Author's Note: sorry I'm late. Life happens. Good thing this isn't a paid service or I'd be in trouble. But it's not, so I'm not. Hope everyone is safe and healthy while the world is going to Hell. Peace out!

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Once Upon a Time

Chapter One-Hundred-Thirty-Nine

But I Flew Too High

that is

A Short Tale of Friends, Makeup, Talk of Favors & Entitled Rude People, Consent, Game of Thrones, Communication, an Unexpected Visit from an Old Friend, Mortal Words, the Difference Between Three & Five, Foolish Brothers, Honoring, Lemon Cake, Royal Hotness, Kittens, Snowdrops, a Memory of a King, Brand-New Brothers, the Importance of Smooching, Vows, Talk of Heaven & Hell & Handcuffs, a New Ring, Interruptions, Lost Cats, a Recording Versus an Illusion, Gray Versus White, Red Versus Black, a Roar to Shake Mountains, Three Gold Coins, and Dylan's Scream

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Nuada finished braiding his hair, sparing a little magic to keep the star-blonde strands smooth. He checked his appearance once more in the looking glass: hair set in ceremonial warrior's braids, ivory tunic and gold-embroidered white shirt both pristine, ivory boots polished until they practically gleamed, sword and spear both polished and pristine as well.

He would do his lady honor this night. He would give her his personal best in all things, but especially tonight. He knew what Dylan gave up by marrying him. What she risked losing. What she was bringing to his life by this. He would honor that, and her.

A knock sounded, soft yet firm, at his chamber door. His guard announced, "His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Zhenjin Azurefire of Dilong, my prince," and let Zhenjin into the room when Nuada told him to. The door slipped shut with a soft click of the latch.

They stared at each other, black-brown eyes that occasionally flashed to slitted jade-green like a great emerald dragon's and wary, weary topaz that occasionally glinted with carnelian and sunfire and honeyed gold.

"I owe you a great debt, my brother," Nuada murmured at last.

Zhenjin's appearance wasn't a surprise. The Tuathan prince had called for his friend once he'd donned his wedding clothes and braided his hair. In but a few moments, it would be time to go downstairs and meet Dylan at the little house of worship for the Star Kindler's people...and then marry her, as he'd longed to do for so long.

But before Nuada could do that, he had to speak to Zhenjin.

The Dilong prince was almost half a millennia younger than Nuada. If not for the fact that the then-Crown Prince Shaohao had had no interest in making friends with a boy one-thousand years his junior, likely Nuada and Zhenjin would never have become friends at all. But back during those early years, Nuada had ben a gregarious, happy, foolhardy child who'd prided himself on being able to make friends with anyone. His attempts to interest Shaohao had instead snared Zhenjin, then in his fifth century.

Fifth century or eighth, both young princes had liked the same things: horses, gardening, swords, and dessert. Back then, before they'd each learned in their own way of the darkness of the world, that had been enough. In the centuries that followed, growing up had only cemented that bond. In the first month of his self-imposed exile, Nuada had stayed for a moon with Bres, Ciaran, and Li Ban, sick at heart over his father and sister's betrayal. But it had been the year he'd spent with Zhenjin and some of his brothers in the Yue Mountains of Dilong that had allowed him to stand by his honor and his convictions in the face of his father's cold silences and Nuala's entreaties to return and give up his fight for his people.

Thinking Zhenjin would hate him after learning about his connection to Dylan had sliced like an iron dirk across Nuada's heart. But after the melding of their minds, after his own memories had wounded and transformed one of the brothers of his heart…

"You're thinking much too hard, Silverlance," Zhenjin said suddenly.

Nuada blinked, yanked back to the present. "What do you mean?"

"You're staring at me. It's unsettling. I realize I am the epitome of Elven beauty and anyone who enjoys a good romp would no doubt desire me more than the very air they breathe-"

"Shut up," he interrupted, snorting. "Arrogant, half-licked cub."

"You shouldn't hate me simply because I'm prettier than you," Zhenjin said primly.

Dark lips curved into a grin. "No one is prettier than me. I make artists swoon and poets weep." But then he sobered. "Zhenjin...Brother...Dylan told me what you said. Your kindness to her, to us both, is the only reason we can wed this night, and yet it seems a cruel return for what you've done for us…"

He trailed off when Zhenjin held up a hand.

"Do not make this a tragedy, old friend." Zhenjin folded his arms across his chest and somehow managed to smile and scowl at the same time. "I mean it. Tonight you wed the woman who adores you, and two people whom I love more dearly than my own life are made happy. I can ask for nothing better."

Still, Nuada hesitated. If Zhenjin had told him that he could not marry Dylan without breaking the Dilong prince's heart, Nuada wouldn't have changed his plans. His loyalty was to his lady before his friend. But he didn't want to cause his old friend anymore pain than had already been inflicted. He remembered the expression that often crossed Zhenjin's face when he glimped Dylan in Nuada's arms. He...he didn't want to be cruel…

"And you...you are not laid low by this, my brother?"

Zhenjin's expression turned wry. "With my luck, no possible outcome of this whole thing wouldn't...what is that human term she likes so much when things are bleak?"

It took Nuada a moment to think of it.

"Sucks?" He hazarded.

The other prince snapped his fingers. "Yes, that! Of course it, uh...sucks, as she likes to say. But if she were to marry me and not you, it would still suck for me, because you would be unhappy. Do you see?"

Nuada blinked at him. "I...I had not...thought that you…"

Zhenjin offered him a rueful smile. "You're one of my best friends, you fish-pale oaf. I love you. You're as dear to me as any of my blood-brothers. I want you to be happy." He pointed an admonishing finger at the other Elf. "Be happy right now, fish-oaf, or I'm shaving your head once you fall asleep tonight."

Nuada's laugh echoed off the rafters, relief and love and amusement all twined together. Zhenjin's laugh joined his.

"The day you sneak up on me, Azurefire, is the day I surrender to old age and arthritis."

"The cataracts will get you first, old man."

"Shut up."

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"Oh, my gosh."

Once again, Dylan thought, her sister had managed to work magic. Her still slightly-damp hair was pinned in an elegant knot that Francesca assured her would tumble artfully down around her shoulders and cascade down her back when Nuada withdrew the pins later tonight. Her makeup was understated but somehow still striking, emphasizing as usual her fey-blue eyes and softening the harshest edges of her scars. The gold-embroidered white tunic and ivory skirt she wore, with golden leather boots, didn't seem like a last-minute choice now. She looked...like she was getting married.

She threw her arms around Francesca, who wobbled slightly, still drunk from the Cornish mountain ale she'd imbibed earlier.

"Thank you, Cesca!"

"You like it?"

"Yes!"

Francesca let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, good. I know you want to look nice, and I tried, but I'm really drunk so I wasn't sure and I was scared you'd be mad-"

Dylan snorted. "Not a chance. Only incredibly rude, super-entitled babies get mad at someone who's doing them a favor for free. I didn't have to let you do my makeup, I knew what I was getting into. If I got mad at you for providing a free service I chose to use, that would make me a shrew-hearted hag-witch and I like to think I'm not that."

"You are definitely not that, and I," the older woman said, with that careful deliberation of the supremely inebriated, "am a master. An artist. Worship me." She grinned. "So now that we know you look totally gorgeous, are you excited? What am I saying? Of course you are."

Dylan almost melted against her sister. "Deliriously," she breathed. "I can feel the spell already starting to build."

Francesca blinked. "What spell?"

"Oh, the one that ties me to the kingdom. Whenever someone marries into a royal family, magic ties the new person to the land. Once we're married, every part of Bethmoora will feel it through the spell."

