Snow Black

It wasn’t everyday that Bryony decided someone had to die, even less that that someone was her own husband’s daughter. It was an informed decision of, made in the tranquil emerald swathes of light that trailed in like pilgrims through the stained glass windows. St. Christopher and his angels watched calmly and steadily as she gazed into his unseeing eyes, and resolutely agreed with herself it would be best for everyone if princess Alyssa died.

The king of the land had once married a foreign woman, with strange ways and heathen beliefs. She died of a wasting disease several years ago, but not before causing months of hasslpree and unrest with hallucinations of strange men in her room. Giving birth to Alyssa pushed her body beyond the limit and she did not survive it.
The people had not liked this queen, but they disliked Bryony even more. Every second wife in the land was expected to beat and starve her stepchildren whilst lavishing attention on her own but Bryony had more in mind than working the poor princess’s fingers to the bone and stopping her from marrying some handsome ponce. Since Alyssa had turned ten, the servants in the house had been acting strangely. Shunning the daylight and preferring to walk at night, and it seemed to be catching fast. The king was obstinate that it was a plague or some pestilence, carried into the castle in the Queen’s new Chinese silks, no doubt. Queen Bryony knew better.
A knock on the door. Her train of thought derailed.
“Enter!”
“It’s the woodsman, your majesty. I believe you called for me concerning the princess.”
The dagger glinted in its sheath and Bryony handed him a crucifix. “Do not lose these,” She warned. The woodsman new what he had to do.
He found Alyssa in the garden, combing her long auburn hair with a silver comb. She kept to the shadows in a sepulchred alcove where a willow had wept the tears of centuries and covered the stone in a fresh green mourners veil. When she saw the woodsman, she slipped on her gloves and veil, and followed him. She did not trust her ‘mother’, but she liked the woodsman. He looked delicious.

In the deeper glades of the woods, the sunlight never peeked. Withered grass crunched underfoot and was further shadowed under withered trees that had watched centuries die and their wooden brethren collapse into rotten bones and tangled roots. They looked like they didn’t care, but had wept tears of dew and lichens that stained their trunks. Alyssa cast off her veil and glove and danced to the shrill eerie songs of the cowering birds. Seeing her in the playful viridian motes, laughing and singing, his resolve wavered. Although there was no light, his crucifix glimmered when he ducked behind the stump, intent of abandoning her and hoping she succumbed to the elements. Alyssa froze.
“A Crucifix! Do you mean to kill me?”
Stepping forward, but not too close, and always eyeing that crucifix, she bowed her head.
“Cut it off, if you can.”
He couldn’t. He stepped closer to her. His hands slipped on the hilt of his dagger.
“Kind woodsman,” the princess murmured, “You cannot kill me. Look into my eyes. See the lakes and forests that bloom into the worlds beyond your own. That’s right…gaze into my eyes…. look, drink, sleep…”
He fell into her arms. He knew she reached behind him to take his sword, but never tried to stop her. He only sighed when she forced the sword between his ribs. It was he who died in the forest that day. Maybe in years to come, Queen Bryony would be accused of murdering him herself, angry at his failure. But when she found out, she simply wept.
Alyssa ran into the clearing. Moonlight poured through cracks in the canopy, no need for that veil anymore. He skin would not smoke in damp night air. The stars watched her coldly as she fell asleep where she knew she would; the seven stones circle. An ancient tor, crowned with the remnants of a pagan temple; seven short pillars. The seven spirits of these temples visited her as she slept, and watched over her.


That night, Bryony slept too. The woodsman’s mutilated body was paraded before her by mocking nightmare beasts and she knew the princess was a murderer now as well, an unholy paragon. Unholy…the statue of Virgin Mary watched her own serene smile in the canister of holy water. Her beautiful, flawless face tilted to catch a glimpse of her own sweetly smiling self. Bryony mirrored that smile.
She cast aside her royal robes and threw on a pile of rags. She would save the kingdom herself. She knew how to kill a vampire…

Alyssa was hungry. She returned to the clearing only to find the woodman had gone cold. But he would do. Staring at her glassily as she pierced his throat, he made no move to stop her. The seven spirits lingered near. When Alyssa raised her head, a hag had shuffled into the clearing. Alyssa thrust the corpse away from her and wiped her shimmering lips guiltily.
“Princess Alyssa” The hag grated, “I am an old witch of the woods and your presence and great power worries me. I wish to curry favour with you, with these gifts…”
She eyed the bag reservedly before squealing in delight. Such a pretty silk corset of exquisite blue, a comb set with pearls and aquamarine, and a perfect blood-red apple.
She bit into it instantly. He throat smoked. “It's poisoned!” she gagged. Her dress and scarves whirled and swirled around her flailing limbs. Fire ripped through her, smoke spewing and clawing and rushing to break free of the fragile flesh. Blackened skin and bone splintered beneath the inferno, showering the baking air with cinders of purple and blue silk.
“Holy water! The apple was soaked in it!” Bryony cried, pulling her hood back. The seven spirits were outraged at their mistress’s death; they aged the queen until her bones peaked through the withered flesh and her hair fell, thin whispers of silver around her drawn cheeks and clouded eyes. As she fled through the forest, her ancient knees creaked and snapped beneath her. The wolverines ate well.
As for Alyssa, the seven spirits felled their sacred stones, and built a coffin to protect the desecrated flesh from the forest. Under their pagan magyk of the solstice, the spirits restored flesh to her bones and hair to her head. But the apple drenched in holy water stuck in her throat for always, and the spirits dare not touch it.

The coffin was lost in ivy tendrils and fallen trees when someone saw it again. The first sound heard in that forest for more years than fallen leaves in autumn was a steady cadence of hoof beats. The prince dismounted his pure white steed. Legends knew of Alyssa, but had only whispered in mortal ears of a beautiful princess, murdered by a wicked stepmother and sleeping in a coffin lost in these woods. They had refused to part company with anymore of this enchantingly romantic tale, and Prince Raphael had fallen in love with it in his youth. Now, he had found the coffin.
The spirits stirred and scuttled away as he heaved the lid open; their vigil was over at last. She was beautiful, more beautiful than the legends, and so peaceful. He lifted her lips to his and the blessed apple chunk fell from her throat and smoked into nothingness in her stomach. Alyssa came to life in his arms.
“Snow White” He murmured.
“My Prince” She smiled, and licked her lips hungrily.