?"

After a moment, he nodded. "Fine. I am—"

From beyond the frosted glass wall separating Loki's cell from the observation chamber came a horrific scream, an agonized howl of anguish saturated with half-mad rage that dragged on and on, holding everyone in the room frozen. Thor's eyes widened and his blood shifted to ice-water at the terrible sound that seemed to scrape along his bones. He had heard men scream so when mortally wounded on the battlefield, but never…

Then a single, awful thought penetrated the fog of gut-churning horror. Without another moment's hesitation, he surged forward, rushing for the door that would lead him to the room where his brother was being held. Loki could not escape again. He could not.

But Loki wasn’t trying to escape. Forearms braced against the window-like wall of his cell, his shoulders jounced up and down and his chest heaved as he sucked in ragged breaths. Sweat raced down his pale face, plastering his dark hair to his cheeks and neck and temples. Wide, electric blue eyes blazed in the sunken sockets with something that might have been an insane sort of horror. Blood leaked from Loki's cuts and he hunched as if whatever wounds Banner had inflicted pained him. Thor realized he leaned against the glass because his legs shook violently. In fact, Loki trembled as if the strength were swiftly draining from his limbs. Even as the crown prince watched, he dropped to his knees.

"What was that?" The captain asked from Thor's left, staring at the containment cell. They were all staring at the cell—the six Avengers and Nicholas Fury. Thor's hand slowly drifted away from the handle of his hammer as his brother only hunched there on his knees, staring blankly at nothing.

"I don't know," said the young, white-faced SHIELD agent that had been on guard in the room. Shouldering his weapon, he saluted Fury with a shaking hand and added, "He was just sitting there with his eyes closed, like he was meditating or something, sir. Then his eyes opened and he looked…"

"How did he look, soldier?" Fury demanded.

"Well, to be honest, sir, I'm not entirely sure. Like he'd just been stabbed. The prisoner got to his feet and he just…screamed, sir."

"Maybe somebody needs a timeout," Tony muttered from beside the young captain. Steven laughed softly. Thor glanced disapprovingly at them, but said nothing. He only watched his brother.

Loki trembled as he slowly rose to his feet. He swayed where he stood, as if he'd been drinking all night. With staggering steps, he stumbled back to the bench on the opposite side of the cell. As if in a daze, he dropped to the bench, looking pale as a corpse. Against Thor’s will, a flash of concern shot through the prince.

Almost as if he'd sensed that concern, Loki lifted his head and let his eyes drift past the line of faces until they settled on Thor. Those hollow eyes, colored blue by the lighting, held the agony of a man being slowly burned alive. A man who'd seen his own death…and welcomed it, only to have it snatched away.

"Kill me, Thor," he whispered, and the murmurs of the Avengers quieted.

The crown prince shook his head. "You will face Asgardian justice for your crimes, Loki."

"Justice," Loki echoed, almost as if he didn't understand the word. "Justice. Justice?" He shook his head. His fingers slowly knotted into white-knuckled fists that shook. Even as they watched, crimson begin seeping between the long, pale fingers. "There is no justice. No fairness. Nothing. Nothing." And then Thor thought Loki said "she is…" before trailing off, but he couldn't be certain. “There is no justice here. There is nothing here.”

Nicholas Fury took two measured steps toward the containment cell and paused, studying his prisoner. At last he said, “Finally woke up to the fact that we won’t let you just conquer our planet?”

Loki didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge him. In fact, it was almost as if the green-eyed prince didn’t even hear Fury’s words. He stared at nothing, looking like a child lost in the dark. Thor frowned. This was not like his brother at all. Loki’s pride, his sheer arrogance, should have had him lashing out at Fury for his “disrespect.”

Instead Loki rose to his feet and took a few shambling steps toward the center of his prison. With every step, his feet dragged and his legs shook. Thor took a step forward. He could sense the unease in his comrades. Tension prickled on the air. Loki swayed, staggered. What was he doing? Thor couldn’t be certain—none of them could—and so they waited, tense and ready, for him to try to attack.

But he didn’t. He merely dropped to his knees, then sat on the floor. He looked like a man who’d received a knife between the ribs, a man bleeding to death who hadn’t yet realized he was already dead. He looked at Thor, a look of such potent pleading that it burned the prince like a brand against his heart, before dropping his gaze to his hands, which trembled as he held them out in front of him. Slowly Loki shook his head as if it were a great weight upon his shoulders. The breath hitched in his throat; he swallowed hard. His fingers tangled into fists.

