viii. the red and dark of a curse
"though the wound is healed, a scar remains."
❀❀❀
BRIAR WAS STARING AT a bird and the bird was staring back. It had beady little eyes and puffed grey feathers, a white belly and a black-capped head. It was staring at her, a wriggling worm dangling from its beak. The faint sounds of chirping echoed out from a hollow in the maple tree it was perched on.
Her blink broke the bird's trance; it hopped around, wings fluttering as it picked its way through the leaves and into the hollow of the maple. As it entered, the chirps grew more incessant. So did the wriggling of the worm.
It was these things - these simultaneous endings and beginnings - that made her ponder her life and the world and birth and death and when this all would end. If it would be soon. If she even cared.
The little hatchlings would be fed, their tummies full and hunger satiated while the worm would meet an abrupt end. And as the chirps died down and gave way to the near silence of a light breeze, she knew that cycle had been completed. Wondered where she fit in that cycle.
The crumpled parchment in her hands crinkled as she unfurled it, eyes still trained on the crisp outdoors, the green that was slowly taking over more and more every day.
Black ink had long since smudged her palms and fingertips, creating streaks of darkness along her brown skin. It had smudged on the paper, too, elegant loops giving way to inky blotches that left the written words just on the edge of unreadable.
They were the words of the redhead - the ones she had asked him to write down in a panic after he had finished his explanation for her broken memory. The ones she had read a thousand times already, the ones she had copied on parchment upon parchment until her joints ached and popped when she stretched. The ones that still seemed blurry when she tried to recollect the details. The ones she had woken up this morning and found she had completely forgot.
She did not doubt that soon, she would forget again. Briar read them again for her own peace of mind.
You are Briar Rose Desilva and you are of the Spring Court. Your mother was a dryad, your father High Fae. You served the High Lord Tamlin as the Head of Sentries for over a century. You served the Fae of the Spring Court loyally and were treated with high regards and respect by both myself and Tamlin for your talent.
Fifty years ago a general from Hybern came to Prythian. Amarantha. She trapped our High Lords Under the Mountain and tricked them, took away their powers. But she was fond of Tamlin for his looks and grew jealous that you seemed so close to him.
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.
Somewhere in the garden, the Cursebreaker let out a laugh that echoed throughout the garden. It drove into her skull like a nail being hammered.
Briar swore and slammed her hands down onto the windowsill, letting her head fall down to rest on them. Curls fell down onto her arms to surround her head and softly scratch her cheeks.
A light brush of pressure touched the top of her head; she reached a hand up to lazily brush it away, fingers grazing the leaf -
That was not the skin of a leaf. That was parchment.
Briar lurched up, the parchment pinched between two fingers, and peered down at the elegant scrawl a little frantically.
Desilva,
My office, if you will.
High Lord of the Night Court,
Rhysand
Already, she did not want to go. Did not want to go at all.
The parchment disappeared with a puff of air.
Briar let out a sigh and leaned closer to the windowsill to peer over the edge. Some small part of her had expected to see the Cursebreaker gloating or the Shadowsinger waiting with his arms crossed or even Elain coming to drag her out of her room. But the garden was still empty, Briar still alone.
With a sharp exhale, she tucked the parchment from the red-haired man into her pants pocket and stood. And as she left, resisting the urge to check her appearance in a mirror ( because it would only confuse her when she didn't recognize herself ), she felt as if she was walking into the jaws of angry wolf. An angry High Lord-shaped wolf who likely had a kill list with her name on it.
The hall, painted navy blue and lined with white and gold moulding, was not silent. Faint laughter echoed up from the floor below, joyous alongside the crashing of pots and pans. And as she listened, cringing as the noise became louder with every step she took, the paintings that decorated the walls of the hall made a little more sense.
Briar followed the hall until it ended and descended, briefly recognizing her surroundings from her first encounter with Elain. And as she reached the bottom, she internally damned herself, because the kitchen was just to the right of the stairs and the laughter and clanging had stopped and she could feel eyes on the side of her head.
Fuck. What was she supposed to do?
And she didn't know - didn't know at all - and could only stand there facing a tall vase of white orchids and a painting of who she could only assume was Elain ( she wore a pink dress and was sat below an oak tree, looking as if she was glowing in the setting sun ). And her heart was beating faster than it ever had and she could hardly stop herself from sticking her hand into her pocket and clutching that note like it was a lifeline.
Still, there were eyes on her. So Briar bit the soft flesh of her cheek until the metallic taste of blood began to flow and the urge to march right back up the stairs subsided. And then she turned - stiffly - to face the people whose home she was intruding in.
Four pairs of eyes avidly stared, only two of them Fae she could say she had met.
The first was one of the two shadow-wraiths who regularly served her meals and changed her sheets and tidied her room when she wasn't looking. Though she thought that perhaps Elain had mentioned it, Briar couldn't remember her name ( or which one of the twins she was, to be honest ). But the shadow-wraith softly smiled and raised a dark hand in greeting, the gold bangles on her wrist softly clanging and long black hair swaying in a curtain of ink.
And though she wanted to at least raise a hand back, her body wouldn't cooperate.
