Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Good morn, my sister, and . . . happy birthday.

The voice whispering in Nuala's mind wakens her with a smile, though she has barely drawn a breath before her heart seizes and aches; she hides it as best she can and sends a whispering return of the sentiment, wrapped in as much love and warmth as she can hold.

Another birthday for which her twin - her soul, her heart - is yet far from her side; kept so by the war . . . kept so always by their father struggling to part them.

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Nuala swept through the high arch into the great hall of Bethmora, pausing to watch the shimmering greens and blues of the elementals dancing along the walls; one of the forest gods bowed to her, and she inclined her head, deeply aware of the slight weight of her crown. She moved on as the great creature straightened, into the heart of the hall, alive and ringing with the activity of the court; one far more diverse than her father had ever presided over.

Once she had been sorrowful for the changes of the world, but now. . .

Nuada appeared at her side, his own crown gleaming on his brow, and extended a hand, and Nuala smiled, allowing her brother to draw her close; they ascended to the dais together, both long ago risen beneath the titles they had never truly wished to bear. And before them, their people - safe, vibrant, happy.

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Nuada's jaw tightened as he watched the court pull away from his sister, entering it once again for the first time since. . .

He brought his hand up, fingertips brushing over the newly-healed scar crossing his face - the mark of royalty. The mark shared, now, by his sister; worn by a woman of the royal family for the first time, and for that they recoiled from her, as though-

Nuala turned to him and Nuada stilled as her cool gaze swept over him, wondering if she resented him - resented the link between them, the fate binding them - as their father did.

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"Wait! Children, we should-” Their mother fell silent with a laugh, and Nuala giggled, twining her fingers more closely with her brother’s as they spilled out onto the grassy plain of the Aboveground, the sun still staining the sky with a hundred shades of bleeding colour.

There was no sound in Nuala’s sheltered bower, but a shiver through her heart woke her, and her chest felt tight as she kept her eyes closed, drawing a deep, slow breath; then she turned, sitting up, to face her brother, feeling his surety - and his regret - even as she asked silently if he *must* leave.

‟Always your truest raiment, my sister,” Nuada said as they emerged over the once-lush plains surrounding Bethmora, lit tonight only by the stars, and Nuala smiled a little, sorrowful as it was, stretching out a hand to him; hoping for at least this time together . . . should it be their end, ‟another star dancing across the world.” he murmured, taking her hand and nuzzling a kiss to her palm.

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They never touch - not any longer - not even a fleeting brush in passing, and Nuala sees the ease it brings to the court to see them so separate . . . the king not least among them. It sends a sharp pang through her heart, one that she feels echo through their link and sees in Nuada's shadowed eyes.

Nuada goes to war, again and again, and lives up to the murmurs of admiration and fear all their kind - and more - weave into legends; he returns colder and fiercer every time, and Nuala may be the only one to remember the softness of his heart . . . certainly she is the only one who can feel that it still beats and bleeds thus.

Nuala remains in the court, remains by their father as he calls for and leans on her, presides over the council and shores up their king; Nuada leads the armies, guards their borders, and while the court shy from him, their people love him for his fierce protection and the way he meets them on open, even ground - and always, as it stretches to years and decades and more that they do not so much as see each other, there is their link that cannot be broken, a pale shadow of the way they long to join themselves and all, now, that they may have of one another.

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Nuala collapses even as she pulls the knife from her breast - from their breast - her breath coming short and her heart pounding; no wound she has felt echoed from her brother has ever struck so sharply . . . but no wound has ever taken them so completely.

She feels no regret for her choice as she collapses across the dais, her blood seeping into her fine dress and out to soak into the stone, head turned to watch her brother's shock and pain, though she needn't - she can feel it as sure as her own . . . as sure as the thousands of years of memories, of magic, of life bleeding out with them.

We die, and the world will be poorer for it, she hears her brother's words more through their bond than on the air, and feels the pang of its truth as the world begins to fade away from her.

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"Why do you fret, my brother?” Nuala asked, her steps a bare whisper on the stone behind him. ‟Is this not what you wanted?”

Nuada looked over the city, once more alive and bright - perhaps even more than it had been in their father’s prime, before the first time they had been brought war by the humans, for Nuada welcomed all to the court, not only their own kind - and could not deny the fierce gladness in him for their presence, their life . . . their safety, with the hollow-hearted humans long gone and his triumph.

He turned, and met Nuala’s cold and distant eyes, feeling the chasm between them like a wound long bled out, chill and aching. Yes, my sister, but I would it had not cost me you, Nuada thought, and he knew she heard him - nothing could break the link between them, after all - but she didn’t betray it by any trace of a shift in her face or eyes, or even the echo of her emotions - always so cold and slow, now - that Nuada could, always, feel.