“No,” he whispered. The word seemed to tear from his throat like a gossamer blade, soft and deadly as graveyard chill. He shook his head again. “No. No, this can’t be.”

“Looks like ultimate power finally got the message—“

“No!” Loki roared, surging back to his feet. Immediately Thor wrenched up his hammer. He heard the hum and whine of Tony Stark’s armor, the quiet singing of the captain raising his shield. The archer knocked an arrow and the Black Widow and Fury both raised their weapons. But Loki didn’t acknowledge them. He raked his fingers through his hair and bellowed, “No! No! This can’t be! No!”

Thor felt it before the others realized what was happening—the rising scream of seiðr on the air, snapping and crackling with power. Loki wasn’t doing anything with it, just letting it build and build until it rattled the walls of his prison.

And the Avengers could do nothing. There was no thirty-thousand-foot drop this time that could kill him, but Loki had been so badly wounded they hadn’t believed they’d needed it. Yet now the pressure of Loki’s seiðr sent an ache throbbing through Thor’s teeth. Loki’s wild eyes lifted to the ceiling, darted all over it as if searching desperately for something.

Thor took a grip on his own seiðr, paltry and clumsy though it was compared to his brother’s sorcery, and flung it between the Avengers and his brother’s power as it exploded in a flash of blinding emerald light tinged with ivory and threaded with blue. That power hit Thor’s magic with a thunderous crack! And amidst the torrent of savage power, the prince heard that same anguished scream once more, the insane torturous howl that shouldn’t have been able to come from any human throat. The agony in it chilled the Asgardian’s blood like wind out of Jötunheim. Somewhere in that scream was a word, one Thor couldn't quite hear, a tortured cry of denial and insane despair.

Spots danced across Thor’s eyes; he swiftly blinked them away, needing to be ready for his brother’s next assault…but none came. When he could see again, the prince realized Loki sat with his back to them all, pressed to the wall of the cell. His bowed head rested on his updrawn knees. Bloody handprints smeared the white floor. Loki sat utterly still, not so much as a muscle twitching.

“What was that?” Fury demanded.

“Seiðr,” Thor replied, staring at his brother’s still form. Loki didn’t even twitch at the word. “My brother’s power unleashed. I shielded us. I…I do not think he will try it again.”

The rest of the Avengers stared at him, unsure, but Fury nodded. “Doesn’t have it in him?”

Watching Loki, Thor shook his head. “No,” he replied, knowing the words were true even though he didn’t understand why. “No, he doesn’t.”

Loki’s head remained bowed, his entire body locked with tension so taut Thor’s own muscles seemed to scream in sympathy. The captive prince didn’t turn around as the Avengers began to walk away. He never looked up. He merely held himself tightly with his back to them, the ghost of that ravaged howling still echoing in the room.

.

“He knew,” Thor whispered to Viðarr. “I didn’t understand then. I thought he was merely…merely mad and enraged at having been thwarted. But he must have known somehow. He must have sensed it when they were killed.”

His brother looked sick. “Are you certain?”

“Not certain, no. We need proof, but…but I think…” Thor looked at his younger brother. “You said you believed Xavier and Fury were holding information back. Why? I should have asked you then, but I was distracted by what you reported about Coulson. Why do you believe they were holding back?”

Viðarr leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “When Xavier spoke of the girl, that she’d disappeared, it seemed as if he would say more, but then he didn’t. As if he’d thought better of it. When I asked if there was anything else, he looked at me for a moment as if weighing a choice. Then he shook his head, as if the choice had been made, and said that was all he could tell me.”

“And Fury?” Thor pressed.

Now his younger brother frowned. “When I spoke to him of Coulson, I mentioned that I was your emissary, and that you had questions about the fallen son of Coul. Fury gave me an odd look and said, ‘The fallen son of Coul. Interesting.’ When I asked him what was so interesting, he hesitated for just a moment before saying he wouldn’t have thought you would send another of your brothers to Midgard just to ask questions of a man you believed to be dead. I thought his phrasing strange, but he wouldn’t elaborate.”

“Did either of them explain what might be causing the strange seiðr shielding around the school and their base?”

