Snow White, Part 3

A week later, the day was again market day. They discussed it over breakfast, which Snow White had cooked all by herself. All of the potatoes, all of the eggs, and all of the toast. She had cooked it.

“Today, we have to go to the market. We shall be gone all day, but we will come home with our monies and more food and bread. We were wondering whether you’d care to put out one of your paintings. We are sure it would sell for much, perhaps forty ducs. We could buy more wood for you to paint on, or canvas perhaps, although that might be hard to find. We could buy more paints, different paints, if you like.” Ethan took another bite of his eggs.

“I am fine with the paints I have,” she said, not really concentrating on the conversation. Then she looked up, her eyes widening until the whites showed. “Did you say . . .all day?”

“Yes’m.” Ethan had his head down, squinting at the eggs on his fork. “We only go once a week, for it is so far away. Did you put peppers from the garden in these?”

Snow White’s breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. “Will all of you be going?”

“Of course. The work won’t sell itself you know.” Ethan looked up as Rupert and Aden entered. “Why don’t you have yourself some breakfast?”

Little black dots danced in front of Snow White’s eyes. She wasn’t getting enough air, and her head was ringing. If you refuse to come, I can make it hurt . . .a lot. She pushed back from the table, and stood up, leaning her weight on the table with her arms. “I cannot stay here alone. He’ll find me. He’ll make it hurt. He said. He’ll make it hurt.” White haze started swaying in and out of her vision as she started sobbing. “I don’t want it to hurt. I don’t want it to hurt. Not again. Not like that. He–” she was crying too hard for words now.

“Snow White, Snow White, calm down.” Aden was at her side, tugging at her arm. “Please sit down. Sit.” She did, still crying and shaking her head. “I want you to take deep breaths, Snow White, deep, even breaths. You have to calm down, or you’re going to hyperventilate.” She slowly stopped crying, and took deep breaths with him. “I can’t stay. I just can’t. He’ll find me.”

“Who is he?” asked Juan.

She just shook her head. “You could come with us,” Rupert suggested.

“No. He’ll come, he’ll find me. No.” She gripped Aden’s hand tightly, with hers. Finally, he sighed. “I’ll stay here. I can just work on more woodwork.”

“But–how will you sell that which you have already completed? We need the monies you make with your woodwork. We won’t be able to buy enough food for the five of us without it,” said Juan.

“Juan, I only make thirty ducs a market day. We could go short on something. Or one of you could sell some stuff up in your booth. Say I was sick, or something.” Aden shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You could take one of my paintings.” There was silence in the room, so she continued. “You were talking about it at breakfast, Ethan. You said it would get forty ducs, probably. You could sell that, and it would make up for Aden’s lost work. And you could bring some of his work, and it would overly make up for it.”

“Fine,” Juan said, rather gruffly. “But we’re not movin’ an inch until you tell us what’s going on.”

Snow White bowed her head and closed her eyes. “Why do you have to know?”

“Well, now, we want to know what you’re endangerin’ ‘bout, o’ course,” said Rupert. “We’re not ‘bout ta leave you here when someone might be after ya.”

“How did you know?”

“Well, I kinda guessed from the way you said, ‘I can’t leave, he’ll find me.’ Just helped me a bit, ya know.” Rupert smiled at her encouragingly.

“I will tell you what I can.” And she told them her story.

Afterwards, there was silence. “We shall look for your man, Miss, make no mistake about that. Now, would you like to pick a painting for us to sell?”

She nodded, grateful for any distraction from her story’s horror.

She gracefully ran from the kitchen, past the beautiful chair that Aden had made her, into Aden’s wood shop. The dwarves ran quickly after, afraid that someone might snatch her out of their sight.

They arrived at the wood shop while she was searching through her paintings. She had about twenty or so; she was averaging three per day, plus the ones on the woodwork inside. She finally chose one and showed them.

It was the one she had painted her second day of it. It was a portrait of the river, a shining blue-green glory, surrounded by the emeralds of the trees, and the water-splashed surfaces of the pale river rocks. “I think this one would be the best. The people know the river, so they would be more inclined to buy it than if it were an unknown spot,” she said shyly. She handed it to Rupert, and he nodded. “Quite right you are, although I rather like this one.”

