The Faceless Woman_A Retelling of the Swan Princess

by Emma Hamm

  “It’s not a favor when you help a friend. And the person who’ll help us is just that, cat. A friend.” He stressed the word as much as physically possible.

  “Lovers are always a little bit more than friends, but not quite more at the same time. Be careful wherever you take us. I don’t want to pick up the pieces you leave behind.”

  The cat was overly protective of Aisling. He understood the sentiment. Lorcan had been her only family for nearly her entire life. It was an admirable quality, but not appropriate when he could see blood pooling around her body.

  He didn’t respond to the insane accusations. Instead, he reached forward and scooped her back into his arms where she belonged.

  The thought made him hesitate.

  Where she belonged? Was he thinking like that now? They’d only shared one night of passion. It was a little early to be pledging his honor to her. And yet…

  No. He shook his head to clear his mind. Now wasn’t the time.

  “Are you coming?” he called out.

  A hiss was his answer, but Lorcan streaked forward and dove into the portal without hesitation. The cat was brave to a fault, Bran would give him that.

  Shaking his head, he adjusted Aisling in his grip. “I’ll hold onto you through the whole thing,” he murmured. “I won’t let go, no matter how the storm rages.”

  He pressed his lips to her forehead and let his eyes drift shut. The doors to the palace had opened. Enraged roars and shrieks of anguish filled the courtyard as the Duchess’s people saw the body of their esteemed mother lying on the floor without her heart. It wouldn’t be long before they turned upon him.

  Bran stepped forward into the portal and let the thick magic swirl to his thighs. His hands closed tight around her.

  Lips tight to her skull, he smiled sarcastically. “Little witch, you had no idea how close you were to a perfect spell. You just had to tilt the arc slightly, and you could have traveled wherever you wanted in the Otherworld. Now, I’ll take you to the human realm just to fix you.”

  Magic closed over their heads and pulled at their form. Unlike the first time, this magic was gentle. It plucked at the strands of their hair, a faint whine emanating from the red glow as it brushed against the wounds on their sides.

  Sometimes magic was alive. It breathed in the essence of the person who created it and became something else. Bran loved creating spells for this reason. Every now and then, he felt as though he had created life.

  The portal deposited them on a rocky shore. He knelt on the smoothed stones, waves lapping at his knees. Seagulls cried out overhead, and the calm of the isle’s shores eased his soul. Bran glanced up and saw the rolling emerald mountains rising up from the ocean like they’d been perfectly placed by a giant.

  His soul loosened its knots of fear. This was home. Even far from the courts, the scent of peat, heather, and fresh rain would always remind him of where he came from.

  This land felt right. Holding Aisling in his arms felt right. For the first time in his long life, Bran understood what it meant to belong. It wasn’t a physical place. It wasn’t the acceptance of others. Home and love started from within.

  “Bran?”

  “Elva?”

  She stood where sand met moss, wearing pliant, leather armor and a frown. A breeze stirred the spun gold of her hair. Braids tunneled through the bright mane like fjords furrowing through the earth. Her skin was rosy and impossibly gold rather than tanned.

  Eyes the color of aquamarine met his with a surprising sternness. This wasn’t the woman he remembered, or at least not the simpering violet she had been long ago.

  He noted the swords at her back, the solid stance, and hand resting on her hip as if ready for whatever he might try. His lips twisted in a smirk, regardless of his body’s shaking. The spell would only work for so long. He needed them to help Aisling soon, otherwise he, too, would fall into a deep sleep.

  “Are you going to attack me?” he asked. “Or are you going to help?”

  “What are you doing here, Unseelie?”

  “Unseelie, is it? You know me better than that, Elva.” He purposefully used her name. It was a reminder they had been childhood friends. She owed him more than she ever would admit after all she’d put him through. Their past was complicated, and something neither of them liked to think about.