"Huh." Francesca said. "Neat!" Then she flapped a hand at Pauline, who watched them both with an indulgent smile. "Okay, get out. Gotta talk to Dylan about something."

Dylan blinked. "About what?"

"Stuff." She flapped at Pauline again. "Out. Shoo. Begone. Private time. Vamoose."

Rolling her eyes, Pauline held up her hands in mock-surrender. "I'll round up Petra, Mary, Victoria, and the kids. And your alligator."

"Crocodile," Francesca replied primly. "Davio is a crocodilian...man. He said. Anyway, you do that." When Pauline left, she turned a gimlet eye on Dylan's guards. "Every not-woman in your ranks needs to go out in the hall. Beat it."

At Dylan's baffled nod, they obeyed, leaving Fionnlagh, Grainne, Onora, and Ailis to guard the door and single shuttered window. Francesca grabbed Dylan's wrist and pulled her onto the bed.

"Okay, serious time. You're getting married tonight. We need to go over some ground rules."

"I...some what, now?"

"Ground rules," Cesca repeated. She placed her hands on either side of Dylan's face. Her palms were pleasantly cool and gentle. She looked directly into her baby sister's eyes. "Listen to me. This is very, very important. Okay? Very important. The most important thing in the world. Are you listening?"

Dylan swallowed, confused, but nodded.

"You. Don't. Owe. Him. Sex." Francesca enunciated each word with sharp care. "Do you understand? He doesn't owe you sex. Sex is not a guarantee in any relationship, not even marriage. He doesn't have the right to pressure you into anything, and you don't have the right to pressure him. If you have sex one time, that doesn't mean you've agreed to have sex whenever. Same goes for him. Being married does not mean you sign away your right to withhold sexual consent."

She released Dylan's face and relaxed a little. Dylan blinked at her, nonplussed. Francesca asked, "Do you understand?"

"I...I mean...I understand what you're saying-"

"Good."

"But-"

"No buts," Francesca interrupted. "This isn't negotiable. If he tries to pressure you into sex - any kind of sex; typical stuff, hand stuff, mouth stuff, butt stuff, any stuff of any kind - he is being a douche bag and you need to tell him so. If you try to pressure him into any stuff of any kind, you're being a bitch and you need to not do that."

Dylan shook her head, protesting, "I would never pressure him into anything! He knows that-"

"Good. Then there's no problem."

"But-"

"No buts, ohmigawd!"

"I owe him!" Dylan protested before Francesca could start ranting at her. "He's been so patient, so undemanding. He's not used to...to someone like me."

A slim, dark brow winged upward. "The crap does that mean, 'someone like you?' A human?"

"No! Well, actually," Dylan said, scrupulously honest, "he's not used to that, either, probably, but that's not what I meant. Someone...someone…"

"With your history? Or someone with your rules?"

"Both. I think both. Maybe someone with my history, but definitely not someone with my rules. It's...a lot to ask of a guy who's used to getting laid whenever he and his partner get randy."

Francesca, to Dylan's surprise, rolled her eyes, groaned, and flopped back on the bed. She'd have thought her older sister would agree - Francesca was the most sexually active (outside of sex work) person Dylan had ever met, so far as she knew. She wasn't in the habit of denying herself a good time when she wanted one.

But Cesca said, "Dylan. Sweetie. It's not like if he gets horny and doesn't get laid, his balls will explode and he'll die. He didn't try to sell you that 'blue balls' bull, did he? That doesn't sound like him."

"No," she said. "He didn't. And blue balls is a myth, anyway. I know that, I'm a doctor. But…"

"But what? There's some law that says the crown prince can't masturbate?"

"Ohmigawd, Cesca." Heat blazed through Dylan's face. Because of her rules and sensibilities, Nuada had told her he made a point of not fantasizing about her sexually, even when he was sorely tempted. So she'd just assumed that included not doing anything physical in relation to sexual fantasies and never thought anymore about it. Which was why she couldn't stop blushing now. "No, I sincerely doubt it-"

"Fine," Cesca said crisply. "Then that means, if you are not comfortable having sex with him or being intimate with him in that kind of way, and he's just suffering sooo terribly because he's got the self-control of a pubescent boy, then he can go take a hot shower and take care of his problem without bothering you, like a gentleman."

Dylan dropped her face into her hands. "You don't understand!"

To her surprise, Francesca grasped those hands and pulled them away from Dylan's face. Peering into her eyes, she said, "Yes. I do." Her expression softened and she cupped her little sister's red-flushed cheek. "I get it. You don't want to disappoint him. It's his wedding night and stuff. Right?"

Miserably, Dylan nodded.

"Sweetheart, it's your wedding night, too. And there's so many...expectations that people drop on couples when they get married, for that specific night, and it's silly. It really is. It doesn't matter if you have sex the night you get married or not. What matters is that both of you are comfortable with each other, open with each other, and have a good experience. And you, my favorite little sister, can't have a good experience if you're all tensed up and forcing yourself to do something you don't want to do.

"You don't owe anybody anything. Nuada respecting your boundaries does not create some kind of sex debt between you two, okay? And knowing him, he'd probably be horrified you thought so. Respecting boundaries is what people do when they love each other. Okay? Will he be disappointed if you don't have double-digit orgasms tonight? Probably, because he's a snob who wants to make you happy and impress you, but he'll survive.

"Listen to me," Francesca added when Dylan opened her mouth. "Listen. To. Me. Your body? Is your body. Even when you're married. You have final say. Not me, not him, not the king, not anybody else. You. Consent? Is yours to give, and yours to take back. Just like he can consent, or take that consent back. You have a choice. Always. Do not be ashamed or afraid of exerting your right to choose. It is okay to say no, or not yet, or I don't know, or I'm not comfortable with this. Okay?"

After a very long moment of processing and assessing, of pondering her sister's words and the truth of them, Dylan nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Two other things, slightly less important but still major. One, make sure you talk to him. I've slept with a lot of people - yes, people, not just men - and communication is very important for everybody to have a great time. And with your PTSD? That goes double for you. Talk to him, even if you're desperate to shut down. Even if you're embarrassed about freaking out, you have to communicate. Or else he won't know what to do. Okay?"

"Okay." That, she'd been working on with Nuada already. Her instinct during and after a flashback had always been to withdraw, to sort herself out before interacting with people again. That wasn't healthy but until she'd had a support structure, she'd really had no other options. Now she had that support. She had other options.

And if she had a flashback while she and Nuada were attempting any sort of intimacy, it would be impossible for her to fall back on bad habits and have it work. If he triggered a flashback, and she tried to isolate herself to fix it, the weight of his distress would only make the situation worse for her, even if he did his best to shelter her from it. Even if he left the room. In fact, leaving the room would make things a thousand times worse, because then she'd fall into a spiral of self-doubt, imagining increasingly cruel and improbable possible thoughts Nuada would be entertaining. Knowing intellectually that they were improbable wouldn't stop the panic and despair.

Dylan nodded very slowly. "Okay." Talk to him. If - when - she felt the first scraping of PTSD claws against her mind, she needed to talk to Nuada. Let him comfort her, show her he respected and supported her and didn't resent the need to slow down or pause or stop.

"Safewords are great for that, by the way," Cesca added.

Dylan frowned. "Um…" Had she somehow heard about Dylan's conversation with Nuada regarding him in handcuffs and riding boots? Just the memory sent a warm flush through her cheeks. It had been...decidedly odd, her immediate and very positive physical reaction when Nuada had proposed the idea of handcuffing him to something. She'd never considered anything like it before. "That's...I don't think we're going to be doing anything requiring a safeword."

