The Faceless Woman_A Retelling of the Swan Princess

by Emma Hamm

  Damn them all. Damn each and every one of them.

  She flattened her hand, no longer reaching for him but baring her palm to his sight. There were energies she could use in this world, but only one would make a lasting curse. Aisling poured her life into a single pinprick in her palm. The eye tattoo shifted, pulling at her skin in a blink she could feel. “Flesh will tear, bones will break, and you shall feel every ache. I bind you raven, here and now. I bind you, Fae, from feet to brow.”

  The spell sizzled through the dark ink on her hands. It burst from her fingertips and struck him in the chest so hard he stumbled back. He pressed a hand against his sternum, then stared at her in disbelief.

  It was a dangerous spell, one she’d never cast on a person before. Binding spells should never be used unless in the direst of circumstances. They harmed more than they helped, but they could protect the spellcaster in strange ways.

  Blood trickled down her cheek, cool compared to the flames licking her hips. Her abused body ached, pain sparking behind her eyes even as tears fogged her vision.

  “Now we’re in this together, faerie,” she slurred. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, her lips numb from pain and shock. “If I die, so do you.”

  The world tilted to the side, or perhaps that was her head. She tried to stay awake, wanting to remain cognizant as long as possible. It was her last view of the earth. And if that vision was of people who hated her, then so be it.

  Cool wind brushed her cheeks. The tree branches rattled like bones, the corpse of a once green thing cradling her against its side. They would go together even though it was only a shell giving her comfort.

  The moon burst from behind clouds and flooded the clearing in silver light. Her lips twisted in a sardonic smile as her eyes drifted shut.

  It was a good night to die.

  Bran wasn’t supposed to be here. He should return to the Unseelie court where he was greatly missed, rather than meddling in the Seelie kingdom and now here in the human realm. There were more important things to do than watch humans in their daily toils.

  And yet, he flew through the night sky surveying mortal lands. Again.

  He always found himself wandering the human world when his thoughts grew too chaotic. Humans were a simple folk. Easily convinced of superstitions and arcane wickedness when they should remember who first brought magic into this world.

  A raven croaked in his ear, tilting its head and staring down at a gathering in the wood. It was unusual for humans to be out this late. They feared the dark almost more than they feared the unknown.

  Furrowing his brow, Bran landed in the thicket and crouched to watch the screaming men and women.

  They’d tied a woman to a tree while brandishing pitchforks at her. A man stood in the center, feeding the frenzy with callous words and a tone filled with fervor.

  Witch hunter.

  Humans always wanted to grasp just a little more power before their souls fled the shells of their flesh.

  Snorting, he glanced at one of his ravens. “Why are we stopping?”

  Again, it croaked.

  “It’s the same story as last time. A woman burns, a crowd finds peace, and then they return to their sordid lives to find another witch to blame.”

  The corvid shuffled his feet and clacked his beak. Something was bothering the beast, although Bran couldn’t figure out what.

  He smoothed a hand against the shaved side of his skull. “We aren’t here to save a witch. We’re here to forget meddling women.”

  It wasn’t his job to help those in need. They could save themselves, or rot for all he cared. He’d meddled enough in the Seelie court to last a lifetime, and to give himself an honorary Unseelie title for the rest of his days.

  Bran shifted, placing a knee against the ground and resting his arm on the other. “What is it you see? Show me.”

  The corvid spread his wings and took to the sky. They shared a special bond because these birds weren't real; they were a part of him. Bran was an Unseelie with two natures, that of a Tuatha de Danann and that of a predatory bird.

  It unfortunately warped his form into half man and half beast. His face was twisted on the left side, and glossy black feathers encircled a raven eye that moved on its own. His left leg was thinner than the other and had a taloned foot that clicked as he walked. Feathers sprouted from the side of his head that he plucked every week to make it look as though it was shaved.

  He exhaled, covered his human eye, and let his raven take control of his sight.

  They soared through the skies for a moment before the beast landed on a branch near the crowd. It tilted its head to the side and stared at the woman strapped to the tree.

  Flames crawled up the pale fabric of her shift. She wore little for a human woman, and his gaze halted at the outline of her legs. Pretty, long legs, shapely waist, strong muscles that were unusual for a human. Usually they were soft. And if they weren’t soft, then they were crude and base creatures made for working in fields.

  But she wasn’t muscled like a farm woman. There was a grace to her beauty.

  Who was this witch? What a shame she wouldn’t live to see the sunrise.

  Her dark hair stuck to the rough bark like a spiderweb. The dark tangles seemed to absorb the light, falling in front of her face in ragged curls.

  Bran drew in a harsh breath, and the raven spread its wings in surprise.

  Her face.

  The witch tied to the tree didn’t have a face. Magic blurred what he was certain to be a vision. Why didn’t she have a face?

  “Corvin, return to me.”

  Bran shut his raven eye, refusing to see her anymore. He didn’t want to know what kind of creature she was. The temptation of a challenge, of a story left untold, burned through his veins.

  “No,” he muttered.

  He was still curious. He stepped out of the brush and held himself still at the edge of the clearing. She was looking at him, he was certain of that. She reached out a hand in his direction, and a few heads turned.

