The Faceless Woman_A Retelling of the Swan Princess

by Emma Hamm

  She stared at Bran, really looked at him as though she were trying to climb inside his soul. She saw the raised feathers on the side of his head. The slash of dark down that covered his forehead and narrowed to a point above his nose. The angular features of his face and the bird leg that clawed desperately at the ground, trying to get to her.

  She saw him for what he was. The lies, the secrets, the forbidden past that he hadn’t trusted her with.

  “Bran,” she whispered on a near sob. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t.”

  The Raven King rubbed his hands together. “You see, if he breaks the King’s curse, then he’s back to the spider-like faerie he was before I chose him. It will break the binding curse and the King’s curse. Both have been placed on him—Bran, the Raven King’s heir, not Bran, the Unseelie prince. A binding curse can only remain attached to the person originally cursed. If he’s Bran the Unseelie prince, then the binding curse doesn’t exist.”

  “Then do it,” she said. “Why does this matter? The curse is broken either way.”

  With an embellished whirl, the Raven King dramatically turned toward Bran. “That’s where the best part is revealed. Because Bran doesn’t know that you”—he turned and pointed at her—“are my consort.”

  Silence echoed in the room louder than a scream. She straightened, determined to remain poised, and then met Bran’s horrified gaze.

  “No,” he muttered. “No, not you.”

  “Her,” the Raven King replied. He circled Aisling, pressed his lips against her ear, and murmured, “Go ahead. Why don’t you show them what all those years with humans taught you? Lie.”

  “No,” she whispered, lips twitching in fear.

  “Do it.”

  “No.”

  “Tell him you aren’t what he thinks you are. Tell him a lie.”

  “I can’t.”

  The Raven King tsked in disappointment and stepped away from her. “I don’t know how the magic found her of all people, but I am perfectly happy to keep her. If Bran breaks the spell, Aisling, then you are mine. If he doesn’t, then he is damned for all eternity to take my place as the Raven King, but he has you.”

  She stared into Bran’s night-sky eyes and knew what he would pick. She slowly crouched, set the vial on the ground, and rolled it to his clenched fist. “We both know what you want.”

  “You don’t know what it is you’re saying. He’s the Raven King, Aisling. He’s dangerous.”

  “So are you.” She smiled, although it was a little shaky. “And so am I. This is my fate, Bran. I know what it is like to be bound by a curse that makes you someone else. I wouldn’t want you to live with it for the rest of your life, just because you were afraid I couldn’t take care of myself. I’ve done it before, I will do it again, whether you are the Raven King or not.”

  She poured her heart out and still she couldn’t say those three words that meant more to her than life itself. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t now, and he didn’t need to have any more added guilt to his choice.

  Cast the spell. She tried to project her thoughts to him so she wouldn’t embarrass them both. Taste the ambrosia of freedom. Live it for me.

  The Unseelie queen clapped her hands, all eight legs dancing on the floor to the same beat. “That was the most entertainment I have had in centuries! My goodness, the three of you with all these curses floating between you. It’s enough to make my head spin.”

  Aisling glared at her. “This doesn’t include you.”

  “But it does, because that is my son, and I want him back.”

  The Raven King whirled. “We had a deal.”

  “You broke that deal the moment you set the Wild Hunt on my daughters and chased them back to this realm.”

  “They had no right to be in the human realm.”

  “That is not your choice.”

  Aisling tilted her head back and screamed, “Enough!”

  The entire room fell silent again, every person staring at her as though she had lost her mind. And perhaps she had.

  She looked at the Unseelie on his knees, still stuck to the floor by his own family, and sadly shook her head. “Do it, Bran. Just get it over with.”

  “This was never the choice I would have made,” he replied. His face twisted in sadness and disappointment. “For either of us.”

  “I know. But it’s the right choice.”

  She would survive; she always had. Every moment of her life had been spent alone. She knew what it felt like, and she would handle it when it crashed down upon her once again.

  Memories would help her exist wherever the Raven King brought her. Judging him so quickly was likely cruel. Perhaps he would be a good man. That had been her sister’s fate, after all. Now Aisling could understand exactly how Elva felt.

  “Sweetheart,” Bran murmured, “have a little more faith than that.”

  He lifted his hand and brought it down hard on the small vial. It shattered under his touched, the blue glow dying instantly upon touching the ground.

  “What?” she gasped. “Why would you do that?”

  Bran looked up, met her gaze, and smiled. “For you.”

  Aisling had only a second to appreciate the moment before blistering pain shattered through her body. She threw her head back, eyes wide, a silent scream shaking her to the very core.

  Her flesh melted, her bones realigned, the crunching sounds of transformation echoed in her ears until that was the only thing she could think of. She lifted an arm and finally managed to scream as feathers poked through her skin, shredding her muscles along the way. Her spine shifted, neck elongating and shoulders dropping.

  Finally, she laid flat against the floor in a panting, heaving mess. Something wasn’t right. She didn’t feel like herself at all.

  Aisling lifted her head, feeling the subtle grace in the movement. She shook it and tried to speak. All that came out was a strange croak.

