âHow normal I still am?â Fiona manages a tight laugh despite the searing pain on her skin, shaking her head. âThat feels like a compliment. Thank you.â She takes more pleasure in it than she arguably should, but thatâs been the effort, hasnât it? Trying her best to be the person she supposedly is. Or was. Hard to be sure. âUm, they did tell me, I mean my uncle did, but I havenât exactly tried it.â Flexing her hand, she winces. âGuess this would be a good time to start.â Danger, though, thatâs noteworthy, especially coming from Briar. Fiona sighs. âRight. Um, this is fine, then. Not a huge deal, Iâll just ice it.â She nods, tucking her hand under the table before plunging headlong into questions. Headlong into waiting, too, as she watches Briar attempt to formulate a response. Empathy shows her the pain the dusting off of those memories causes, and sheâs sorry for it before she even reads the feelings on Briarâs face. âOkay. Thatâs okay, you donât have toââ But Briar goes on, and Fiona bites her lip and bites back any further questions. At least until Briar discloses things about injury. Fionaâs head tilts, brow furrowing. âDid you⊠did you get injuries like that often?â She can feel it, obviously, the pain that mention of the Otherlands causes. But what sort of pain is it, really? Physical? Mental? What was she put through? Fiona wants to know out of concern for her friend, but also falters, not wanting to stir up more unpleasant things. âIâm sorry, I, um⊠you donât have to tell me everything, obviously. Iâm not trying to be nosy. I just⊠I canât imagine that.â She nods at the elaboration about shades, though to her theyâre still little more than the voices that linger in whispers behind her. âNo, no, donât apologize. Itâs, um, not a pleasant topic. I get it.â Why is she wondering? Fiona sighs, taking her own time to ponder now, looking down at her nervously drumming foot and stinging knuckles. âUm⊠I guess I wanted to know if there was someone like me out there. I mean, really like me. I know there are other people who were pulled from the river, who might feel some of this, too⊠but they donât have the empathy that I do. And I⊠I donât know. I feel like Iâm handling it all wrong.â Itâs a vulnerable confession, and she hates how sorry for herself she seems. âI-I mean, Iâm lucky. I know Iâm lucky, to have survived what I did. I hear it a lot. But itâs⊠itâs a lot.â Fiona has to bite back a sigh of relief as the timer goes of, indicating that the cookies are done baking, their stammered conversation eating up time quickly. The fae rises to her feet with haste, hoping to leave the other topics behind her. âThank you, again, for bringing over the file. Iâm sure itâll be really helpful.â Sheâs not sure of anything. âCan I send you home with some of these? Brownies, or cookies, or both? As a thank you?â
Briar doesnât know how to clarify her feelings on the matter and she mulls them over for several seconds before venturing, âI think so. The river stole your memories from you - or the ghosts did? I am not clear on this. But youâre still you.â Her eyes linger on Fionaâs expression, taking in the flexing fingers and timid wince, and guilt surges through her. Lips parting, she swiftly ducks her head, tracing a thumb over the indents on the table. âIf... do you have any flowers? You can borrow from there, itâs only a small wound, it will only make them wilt a little, theyâll.. recover with time. The danger is in taking too much. Not knowing how to do it can be as dangerous as doing it.â What, then, will stop a fae from panicking and stealing everything from the people nearby? Scar the land, or the person, to heal themselves or someone else? She lifts her chin. âI donât know how to describe, but itâs like warmth, Iâm told. You just sense it and... pull, I think?â Sheâs only been on the receiving end when it feels like someone is stitching a wound, the yank and tug on flesh, unwilling energy stolen from an unwilling host, but she doesnât know how it works on the opposite end. So distracted is she at how it works that Briar almost misses the question and she blinks for a moment. âMore often when I was young. I learned eventually to make the hits land somewhere less important,â she says, though it explains little of the way the pit worked in Morriganâs court, how such wounds were purposely received if it meant people were rooting for you to survive. Her brows furrow, thinking over Fionaâs words. âThere isnât anyone like that in the Otherlands. I have never heard of a Riverborn anywhere other than Lethe.â She looks between Fiona and the sweets Fiona has, nodding shortly, waiting for the other woman to pile a little tupperware container for them, feeling dismissed and forcing the strange reluctance away as it surges. She toys with the little container as she holds it, walking towards the door. âYouâre allowed to hear what people say you are and disagree. Better to feel like yourself than feel like youâre the person others want you to be, trust me on that.â She hesitates only a moment longer torn on saying more, but she feels as though sheâs already said too much. âThanks for the cookies. Let me know if you need anything.â She offers a smile and heads out the door with only a single look back.