❛in which they grow to love and learn❜
Briar Desilva hated. She hated the Cursebreaker and the High Lord of Spring. She hated her mind and she hated her body. She hated the memories that danced beyond her reach and the past that was and always has b...
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"you and i both know this ends in blood."
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trigger warning: brief mention of sexual assault and death
"ALL OF YOU OUT." The High Lady of the Night Court said it with the authority of a goddess, her husky voice booming throughout the elegant room. Behind her, the Fae all froze for a moment before they reluctantly filed out, some muttering under their breath and throwing dirty looks toward Briar. The Shadowsinger lingered at the door, watching Briar. "Lucien can stay."
Feyre's mate waited, staring at the back of her head with furrowed eyebrows. They both wore odd expressions, and Briar had the sense that they did not need words to communicate. That they were so powerful they could speak even in silence. The Cursebreaker must have won their silent battle; with one last wary glare at Briar, the High Lord clapped his Spymaster's shoulder and directed him out.
The door closed with a click of its lock. Silence. Her, staring at the High Lady, meeting those intense blue-grey eyes with her own. Beside her, Lucien still stood and stared, golden eye quietly whirling.
The stillness felt deafening. Somewhere, a clock quietly ticked.
Suddenly, Briar could not bear to look either of them in the eye. There was something that felt inherently wrong about it, even though her mind was screaming at her to meet her enemies gaze. To be steely in the face of danger, in the face of justice. To become the wolf, the tiger, the predator.
She couldn't. She couldn't do it.
Because Feyre looked very much the prey. Looked confused and hurt, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she stared forward. Her fingers were fiddling, playing with the fabric of her dress and rubbing at her stomach oddly. This confused sadness was odd, and it was puzzling. It did not make Briar regret a single thing she had done and yet - as Feyre glanced at her with watering eyes and fiddling fingers, she saw herself from the Cursebreaker's eyes. A monster. A brute monster from the brutal Spring Court.
Feyre looked away and sniffed, addressing Lucien quietly, "It still hasn't ended?"
He sighed at her question, looking at Briar with a face full of pity that smashed her marble heart into bits of plaster and dust. "I suppose so."
She turned away. Looked towards the far windows, where soft clouds were swimming across the sky. She wished she could join them, could become nothing more than air in the wind. Could run far away and bask in nothingness. No anger, no embarrassment, no dread. Just the freedom to whisk in any way she should choose; to blow with the snowflakes of the Winter Court or flutter along like the Autumn leaves, to whip up sea spray and mighty Summer waves or to breeze through the fields of the Dawn court. To tickle the windchimes of Spring. To brush the ancient pages of the many volumes and manuscripts of Day. To howl and gust and puff amongst the mighty forests of Night and then, in a rhythm so uneven, to settle. Become night-chilled mist.