"A safeword isn't a sex thing, sweets. Not just a sex thing, anyway. It's a word to get attention, because it's too easy for someone to say 'stop' and someone else to hear something other than 'no, seriously, stop.' Do I think Nuada is going to have every thought and sense focused on you? Absolutely. But there's going to be a lot happening possibly. A safeword makes it easier to communicate. So you two should agree on a safeword before any hot and heavy stuff starts."

When she put it like that, it actually sounded like a great idea. Dylan nodded. "Okay. Was that the second thing, or-"

"No, this is the second thing: don't be afraid to ask for what you want. If something feels good, even if it's just...I don't know, him stroking the side of your neck - don't laugh, I love it when Davio does that - don't hesitate to tell him you like it and ask for more of it. You remember Game of Thrones, right?"

She shot her sister a look. "I don't have a TV." And she didn't watched anything rated M or MA, for that matter. From what she'd heard from her siblings, Game of Thrones and HBO in general had far too much gore for her tastes.

"Yeah, I know, but you know what it is, right?" When Dylan nodded, Francesca said, "So there's this scene where one of the women is basically getting sex lessons from a female...friend. Sort-of friend. Not the point, point is the sex-lessons. And at one point the woman is like, 'Oh, I dunno about all this. What if my husband doesn't like this?' And her friend asks, 'Are you a slave, Khaleesi? Then don't make love like a slave.' It's okay to ask for what you want. Guys who aren't absolute garbage in bed? Like it when you do that. Got it?"

Dylan swallowed. "Got it...I think."

"I guess that goes back to the talking thing. Talk to him. Ask him questions about what he likes and wants. Tell him what you like, what you want. It won't 'kill the mood,' or whatever. If it does, it was a pretty crappy mood to begin with. Okay? You good? You ready?"

After a long moment, Dylan nodded. Her thoughts buzzed in her skull, but she felt...less worried than before. Talk to Nuada. Was there anything easier than talking to him? No, she didn't think so. She'd trusted him for so very long. He would never hurt her on purpose. Never be cruel to her on purpose. He loved her. It would be okay.

"Okay," Cesca said, grabbing her hand. She gently hauled her off the bed. "Time for you to go get married! This is going to be the best! And if His Royal Hotness hasn't procured a delicious and marvelous cake, I'll kick him in the ankle!"

Laughing, Dylan let her sister pull her from the room.

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King Balor was far older than his centuries, worn down by grief, war, time, loneliness, despair. His son and heir saw it. His daughter pretended she could not. Even the old king had to admit, his centuries without his beautiful, wise, gentle Cethlenn had worn him nearly as thin as a phantom. Yet when the sense of no longer being alone tickled his sleeping mind, the once-proud Elven warrior came awake instantly with the same razor focus he'd had as a young man.

He didn't open his eyes or sit up in bed. Instead he listened: to the sigh of winter wind beyond the glass panes of his bedroom windows, the crackle of the ensorcelled fire on the hearth, the scuff and creak of Butcher armo-

Balor's jaw tensed. Making a low, old-man-asleep sound like some drowsy old bear, he shifted a little. Slipped his hand of flesh under his pillow and forced his arthritis-stiff fingers to curl around the hilt of his ancient, well-tended dirk. Cethlenn had forgged it for him herself, and Balor had slept with the wicked-sharp blade under his pillow ever since their wedding night. It never failed to find the heart of whatever enemy he drew against.

It was the lack of sound - scuffing, soft clanks, creaks - that told him what he needed to know while still feigning sleep. Someone, someone powerful, someone familiar, was in his bedchamber and his guards weren't reacting. Weren't moving at all, not even the expected occasional fidget.

They were either dead or bespelled. Did he smell Butcher blood? No. Their blood stank of iron and their own strange magic, and Balor's nose would've been burning at the metallic reek of it. But "no blood" wasn't the same as "not dead."

He heard no footsteps. No heartbeat, be it calm or galloping. No rustle of clothing. But he heard breathing, not his guards' breathing, drawing closer.

His grip on the knife tightened. He was old, yes, and weary almost to death of living in a world without his beloved, and his magic was failing after all these centuries, but his hold on his dirk was sturdy as ever, despite his pain-swollen knuckles.

If there was more than four assassins, he wouldn't survive this. Four was all he could handle on his own at his time of life. But four or less, and he'd spill their life's blood all over his lovely Shahbaz bedroom rug.

Balor tensed as the soft breathing drew near, ready to roll aside and slash out.

"Don't bother, old friend. I'm merely an illusion. Even I'm not reckless enough to sneak into your palace in person, after our last meeting."

The old Elf bolted upright, dirk abruptly forgotten.

"Sreng?"

The immortal human canted his head and a ragged lock of dark hair fell across his scarred eye. Without the slightest indication of self-consciousness or irony, he bowed slightly to the king.

"Hello, old friend."

"What are you doing here?" An illusion, he'd said. A quick thrust of Balor's feeble royal magic told him the truth of it. The man before him was a construct of light and enchantment, nothing more. Which begged the question of where the human's body actually was. In the palace? On the grounds? "What do you want?"

Sreng gave him a lopsided smile and flopped into a chair. The Butcher Guards arrayed around the room didn't react. They simply stared straight ahead, unblinking, unmoving.

"I came to see you, of course."

"Why?" The king remembered his son's fury, his son's heartbroken rage and the tears when he'd cracked enough to tell his father what had been done to Lady Dylan by this man. By this old friend.

Sreng steepled his fingers. The sight always looked a bit odd to Balor because of the missing fingers on his right hand. The human noticed the aged amber eyes flick to the stumps and offered a grin. His teeth were stained red, as if he'd only just finished ripping out a mortal man's throat and had yet to cleanse his mouth of the blood.

"To explain. You remember you asked the story of my old wounds many times, yes?"

After a long moment, Balor said, "I remember. You would never speak of it."

"I didn't want to spoil the wonderful welcome you gave me all those centuries ago...but I'm here to tell you now. To explain to you why what comes next has to occur, even though I will always be grateful to you for your kindnesses to me. I figured I owed you at least some explanation." Sreng's smile widened, looking almost crazed. "You see, you and I were good friends, but your son...your son, Balor, is the bane of my very existence. He trespassed cruelly against me, did all of this," waving a hand at his scarred face, "and now he has to pay. And so does that treacherous slut he loves so dearly, for betraying our race."

Something icy skittered down the old king's spine. He had no idea what chilled him, or why he asked, "What have you done?"

What more could Sreng do to Nuada? To the mortal Nuada loved?

Sreng chuckled. "I? I have done nothing yet. My own child, my sweet Oonagh, however...she's doing me a great favor as we speak. And I thought I should explain just why I've asked her to do this for me."

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John snagged Dylan on her way downstairs to the ground floor. After sending Cesca to wait in the hall, John tugged his twin into an empty room and shut the door.

"John-boy," Dylan said, impatient, "what are you-"

"Have you told him?"

Dylan stared at him, baffled. "Told who what?''

"Nuada,'' her brother said with no little asperity. "Have you told him the truth?"

"...about?"

"You know what about."

Frowning, Dylan shook her head. "Dude, I have no idea what you're talking about right now."

Her twin rolled his eyes. "About your autism! Duh."

"Ohmigawd.'' Was that what he was yattering on about? "No. Why would I? It's not important with regards to getting married and it hasn't come up. We've had other things to deal with. Which you already knew, so why-?"

"You don't think he has a right to know?"

Still baffled, she said, "I seriously don't think he'd care. And anyway, he always talks about how fey-like I am, so-"

"Not sure how that's related."