  Something sparked in her eyes, and he knew she understood the dangerous tone of his voice. He wouldn’t stand for her pushing him to the side. Regardless of her station in life, they had once been friends.

  Seelie or Unseelie, he would not take no for an answer.

  “Scáthach will not be pleased with such an intrusion. Men are not welcome here.”

  “And I arrived with full understanding of that. It’s not for myself that I seek sanctuary.” He shifted Aisling in his arms, the long waterfall of her dark hair nearly touching the ground. “I ask that you and the maidens take my…take her. Heal her.”

  Elva softened her stance, her hand falling to her side finally. “Give her here. Who is she?”

  He didn’t want to let someone else take her. He wanted to stay by her side through the healing, help her through the bitterness of nightshade. Yet he knew the foolish thoughts for what they were.

  His own legs weak, Bran stepped forward to transfer Aisling into Elva’s arms.

  The golden faerie stopped him with a lifted hand. “You’re shaking.”

  “A binding curse will do that to you.”

  “What did you do?”

  Now there was the chiding tone he recognized. Grinning, he lifted Aisling higher and raised a brow. “Do you want to help or not?”

  Elva cursed. “Always getting yourself in trouble, Bran. What have you brought me, a witch?”

  “A changeling, I believe.” He hesitated then plunged ahead. “I have to warn you, the Duchess of Dusk spelled her to wear your face. It was a cruel jest, and I don’t want you to take it the—”

  Elva lunged forward, her hands desperately smoothing the hair away from Aisling’s face.

  He had never seen such a panicked expression on her face before. She wasn’t just afraid; she was terrified the woman he held in his arms might be dead. All color drained from her face as she stared down into Aisling’s still form.

  “It’s removable,” he gruffly said. “Heal her first, and then we can talk to her about removing the spell.”

  “Bran, you idiot,” Elva breathed. “Give her to me.”

  “It’s just a spell, Elva.” He couldn’t understand the hundred emotions flickering through Elva’s eyes, or the way she lifted Aisling from his arms with infinite care.

  “It’s not just a spell,” she spat, her eyes burning with anger and something deeper he couldn’t understand. “I don’t remember you as a blind fool. She’s not wearing my face, Bran. She’s my sister.”

  The foundation of the earth shifted. So stunned he was at the revelation, Bran didn’t know which way was up, and his vision blurred.

  And, of course, Aisling was her sister. How had he not seen it before?

  The truth had been in front of him all this time. In the way Aisling gestured with her hands when she spoke, the way she tilted her head when she was angry at him, the jumping of her leg when she was impatient. Elva’s mannerisms were written all over Aisling like a brand.

  Of course, they were sisters. He should have known it from the first moment he set eyes upon the beautiful woman strapped to a tree. The women of their line were always bound by one thing or another, Elva by her beauty, Aisling by her magic. And he was drawn to them like a moth to a flame.

  “Bran?” Elva said, pulling him out of his silence. “You cannot stay here.”

  “I stay where she is.”

  “This isle is not home to men.”

  “And yet we have called this place home before. Where she goes, I go.”

  Her lips twisted into a snarl, and she looked him up and down. “If this is some half-hearted attempt to win me back, I’ll have you know—”


  “Stop.” Bran lifted a hand, then slowly curled it into a fist. “Now is not the time. We’ll have that conversation later. It’s been a long time coming. But right now all I am concerned about is her wellbeing. Take her wherever you need to, but know that I will follow close behind.”

  Elva’s gaze narrowed and then skated away from the raven eye that was on Aisling’s form. “You’ve changed, Bran. I’m not sure yet whether for the better or the worse.”

  “We’ll find out sometime.”

  He wasn’t going to argue with her. He had changed. Aisling was an influence that was hard to refute. She had a way of making people see the world the way she saw it. More than that, her gentle touches and unabashed bravery had worn away at the sharp edges of his anger.