Viðarr shook his head. “When I mentioned it, that our Gatekeeper couldn’t see past such shields, they both seemed surprised…but then they both had nearly identical looks on their faces, as if they’d just realized something. They wouldn’t speak of it, however, and claimed not to know the cause of the shields.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

His brother shot him an irritated look. “I was tired. It was nearly midnight. I’d been traveling in enemy territory for weeks. Might I have just a little leeway to forget a few things? I did tell Father when I remembered. He wants me to go back in a few weeks’ time and speak to Midgardians again, to see if we might get more answers.”

Now it was Thor’s turn to shake his head. “No. Fury keeps many secrets, and his honor is…questionable. I know not this Professor Charles Xavier, and so I am not certain I can trust him, either. Loki said that Thea had been wrong to trust either man, but he never explained why. No…if we need information, now that we have a place to start, there is only one man I would trust to find it for us.”

Raising both brows in inquiry, Viðarr said, “You trust a Midgardian that much? He must be a worthy ally. Who is he?”

“Anthony Stark.”

.

Thor went to Loki the next morning to try and see if there was more to his story, but Loki simply lay on his cot, feigning sleep. After what he’d revealed last night, Thor knew his brother no doubt wished him far, far away, where he would stop asking questions about Thea and Sophie…but now that the crown prince knew part of the truth, he had to have it all. If only Loki would give it to him…

But there was another reason for his visit. After an hour of trying to coax words from his little brother, Thor finally said, “Loki, I will be gone for a few days. I wanted you to know so that you didn’t think…” Didn’t think Thor had abandoned him after dragging such painful truth from him, but the prince couldn’t seem to force those words past his lips. “I must go to Midgard and—“

“To Midgard?” Loki repeated in a rasp that was barely there. Thor had already heard from the guards going off-duty that morning that Loki had actually slept for a time the night before, only to wake himself screaming. They hadn’t known what the captive prince had dreamt; they only knew he’d been roaring protests against something in his nightmares. Thor was fairly certain he knew what. “Why to Midgard?” Loki asked.

“If we are to give you your vengeance for your wife and child, then Father must be convinced. I will go to someone who can give us irrefutable proof, proof even Father cannot ignore.”

“You intend to help me?” Loki whispered. “Then…then you believe me?”

After a long moment, where blue eyes locked with tortured green, Thor nodded. “I believe you, Brother…and I am truly sorry.”

Loki looked away, as if he couldn’t bear to see the depth of his older brother’s regret. One arm came up to cover his eyes. “Whose aid do you seek?”

“The Man of Iron; I think he holds Nicholas Fury in the same contempt as you.”

“Ah,” Loki said. “The man of the rapier wit in his Midgardian armor. The only one immune to the Chitauri staff.”

Something about that caught at Thor’s attention. Cautiously, he said, “It seemed to do you no real harm. It lent you a great deal of power. Were you not immune to it?”

A heavy sigh. “No…no, I do not think I was, really. Thea warned me not to touch it when they gave it to me. She said to try not to use it. I kept it away from her, because we didn’t know what it might do to…but Thea didn’t trust it. And when I used it, when I even so much as held it, I…I don’t know. It seemed to whisper to me, to taunt me with my fears of failing. My fears of losing my love and my child.”

Seizing the moment, since Loki had brought up Thea on his own, Thor asked, “Brother, why did you join with the Chitauri? You said yourself that so long as you had Thea, you could endure any of their tortures. Why then did you go to them?”

“Because of Sophie,” Loki rasped. “I had to, for Sophie. They…the Chitauri meant to…they were going to kill Sophie, and maybe Thea. I couldn’t let them. I had to…” Loki sucked in a sharp breath and bared his teeth in a snarling grimace. He wrenched his arm from across his eyes and sat up abruptly, breathing hard. “They took her from me. Three weeks after our wedding, they took my wife from her cell and me from mine. The very day she told me…”

.

It was always a wrench, to be forced to sleep alone in his cell after making love to Thea. It was too dangerous, they both knew that; they couldn’t fall asleep together in the same prison cell or the Chitauri might learn of the hole in the wall. So far they hadn’t seemed to notice, which was so strange, but Loki clung to the hope that it was just luck. They were due for a bit of luck. But even though they couldn’t sleep in each other’s arms, Loki would always hold Thea’s hand through the hole in the wall as they drifted into slumber. At least he had that.