"Ugh." Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. "Autistic kids have been mistaken for changelings for centuries. A lot of my fey-like qualities he likes so much are because I'm autistic-"

"That's kind of gross."

She paused. Stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"Isn't that like, fetishizing people with autism?"

Dylan held up one finger.

"Okay, first, we've talked about this, it's autistic people, not people with autism." She held up another finger. "Two, being autistic informs a huge part of my personality, the personality that Nuada loves me for, so no, it's not 'fetishizing' me to be in love with my personality, you weirdo. What the heck? Where is this coming from?"

John said, "I mentioned you being autistic earlier and he looked really confused-"

"Autism is a human word he has no reason to know. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Why do you care if he knows, anyway? Why did it even come up?"

John shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"If it was me, and my fiancee had a disease like autism-''

"A what?"

"Sorry," he held up his hands in mock-surrender. "A disorder, is that better?"

"No!" Her joy was slowly seeping away with every casually cruel word he said. Was that how he thought of her? As diseased? He'd never said anything about it before...

"Look, I'm just saying if I was Nuada and got married without being told, I'd be pretty ticked off. Especially since it could spread to your kids. Seriously, Nuada would have every right to be upset if that happened. You want to bring Cesca in here and get her opinion? 'Cause I'm pretty sure she'll agree with me-"

"No!" Panic saturated the single hissed word. Her sisters didn't know she was autistic. She'd been diagnosed as an adult, and thank goodness for that because how much harder would it have been to claw her way out of the institution with that diagnosis in her file? And how much easier would it have been for her sisters to have her locked up if they'd known?

But what if John was right? Did she have to tell Nuada about this? It didn't affect him. It didn't matter, really...did it?

Disease. Disorder. Would her prince think there was something wrong with her? Did John?

"I figured you hadn't told him since you weren't planning to get married for another five months-"

"Wait, what?" Dylan blinked at him. "Five months?"

John widened his eyes. "I...yes? It's the beginning-ish of January now, and because of that weird deal you made with the guy who saved you, you were going to get married in mid-April, that's five months-"

"That's three months, John."

"...no, it's no-" His mouth snapped shut when Dylan counted off on her upraised fingers.

"Mid-January to mid-February, mid-February to mid-March," her words came out sharp and irritated, "mid-March to mid-April. That's three months. Seriously, dude, if you decide you feel like complaining at me, at least learn how to count first so you don't look ridiculous. Also, the plan we made around the deal was for May, and also, that has no bearing on my decision regarding telling Nuada I'm autistic, you nitpicking weirdo." She shot her twin a scalding look. "But since it's such a huge deal to you, fine. I'll tell him. Go get him. Jerk."

"I'm not trying to be a jerk-"

"Really? You got a real talent for it."

"...ouch."

Dylan looked away, jubilance drained away and replaced by misery and confusion. "Just go get him."

She didn't watch him leave. Just laced, unlaced, and relaced her fingers and stared miserably out of the room's single window at the snow glittering under the wan light of the moon. What if this ruined everything? They were so close to their happy ending, she should've expected something to screw it all up. That always happened! Of course Fate wouldn't let them be happy.

Her nerves were tight enough to snap when a soft knock came from behind her. She instinctively hunched away from the sound, then scolded herself. She was being ridiculous. Nuada loved her, he wouldn't be angry or think she was diseased or something.

"C-Come in," Dylan called. When John came back, she was kicking his butt for winding her up like this.

Nuada entered quietly, shutting the door behind him. Voice tight as a drawn bowstring, he asked, "You wished to see me, mo mhuire?"

There was something in his voice, under the nerves - and that tightness was nerves, the same sense of ohgawd what the heck has popped up to ruin everything this time? they'd been feeling for weeks - that snagged her attention. An uncertainty, a hesitation. As if he expected a blow.

Oh, she realized suddenly. He thinks I'm backing out. Of course he would. He'd expected refusal the second time he'd proposed privately, and even during the mandatory public proposal during the royal ball. It wasn't that he thought her cruel or fickle, but he still didn't understand how she could want him.

Darn it, John. You owe me for panicking him like this.

"I'm not backing out," she said quickly. "I'm not having second thoughts - at all." Nuada raised one eyebrow, though some of the tension drained out of him. "I didn't even think you might think that until you got in here."

"All right," he said softly, stepping further into the room. "Then what can I do for you, my lady?"

"John said…" She trailed off. Swallowed. Well, what the heck? He was already here. She had to tell him something. And if he freaked out at her over it, well...then he wasn't the man she thought he was, and she needed to know that. "John said I needed to tell you something."

He took her hands in his, warm and strong, and she sighed and let him draw her to him so that her forehead touched the soft vee of flesh above the collar of his pale tunic.

"Tell me," Nuada murmured against her hair. So she did.

"John said if I didn't tell you, you'd probably be angry. I just honestly never thought of it," Dylan concluded. "I've been autistic my whole life, most people just think I'm a faerie-obsessed freak just because, you know? Not for a particular-"

Nuada's finger pressed ever so gently to her lips silenced her.

"You once told me there is no shame in being, as you say, 'a freak,'" he murmured. "That is nothing but the truth. As for what your brother said... " He trailed off, dark lips curving into a frown. He let out a short, sharp sigh. "I do not despise John as I once did. We've endured too much together. Perhaps...perhaps he is even on his way to being my frien- stop grinning like that."

Dylan didn't even bother to try. "I told you-"

"Quiet, woman," he mumbled. "I tolerate the wretch-"

"You like him."

"Perhaps," he conceded reluctantly.

Her grin widened. "You love him."

Nuada touched the backs of his fingers first to her forehead, then her cheek. "Are you ill?" He asked with a straight face. "I believe you may be delirious with fever. Or perhaps I'm hearing things. I could have sworn you said- ow."

She'd thumped her forehead against his breastbone. He turned the laugh into a small cough.

"At any rate," tilting up her chin, "regardless of any potential fondness or friendship, your brother is a fool. I know you, Dylan. I've been in your mind, your heart. We are bound, soul to soul. I know you. I know the woman you are. I may not know the human word to describe you, but I do know you. And I love you. You are the first choice of my heart. I love you for you - for every vice and every virtue, for everything you are. And anyone who tells you otherwise is either a liar or a fool. I do not believe John a liar, but a fool?" Nuada shrugged. "The whelp can't help it."

Tension draining away, Dylan slid her arms around him. Of course he wouldn't be angry. He loved every part of her.

"Well, then...I guess it's time to go get hitched," she said with a light laugh and a shrug.

Nuada's smile shone bright as summer sunlight. Tilting up her chin just a little, he leaned down and kissed her lightly.

"So it is. Come on."

.

Dylan stopped only once more, to collect A'du'ladi where he sat chatting with Uilliam McBas. Nuada went on ahead to make sure all was ready for them. A'du trailed behind her, still chattering to the older boy as they went.

It was cold outside, but not bitterly so. And Nuada looked impossibly perfect like that, dressed in gold, ivory, and rich crimson. Dylan could've stared at him for hours, her eyes tracing the intricate patterns of his warrior's braids, drowning in the firegold honey color of his eyes. Just drinking him in. But it was his smile that pulled her back to him like the tide drawn to the moon. That radiant, delighted smile she'd seen so rarely on that handsome face.

The moment he saw her step out of the tavern, he broke away from Wink, Zhenjin, and Tsu's'di and went to her. Behind him was a medium-sized group consisting of Zhenjin's brothers, Prince Dastan, Prince Taran, Prince Gunther, Princess Kamaria, young Uilliam McBas and his three lieutenants, Dylan's sisters, John, a very tall basajaun, Francesca's boyfriend Davio, and 'Sa'ti, with Becan Brownie perched on her shoulder. Dylan grinned at the sight of them all - she'd expected almost no one to attend because everything was so rushed, but there they were. Family. Friends.