“Is there one you would rather sell?” she asked, hovering over her work.

He shook his head. “No, I really like them all.”

An hour later, Aden was back in his shop, and Snow White was back to painting in the front yard.


At the market, the three dwarves searched for leery looking characters. At first, everyone was suspicious; that old man watching them, who turned out just to want one of Ethan’s pots. The young man glancing at them as he strolled by, but passing without looking back. The man shopping at the booth across from them, looking at Snow White’s painting. He too disappeared without trouble. Slowly, the list lessened: a dark-haired man who had stopped by to look at Snow White’s painting.

Of course, this by itself would not have earned him a watching. The painting was the talk of the market. Everyone knew about it, and everyone wanted to see it. A few asked who had painted it. Rupert replied Snow White, a young woman living in the woods by them. He omitted that she was living with them; since they had chosen her name, he decided that information would be safe to go to the public.

No, the fact that this man looked at the painting was not suspicious; it was the fact that he stared at it with a silent desperation, an unhinged, sick look in his eyes. He stared at it as though wishing it to pour out its secrets, wishing it to show him the world. There was something demonic about that look, something hungry, something fearful.

The man shoved his way through the crowd, pushing people over to get to the front. He stood there, looking at the dwarves. He listened to the story of the girl Snow White who lived in the woods, and he didn’t believe it.

“Excuse me,” he said. As one of the dwarves acknowledged him, “Are you certain that is her name? It looks very much like a painter I once saw . . .named Istas something. I do not remember that name for the life of me, but I was wondering . . .”

The dwarf was already shaking his head. “No, no. Snow White is her name. I am certain.” He spoke too quickly, his hands fluttered, and his eyes flashed fear.

So he knows, thought the man.


He had it. The lead. He could never let a job go unfinished, no, that would not be right. He would not fail. He had her, right in the palm of his hand. Now all he had to do was wait. Wait for blood. Wait for death.


Things were going as they did every day back at the little cottage: Aden was in his workshop, and Snow White was painting in the yard, facing the house.

At lunch time, Aden walked out into the sunlight, watching Snow White take careful strokes. She stopped, frowning, and turned her head to the side. Her black hair cascaded down to the side, falling in loose swirls of darkness.

“What’re you painting?”

She looked up and smiled. “Heaven.”

He smiled back. “And what does heaven look like?”

“It’s different for everyone. Some people see it after they die. Some people see it after a change. And some people, they just live in it.”

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. This is just what it looks like for me.”

He walked around to her other side, and watched the painting.

It was of a little house, surrounded by woods, with sunlight pouring like honey all around it. Birds sang from the trees overhead; a squirrel ran up an oak tree, its treasured acorn in its grasp. In front of the house stood four little men, smiling and waving from the picture.


At the end of the day, Rupert, Ethan and Juan packed up the rest of their things and money. Earlier they had bought the food and supplies with staggered shifts, letting the other two watch the booth while they shopped. Snow White’s painting had to be brought to auction level; it had gone for sixty-two ducs, more than any of them had imagined it would go for.

They left just as the sun was starting to dim, walking tiredly, think nothing, fearing nothing.

Walking so obliviously, bad things can happen. So occupied, or unoccupied, you could be followed, unbeknownst to you.


The dwarves returned to the house at about nine o’clock. They dropped their unsold items on the kitchen floor, stuffed the money into a mug in the cupboard, and collapsed onto kitchen chairs.

“How did it go?” asked Snow White as she and Aden entered the room. They started warming up the stew the two of them had eaten for supper.

Snow White set bowls down in front of them, then sat at her seat. After taking a few bites, Rupert sat up straight with a gasp. “Snow White–we forgot to tell you. There was this man at the market. He–he thought he recognized your painting style. It could be a coincidence, of course, but, but he thought that Snow White wasn’t your name. He had dark hair and beard and eyes. He said your name was Istas.”

She went sheet white, and dropped to the floor in a dead faint. They all jumped to their feet, so frantically that their chairs crashed to the floor. Aden ran to her side. “Snow White, Snow White, are you well? Snow White?”

Her eyes slowly fluttered open, and she said, “It’s him.”


He watched her from the woods, watched as she served them stew. Watched as they told her, watched as the panic washed the color out of her face, watched as she fell to the floor from the fear. And he basked in it.