And for now, he had his wife. Thea lay in his arms, her arms around him; they lay tangled together in the dim glow of the flashlights, the bedroll soft beneath their bodies, with Thea’s head on Loki’s shoulder. He stroked a gentle hand down her back. Anger and unease always twined together like hot wires in his belly when his fingers found the delicate ridges of her vertebrae.

She was so thin. Too thin. They’d stretched out her energy bars as long as possible but they’d run out weeks and weeks ago. Her skin, however, remained soft beneath the dirt despite the press of bones. Lotion, she claimed. It was what had made her smell so sweet their first night together.

“You are so beautiful,” Loki whispered, nuzzling her cheek. She sighed and cuddled closer to him, blissful and sleepy.

“You’re not too bad looking yourself. I’m so lucky my husband is hot. Man, I love saying that—my husband. When we get out of here and get home, all the girls at work are going to be so, so jelly. I’m just gonna be like, ‘Well, go get kidnapped by aliens. Maybe they’ll be a smokin’ hot alien for you to marry.’ Of course, everyone knows that I drink Felix Felicious—or whatever that’s tuff in Harry Potter is called—by the bucketful, which is totally dangerous, but makes you super lucky. Why don’t I ever gamble after drinking that stuff? I could become a billionaire. I’d never have to work again. Oh, ew. That would be boring. I’d die. I’d become a zombie.” She pressed her forehead against Loki’s jaw as her fingertips whispered along his collarbone. “Would I be a cute zombie? Would you still love me if I had an unholy craving for brains?”

He kissed her forehead. “I would love you even if you became one of those sex-crazed tentacle-monsters you told me about.”

She laughed. “Oh, hardships for you. It would be so difficult for you if I became a sex-crazed monster. What would ever become of you? Hmmm?”

“I could do without the tentacles.”

Thea seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, I could see that. So you’d love me even if I was a zombie. Hmmm. You know, if I became a zombie, I would try really hard not to eat you. I promise. Even though you’d taste delicious.”

“How can you be sure I would?”

“Because I’d be a magician zombie and still have my amazing powers, so when I took bites out of you, you’d taste like Skittles. Hey, wait.” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, my gosh. I feel so dumb. I can totally make you taste like Skittles. I could do that if I wanted to. I’m gonna do that.”

Loki frowned. “Why would you…are you biting me?”

“It was a love nip,” she informed him haughtily. “On your shoulder. You know you liked it. Don’t you remember when I happy-smacked you in the face with the snowballs? You know you liked that, too. You’re a masochist. A sexy, sexy masochist with an adorable dimple in your cheek, and the most gorgeous…green…eyes. Which reminds me, I have to...tell you...something...Loki, I’m talking.”

“I’m listening,” he murmured. And he was. Honestly. But…

“I can’t talk when you do that.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“What was I saying?”

“I’m sure you’ll remember shortly.”

“I don’t think I will. Stop with the lips. That’s my neck. My neck! That’s my jaw. And my ear. Don’t…I mean…I mean…I lost my train of thought. What was I saying? I forgot because you’re…kissing my…ear…meh…”

“Just relax, darling.”

“But I have to tell you something important,” she protested feebly.

Nuzzling her throat, he murmured, “Tell me.”

“I can’t, you’re distracting me.”

“If it is about my dimples, I’m sure it can wait. Your neck, however, can’t. It’s quite the temptation. And this spot just here.” His lips moved to her jaw and she squeaked, then sighed and melted. “I love you,” he added, nuzzling the spot in question. “So much, Thea.”

“I love you, too, but I…really…need to tell you something important!”

With a groan, Loki dropped his forehead to her shoulder. He wanted his wife. He didn’t think there would ever come a time where he didn’t want her. It was torturous, not being able to be with her in all the ways he wanted, whenever he wanted. It infuriated him that because of the Chitauri, he couldn’t take his beloved to see all the wonders of his Realm. But whatever it was had to be truly important, because Thea wanted him at least as badly as he wanted her.

“What is it, suetyng?”

“Well…okay. So I don’t know why this never occurred to either of us. It probably should have…but it didn’t. So we’re both kind of, like…well, anyway. We messed up, did a dumb thing. It’s a great dumb thing, but the timing stucks. Stinks. Sorry. I tried to say ‘sucks’ and ‘stinks’ at the same time. I’m flustered. Anyway, and I’m happy, but I’m freaking out, and I don’t want you to be mad, okay? Please don’t be mad.”