  Seelie Fae saw him as an animal. Unseelie Fae saw him as a pretty meld of human and animal without any bite. Aisling saw him as a man, and she was the first person to take a step toward acknowledging he had a soul.

  “She’s bleeding,” he quietly said. “We should get her help.”

  “Can you stay upright if you follow me?”

  Probably not, but he squared his shoulders and nodded.

  They made their way across the rocky shore, picking their way over seaweed-laden stone and algae-filled crevices. He nearly slipped a few times but caught himself at the last second. When they reached the top of a small rise, the sea fell away. Emerald green grass spread out before them like a blanket laid out for a god.

  A fortress jutted from the earth in the distance. Made out of black stone, it had earned its name. The Fortress of Shadows was the home to the most powerful women in all the Otherworld. Kings had begged for their support, then for their training, but only one had ever managed to convince these women to bend a knee.

  Even then, it hadn’t ended well for him.

  Letting out a breath, he followed close on Elva’s heels as she made her way up the meandering dirt path and entered the home of the great Lady Scáthach.

  Bran vividly remembered the stories told of her. How she had taken down an army by herself. How she had risen from the ground a grown woman, her arms powerful, her sword sharp, and her soul that of a woman crying out for revenge.

  She was feared throughout the Otherworld, not because she was evil, but because she was vengeance personified.

  Dark walls jutted out of the earth and towered above them. Elva walked past with little reaction to the archer’s who pointed drawn bows at them.

  Women peered out of their tents laid out across the fortress grounds. Each and every one of them was training to be just as deadly as Scáthach. Many would succeed and go out into the world to take over their own kingdom, to kill those who wronged them, to train husbands and sons in the true art of war.

  Compared to them, he felt small. Bran was no little man. He was tall and broad, although lean in a way his siblings were not. But these women were powerful in every sense of the word. Muscles bulged in their necks and biceps flexed as they crossed their arms and stared him down.

  Armor clinked as the breeze shifted their chainmail. Even in their home, they were prepared for battle.

  A chicken rushed past, strangely silent as it fled some hidden force. It didn’t bode well. Bran gritted his teeth and hoped that Aisling’s strange familiar had made himself scarce. The last thing he needed was a black cat to cross his path.

  The doors banged open, and Scáthach herself strode from the fortress and made her way toward them. She was a giant of a woman with red hair like a bloom of fire, terrifying in her height and power in her every movement. Muscles flexed, armor creaked, but above all else, it was the storm hidden in her gaze that made Bran’s feathers raise on his arm.

  “Be at peace, Unseelie,” she called out. “I have not the energy to deal with you yet. Bring me the girl.”

  Elva raced toward the mistress and deposited her sister into the outstretched arms. “She is badly wounded.”

  “Cursed?”

  “In many ways,” Bran called out. “A spell to keep her asleep. It slows the poison.”

  “Not entirely useless then.” Scáthach pressed her ear to Aisling’s lips and then straightened. “She’ll live.”

  The warrior woman turned on her heel and strode toward the fortress. Bran moved to follow her, only to halt when Elva’s hand slapped hard against his chest.

  “No man enters the Fortress of Shadows.”

  “Does this not count?”

  “You know you are within the surrounding walls. Stop trying to mince words, Bran, and keep your feet anchored to the ground.”

  Heavy doors closed behind Scáthach. The reverberating thrum echoed in his head, but all he could feel was the distance between himself and the strange witch who had wiggled her way into his heart.

  Elva’s gaze burned. “You aren’t yourself,” she mused. “Come with me. I’ll get you something to eat, and perhaps we can slow the effects from the binding curse.”

  “I thought you told me to stay put.” He wouldn’t mind, even though it surprised him, but a part of him wanted to stare at the doors until they opened again.

  Could Scáthach actually save her? Or had he brought them both to their doom?

  Elva shoved him forward. “Come on then. Stop staring like a love-sick puppy. You know I always hated it when you did that.”

  “I’m not staring at you.”