Snow White was wrapped up in a blanket, shivering. She had gone into shock after she had woken up. She kept shaking her head, and saying “no, no.” Whenever Aden tried to touch her, she would scream until she realized it was him. In the middle of the night she would wake up crying, trying to get away from nightmares, running and running, but they were just getting closer. At near dawn, she fell into a dreamless sleep and woke at ten.


For the next two days, none of them saw nor heard anything. The huntsman had seemingly disappeared, or stayed back at the market. With such ideas roaming the cottage, it went back to normal, almost. For the last two days, Snow White had expressed everything through paint. She must have made twenty paintings. She wouldn’t go outside, though. She painted with Aden in his little workshop. It was crammed with both of them in there, and Snow White’s artistic presence lay outside; any paintings she made inside just didn’t have the same je ne sais quoi as the ones she made outside.

So on the third day, she moved outside. Aden still kept his door open to watch her, but he positioned himself closer to the door. Still, it would have felt normal if it weren’t the underlying current of fear that swept through the little homey cottage. It was as if the floorboards themselves were concerned for her safety.

It was on the third day that she was painting the ancient oak that lived on their land. She was trying to capture the heart of it, the loose knots and swerves in the trunk. The elated dulling green leaves, the pure age of it. She was trying, and she was succeeding. “Aden, I have to go in to wash my brushes, is that alright?”

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asked, his eyebrows pinching together in worry.

She smiled. “No, I think I’ll be fine.”

He grinned. “Good.”

She was rinsing out her brushes in the kitchen sink when she heard the door open and close. She could tell it was Aden without looking. “Aden, I told you, I’ll be alright. I’m only washing my brushes.” She continued washing, and when he didn’t answer, she started to turn around, to be greeted with a sharp pain in the back of her neck and blackness.


"Snow White?” Aden asked, coming to the door of the cottage. He walked in, but there were only wet brushes and slide marks along the dirt floor.

As she awoke, she groaned. There was pain drilling through her head. She blinked her eyes open and screamed. She tried to scramble backwards, but only got a few feet, not nearly far enough. It was him.

“My dear, you are awake. Are you well?” He stood from the log he sat on and walked closer.

“Get away from me,” she cried, her voice hoarse. “Leave me alone.” She started sobbing and couldn’t stop. She threw a small rock at him, the only one she could find.

He ducked it. “That might have worked the first time, my darling, but I can assure you that it will not work now.” He slid his dagger out of his sheath, and stabbed.

She rolled, and her tears froze in her eyes. His dagger got stuck in the cold, hard-packed earth. He strained to get it out, and she looked for a weapon. A rock.

A rock lay across the path, and she scrambled to get it. She was halfway across when the dagger buried itself in her calf, and she screamed in pain and fear.

“Your fear feeds me, my princess. But do not give me the credit, for it was the queen’s order, after all. She ordered me to dispose of you, and I failed the first time. I could not fail my mistress. No, that would not have been right, would it?”

Her breath was coming in a rush, and her hand slipped off the blood on the dagger as she tried to get it out. “But I have not waited this long to get only submissiveness. I want you to get that rock, and I want you to scream as you know your life is ending.” He leaned down and wrenched the dagger out of the leg, her moaning in pain.

But she crawled over to the rock, and picked it up. He was still on the other side of the path, waiting patiently for her to attain her weapon. Once she had picked it up, he started walking over, slowly, predatorily. “Do you know what I dream of, princess? I dream of you. I dream of you lying in this path; I dream of the horror that will be felt when one finds you. And I dream of the pain you will feel when you finally die.”

She grasped the rock tighter, but black spots here swimming in front of her eyes. She tried to heft it, but her muscles weren’t obeying her command. He walked closer . . . closer as she struggled.

“Je reve de toi, my lily, my love, I dream only of you. I will savor your struggle to breathe, to live, in your last moments. And do you know,” he whispered, leaning close to her face, “I will carry you with me always.” He touched her heart in her chest, “Now it is in its rightful place, but later,” his voice dropped an octave. “Later, we shall see.”

Weakly, she tried to smash the rock into his head, but he was too fast. He slashed the back of her hand, and her hand spasmed, then let go. He cut from her shoulder down to her elbow, and she screamed.