Baffled, Loki propped himself up on one elbow and stared down at her. “Why would I be angry with you? What could you possibly have done?”

“Promise you won’t get mad? Because if you got mad I’d have to go find my misery-ditch and bury myself in it to die, and I don’t have any jelly beans. Ohmigawd, now I want jelly beans, which wouldn’t be a big deal usually but I really want jelly beans and I’m babbling again. Stop it, Thea. Focus. I need to remain fockused. Yeah, I know that’s not a word. Freaking. Babbling. I’m sorry, I know you were trying to be romantic and I know that you really, really don’t need this and I just need to spit it out but I can’t because I’m scared and—“

“Älskling,” Loki interrupted, cupping her cheek. “You needn’t be afraid to tell me anything. Anything at all. What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Well, we’re trapped here, and the Chitauri don’t know we can talk to each other and stuff, and I really wish I could do this whole thing at home, maybe in a hospital. A nice, shiny, clean hospital that sparkles like Jack Frost’s teeth. Or in my room. I miss my room. I had this ridiculous Winnie the Pooh wallpaper and I always wanted to take it down but you know what? I will paper my house with that stuff when I get home or maybe something Calvin and Hobbes-ish and ohmigawd Loki I’m pregnant.”

He blinked, unable to process everything she’d said. Something about wallpaper and hospitals and…wait. No. No, she couldn’t possibly have said what he thought she’d said. She couldn’t have. “What?” He breathed.

Tearfully, she whispered, “I’m pregnant.”

The bottom fell out of Loki’s world. He stared at Thea’s face, tracing every contour, every feature. Tears welled up in her eyes, but didn’t fall. For the first time, he saw pure and unadulterated terror on her face.

“You’re pregnant?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think—“

“Stop it.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight to him, letting her bury her face against his chest. “Stop. It isn’t your fault, it’s mine. I…I should have thought of this. I did not even think. I’m so sorry, Thea. I’m sorry. It’s all right, though. It will be all right.” Though he couldn’t see how, and he knew she knew that. He knew there was no way to make this all right.

A child. A child? How could she carry a child in this place? It would die, here away from the sun and fresh air, without proper food or water. It would die in the womb. She would lose a child conceived in this darkness. They would lose the child.

What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t even protect her; how was he supposed to protect their child? He'd always longed for a family, for a wife and child, but never thought that he could have one. Not with how the women of Asgard secret disdained him. And now...

“Are you certain?” He asked, praying for it not to be true. How could he have been so reckless? He was no better than Thor, endangering the people he loved most for the sake of insignificant nothings. “Are you certain, Thea?”

“Almost a hundred percent. My body’s been…acting weird. My period’s late. It was supposed to be two weeks ago. I’ve been feeling kind of sick the last couple weeks, too. I think…I think it was the first night. Our wedding night. I think that’s when…Loki, what are we going to do? I mean…my powers are going to go ballistic. That always happens to mutants when they’re pregnant. I don’t know what will happen. And trapped in here, the baby could die. I could die. We both could, me and the baby. I can’t have a baby in here. This place is a box. I’m going to turn into a whale. I’m going to be Shamoo. I won’t be able to climb through the hole to get help from you once I turn into whale.

“Oh, man, I’m hyperventilating. Make me stop. Slap me, I’m hysterical. No, don’t slap me, I’ll cry and you’ll hate yourself. Just…I need chocolate. Fatty, sugary, melty chocolate. I need to go swim in chocolate. Fifty laps should do it. Yeah. Fifty laps of chocolate. It’s like Fifty Shades of Gray, but better. And tasty. And I can’t have a baby in this freaking pit of dark despair! I don’t even have an albino to complain to! Why am I in the pit of despair? This is not The Princess Bride and I am having a spaz attack, maybe you should slap me.”

He cradled her, clasping her to him. “It’s all right, Thea.” An idea was slowly easing its way out of the depths of him, weighing down his bones with pain. A terrible, impossible, cruel idea. It was a way…a way to protect his wife and unborn child, but…but he couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly…”It will be all right.”