And Nuada. He took her hands almost reverently in his own and raised them to his lips, kissing first one and then the other. His eyes almost seemed to glow with that joyous sunfire gold.

"My lady," he murmured. "You honor me."

Suddenly overcome, Dylan dropped her gaze to the toes of her golden boots. "I can't stop grinning," she confessed. Raising her eyes to his, the grin bloomed again. "Nuada, I'm so happy."

"As am I," he said. "So very happy. You cannot know…oh, beloved, I-"

Behind him, Wink loudly cleared his throat and John made a gagging noise. Nuada scowled at his valet, who made an innocent face and scratched his broken tusk with one shovel-like finger.

"John!" Dylan began, and he laughed.

"Let's get this show on the road before we're invaded by velociraptors or the moon falls out of the sky, okay? You'll thank me later!"

Despite herself, she laughed. She would forget for now their earlier conversation and let herself bask in the night. Giddy joy bubbled up in her throat and she simply couldn't help herself. She clasped Nuada's hand, lacing her fingers with his. The look he graced her with melted her heart.

I love you, Dylan Myers, he murmured in her mind.

And I love you, Nuada.

His grin wide enough to match her own, he tugged her down the tavern steps and across the snow toward the little chapel.

"Don't worry, Dylan," Francesca chirped as she linked arms with the very hairy basajaun and Davio. "Bob here got you a yummy cake for afterward. Lemon cake, even. I am amazing and my friends are amazing." She said something to Bob the Basajaun in Spanish and he laughed.

Well, that's a load off our minds, I suppose, Nuada teased silently. She giggled and wrapped her other arm around his, cuddling close. You do look magnificent, my love.

You don't look too bad, yourself...Your Royal Hotness.

Nuada threw back his head and laughed.

.

'Sa'ti wriggled with excitement as the adults gathered in front of the small wooden building Tsu's'di had told her was a church. She hadn't paid attention to the little church and two little temples in the village the last time they'd been in Lallybroch. She'd been too busy taking care of baby Shimmer, the unicorn foal, and spending time with Amaryllis and her little sister. But now she studied the building because A'ge'lv Dylan and the prince were going to get married in it.

It looked like a nice enough building. Small, but made of solid oak beams and logs, and it even had a pretty little stained glass window set in the front door. The torches in the village square reflected off the diamond-panes of blue, green, violet, and crimson, casting rainbow sparks on the snow in front of the building.

A'ge'lv Dylan looked so pretty, and so happy. The prince looked happy, too. Everybody looked happy. They were finally going to get married, and A'ge'lv Dylan would be a princess, and they'd live happily ever after. That's what Tsu's'di had said.

"Mreow?"

'Sa'ti blinked and twisted around. She thought she'd heard…

A small, four-footed shadow huddled in the dimness between the buildings, shivering. 'Sa'ti's ears twitched and her nose wrinkled as she sniffed.

Oh! It was a kitty. The poor thing had to be so cold outside with the snow on the ground. She glanced at the adults again; A'du and Tsu's'di were talking to Mr. Wink, and nobody was looking her way. They were all getting ready to go inside and start getting married. But the kitty...what if it froze outside? Or ran away and got lost in the snow?

She'd just be a second. The wedding wouldn't happen that fast. She had time to scoop up the kitty and then go into the church building.

The ewah child slipped away from the group and cautiously approached the shivering cat. It was a tiny thing, barely the size of a loaf of bread, and about the same shade of golden brown. 'Sa'ti held out her hand to it.

"Here, kitty-kitty. It's okay. I won't hurt you. Come here. Here, kitty-kitty."

The little cat stretched out its neck and sniffed her fingers, then bumped its head against her knuckles. 'Sa'ti dropped to the snow, ignoring the way it zapped her knees with cold. She reached out to the cat again and it came up to her and rubbed against her legs. She scratched behind its ears.

"It's okay, kitty. I'm nice. See?" The little girl murmured. The cat pressed its head against her stomach and purred. She slipped her arms around it, trying to warm it up with her body. "Good kitty. Good kitty."

"Yes," a soft voice said from the shadows. 'Sa'ti's head jerked up. Her heart knifed sideways in her thin chest. A tall, pretty woman with the impossibly long, pointed ears of a kelpie and eyes the color of cold iron stepped into view. She smiled at the little girl. 'Sa'ti tried to open her mouth, tried to say something, but the minute she looked into those burning cold, iron-gray eyes, her voice dried up. The woman's full lips curved into a manic smile. "Yes, good little kitten. Aren't you a pretty little kitten?"

The cat in 'Sa'ti's arms twisted around and hissed. That smile only got bigger.

"What's your name, little kitten?" The woman stepped closer. 'Sa'ti tried to twist around and see where the grown-ups were. Tried to jerk back as the woman reached for her. Tried to scream because this was bad, this woman was wrong, she smelled wrong, and her eyes were scary, but nothing would come out of the ewah girl's mouth.

Just as the woman's long fingers touched 'Sa'ti's forehead, she said, "My name...is Oonagh ingen Sreng."

And then everything went black.

.

The little chapel was cold, because until the village priest had been prevailed upon to let them in, it had been empty. But with a little help from Zhenjin's brother Hou Junji, they quickly had a fire going in one of the rooms and the cold fled swiftly.

Victoria, who'd been whispering with Francesca, left the delicious heat of the room for a few minutes before dipping back in with two other people trailing behind her, although strangely, she didn't seem to notice them. In her hands was a small bouquet of snowdrops. She hurried over to Dylan, who peered past her at the two figures - one in an ivory cloak with the hood hanging down past the face, the other in a dusty-purple cloak worn the same way. Nobody, Dylan realized, seemed to notice they were there. Not even Nuada. Which meant...

"Here," Victoria said, snaring her attention. "I asked permission from the locals, they said I could pick these for your bouquet." She handed Dylan the snowdrops.

Dylan yanked her smile back on, wide and bright. "Thanks, Tori. Snowdrops are my favorite!"

"Yeah, that's what Francesca said. I asked her how she knew and apparently…" Victoria glanced over her shoulder, then lowered her voice to the barest breath of a whisper. "Apparently King Douche Bag told her? How did he know?"

Suddenly Dylan's memory catapulted her back to that conversation weeks ago with the king, after Nuada's first marriage proposal. When she'd been forced to refuse him, and broken both their hearts. She remembered what she and Balor had talked about then regarding hearts, and hope, and snowdrops...

"I haven't even seen Nuada all day," the mortal snapped. "Haven't seen him since yesterday morning, and that was for all of ten minutes. You think I want him out of my life? I'm not like you! I didn't just use him and then throw him away when I got bored! You talk about ripping out his heart; I ripped out my own at the exact same time. With Wink gone, I am the only one he has, and I had to... I had to..." She stopped and closed her eyes. Passed her gloved hands over her face. Drew a deep breath. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I'm...unwell. I think I should go back inside."

More than a little stunned, Balor still managed to recover quickly. "I think not, Lady Dylan. Come - I still want to finish our walk."

The human stared at him. "Seriously?"

"Consider it recompense for calling me an idiot."

Dylan scowled, but had to admit that he could've done a lot worse for an insult like that. "Fine. I'm grateful for your mercy." She started walking once the king resumed his stride. For a while there was silence. Then Balor pointed at something.

"Do you know what those are?"