  She shook her head again and met Bran’s horrified gaze.

  “Aisling,” he gasped. “I’m so sorry.”

  The floor was polished near to a mirror. When she looked down at herself, she let out a quiet, disappointed sigh.

  A swan stared back at her. White feathers, so pristine they didn’t look real, covered her body. A black beak pointed into a lovely line that ended just above her eyes.

  She tried to flap her wings but didn’t know how to control this strange body. She looked up as another sound filled the room. The rushing of ravens.

  They left the Raven King in a swarm and dove into Bran’s body. He arched back, tearing through the webbing with sudden violence, opening his arms wide to welcome their possession. The cords of his neck stood out in stark relief as he screamed.

  When it was complete, they stared at each other. No longer Unseelie and Witch but something far more.

  Bran panted through the pain and reached out a hand for her. “Cursed again, Aisling? Don’t worry. I’ll save you. I promise.”

  The setting sun turned the waters pink, violet, and indigo. The rainbow colors glimmered all around her like a painting pulled directly from an artist’s mind. And she, the tiny swan set in the center to remind everyone there was beauty in the world.

  Aisling adjusted her wings gracefully. She lifted one, then the other, stretching them out so she could stare along the gentle curves of the feathers. So pretty, each and every one reflecting sunlight like an opal. It was said that a single feather from her wing would feed a faerie family for centuries.

  They had never seen someone like her before. It had been thousands of years since a Raven King had a consort. Even then, those who were alive during that time couldn’t remember what she looked like.

  Some said she was the most beautiful woman in the world. When she sang, the sky would weep for the haunting sound. When she laughed, the trees dropped leaves so she might play and twirl beneath their branches. And when she cried… They did not speak of when she cried.

  A soft downy
feather floated from her neck and landed atop the water. It curved up at the edges. The current carried it toward the shore, but it never made it. Aisling violently shredded it with her beak, dipping it underneath the water time and time again until it was ruined.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” a deep voice called across the waters. “We could have used that.”

  She snapped her head up, glaring at Bran where he stood on the shore.

  The Raven King stared back at her. He was himself, but not. The same man, same flesh, same body, and yet something was missing from the man she knew and loved.

  He had let his hair grow out as they traveled to Underhill. No longer half shaved, tangled feathers grew through his long hair. He had braided small pieces of it, creating a wild tangle of raven, obsidian strands and Celtic knots.

  Unlike his predecessor, Bran did not wear a cloak. He wore black leather armor, each piece crafted to depict the Wild Hunt. It stretched across his body to meet epaulettes crafted from dark feathers and black diamonds.

  He held out his hand and called her name. “Aisling, it is time.”

  And so it was, and so it would be, for all eternity.

  She floated toward him slowly. They had all the time in the world and none at the same time.

  The shore was a body’s length away from her when she stopped and tilted her head to the side. Bran smiled at her, his raven eye locked on her form as if she was the only thing that existed.

  “You are beautiful,” he quietly said. “Even now. Even like this, you still captivate me.”

  She ducked her head, shy and incapable of responding.

  “Just a few moments now. Can you feel it?”

  Every fiber of her being felt the moment. She knew the exact time when the moon would strike the water and the curse on her body would lift. The sun dipped below the horizon and silver light poured over the lake.

  Its soothing touch spilled from her head to her toes. Water rushed up her body in a funnel that spun around her as her wings lengthened to arms and fingers, her webbed feet gave way to gently arched feet, and her elongated neck settled back on her shoulders.

  Silver moonlight spun the droplets of water to pearls as they fell back to the lake.

  Aisling sighed, lifted her arms to her hair, and took a moment to enjoy her body again. She stretched out her hands, staring down at the black tattoos that now spread all over her form. Ogham marks linked both arms, proclaiming her “Raven Consort.”

  “Come here,” he called for her. “We have but a few moments.”

  She waded through the water and raced to his side.

  Bran caught her in his arms with a chuckle, tucking her against his chest until she could hear his heartbeat. He was warm where she was cold, strong where she was weak, and it felt so good to let him take the weight on her shoulders for a little while.

  He leaned down and whispered a siren song, “Do you know the reasons I shouldn’t kiss you right now?’

  “I can’t think of a single one.”

  Bran pressed his mouth to her brow. “No one has ever taught me how to be soft with a woman. I touch you with hands that only know how to give scars.”

  “Then add to mine, and I will wear them with pride, for I know they were given with the intent to heal, not harm.”

  He slid his velvet lips down to her cheek, barely touching her. “You are so good, a light in my darkness, and I cannot snuff out another candle.”

  “I know how to survive in the dark.”

  Again, he moved, lingering on the end of her nose. He lifted a hand and gently scraped the claws across her neck. “You are the sun, burning my wings away. But I will laugh in bitter triumph as I tumble toward my end because I know I got close enough to kiss you.”

  “You foolish man, I am not the sun, and you are not a winged creature. You are my Unseelie prince, and I am your witch.”

  “My mother always told me if I saw something I wanted, I should take it.”

  She surged forward, standing on tip toes until she could feel the heat from his mouth. “This is the first and only time I will agree with your mother.”