“No, it won’t. Yes, it will. Stop that, Thea. Stop.” She pressed a hand against her forehead. “Stop that. It will be fine. I am a queen. I am a love goddess. I am an Amazonian love warrior. My hair is fabulous, my teeth are perfect, my eyes are blue, and everyone and their dog thinks I’m the best thing since pineapple pizza. I am incredible. I am a star. My breath should be bottled as Gobstopper-flavored perfume and marketed by Willy Wonka because I am just that amazing. And I will kick the Chitauri’s butts because I’m pregnant in this teensy, weensy hell box! Thea, stop freaking out!” She covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath. “I’m okay. Okay. I’m okay. Happy thoughts. Strawberry sundaes. Marshmallows. Dead Chitauri. Bubbles. Balloon animals. Loki’s smile. Cliff-diving. Sex.” She pulled her hands away from her face, blinking. “Never mind, that wasn’t supposed to come out. I mean, that’s a happy thought,” she flicked her eyes at her husband, “a really happy thought, but I didn’t mean to say that because now I’m blushing. Ugh, I’m pregnant. I want my mom.”

“I’m here,” Loki said, because he couldn’t really think of anything else to say when his own fear pulsed like an infection through his blood with every beat of his hear. And she seemed to be calming herself down on her own. “I’m with you, my love. I won’t leave you. I’ll…” Even though he knew it wasn’t a promise he could keep, he said, “I’ll protect you, Althea.”

“Okay. Yeah. I have you. I'm okay because I have you. I'm always okay if you're here. I'm okay...no, I'm not. Loki, I’m kinda scared. Could you hold me? Please?”

Of course he couldn’t simply hold her. Not when she trembled with fear and tears still glimmered in her eyes. He had to kiss her cheeks when the tears fell, had to stroke warmth back into her fear-chilled skin. They made love again, because he had to comfort her; the need drove him like a compulsion spell burning in his skull. Afterward they dressed in silence heavy with dread. Once she was dressed, Thea crawled over to him and curled up against him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I am so very sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

“I love you,” she whispered. “There’s nothing to forgive. I love you so much, I…we both did something dumb. It’s this place. It makes us reckless. But it’s not your fault. I love you.”

He opened his mouth to say something, though he didn’t know what, and that was when they heard the footsteps in the corridor outside. They both froze, then Thea jerked back, turning to try and scramble through the hole in the wall back to her cell. But before she could, the door to Loki’s cell flew open, crashing into the wall.

It wasn’t the Chitauri this time. At least, they weren’t alone, though they bristled with weapons and fangs and claws behind the shadow in front of them. Thea gasped and shrank back, pressing against the far wall. Loki’s blood ran cold as Jötunheim when he saw the eyeless beast grinning at him from the doorway of his tiny prison. Lunging between Thanos’ lieutenant and Thea, Loki bared his teeth and summoned the tiny sparks of seiðr he could muster. It was a pathetic attempt, but he would never simply stand back and allow this monster to hurt his wife.

“You played right into our hands,” the Other growled, still grinning at the prince. “Both of you. Dangle a companion in front of your face and like a pathetic and lonely child you reach out and take it right to your heart. We have no need to exert ourselves unduly when your own actions poison your resolve.”

Thea sucked in a breath. “What? What?”

“Don’t you touch her,” Loki snarled, preparing to spring at his opponent if he so much as moved. “I will kill you if you touch her.”

“You can try,” the Other replied. “If you were at full strength, you might even succeed…but you’re not, and so you and she are both at my mercy. Take them!” He roared to his soldiers, and they surged around him and into the cell like a plague of demonic locusts. Loki struck at them with power and muscle, but he was too weak to do aught by delay them. He heard Thea screaming, tried to get to her, but a blow struck him in the temple—a fatal blow for a Midgardian, though it only knocked him to his knees. Darkness spread across Loki’s vision, and the last thing he heard was Thea shriek his name.

When he awoke at last, he found himself chained to a familiar wall—the same wall they always chained him to when they intended to torture him. Loki tried to shake away the cobwebs and shadows in his skull, but talons raked wicked hot furrows across his brain at the movement. He groaned and tried to hold completely still until the agony faded.

“Loki?” The soft, tense voice jerked him from the haze of pain. Terror clamped down like a vise around his heart. No. No, not this. Not here. He lifted his head to see Thea laid out on a stone slab, tied with ropes that cut cruelly into her wrists and ankles. Blood seeped from beneath the ropes; she’d been struggling. Bruises marred her beautiful face. A cut over one eye seeped more blood. “Loki!”

