Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Sleep was a mistake.
Briar woke gasping, sheets twisted around her legs, the taste of someone else's death thick on her tongue. The moss memories clung with stubborn persistence. It wasn’t her pain or her terror, but borrowed agonies that felt just as real.
She'd been the woman slowly drowned. Then the man whose bones the marrow vines had hollowed out over weeks. Then the child who'd been transformed so slowly she'd had time to carve her name into her own hardening skin.
The thorn patterns beneath her skin pulsed with each frantically beating heartbeat, spreading heat through her veins. She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to block out images that lived behind her eyelids now.
"Stop," she whispered to the empty room. "Please stop."
But the memories layered and mixed. The Rooted woman's desperate hands became the marrow vines' patient exploration. The moss's absorbed deaths became predictions of her own. She could still feel them burrowing, seeking, hungry for what lay beneath.
The door opened without warning.
Eliam stalked over the threshold, still dressed in the same sleep pants from earlier, his expression caught between irritation and something harder to name.
His pale hair fell loose around his shoulders, and in the moonlight, he looked less like a king and more like the dangerous thing he truly was.
"Your distress is loud," he said flatly. "The entire east wing can feel it through the root systems."
Heat flooded her face. "I'm sorry."
"Are you?" He stepped inside, closing the door with deliberate care. "Because it seems you're actively feeding the memories rather than dismissing them."
"I don't know how to dismiss them." The words came out smaller than intended. "They're not mine but they feel—"
"Real. Yes." He moved closer, each step measured. "The moss is an excellent record keeper. Unfortunately, it doesn't discriminate between owner and observer."
Another wave of borrowed memory crashed over her, this time a young man feeling his bones crack as roots grew through them. She curled forward, arms wrapped around her middle, trying not to be sick.
The bed dipped as Eliam sat on its edge. Not close enough to touch, but his presence changed the air in the room.
"Show me," he commanded.
She lifted her head to find him watching her with those inhuman eyes. "Show you what?"
"The patterns. The moss may have left residue in the binding."
Reluctantly, she extended her arm. The sleeve of her nightgown was loose enough to push up, revealing the delicate thorn patterns that traced from wrist to elbow.
In the moonlight, they looked almost beautiful: dark green lines that could have been elaborate tattoos if not for the way they shifted slightly with each beat of her heart.
His fingers were careful as they traced one of the lines. Where he touched, the burning sensation eased, replaced by cool relief that made her exhale shakily.
"Here," he murmured, pressing his thumb against a spot near her elbow where several patterns converged. "The moss left traces. Sloppy of me not to check."
The relief spread as he worked, his touch clinical but thorough. The borrowed memories began to fade, becoming distant rather than immediate. She could still sense them, but they no longer crashed over her in waves.
"Better?" he asked, though he didn't wait for an answer before moving to examine her throat.
His fingers were gentle against the marks there, tracing each pattern with focused attention.
This close, she was overwhelmed by the scent of him, of forest floors after rain, growing things, of danger wrapped in beauty.
The warmth in her chest stirred, reaching toward him with recognition that made her breath catch.
His eyes flicked to hers, a frown creasing his brow. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Whatever you're doing. The patterns are responding incorrectly."
She looked down to see gold threading through the green lines, following the path of his touch. Where the colors met, the patterns seemed to pulse with contentment rather than pain.
"I'm not doing anything," she said.
"Aren't you?" But he didn't pull away. His fingers continued their exploration, finding each place where moss memory had tangled with his marks. "The dreams will fade. The moss can only hold borrowed memory for so long outside its source."
"How long?"
"Days. Maybe a week." He paused at a particularly sensitive spot where her collar met her shoulder. "Unless you're foolish enough to seek them out."
"Why would I—" Another memory fragment intruded, this one of the Rooted woman before her transformation, begging for mercy. Briar shuddered.
"Breathe," Eliam said, and she realized she'd stopped. His hand moved to cup the back of her neck, thumb pressing against the base of her skull. "The memories are worse when you fight them. Let them pass through."