The Shadowsinger was staring, too, from his place at the island. He was hunched over a stack of papers, a pen in one hand and a mug in the other, the shadow-wraith standing beside him and now looking down at the papers with a frown. But the Shadowsinger wasn't - he was still staring at her, his face blank and gaze piercing, black curls falling down over his brow and wings tucked in tightly behind him.
There was another male with wings, this one broader and thicker than the Spymaster. His dark hair was tied up in a knot and his scruffy cheeks widened in a small grin. A few bubbles floated up from the sink his hands were submerged, iridescent in the sunlight that streamed in through the window above the sink.
The fourth pair of eyes came from a female. She was staring at Briar a little warily, long blonde hair tucked back in a braid and hands busy drying a crystal glass. Her shirt - a dark crimson - was splattered with water. A few droplets gleamed on her forehead, too, and as Briar noticed the moisture, the large male with the topknot giggled. The Shadowsinger's lips quirked.
And as Briar stood, staring and being stared at once again, she thought once again of the cycle and about how she would like to drop dead of embarrassment. Already, her cheeks were burning, her fingers fiddling with her note.
She didn't know where the High Lord's damn office was because he hadn't mentioned it and was probably watching from somewhere inside her head, snickering at her humiliation.
And it struck her that even if he had mentioned it, she might have forgotten anyways.
The Shadowsinger lifted his head to look at her. Shadows peered over his shoulders. "Do you need something?"
Yes. But the words would not come out.
He quirked an eyebrow, tilted his head in question; curls tumbled and shadows flew out of his hair. One - a small one - meandered towards her.
"Desilva." She flicked her head towards the sound, down one of the halls that branched off near the staircase. The dark figure of the High Lord stood, leaning against a doorway. His eyes gleamed violent through the darkness and the faintest prickle of pain in her head bloomed. "This way." He disappeared through the doorway.
Briar turned towards the hall. And as she walked down the corridor, painted Fae looking down at her, the distinct sound of a towel smacking somebody and bickering followed.
The High Lord of the Night Court sat at a dark mahogany desk, twirling a pen between two fingers. A flat, slightly vexed expression sat upon his face. He nodded towards the chair opposite him.
She sat, feeling every bit like a mouse sitting before a wolf.
"I understand you spoke with Lucien," he said. "What did you learn?"
Her mouth seemed dry. Desert dry. With purses lips, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the note. From the red-haired man who knew her - Lucien.
The High Lord skimmed through it, set it down on the desk ( the side closest to her ), and looked her in the eye.
He looked disgusted.
"Who wrote this, again?" He asked.
He had just said it himself. "Lucien."
He nodded. "And who was it that you gardened with the other day?"
"Elain."
"My name?
She shrugged ( perhaps she had been told it, perhaps she hadn't. either way, she didn't really care to know the damn male's name ).
"What is my mate's name?"
His mate?
"The female you tried to kill," he said, teeth grit. "The one you hate."
The one she hates. The one she shot an arrow at - because she had ruined Briar's court. "The Cursebreaker."
"That's not her name," he sneered.
"I don't know her name." Whether or not she deserved to have one - to be remembered as anything other than evil - was debatable.
The male sharply exhaled and shook his head, the muscles in his jaw working back and forth.
"And my Spymaster? What is his name?"
Briar sighed and bit her tongue. Why would she know that? Remember that? Elain had said it some point, she was sure of that.
But she had forgotten. "I don't know."
He seemed confused at this, black eyebrows furrowing together. But then he nodded and his fingers began to drum on the desk. "Okay. Okay."
She let herself reach forward to pluck up the note and bring it back down to her lap, smoothing the crinkles between her thumb and forefinger. He eyed it, looking pensive.
"Alright," he said, and leaned forward to look her in the eyes, "This might hurt a little."
"What?" Briar asked and she had barely gotten the word out before a scorching pain ripped her skull in half. And perhaps she was on fire and screaming and perhaps she was freezing and silent but either way she was in agony and aching, throbbing, burning as a hand made of an inky night sky reached into her head, dug behind the curls and the confusion and the sadness and found it.
It was dark. Dark like the underground of a certain mountain, like the atrocities that had been committed there. And it was red, too, the same red that gleamed silky, the red of sneering lips painted with blood. The red and the dark of a curse. Of a loveless queen, a jealous sorceress, a sadist who had left a stain.
Somewhere, sometime, she registered voices shrill with concern and the hard grip of hands shaking her shoulders.
Shadows peered down at her. They were whispering to someone, someone who was whispering back.
She wished she could hear them. That someone sounded like an angel. She imagined they would, too.
And then Briar passed out.
aahhhh this took a little while
but i hope you all like it. i'm trying
to flesh out her background and parts
of her personality so let me know
if you're finding it interesting!!
QOTD: what accents do you guys image
the acotar characters having?
my AOTD that is probably inaccurate:
the archerons def have some sort of british accent
and tamlin is 'Merican and the bat boys have like a
scottish accent but rhys has less of one.
and somebody is australian, maybe tarquin.
love you and hope you don't have a sore throat!
(cause i do and i always forget how much it sucks ass)
lea