  Humans couldn’t see him. Bran’s glamour was a powerful thing, and he’d learned the spell at an early age. But she could see him.

  What was she? A changeling? He would have known if she was. Faeries knew faeries, and she didn’t smell like magic.

  Although, so much smoke filled the air he might not have been able to smell her magic at all. And it would explain the beauty of her body, the grace of her fingers, even stiff with pain.

  He didn’t know of any changelings in these parts. He kept track of the poor creatures and tried to give them advice whenever he could. Their luck was horrible. The least he could do was tell them how to prank the humans so they could free themselves from their adopted family’s grasp. Changelings were notoriously mistreated by humans, but did remarkably well if they took their life in their own hands.

  His skull prickled, sharp feather nubs standing on end just before the most powerful curse he’d ever felt struck him hard in the chest.

  Bran stumbled back, lifting a hand and pressing it against the bruised, singed skin of his chest. It had gone clear through his shirt, leaving a starburst scorched over his heart. “What—?”

  Pain, raw and agonizing, seared his flesh. His feet were on fire, his legs, his arms, everything in so much pain he clenched his teeth. Bran locked his knees and breathed through the initial shock.

  The witch had cursed him.

  No.

  Bound him.

  He growled and shoved through the crowd. Humans scattered, shouting that the invisible devil had arrived, come to take their souls. Footsteps thundered through the forest, back to their safe village and warm beds. They couldn’t see him, but if they had, they would have had even more reason to scream.

  The witch hunter swung his cross back and forth in front of the flames. “Begone demon! I will not allow you to take back your whore.”

  Bran palmed the man’s face and shoved him to the ground.

  He stepped through the fire, pushed
aside the brambles in his way until he could stand in front of her. The ravens rose behind him and beat back the flames with rushing wings and squawking cries.

  “Who are you?” he growled.

  She spat at him. Sticky and overheated, her saliva slid down his cheek in a wet, sluggish crawl.

  Angered, he grasped her chin and turned her head. Nothing. No face, not even a hint of a face, nothing but faint fog the color of her ivory skin.

  “You cursed me,” he accused. “Remove it, witch.”

  “If you want it gone so bad, remove it yourself.”

  “I won’t ask again.”

  “You won’t have to.” Her chin slid from his grasp as she fainted.

  He’d touched her face, felt her delicately pointed chin pressing into his palm. He just couldn’t see it, and what a strange curse to put on a person.

  Almost as bad as binding a strange faerie’s life with her own.

  A raven cried out and landed on his shoulder. Talons dug through his shirt and pricked his skin.

  “What do you think she is?” Bran asked.

  The croaking reply was simple. Could she be a changeling? There was no other human creature who could perform a binding spell like that, yet they would know about her. They should know about her.

  Footsteps, soft and animalistic, quietly sounded in the forest beyond. A Fae beast didn’t want Bran to know it was there. He narrowed his gaze at the shadows then looked back at the woman slumped against the smoking, charred tree.

  He didn’t want to take her with him. It was a useless endeavor, only satisfying his curiosity and likely to cause more trouble than it was worth.

  He tucked his finger under her chin and tilted her face up to the moonlight. “Strange,” he muttered. “Who wanted to hide your face? And why?”

  Questions he intended to answer as soon as possible. Bran was already behind on his plans, but what were a few more nights? Besides, he needed to remove the binding spell this ridiculous curiosity had placed on him.

  Didn’t she know binding spells were dangerous? She was lucky he knew magic. Most Unseelie had no idea how to cast complicated curses, and they were more likely to kill her rather than attempt to break the curse.

  “Did you cast it because you thought you would die?” he asked her as he circled the tree. “It’s a strange punishment for a person you’ve never met.”

  He reached forward and hooked a claw on the rope that gave way beneath his fingers and dropped to the ground. He winced as an echo of pain rocked through his chest, stealing his breath and reminding him they were bound. Her pain was his, her life was his, and he’d have to take care.

  “Can’t have you dying prematurely, now can we?” He stooped and hefted her over his shoulder. “Now, why don’t we find a quiet little place to chat. Hm?”

  The Woman Without A Face

  Dreams plagued Aisling, memories from her childhood that she had desperately tried to repress.

  “Aisling.” The voice shook with age but remained direct and firm. “It's for the best.”

  She twisted her hands in her lap, staring at the offending fingers as if it were their fault she was in trouble. “I did nothing wrong. All I wanted was to say hello, and they—they—”

  Hands covered her own. They were beautiful hands, long-fingered with smooth skin. The spotted flesh was uneven and strange but more familiar than her own in ways.

  Badb always said she was two people trapped in the same body. One light-skinned, one dark, and both battled across her body in hopes they would dominate the other. She was beautiful and made all the more otherworldly by her speckled skin.

  She was one of the most feared Tuatha de Danann to ever live. A mirrored reflection and sister of Morrighan, goddess of battle and war, Badb was known to soar over battlefields, inciting fear and panic in warrior’s hearts. Most only saw her as a hooded crow, speckled like her skin. They feasted on the carrion of war and answered only to her call.