"Easy for you to say." But she tried to follow his advice, breathing through the phantom sensations instead of tensing against them. It helped, marginally.
"I've touched the moss myself," he said quietly. "I know what it holds."
Surprise made her look up at him. "Why would you?"
"To understand what I'd created. To ensure it served its purpose." His expression gave nothing away, but his thumb traced small circles against her nape. "The garden requires careful tending, even by its master."
They sat in silence for a moment, his hand still cradling her neck, her pulse gradually slowing to something more manageable. The thorn patterns had settled to a steady warmth rather than the earlier burning.
"You could have let me suffer through it," she said eventually.
"Yes." He didn't deny it. "But your distress was... loud. Disruptive."
"To the root systems."
"Among other things." His hand dropped away, and she immediately missed the contact. "The marks should be quiet now. Try to sleep without broadcasting your nightmares to half my domain."
He stood to leave, but her hand shot out, catching his wrist before she could think better of it. He went still, looking down at where she touched him.
"Thank you," she said.
"I didn't do it for you." But he didn't pull away from her grip. "The thorn patterns are my magic. Their misbehavior reflects on me."
"Still." She released him, tucking her hand back against her chest. "Thank you."
He studied her for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he moved to the chair by her window instead of the door.
"What are you doing?"
"Ensuring my magic remains stable." He settled into the chair with casual grace, long legs stretched out before him. "Sleep. I'll wake you if the memories return."
"You're staying?"
"Would you prefer another hour of those dreams?" His tone was sharp, but he was already making himself comfortable. "Or perhaps you'd like to wake the entire castle with your terror?"
She should argue. Should insist she'd be fine alone. But the thought of closing her eyes and facing those borrowed deaths again made her stomach clench.
"No," she admitted quietly.
"Then sleep." He turned his face toward the window, moonlight casting his profile in sharp relief. "I'll be here."
She didn't see how his eyes tracked back to her once her breathing evened out. Didn't notice when he moved the chair closer, just enough to reach out if the nightmares returned. Didn't feel when he touched one of the golden threads in her patterns, expression troubled.
It should have been impossible to rest with him watching. But the thorn patterns hummed contentedly with his proximity, and that warmth in her chest settled into something almost peaceful. When she finally drifted off, her dreams were her own.
Dawn came gentle through her windows, carrying birdsong that shouldn't exist this deep in the forest.
Briar woke slowly, free of borrowed deaths for the first time since the garden. Her body ached, razor cuts stinging, thorn patterns tender, but her mind was clear. She stretched carefully and froze.
The chair by the window sat empty.
She sat up, searching the room for any sign he'd been there.
Nothing. Even his scent had faded, leaving only the usual mixture of roses and old wood.
The memories felt hazy now, dreamlike. Had he really stayed?
Had he really touched her neck with such careful fingers, traced her thorn patterns until they quieted?
Maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe the trauma had conjured a kinder version of him, one who bothered to ease her suffering.
She pressed her fingers to the marks at her throat. They pulsed warm but calm, no trace of last night's burning agony. If she'd only dreamed of his presence, would the moss memories have faded so completely?
A knock interrupted her confusion and the bark-skinned servant entered with breakfast. The woman set the tray down without meeting Briar's eyes, as always, but this morning she paused at the door.
"His lordship says you're to attend him in the library after you've eaten. Best not keep him waiting." She hesitated, then added quietly, "The clothes he selected are in your wardrobe."
She left before Briar could respond.
The dress was deep green that shifted to brown at the hem, with a high collar that would hide most of the thorn patterns. Practical but elegant. She wondered if he'd chosen it to cover the marks or to frame what remained visible at her wrists and the delicate line that crept up from her collar.
Her breakfast sat heavy in her stomach as she made her way to the library, taking two wrong turns before finally finding her way.
He was already there when she arrived, surrounded by the same books on binding and contracts. He didn't look up from the book he was reading, but she saw the slight tension in his shoulders that meant he knew she'd arrived.
"Sit," he said without preamble. "Your education was interrupted. We'll continue where we left off."