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You drive yourself too hard, a deartháir, his sister's gentle scolding, tinged with worry, slid through the back of Nuada's mind as he bowed his head to his opponent, panting, and they parted ways after their third hard bout - as though she'd been waiting for a moment without the risk of distracting him; he smiled faintly.

I do only what is necessary, and I am well enough, Nuada soothed her as he accepted a tankard of water, then- I will prove myself to him, one way or another, ionúin deirfiúr, he let slip without fully intending to, jaw tightening. He could never hide from his sister.

Unspoken between them, even in their bond, the knowledge that their father's disapproval would never truly ease no mater his efforts, and it was nothing of failure in Nuada's accomplishments, his strength, or his determination that had bought it.

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‟It is not our world any longer, brother,” Nuala said, sinking down on the edge of what was little more than a cot in a damp stone alcove; she felt the flicker of dissatisfaction from her brother and sighed - it was not directed at the cot, which she knew he had been using for some time, but at seeing her on it, as though she somehow had higher sensibilities. ‟Why do you wish to reclaim it?”

‟I wish to save it, my dear sister.” Nuada said as he whirled towards her, fierce conviction lighting his eyes. ‟Not to return it to the glory our father ruled over, a court of no more than our own kind, but for all.” he exhorted, dropping to one knee before her, reaching to clasp one of her hands between his own, and they were pretty words, but cool unease tickled up Nuala's spine all the same.

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It does not suit her so well as other seasons, this cloaking of white snow, flowing around her figure like the finest of her gowns as she floats over the cold, sleeping earth, but Nuada pauses at the edge of the clearing and his chest tightens as he simply watches her all the same.

‟Is that you, a deartháir?” Nuala calls, voice light with unconcern and warm with fondness; his sister is always warm, even in the depths of January’s bitterest bite.

Need you ask, a milis deirfiúr? Nuada asks, allowing his adoration to bleed through their bond along with his words, and she turns towards him with a bright smile and an extended hand, a wordless whisper of affection and confidence promising never.

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When a shivery, tense heat all but pulls Nuala from her dreams, she cannot help but follow it with a gentle tug of her own - surely if Nuada didn't wish her in his mind, as he so rarely does, he would make it clear, as he always does.

Nuala's breath hitches and she feels momentarily as though she is falling, rather than safe in her bed, as she is swamped with sparking heat and tension and- and pleasure, feeling phantom hands on phantom skin, not quite her own body but impossible to resist all the same; perhaps, Nuala thinks faintly, this time her brother would not have put her off - perhaps he has not even yet realised she has wandered more deeply into his mind.

Sister, Nuada's voice whispers around her, as she falls deeper into his mind and sees what he imagines and her chest tightens, her legs drawing up - surely she has never looked so wanton, never been so abandoned . . . though a heated, tingling part of her now longs for it - and she should not be here, should not- Sister, Nuada says again, the same heated, needful tone, but she feels him like a caress this time, like the mirror of his eyes meeting hers, and she knows.

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‟You expect me to bow my head and agree with our father that- that it is for the best,” Nuada nearly spat, whirling on his heel, pacing like any hunting beast in a too-small cage, ‟that we cede yet again - our world, the life of the earth, and all magical peoples dwelling on or beneath it - only to make room for the humans’ rapacious appetites for more territory, more destruction, more artificial poisoning of everything they can touch?”

‟Brother. . .” Nuala called gently, rising to her feet, and Nuada turned and came to her, but the tension strung through his lean frame did not ease, even as she framed his face with her hands. He was seething, and Nuala could have known it even without the roiling, heated mess at the back of her mind, bleeding through from his even with his best control - a flutter of fondness; he would vent to her, willingly show her his true self without masks or mitigation, but still try to guard her from the rage of his own mind - and Nuala tugged him in, resting their brows together, trying to fence back her own mind . . . her fears where this caged fury would lead. For her brother, for herself . . . for the world.

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It is so good to have you back with me, Nuala says, brushing a feathery kiss to Nuada's collarbone before letting her head rest on his shoulder. I worried for you . . . for those you took with you; I am glad the war is over at last.

Nuada's silence worries her; she lifts her head again, rolling a little onto her stomach and almost leaning on top of Nuada, and he smiles slightly but it is no more reassuring.

The war is not done, only quieted, Nuada returns softly, shaking his head and trailing his fingers up her spine, I fear it will return and break out all the worse for the concessions granted to earn this stay.