  “No, you’re staring at my baby sister, and that’s even worse.”

  She had a point. He couldn’t imagine what was running through her head. With all the history between them…

  Bran cursed. Not one memory had crossed his mind since coming here. Really since meeting Aisling. How could he have forgotten the deep river of broken engagements, childhood dreams, and promises whispered in the dead of night?

  Fool. He was such a fool.

  Ducking his head, he followed her through the crowds of women standing and eyeing him as if he were candy. A few times Elva knocked one back with her shoulder, others she grinned at as she led him to her tent.

  When Elva pointed to a small carpeted area in front of her home, he sat without question. He drummed his fingers on his knees. His gaze flicked toward the fortress every few heartbeats. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Scáthach—she was a warrior woman capable of much more than he knew—but worry gnawed in his belly regardless.

  “She will heal,” Elva said. She pulled the sword from her back and set it on the ground gently. “It was not a mortal wound.”

  “I’ll feel better once she isn’t leaching the life from me.” He rubbed the starburst mark underneath his shirt.

  “We have a while to wait. Tell me what happened, Bran. Every bit of it.”

  He took his time explaining what had happened. There was history between them. Elva had been his first love, his first heartbreak, and everything in between. She deserved to know every detail and then some.

  To her credit, she listened intently through the entire tale while sharpening her blade, only setting it aside when he spoke of the dead god and the Duchess. Sometimes she interrupted with questions, but mostly she let him talk.

  Every word lifted a weight off his shoulders he hadn’t realized was there. She’d always been good at this. Elva’s talent was that she made people feel like they were important. She listened, she understood, and she healed without a word.

  It was both her blessing and her curse.

  As he spoke of the nightshade running through Aisling’s veins and his flight through the window, he felt a rush of energy and power pouring back through him. A long sigh of relief escaped his lips.

  Elva nodded. “And so it is done.”

  The fiery trails down his sides disappeared. “How is she doing it?”

  “Scáthach is a mystery to all of us.”

  “Even to those who live with her?”

  Her gaze slid to the side. “She says every warrior must also be a healer. To understand what can cause the most pain, we must also know what does not.”

  “How intrig
uing,” he murmured, his eyes finding the fortress again.

  Was Aisling scared? It made sense she would be. She was good at pretending that nothing affected her, but he’d seen the flashes of fear in her gaze. She would awake to a stranger bending over her, perhaps even touching her, and he wasn’t there to ease her worry.

  “Sit down, Bran.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d risen.

  Slowly, he settled back down onto the carpet and let out a breath. “What you must think of me.”

  “There are many things I think of you, Unseelie prince. But I’m uncertain you could ever guess them.”

  He ran a hand over the feathers on his skull. “Perhaps not. But I know how I was back then. I made life difficult for you when you didn’t choose me.”

  “I was a pawn in my life. My parents wanted a daughter who was royalty. They didn’t care who I chose.”

  “They didn’t.”

  He remembered those days well. He was supposed to have a Seelie bride. His mother wanted someone who understood their ways so she could pry secrets from their lips. He had desired Elva but hadn’t been able to throw her into his mother’s web. In the end, he chose to be selfish and take her for himself, regardless of his mother’s plans.

  So, he’d wooed her. He poured so much energy and affection into her that he had surprised himself. Before Elva, Bran hadn’t known whether or not he could be the soft, kind person he had been with her.

  And then the Seelie king had arrived.

  He rode a golden steed, not a single strand of pure white hair out of place. Bran had seen him and known immediately that he had lost. Elva wouldn’t choose a man who was half beast. She would choose the paragon of the Fae.

  When she left him empty-handed, he had felt his heart shatter into a million pieces. It had taken years to build himself back up, and even then he had shards of self-doubt that still dug between his ribs.

  He looked at her now and saw a person. There was a woman under all that golden beauty. A woman who had been through much and regretted her decision of husband a thousand times over.