What was that? A stranger paused in the woods. He could have sworn he heard something. There it was again. A scream. His horse sprinted off in the direction. He knew that voice.


"You are beautiful,” he told her. He slammed the knife hilt deep into her thigh. She screamed, ending it in a moan. He wrenched it out, and she cried out. “Your hair is the thickness of night, your eyes the fire of the ocean.”

Black dots sprayed her vision until she could barely see. “Your skin is the white of the unblemished snow.” He drew a line of fire across her forehead. Red rivers ran down her face, soaking into her shirt.


He galloped and galloped towards the sound. He knew who that was, he knew it as well as his own voice. She was being hurt. She was being bled. He raced faster.


"You are the moon during the day, unfitting, yet glorious,” he said, rocking her in his arms. He stopped, listening. “Someone comes,” he whispered, as her vision sunk completely into darkness.


His horse was flying down the earthen path. He skidded to a halt. His eyes must be wrong, this could not be possible. A dark-haired man, a week of beard on his face, his eyes wild, crouched over his bloodied girl, Istas.


"She’s mine, get away,” he said, grasping onto her tighter. “Go away. I won’t let you take her. She’s mine. Mine.”

The stranger shook his head. “Give her to me, now.” Anger and fear sprinted through his eyes, the anger taking over. “Let go of her,” he said, rage making his voice shake.

“No, no. I got her. I got her. I want her heart. I need her heart. She’s mine. Get your own.” The man cradled her, unsheathing his dagger.

The stranger pressed his sword against the other man’s neck. “I said, let her go.”

The man shook his head, laying the tip against her skin, and pulling. “No.”

“Istas!” he cried, and slid his blade home. The man looked at him, then slid completely to the ground, blood soaking through his shirt.

“Istas, Istas,” he cried. He picked her up, cradling her, and put her on the horse. He climbed up behind her, and rode off, in search for help.


"Snow White, Snow White, I’m sorry,” whispered Aden, crying. “I let him get to you. I promised to protect you, and I failed. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He was still crying when he heard hoof beats outside of the cottage. He ran out, with the rest close behind, and took in the young man, with a dark-haired girl across his saddle. Snow White.

The stranger unmounted, and took Snow White off. “Can you help me?”


She felt as though she should be dead. The pain was the only thing that convinced her otherwise. Death doesn’t hurt as much.

She groaned, and opened her eyes. Aden was asleep by her bed. She swallowed and tried to talk, but nothing came out. On the second try out came a husky, “Why am I alive?”

Aden’s eyes snapped open, and he rushed to her side. “I’m sorry, Snow White, I’m sorry. I said I’d protect you, and I failed. I’m sorry.”

“There was nothing you could do.” She almost sat up, then decided against it as pain shot through her head.

“Istas, my darling, how could you let this happen to you?” Her savior lounged in the doorway to the kitchen, looking at her beseechingly, while the other three dwarves tried to get through him to her couch.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, distaste in her voice. “I thought I told you to permanently remove yourself from my sight, Gustav. Why haven’t you?”

“I thought . . .” A hint of insecurity dawned in his eyes, then immediately disappeared. “I saved your life. Perhaps you would reconsider my proposal of marriage. Your stepmother already said we could marry.” He looked confidant, as though there was no way she could say no.

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. “Gustav...I thank you wholly from my heart for saving my from that man, but I can't marry you. Gustav, I am not right for you. You would not make me happy, and everytime we meet I am more convinced that I would not make you happy. The life that is yours...it does not fit me. Again, I give you thanks for saving my life, but I cannot leave with you. I am going to stay here with Aden, and live a life without the frills and arrogance so often found in that court of yours.”

“If that’s the way you feel,” he said, his eyes blank, cold ice. “I will leave you to this Aden, then. Who is he?”

“Why, he’s right here.”

“You, you refuse me to a...a...midget?” His voice cracked with rage, his eyes narrowed, but his eyes held a softer, more regretful anger. As though, somewhere along the lines, he had made a mistake, and he knew it.

“Get out. Get out of this house,” she hissed.

He stomped out, and Aden looked at her. “Why would you rather have me than him?”

She shrugged. “I love you.”

He grinned, and his face glowed. “I love you, too.”


And they all lived happily, ever after.

View the next chapter: "Snow White, Epilogue"