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‟You should distance yourself from him, daughter,” her father says, a ponderously slow imprecation, shaking his head, ‟he is cold and dark, and I fear. . .”

Nuala bows her head and does not think is he not your child also? for it has been centuries of this and truly she is no longer sure their father sees him as such.

However . . . he is part of me, she thinks, and reaches out wordlessly, feeling her brother's heart curl around hers in answer; she can no more distance herself from Nuada as she could step away from her own heart.

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Nuala. . . Nuada kept the call of his sister’s name in his mind as he walked deeper into the forest, passing between the lancing silvery beams of moonlight the thickening canopy allowed through in slanted spills.

He wasn’t sure why she had come out on her own, or what she was doing, and she was only a faint feeling in his mind - faint, but tinged with sparkling surprise and thrumming happiness, so he sought her with curiosity, but did not fret.

Nuada stilled at the edge of a tiny clearing - trees overhanging a blue-green lagoon, close and shadowy but clear - eyes widening as Nuala’s laugh echoed around him, carried on a current of voices more elemental and less articulate; they were echoed by splashes as she played with a trio of undines, her wet skin gleaming in the soft moonlight that dappled the water.

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The slim flash of silver, then matte-softened gold, settling against deep, night-sky blue, again and again, fills Nuala's vision; she tries, tries, tries to focus on the embroidery in her lap, but-

I am safe, my sister, Nuada's voice curling through her mind and his faint amusement mingled with searing, fierce affection winding around her heart.

Nuala can barely breathe for a moment - not from the intensity, which has always simply been Nuada, though after a lifetime it can still shake her at times - and she impulsively allows her overpowering relief and affection to rush in a twining spiral back through their bond to wind around him in turn, easing her stinging hold on her needle.

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Nuala gasped, then giggled as her brother’s hands caught around her hips, lifting her easily off her feet and whirling her around with him. Nuala slid her hands over his shoulders as he let her sink down again, though held close even as she touched back to earth. Nuala twined her fingers in his hair, leaning into him, dizzied more by the rush of his adoring joy in their bond than being swept off her feet.

Nuada tipped his head, resting his brow against hers, and Nuala returned his smile - the one shown so rarely before the court, now, but here, in moments like these, with her. . . - then lifted her own to kiss him, soft and warm.

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‟For you, sister . . . anything.” Nuala remembered, with the echo of how deeply it was meant, and closed her eyes for a moment; Nuada would feel her despair, she knew, but . . . it was not new, and while he might grieve it, he would not suspect anything amiss.

Nuala could stop this now, she knew, but . . . allow her to be selfish one final time, she thought, quiet. She went to her brother; the court was long withered, their father was dead, and they would soon be so as well - allow them this, Nuala thought, and cupped Nuada’s face, allowing her bleeding-heart love to rush over him for once without restraint. She smiled as his breath hitched and his eyes widened under the rush of it, and pressed close into him as he wound her in his arms.

I am sorry, brother, Nuala let the apology slip into their bond on a river of her adoration and regret and pain, palming the blade he had given her; flashing, living silver, it was one of his - fitting, perhaps, that it would take their lives, she thought . . . and drove it into her own breast as Nuada whirled back to face her in a rush of agony and devastation.

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‟. . .and who is this?” Nuada asked, pulling away - if just a little - before Nuala could kiss him again, easing his hold on her waist; she frowned, tilting her head, then-

‟Oh! Yrdrig! Calm.” Nuala instructed firmly, raising one hand and turning it palm out as Yrdrig snuffled over their heads, slowly lowering each one of his own at a time. ‟Calm. . .” she repeated. ‟Ah, Father gave him to me, a few. . .” ‟How adorable a companion.” Nuada observed, lips twitching; he reached out, and Yrdrig put his middle head lower, nudging his muzzle into Nuada’s offered palm, ears perking. ‟You have some growing to do before you fit those paws,” he told Yrdrig, and he wagged his tail, one of his other heads cocking, ‟and those ears, for that matter.” Nuada added, reaching up to tug one as Yrdrig lowered another head to nose at his shoulder, the third nudging into Nuala’s arm hopefully until she stroked his neck.

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‟Brother- Brother, please,” Nuala begged, faltering as she felt the implacable, cold wall of his fury from deep inside herself, ‟it is . . . too late for this; the war cannot bring back-”

‟No.” Nuada said, turning with a snap, his hair flaring around his shoulders but failing to hide the darkness that had grown in his eyes. ‟While the earth remains, we cannot stop - I will not, cannot stop, sister.” he said, soft and sharp as his silver blades, and Nuala shuddered down to her bones, feeling a yawning dread - a promise of the end her brother did not see, she thought, and knew.