  And yet, she had been a staple in Aisling’s life. Badb was her silent protector and the quiet figure who healed her scraped knees.

  “Child, you did nothing wrong. They are small-minded creatures and incapable of understanding what you offer.”

  “I offer nothing but friendship,” she whispered, “but they threw rocks at me.”

  She was only seven years old, and already she’d lost so much. Her family had abandoned her a year ago. No human wanted to take her in but a scruffy young witch who made her work more than cared for her. Faeries wouldn’t even look at her because she was a changeling and, therefore, unworthy. She was nothing to every person who looked at her.

  Badb sighed and tucked a strand of Aisling’s hair behind her ear. The slow swipe of dark locks was gentle but still scraped against bruises and tiny cuts caused by pelted stones. It wasn’t the first time the villagers had attacked Aisling, although it was the first time she’d called the Tuatha de Danann to her side.

  “They do not understand outward beauty like yours.”

  “I’m not beautiful.” Aisling shook her head, causing the hair to fall forward in front of her face again. “Not like you.”

  “You're sweet, but there are many who think I am ugly. Beauty changes in the hearts of every living creature. Remember that. Now, I cannot protect you from man. That is your curse to bear. But I can protect you from faeries.”

  “I’m not worried about the Fae. They’ve always been kind to me.”

  Badb’s expression hardened. She narrowed her eyes, and something dark passed through her gaze that made Aisling shiver. “The Fae are not your friends, child. We do not know how to be friends with people like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “You are a marvelous creature made for great things, Aisling. But you are not to consort with the Fae. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  She didn’t like it. Faeries were oddly addicting creatures. She’d seen them in the woods her entire life. Their wings fluttered in the moonlight, laughter dancing on the wind and magic pulsing in the air until she could taste citrus on her tongue. Aisling loved to play in the faerie circles and dance with them in the evenings.

  Perhaps that was why the humans didn’t like her. She knew things she shouldn’t.

  Aisling ducked her head and blew out a breath. “But do I have to give up my face?”

  “The only way to hide you from the faeries is to make sure they don't know who you are.”

  “I don’t know who I am.”

  Badb leaned forward and pressed her lips to Aisling’s forehead. “I’m sorry we have to keep it that way, my little warrior. Someday, you will find out who you are. Until then, we must hide you in whatever way possible.”

  She didn’t want to hide. She wanted to run away from the humans who hated her and live with the faeries. But she’d begged Badb for that future so many times it made her throat raw.

  Aisling was not meant to live with the faeries. It wasn’t safe, Badb had told her.

  She sighed and held out her hands. “Will it hurt?”

  “A little. Some pain is worth enduring.”

  Badb traced her fingertips over Aisling’s palm, drawing lines that felt white hot. Her nails left dark streaks like fine calligraphy. Over and over she traced until Aisling stared down at an eye in the center of her hand.

  “Why an eye?” she asked.

  “To keep your energy open. I want you to protect yourself regardless of your chains. Give me the other.”

  Magic slithered up Aisling’s fingers and arms. It wasn’t pain, not really, but it wasn’t comfortable either. She hissed out a breath and focused on steadying her heartbeat as the second eye was drawn. It was worse this time now that she knew what to expect.

  Electricity sparked in the air, lifting strands of hair from her head and stinging her body wherever it touched. Badb worked diligently until twin eyes stared up at her.

  Aisling lifted her hands and met the strange gaze. They blinked, the tattoos shifting against her skin.


  “Whose are they?” she asked.

  “Yours from another time. Who better to look after you than the woman you will become?”

  She nodded. It was a good decision. Even in her young age, Aisling had learned long ago she could trust no one other than herself. “And now?”

  “Now is when you will feel pain.”

  Badb reached for her hands again and pinched the tips of her fingers. Fire burned the sensitive pads, so painful she couldn’t breathe.

  “It hurts,” she whimpered. “Badb, please.”

  Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, but there were still seven fingers to go. Her jaw ached from clenching, and she held her breath. Had her hands been severed? It felt like Badb was slowly sawing through the joints, but they were still attached. Why wouldn’t they fall off if she was cutting through the bone?

  “Done,” Badb said with a sigh. She pinched the tip of Aisling’s last finger and all the pain disappeared.

  Slumping to the side, Aisling wiped at her sweaty brow. “You're finished?”

  Badb reached out and cupped her cheek. “I can no longer see your pretty face. You're safe.”

  Aisling lurched upright, gasping at the painful memory. She pressed a hand to her chest and tried to force herself to breathe.

  That hated dream again. The moment when she lost all sense of self and became the witch. It would plague her for the rest of her life.

  The curse lingered at the edges of her existence, always lifting its ugly head at the worst moments. She wasn’t human; she wasn’t Fae. She wasn’t anything other than a marked creature who hovered between both worlds.

  What had brought about the dream?

  Sensations returned as sleep loosened its hold. She winced, agony digging claws into her hips and raking down her legs.

  “Right,” she muttered. “They burned me at the stake.”

  “They tried to burn you.”

  She stiffened.

  The voice was not one she recognized, although she knew the tones. It was too smooth, too pretty, too lovely to slip off the tongue of a human.