She glanced at where he pointed. Tiny white flowers in a small patch of green, glistening with a coat of frost, stood bright against the lee of a garden stone, where the snow had not been able to blanket the grass. Dylan swallowed. The flowers seemed so small and fragile against the bone-white snow all around. "They're snowdrops. They're one of my favorite flowers. I thought they only bloomed in February."

"That is usually true. Do you know what snowdrops represent in the language of flowers?" Balor asked.

The mortal nodded. "Sorrow."

"They also mean consolation, my dear," Nuada's father said gently. She stiffened. "And they represent hope." He paused for effect before adding, "The Star Kindler's teachings counsel against despair. Yet it seems as if you've given up hope of being able to be with my son as you both wish. Perhaps things are not as bleak as you believe."

She shook her head. "You and I both know that's highly unlikely. Did you bring me out here just to torture me emotionally or did you have a point to this?"

"Watch your tongue, young lady," the king said mildly. "I am feeling generous today. Do not abuse that generosity." After a moment, he asked, "Does my son know how much this has hurt you, as well?"

She sighed. "I don't know, Majesty, I haven't talked to him. Maybe. I told him. Or tried. You'll notice I get a little emotional sometimes."

Balor actually chuckled. "I did notice it."

Dylan wanted to hit him for laughing. Instead she curled her hands, which ached with the cold despite her gloves, into fists in her pockets. "Can we just cut through all the faerie games and political stuff and you just tell me why I'm out here with you freezing my cute little toes off? I mean, I know from Nuada that your ears are probably really cold."

They were near enough to the paddock by now that he could gesture to it with one hand. "I wanted to show you something. Look there."

Dylan turned to look and her mouth dropped open.

An Elf, tall and proud, galloped across the snow on a beautiful black stallion. The midnight viridian mane and tail streamed out behind the racing horse like malachite silk banners, the mane mingling with the Elf's star-blond hair as the rider leaned against the stallion's neck. From the color of the mane and tail, Dylan thought the animal might have been an arion - one of the faerie horses native to Shahbaz and Mytikas, said to be able to outrace the wind and possessing the power of human speech.

The horse's breath steamed in the cold air as he galloped across the white ground, sending snow flying with every thundering step. Even without the black and red clothes, Dylan would have recognized Nuada in an instant. And she watched, unable to shut her mouth, as he galloped toward something hopping up and down near the far end of the paddock fence. She didn't even notice when the king and his guards left...

Balor had told Francesca about Dylan loving snowdrops? When would he have done that? Why would he have done it? Something she could ask her sister later. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after. Not tonight. Tonight, she was getting married.

But those two hooded people standing by the door…

Hand in hand with Nuada, her free hand clutching the little bouquet of delicate, lacy white flowers, Dylan managed to sneak a glance at the hooded figures in white and dusty-purple. She recognized them. On a fundamental, visceral level, she recognized them, even though she couldn't see their faces. But what would they be doing here?

*Surely you are not surprised, un-sister,* a voice cackled in her head. And despite her fingers twining with Nuada's, she knew he didn't perceive the voice at all. *We've come to watch you wed. It does this mad old heart good to see you so happy.*

*Yes,* a second, gentle voice murmured. Where the first voice had been sharp, a harp string wound too tight and ready to snap but still somehow capable of sweet melody, this voice was rich and heavy like a deep, warm, comfortable sleep. Gentle in a way the first voice could never be. *Our father was not near enough to attend, or he would be here. So we come in his stead.*

And then her recognition was no longer an unconscious thing, and she not only recognized them, but knew them. Deliberately, she turned to look fully at them. Aloud, she said, "Come into the light, un-brothers."

Nuada jolted and his head snapped around to follow her gaze. His confusion zinged through their joined hands when instead of the expected Azrharn, the other two sons of Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud dropped their glamour and allowed themselves to be seen by everyone in the room.

"Who…" Nuada swallowed, unsure if he wanted to express any form of ignorance in front of anyone who addressed Dylan the same way Azrharn had, as un-sister. But Dylan laid a soothing hand on his arm.

"Prince Nuada, allow me to introduce the second son of Lord Moundshroud, Ulume of Samhain and Weir, Death's Master."

The white-hooded figure pushed back his cowl to reveal a face like carved teak wood, dark and blade-sharp, but with a generous mouth and gentle eyes that seemed one moment to gleam gold as a leopard's, then a violet so dark it was nearly black, then a blue like the heart of a glacier, and then scarlet like firelight shining on mortal blood, before settling on a warm, rich brown.

"And Chuz, Delusion's Master." Dylan's voice went from soft and tender to the sharp, wry exasperation of a younger sibling introducing the black sheep of their family. "Patron saint of crazy people."

"Damn right," the man in the purple cloak said. He did not push back his hood, but when he spoke he lifted his chin just a little. His face seemed split perfectly in half - one side a golden tan only a few shades lighter than Zhenjin's copper skin, the other the dull charcoal-and-ash of a old, long-burnt corpse, though the flesh remained undamaged.

When Chuz turned his head at just the right angle to catch Victoria in his sights, everyone glimpsed a bright, vibrant blue eye with a fringe of red-gold lashes, and on the other side, the brief flash of a sullen, crimson glow, like a coal in the dark recesses of the cloak's hood. Victoria swallowed hard and reached for Francesca, who hugged her twin and stared back at Chuz without flinching. That piercing blue eye blinked and the thin lips spread into a grin revealing impossibly long, sharp white teeth.

"Chuz," Dylan said, fixing him with a narrow stare.

He offered a shrug. "Can you blame me?"

Something from the folds of his robe crackled in a bone-dry voice, "You know she can and will, so stop being a pest and tell your un-sister you're happy for her."

Everyone except Dylan stared. Dylan simply said, "You heard the jackal's skull. Behave yourself."

"I don't take orders from old bones," he said with an impish grin.

She didn't even blink. "Tell that to your mother."

Nuada stared at her, his mouth falling open. His...his mother? She was insulting his mother? Had she gone completely mad?

But Chuz merely laughed, a sound that scraped the edges of nearly everyone's nerves like claws gouging into expensive glass. The only ones unaffected were Dylan, Nuada, Petra, Francesca, and Tsu's'di. Dylan knew why, but it would've been the height of rudeness to bring it up.

"Fine, fine," Chuz said. "I'm glad for you, little brat. You'll always be one of mine, and I like my own to be happy when they can. Now, get to the...what is that human term? Ah, yes. The smooching. The smooching is the important bit! It's not legal and binding until you smooch!"

Ulume's quiet, rich voice quelled the crackling, frenetic energy in Chuz's words when he said, "Vows first, brother."

"Fine, certainly, whatever."

And then suddenly it was time. Nuada brought Dylan to the front of the room, to the tree of living hawthorn wood that grew through the building's floor and out through the ceiling.

Every religious building in Bethmoora, save for the Star Kindler's sacred temples, had such a tree inside it. All weddings had to be officiated beneath hawthorn boughs to be truly legal. So any place where a wedding was held, there one could find a hawthorn tree. It was one reason why hawthorn spirits often joined the clergy.

Nuada gripped her hands carefully in his and looked into those impossible eyes of misty fae blue.

"Your Royal Highness, Prince Nuada Silverlance," the wrinkled, elderly Elf bishop said, "Crown Prince of Bethmoora, and son of King Balor the One-Armed King of Elfland and Cethlenn the Wise. You stand beneath an eildon tree robed not for war or death, but for matrimony. Is this why you are here?"

"It is," he said, never looking away from Dylan for even a moment. "I am come to join my heart and my life to another."

"Then swear your vow to the one who holds your heart."

Nnada took a deep breath and looked deep into those misted blue eyes.