“Thea,” he gasped, trying to breathe around the lump of fear lodged like a jagged bone in his throat. “Thea, it will be all right.” He couldn’t bear the terror in her face. What had they done to her while he’d been unconscious? Was she all right? Was the baby all right?

“No,” a cold, hollow voice informed him. Every muscle in Loki’s body tensed at the sound of that voice. The Other. “No, it won’t be…unless you do as we have asked you to do for the last several moons and give us what we want.” The Other glided into the room, silent as a snake, dark as a shadow. Thea’s eyes widened and she swallowed hard. Loki narrowed his eyes and strained at his chains, to no avail. “With your power, Odinson, we could conquer Midgard and Asgard. You would have Midgard to rule. You would be king there, your mate a queen.”

The Other trailed a single dark claw down Thea’s cheek. Instead of flinching, as Loki expected, she tried to bite him. The Other snatched his hand back, clearly surprised. Then the eldritch creature whipped his hand across her face, savagely backhanding her.

“Don’t touch her!” Loki roared.

Thea spit a mouthful of blood and muttered, “Wow. You slap like a girl. Douche bag.”

The Other turned to Loki. “Your mate needs to learn respect.”

“You’re a deranged alien Cyclops with really bad leprosy who learned his bad-guy lines from crappy movies. Not much to respect there.”

“Silence, human.”

“Can’t; I’d be doing a disservice to my husband. I can’t imagine what kind of torture listening to you talk constitutes, but it’s probably prohibited by the Geneva Convention. You sound like the Count from Sesame Street…except, you know, lame. One, two, three, ah-ah-ah, and all that crap. Seriously, voice lessons. They'd do wonders for your intimidation. Or you could just, you know, do me a favor and off yourself. Loki, don't listen to him! He works for the Easter Mafia! He's wearing pink spandex under that—”

Another slap should have silenced her; it seemed to daze her for a moment, but she blinked and shook her head as if to clear it. Then, looking right at Thanos' lieutenant, she said, "You're just jealous of my face. Don't be a hater just 'cause I'm prettier than you. Try some acne cream; it might help your complexion. Or you could wear a bag over your head. Screw you very much. Love, nobody in their right minds. Super douche. You're worse than my mom's ex-husband."

There was a heavy silence in the room for a long moment, and then the Other said, “Your mate’s amusing commentary aside, Odinson, if you do not agree to serve the mighty Thanos, we will kill her, and the child she carries. We will torture your mate to death, and we will make you watch. Then we will throw you away into a darkness so deep you will never see daylight again.”

Loki’s heart stopped. Thea…and the child…Thea…but…he could not condemn those people to death. He could not agree to invade a helpless Realm, no matter how far beneath his own. Thea’s Realm. And he couldn’t betray his home…

“The answer’s no,” Thea said before Loki could speak. His eyes widened and he stared at her. “Along with me high-fiving you in the face. With a really big chair covered in razor-sharp, poisoned spikes. So why don’t you take a sugar-frosted dive off the end of my—“

“We shall see,” the Other hissed. He wasn’t looking at Thea, but at Loki, and a cold poisonous horror stole through Loki’s very bones. “We shall see how long you can last listening to her screams.”

When Thea began to scream, Loki wondered how long he could bear it. When she started to cry, begging for them to stop, to please just stop, his heart shattered, slicing him with the jagged pieces. Yet she never called out for him. Even in her agony, she tried to make it better for him. If she cried out for Loki, she knew that he would never be able to hold out.

But when his wife fell silent and simply lay there beneath the Chitauri tortures, blank-eyed and remote beneath the pain, Loki sank to his knees, terror and despair choking him, and roared, “Enough!”

The Other held up a hand. The Chitauri paused. The hideous lieutenant whispered, “Oh? Enough, is it? Are you certain?”

Thea, Loki thought, gazing past the Other to his wife lying motionless, eyes unseeing on the slab of stone. Thea, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Thea…

Aloud, the prince of Asgard whispered, “Enough. Please, enough. Spare her, spare my child, and I will give you what you wish. Command me; I am yours.”

And he would be theirs…until he and Thea escaped this place. And they would escape. He wouldn't rest until they got away from this hell and made it to Midgard. Then they would at last be safe. At last, they would be safe and happy, the two of them and their child. He just had to lull the Chitauri into a false sense of security and escape. If they could only get away, it would be all right.

It had to be all right. There was no other option.