Flesh peeling away in strips while something laughed—
Her whole body convulsed at that one, bile rising in her throat. She could feel it, the sensation of skin separating from muscle, the wet sound it made. Her own skin crawled with phantom sensations.
Buried alive, dirt filling her mouth, her nose—
She couldn't breathe. Even though she was above ground, in the open air, her lungs seized with the memory of suffocation. She forced herself to take deep, shuddering breaths that tasted of earth and decay.
The vines, oh god the vines were inside, growing through—
Briar pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to block out the unwanted memories, but they layered now, each one lasting longer, dragging her deeper into dead minds. Her body shook uncontrollably, cold sweat breaking across her skin despite the garden's warmth.
How many had died here? How many had the moss absorbed?
She crouched frozen, afraid to move, to breathe too deeply. The simple task of weeding had become a minefield of horror.
Her fingers began to cramp from gripping the trowel too tightly and when she forced herself to reach for another weed, her hand shook so badly she could barely grasp the stem. No matter how she tried to avoid it, the moss was everywhere.
There was no safe place to put her hands. No clear ground to kneel on.
A whimper escaped her throat as she tried to find a position that didn't involve contact with the moss. But every adjustment brought some part of her closer to those memory-soaked surfaces. The garden had been designed for this, to make avoiding the moss impossible and force whoever was sentenced here to experience death after terrible death.
"Help..."
The whisper made her freeze. It hadn't come from the moss.
"Please... water..."
She turned slowly, tracking the voice to what she'd taken for a twisted tree. But looking closer, she could see the truth. The bark wasn't bark. It was skin, transformed and hardened but still somehow alive. Features pressed against the surface, the suggestion of a face, hands reaching.
"Water... just a drop..."
One of the Rooted, she assumed. Thaine had warned her they used to be people.
"I can't," she whispered.
"Please!" The voice grew stronger, more desperate. "So thirsty... years... decades... please!"
More voices joined the first. All around her, trees she'd thought dead revealed themselves as prisons. Men and women transformed but not killed, all suspended in endless torment.
"Help us!"
"Free us!"
"Water, just water!"
Their pleas hammered at her as she tried to return to weeding. But knowing they were there, knowing they watched, made every movement feel traitorous. She was free to move while they remained trapped. Free to leave come dawn while they stayed forever.
"Selfish thing," one voice turned bitter. "Look at her, whole and healthy."
"She ignores us. Let us suffer."
"Just like the others. Just like all of them."
The accusations stung worse than the weeds' cuts. She wanted to explain, to make them understand she couldn't help. But what good would words do?
"Come closer," a new voice wheedled. This Rooted grew nearer to where she knelt, its transformation more recent. She could still make out feminine features in the bark. "I know a secret. About the garden. About how to survive. Just come closer so I can whisper."
Briar hesitated. Information might help, but approaching seemed foolish.