  He spared a moment for a chuckle, then gave in to both their desires. Bran kissed her with the strength of the thousands of stars that stared down on them. She felt each one as they appeared, individual pinpricks of light creating constellations. She felt the colorful galaxies all compressed into one moment as he held her against his heart.

  Every moment was precious, every second a stolen gift.

  Bran drew back with a quiet sigh. “They’re waiting for you.”

  “I know.”

  “They like you.”

  “You say that every time, but I’m not so certain they do. Not yet.”

  “Soon,” he said and pressed another kiss to her lips. “Soon they will see what I do. Give them time.”

  “Be safe tonight.”

  He stepped back from her with a wicked grin that didn’t meet his eyes. “You know I always try.”

  “You’re not very good at it.”

  “I’m not very good at a lot of things. I’ll try to be better, witch.”

  “You do that.”

  He released the power inside of him, bursting into an unkindness of ravens that swarmed away from her. They screamed at the night as the last star flickered to life. She watched them go, knowing at the heart was her cursed king.

  A tear slid down her cheek, but quickly dashed away before anyone might see it. It would not do to be weak here of all places.

  She picked up the dress one of their servants had laid at the shore’s edge. Black velvet smoothed along her fingertips, cool to the touch. It slid over her body with a sound like rushing water. Trickling down her curves, it appeared almost as a second skin. Twin slits on the sides revealed her long legs.

  It dipped low in the front. More tattoos covered her there, swirling patterns and ogham marks that told the story of the Raven King. She was more than just a consort, more than just cursed. She was the living, breathing embodiment of all that was the Raven Kingdom.

  Underhill.

  Aisling strode from the lake, the long train of her black gown whispering along the ground behind her. She crunched through fallen leaves, because it was always autumn here. The trees tried to push out buds, but they always fell, and they always died orange and yellow in the distance.

  The scent of pomegranate filled her senses. She knew why, of course. Bran’s magic was stronger now. It almost had a life of its own.

  Footsteps padded beside her.

  “Lorcan,” she breathed. “You have returned with news?”

  “Nothing yet. No one has ever heard of the Raven King’s consort, let alone a way to break the spell.”

  “Either spell?”

  He shook his dark head, the white starburst on his chest glowing in the moonlight. “Neither.”

  “At least we’re trying,” she replied. “That is good enough.”

  “I won’t live forever.”

  “Do you really think I will ever let you die? My faithful friend…” She paused, stooping to run a hand over his soft fur. “You are immortal for as long as you wish it.”

  “It scares me that you have that power now.”

  “It scares me, too.”

  She stood and squared her shoulders. They were waiting for her.

  Through the forest of dead trees, she traveled barefoot on the plain dirt path. All the way to the winding staircase. It crumbled constantly, magic picking up the pieces and putting it back as it did for the entire labyrinth that made up Underhill.

  Staircases lifted from the ground. They ended in midair, against the sides of buildings, or sometimes just stopped entirely. The tangled network of paths were known only by those who lived there.

  A collective sigh lifted into the air. She could always hear them, though she could rarely see them.

  At the foot of the correct stairwell, a Dullahan waited for her. He held his grinning skeletal head in his hands and nodded at her arrival. His c
oach made of skin stood behind him at the ready. She smiled softly at it and took his offered hand.

  “Not today,” she said. “I’ll have you carry me on another tour soon.”

  The Dullahan bowed over her fingertips, and she bent to press a kiss to the head in his hands.

  The paths were still a mystery to her, but there was always someone willing to guide her. They made certain her steps were true and that the stairs never lead her wrong.

  “This way, mistress,” a soft voice called. “They are waiting for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Dearg-Due had been a pretty woman in her day. It was a shame she had been killed. The jagged knife wound on her throat would forever bleed, fueling her need for human blood to survive.

  Aisling did not hesitate to reach out and touch a finger to the wound. Blood slicked her fingers, but it slowed at her touch.

  “You waste your gift on me,” the Dearg-Due whispered. “Please, mistress. There are more that are worthy.”

  “There are none more worthy than you.” She touched a fingertip to the other woman’s chin. “I know where to go from here.”

  “As you wish.”

  As it would always be for the rest of her life. Aisling smiled and made her way into the castle that was missing bits and pieces. The inside was nearly worse than the outside.

  The center of the castle had been eaten away by a network of tunnels beneath it. She picked across the largest hole and made her way to the great hall where the most dangerous of all Underhill’s inhabitants waited.

  They wouldn’t hurt her. They wouldn’t dare touch the Raven King’s consort.

  Double doors opened, silver handles gleaming as someone on the other side turned them. She let out a slow breath as the first of the Sluagh greeted her.

  Haggard and thin, the creature before her was half bird, half woman. Its paper-thin skin revealed a sickness embedded deep inside its body. Light flickered within, the remnants of souls they stole to give themselves something upon which to exist.

  Leathery wings stretched from her back. Aisling noted new holes the Sluagh tried to hide as she folded them around her body like a cloak. Had Bran taken them on a hunt recently? Or were they attacking each other?