"Tá tú fuil mo chuid fola, cnámh de mo chnámha, anáil de mo anáil. Mé a thabhairt duit mo chorp, go mb'fhéidir go mbeadh muid beirt a bheith ar cheann. Mé a thabhairt duit mo chroí till beidh ár saol a dhéanamh."

Dylan smiled as the lyrical Gaelic words flowed. This was it. Their wedding. They were getting married right now. He was saying the words and soon it would be her turn.

"Tá tú mo chuid fola, mo anáil agus mo croí. Faoi cheangal ag an grá agus ór faoi bhun sceiche faoi an ghealach," he said, voice steady and clear, eyes bright as sunlight through warm amber, "tá muid i gcónaí ar cheann, agus é séalaithe le póg. "

There was something in her throat. A lump she had to swallow twice to get rid of. This was it. This was it.

"Lady Dylan Myers of Central Park," the bishop added. "You are clothed not for war or execution, but as a royal bride. Is this why you are here?"

Dylan nodded. Her eyes stung. "Yes." A giddy little laugh escaped in a sort of hiccup. "Yes, it is. I...I am come to join my heart and my life to another."

"Then, as the words have been spoken by the prince, it is now your turn to say the words in the tongue of your fathers and give your vow to the one who holds your heart."

Gripping both of Nuada's hands with hers, Dylan locked her gaze with his and said, "You are blood of my blood, bone of my bone, breath of my breath." Truer words had never been spoken. She needed him. He was part of her. Blood of her blood, bone of her bone. The very air she breathed. It hurt to be apart from him, and maybe that should've terrified her but just now all she could feel was the most exquisite happiness because this was finally happening. "I give you my body, that we two might be one."

Amber eyes lightened briefly to the palest topaz-kissed ivory she'd ever seen. The same soft yellow she'd glimpsed on those very rare occasions when something very specific had been in the forefront of Nuada's mind: lust. Heat whispered through her blood, licked down her spine.

I procured handcuffs, he murmured in her mind.

She nearly choked on her tongue, but managed to say, "I give you my heart till our life shall be done."

You stop that, she laughed. People can see me blushing.

Nuada swallowed his grin as binding magic hummed in the air and his bride continued, "You are my blood, my breath and my heartbeat. Bound by love and gold beneath hawthorn under the moon," Dylan whispered, and felt her eyes widen when Nuada reached into his belt-pouch and pulled out a slim, white-gold ring set with a single moonstone circled by emerald, diamond, amethyst, and sapphire chips. Moonlight and the glow of will-o-the-wisps glinted off the silvery metal.

Sreng, that monster, still had the sapphire ring Nuada had proposed to her with. Where had this one come from? At the moment, she didn't really care. Her breath hitched when a strong, Elven hand slipped that ring over the fourth finger of her left hand.

Fighting back tears, Dylan finished with, "We are always one, sealed by a kiss."

Yes, Nuada whispered through their linked hands. He inclined his head, gaze settling on her mouth. Sealed with a kiss, the vows said. As soon as he touched his lips to hers, the vows would set, the binding magic would lock around them, and they would be husband and wife. We are always one, now and forever, in this life and the next.

At that, for just a moment, she faltered. In this life and the next...but…

Nuada-

I would find you, he said. I would walk through all the Heavens, crawl through all the Hells, traverse Purgatory and Limbo should they exist. If all the Otherworlds and all the eternities and all the cosmos stood between us, I would find you in the next life, my beloved. And I would prostrate myself before your Divine King and beg Him to let me remain by your side if that was what it took. I would do anything to be with you, my love, my princess...my wife.

He had longed to call her by that name for so long. And for so long, she had longed to hear it. In just another moment, she would be Nuada's wife.

She rose up on tiptoe, ignoring the dull, muted throb of pain through her bad knee. The vicodin would take care of her. Nuada leaned toward her, eyes slowly drifting shut. Dylan shut her own eyes. Held her breath. His breath was warm against her lips as they closed the scant space between them.

Outside the little chapel, beyond the warmth and light and love saturating the room, a man screamed in shocked agony, then abruptly went dead silent. Ice spilled down Dylan's spine as she whipped around.

"What the crap?" Mary demanded, turning toward the doors that led to the village square. "What was-?"

A new sound cut her off: the thunder of hooves and the whooping, jeering cries of bandits.

Nuada swore viciously, pushed Dylan behind him, and drew his sword.

"Stay in the chapel, mo duinne." He strode to the doors, the other royals and his guards falling in around him.

For a moment she couldn't even speak. No, this couldn't be happening, it wasn't fair! But finally she managed to choke out, "Be careful!"

He turned and nodded to her. Graced her with a single look of agonized longing, devotion, and resignation. Then he went out into the battle waging beyond the chapel doors.

Furious, practically chewing her tongue to hold back her tears and her bitterness - could they ever get a darn break? - somehow Dylan managed to throttle her anger and disappointment back so she could organize the defense of the chapel. Nuada needed her to be safe, and honestly? She wasn't up to tangling with Sreng again. So they had to make sure nobody got past those doors.

"Cesca, you and Davio, Bob, and Tori grab one of those pews. Tsu's'di, you and Pauline, Mary, and Ulume…" Dylan trailed off, realizing Moundshroud's sons had vanished. Chuz couldn't fight Sréng - he wouldn't take sides in a conflict between two people who were mad, even though her madness was nothing like the bandit captain's - but Ulume had been known to pick sides before. Picking sides was how he'd wooed both his wives, mortal and immortal. How could he have simply disappeared like that? She hadn't even seen him leave.

Never mind, Dylan told herself. She'd work with what she had.

Aloud, she called, "A'du, 'Sa'ti, help Pauline, Mary, and-"

"A'ge'lv!'' A'du's stricken cry sent another wash of ice down Dylan's back. "She's not here!"

Several adults yelled, "What?"

Dylan didn't say a word. She knew, without having to ask, exactly who her boy meant. She stared at the chapel doors that separated her from the village, the bandit carnage, her prince...and the little girl she loved like her own child.

.

Nuada ducked beneath a slashing blade and thrust his spear through the Fomorian bandit's throat. The bandit gagged, blood the aqua blue color of a deep lagoon spilling from between his slack lips. He dropped to the snow, choking on his own blood.

Something wasn't right here. This attack - it was different somehow. He just couldn't put a finger on how, not with swarms of fae bandits slashing through the streets howling battle cries and hacking away at him. So far he'd been lucky - not a single human or half-human scut had been sighted in the village, which meant he didn't have to hold back.

He let himself slip into the haze of battle fever. There was nothing but the stink of blood and death, the clash and screech of warring blades, the screams of the dying…

A scream raked his ears just as an enemy sword thrust past his guard to slice his side. A line of fire seared his ribs. Hot blood oozed down his side, soaking his wedding shirt. Stars curse it, anyway. Dylan would be frantic when he returned to the chapel. The wound wasn't deep, but she'd insist on tending it herse-

Another scream pierced the night over the sounds of battle. Shrill. Agonized. Ragged with terror and despair and exhaustion and the desperation of a trapped, wounded animal. And he suddenly knew, with sick fear coiling in his guts, who had screamed.

Nuada gutted the Elf who'd cut him with a thrust and twist of his spear. As the bandit hit his knees on the snow, Nuada lunged. One foot on his enemy's bent knee, one foot on the sagging shoulder. He vaulted onto and over the dying bandit and took off running. Frigid winter air seared his throat. He didn't stop, cutting down the enemy by slashing hamstrings and ankle tendons, and leaving them to be finished off by the others.

He only stumbled once, at the sound of that voice.

"You bitch! You bitch, you bitch, you bitch!"

