Chapter Text
Deep within a sprawling forest lived a family in an equally sprawling house. Two of its eldest children had recently become adults and left to start their own lives, but one remained. His name at this time was Snow.
His mother had wasted away after giving birth to him, wishing for a daughter with hair black as a raven's wing, eyes of starry night, skin as white as snow, and lips red as poppies. She got part of that wish: Snow was a strange figure in appearance, skin unnaturally white as snow and black hair like raven feathers and lips red as blood and poppy petals and his dark blue eyes glowing with stars.
A year after Snow's mother died — when Snow was four — his father married a second time to a woman whose hair was gold as the sun and whose eyes were green as grass. He and his second wife had four more children. Over the years she grew to dislike Snow immensely, for he was not hers and did not behave as a girl should. His father hated the child who killed his first wife and did not need her encouragement to mistreat him, striking him without warning or refusing to note his presence.
Snow's stepmother opened her Bible every night. Most nights, she read from Colossians. Wives, submit to your own husbands, as is fitting in the Lord. Husbands, love your wives and do not be bitter toward them. Children, obey your parents in all things, for this is well pleasing to the Lord…
She forced him into ragged dresses instead of trousers as time went on, and yet as Snow grew, he wound up more and more beautiful, in a strange but ethereal way. The darkness of his hair and redness of his lips could be explained, but his skin as white as snow — he was as a ghost.
Snow did not want to be beautiful if it meant being a girl. He could be a strange ghost, however.
***
Every morning Snow's stepmother stood before her magic mirror, looked at herself, and said: "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all?"
To this the mirror answered: "You, my lady, are fairest of all."
Then she was briefly satisfied, for she knew that the mirror spoke the truth. She knew herself to be a good wife and that this beauty was her reward.
Despite these reassurances she screamed at Snow regularly. "You wretched girl," she seethed. "You deserve none of what you have, your hair black as a raven's wing and skin as white as snow."
"Then let me cut my hair and wear unflattering trousers and hide my skin," Snow cried. "I need not appear like this."
She struck him, then, with the fire poker, and split his cheek. He cried out, stumbling against the wall. The next morning there was no mark at all, and Snow thought maybe he had made up the whole thing.
His only solace was the forest and the animals within it. But if he was not careful about his words and loneliness, the birds flung themselves at the windows of the house, stuffed themselves in the chimney, dying in an effort to reach him.
This state of affairs lasted for many years, until one morning Snow's stepmother asked: "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all?"
The mirror finally answered, "Snow is the fairest of all."
The day the mirror told his stepmother she was no longer the fairest in the land, it was Snow's sixteenth birthday. Snow ventured into the forest and his solace was replaced with a terrifying Huntsman; Snow felt as though he were prey, suddenly. This is because he had become so.
The Huntsman stared at Snow, who stood petrified in fear with a robin on his shoulder, hair black as a raven's wing, eyes of starry night, skin as white as snow, and lips red as poppies. The Huntsman had a longbow strapped to his back and sword drawn. Then his mercenary's heart softened, and he sheathed the sword. "Your stepmother hired me to kill you, but I cannot. You must flee, further into the snowy wood."
Snow had nothing on his person to help survive the wood, but he knew the Huntsman's words to be true: so he ran further into the wood, the animals following behind him. A raven's croak split the air above them, and still he ran, hoping to find shelter before the cold settled into his bones and took him for its own. Gradually his panicked flight slowed, and he stumbled more and more, wood and snowflakes whirling around him.
Snow groaned as someone shook his shoulder, blinking bleary eyes, and the world wove and dipped, drifting like falling snow. He was strangely warm, despite lying in a snowbank, and it was confusing and and none of his limbs worked, and neither did his mouth.
"Oh dear," a voice said, and Snow felt himself being lifted and placed on a rolling surface, and the world went away again…
***
The next time Snow blinked, he was wrapped in furs and blankets in front of a roaring fire. A dark-skinned woman with pointed ears observed him from an armchair, two large ravens perched on either side of her.
He'd been in the forest… The Huntsman had come.
"Mmgh," Snow said, and realised he could feel his feet and hands again. They tingled unpleasantly as he wiggled each. "Where…"
"Child, why were you out so exposed in the forest?" the woman asked instead of answering.
Snow craned his head, watching the firelight flicker on the walls, which were crammed with art — not the refined, sober art of his childhood home, but amateur art with colour and life. He didn't know what to tell this woman, who hadn't named herself, who hadn't answered his question, but presumably had rescued him from the snowy wood, had not made a move to harm him…
"My stepmother wants to kill me," Snow finally said. "And my father would not mind."
Snow waited for the woman to tell him he was lying, or being dramatic. Instead she sighed, rubbing a hand across her face. "My name is Lucienne," she told him. "This is my home, and you are welcome here."
He watched her, guarded, as she rose; he flinched when she raised her voice to call out: "Taramis, our guest is awake."
Snow flinched back a bit as a voice with no volume control shouted back: "The food's done, I'll bring it out —"
And even as Snow cowered back, the woman who must be Taramis entered carrying a plate, and on it was a sandwich and an apple — even in the firelight, Snow could tell it was a perfect, shining apple, and he sat up and dislodged the blanket without meaning to. The last time he had seen his eldest sister she had been smiling, as she often did, and given him an apple. It was the most perfect apple he'd ever eaten, and Snow had never seen another like it.
Snow's eyes grew hot and at first he thought, a little stupidly, that he was just too close to the fire, but then his cheeks grew wet. Frantically, he wiped at his face, trying to hide the tears, he couldn't bother anyone, he'd already put out these people by taking up the fireplace…
"You're all right, dove," Taramis said kindly, much more quietly, and set the platter on the carpet.
Snow blinked, and did not know what to say.
Did not know what to say at all.