A COURT OF WRATH AND FURY. acotar

viii. the red and dark of a curse

He sent us to parlay and she grew angry when he again rejected her. She claimed there would be no peace as long as he said no to her advances. Both you and I grew angry.

You told her that he would never say yes. That he would never love her in anyway. And so she cursed you, convinced that he must love you. That she must eliminate that love to get to Tamlin.

She hurt you. Badly. I'm sure you know that even now. But she cursed you, too, to forget. I think she was convinced that if you were no longer you - did not remember yourself - he could not love you. That you would never remember until someone loved you. And that if nobody could know you well due to your memory, you would never be loved by Tamlin or anyone else.

It nearly ripped my apart to see you so confused and hurt. I told her to go back to the shit-hole she'd crawled out of and she lashed out, tore at my eye. You've seen the scars.

We were sent back to Spring. Over the years, you would learn and remember and then forget. When the curse over Prythian was broken by Feyre, we thought you would remember. You didn't.

I am sorry, Briar, that I left you. That you and our people were left alone while Hybern rampaged. That you experienced so much that you turned to anger. To rebellion.

And here was where she stopped. Because reading those last words - that he was sorry, that she was wrong and had been hurt - left a disgusting metallic taste in her mouth. It was from the pity, perhaps, and the idea that the red-haired man knew more about her life than even she did.

In the end, she was merely a bystander to her memories. To everything.

Briar smoothed out the parchment on the windowsill, rubbing out the crinkles with shaking fingers. Another breeze rushed in, one that ruffled her hair and smelt of fresh soil and budding flowers.

Down below her, across the garden and behind the hedges, Elain was gardening once again. It was roses today - she had given Briar a shout early this morning asking for advice on how to plant the seeds. And Briar had complied ( and explained that she could transplant fully grown bushes, too, but the female had stubbornly said no ). And somewhere outside, perched on a stool with an easel in front of her, was the Cursebreaker.

Briar could hardly even bare to admire the gardens of the estate when she was there, her presence a dirty stain on crisp, clean sheets. She couldn't smell her ( and thank the Cauldron for that because it would probably make her hurl ) but the Cursebreaker was somehow still everywhere, her presence persistent and horrible even when she was out of sight.

And the fact that Elain was with her - enjoying her company, from the faint sounds of her bell-like laughter - was positively mind-boggling. It was as if nobody in this court could even acknowledge that she was a killer. They only saw a female who was merciful to her assassin, who had the power of a goddess and deigned not to use it. They saw a pregnant female. A female who had destroyed a court ruled by a bad male. One, she supposed, they saw as evil.

Briar was the monster. Briar was the foul creature who had tried to hurt their dear High Lady, who had dared to kill a pregnant female. She was the one who must be watched by the Spymaster, who must controlled by a bargain, who must be feared and even pitied for her lack of understanding.

It was foul. The whole thing was foul.

She let her fingers smooth out the parchment again. It had become a bit of a nervous habit, the crumpling and the smoothing and threading, as if she was hungering for something she could never eat. Could never reach.