Dylan screamed again. Nuada ran faster. Where was she? Why had she left the chapel?

"I'll carve you into pieces!" Sréng roared.

Gods, he had to get to them, had to stop him. He couldn't lose Dylan to death again. Not again, not tonight. He'd go mad.

She screamed again, made a harsh gagging sound. Close, they had to be close. Where? He was near the edge of the village, the sounds of battle distant now. Moonlight turned the expanse of churned, dirty snow the color of old bones. And Nuada could still hear the bandit captain's fury.

"I'll cut you into pieces, you bitch! You traitor! How dare you call yourself human?! I'll kill you!"

Dylan gave a strangled, sobbing cry of pure terror. Nuada ran toward the sound.

"You whore. I'll kill you for this. And then I'll kill your prince. I'll grind him up into dog meat, you little—" That hideous voice turned soft. Nuada skidded to a half in the snow. His heart battered against his heaving chest. The breath sawed in his throat and the roar of his pulse deafened him. All was dark now. He'd left the village square far behind and now only the weak moon offered any illumination.

"Where are you?" He demanded hoarsely. Even Dylan's screams had fallen silent. Danu's mercy, was she already dead? Surely he'd feel it…"Where are you? Answer me, Sréng!" He spat the name like poison.

From only a few paces further into the dark, Dylan screamed.

Nuada leapt forward, catching a glimpse of someone in a pale gray dress dragging themselves along the ground, trying to crawl away...from Sréng.

It was Dylan.

Even in the dim moonlight, Nuada could see her. Her face, that beautiful face, was sheeted with blood, although he couldn't catch the iron stink yet. Her gray dress had been torn down the back and thirteen hells, what had that monster done? Her back was a bloody ruin after only recently healing from his last vicious assault. Her fingers, bent at sick angles, twitched and spasmed. She sobbed hoarsely as she tried desperately to crawl away.

In the blink it took Nuada to absorb this, Sréng lashed out with one foot and kicked her hard in the kidney. Dylan screamed.

"Traitor! Bitch!" Sréng kicked her again, catching her in the hip as she tried to crawl away. "Whore!" His fist rammed into her spine and she hit the ground in a sprawl. He kicked her again and again. "Get up! Get up! You earned this! Get up! Whoring yourself to a killer, betraying your own kind! Get up, you traitorous bitch! Get up!"

And now Nuada was screaming, hatred bubbling up black and vile in his throat as he raced forward, spear spinning like silver death as he leapt at the man who had hurt Dylan, hurt his sister, hurt his mother and father, hurt his people. Hurt him, all those centuries ago, even though his mind still shied from those specific memories. Perhaps Sreng could not truly die but it would take even something like him a long time to recover from a spear of Elven silver slicing him into so much lumpy meat.

Nuada did not collide with the bandit captain. He landed in a crouch, carried by momentum that should have brought Sréng down...but he wasn't there. And neither was Dylan. The small clearing stood empty.

The prince lunged to his feet. What…? Where was…? What?

And something leapt to the forefront of his mind as the fury ebbed and confusion took its place: when he'd left her in the chapel, Dylan had been wearing white, not gray. The last time she'd worn gray had been the night she'd been taken, beaten, flogged…

Snap. The faint sound of a twig cracking underfoot. A deliberate noise.

Nuada whipped towards the sound. Faltered at the sight of a curly-haired brunette woman with tri-colored irises and slightly pointed ears grinning at him…holding an unconscious 'Sa'ti in her arms, a knife to the child's vulnerable throat.

"If you hurt her," Nuada said tonelessly, "it will take you moons to d-"

Something struck the base of his skull. Agony flared, red-hot. Then everything went black.

.

By the time she managed to convince John and Petra to let her out of the chapel, the fighting was over. Dead fae bandits lay in their gore in the show, but not a single villager had been killed. They'd fought back? But the law...the treaty…

Zhenjin and Kamaria found her at the bottom chapel step, half-dazed and half-horrified because surely the entire village was condemned now. They couldn't hide this from Balor, he was going to-

"Dylan!'' Kamaria's rich, velvet voice yanked her from her daze. "Are you hurt?"

"I...no," she managed. "No. But...did the villagers fight?"

Behind her, John said, "I thought they couldn't. Isn't that why we're here?"

"There were no humans in this band," Kamaria said, sounding understandably both puzzled and dubious. "The people of Lallybroch were not forbidden by that blasted treaty to defend themselves this time."

No humans. No humans? The thought sent fresh waves of icy chill down her spine. That didn't make sense. Sréng knew his human fighters were the reason he could butcher with impunity. Why give that advantage away? She didn't like it. She needed to talk about it with Nuada...and they needed to find 'Sa'ti, the poor thing must have been terrified, and…

Wait. Where was Nuada?

A roar, a shattering sound like the breaking of mountains beneath an avalanche, drove Dylan to her knees. Her hands flew to her ears, vainly trying to block out that sound. John and Zhenjin crouched around her. Only Kamaria had managed to keep her feet, though tears poured from her good eye.

The crashing, breaking wave of sound died away. Dylan pulled her hands from her ears. Shuddered.

John groaned and demanded hoarsely, "What the f-"

"Dylan," Kamaria said. "Zhenjin. That was Wink."

Dylan was on her feet and running before her twin or Zhenjin had finished processing the words.

.

Petra and the other Myers siblings, along with the guards and the other royals and several villagers, found Dylan and the prince's valet, the silver cave troll Mr. Wink, just past the edge of the village. Dylan knelt in the snow, hands braced on either side of three small, golden coins.

No, Petra realized suddenly, stomach twisting. Three drops of bright, golden blood. Dylan had gone sickly gray. Her eyes were glassy. And then Wink gave a low, gravelly moan and held something out to her. She took it in very white hands.

It was Nuada's lance. No blood marred the blade. The Elven silver gleamed in the torchlight. Beside Petra, Dastan swore. Whuppity, her leprechaun friend, gasped and covered her mouth with both hands.

Petra turned to Dastan. "What...?" His horrified eyes silenced her.

"They have him," Princess Kamaria breathed. "He would never have abandoned the Silverlance."

Suddenly, John winced and clutched at his head, the breath hissing between his clenched teeth. Zhenjin staggered back, and only Gaozu and Hou Junji's quick reflexes saved him from falling to the snow.

"Brother?" Hou Junji yelped, while Gaozu cried, "Zhenjin!"

"John?" Petra wrapped her arms around her brother. He was shaking, she realized. His skin had gone clammy and pale. His pupils had dilated to pinpricks. "John?"

"D…" He rasped, reaching for his twin. She stared at the weapon in her hands, oblivious. "Oh...ohmigawd, Dylan…"

Zhenjin gasped, "Dylan! Dylan…"

Petra looked at Dylan. They all looked at Dylan, hunched there on her knees in the snow, her fingers wrapped around the haft of the Silverlance so tightly they looked white as bones. She stared at nothing, her mouth moving soundlessly. Her shoulders hitched spasmodically, but no tears poured from her blank eyes. She just huddled there, the breath wheezing in her throat, coming in sharp, rapid gasps.

Wink knelt in front of her, staring down at the Silverlance in her hands and the three drops of golden blood marring the snow. They gleamed still, frozen, looking so much like tiny gold coins. He stared at the spear, and the blood, and the mortal woman as something slowly broke inside her, some barrier of stony discipline and star-touched peace.

John sucked in a breath that sounded agonizing. "Dylan-"

And then Dylan screamed.

.

.

.

.

.

End of

Once Upon a Time Book 12: Shadows of the Past

The story continues in

Book 13: The Princess of Autumn and Shadow