Disclaimer (as usual): Yup, I credit someone else for coming up with the original idea of Snow White. I've just twisted it around a bit to fit my evil purposes. Gwa ha ha! But a lot of it is mine. Mine, all mine ... I was just wondering if fairy tales are actually copyrighted so you HAVE to disclaim. Or whatever ... Ramblings ...
Anyway, just for the record: Gwyneira means "white snow" in Welsh. I thought that sounded a little better than the name Snow White which I would never name my child. Ever. The other names have no really significant meaning.
Review to tell me what you like/what needs work. NO FLAMES! I don't flame you, you don't flame me. Fair deal?
Enough of me. On with the story!
Seven: A Fairy-Tale
Prologue
White.
As the exhausted man stumbled through yet another drift, he cursed the unrelenting white that surrounded him, tearing at his cloak and ripping long fingers of cold into his face. It never ceased, just kept falling, swirling, spinning, until he was lost and wanted nothing more than to sleep and forget everything that had happened.
A baby's quiet wail pierced the air and the man became conscious of the bundle he held close to his chest. He leaned down and a pair of emerald eyes met his. The man gazed past them, past the eyes so much like his wife's ...
Screams tore the air. Outside the room, Henrich paced impatiently, wanting to do something but helpless as to what.
The midwife ran through the doors holding rags stained dark with blood. Bile rose in Henrich's throat, and he only just made it out the door before he vomited. Wiping his mouth on his sweaty sleeve, he turned to see the midwife standing in the doorway.
"The babe is born," she said. Henrich started for the door, but something in the midwife's face gave him pause.
"What's the matter?" he asked. When she said nothing, he repeated the question, demanding an answer from her.
"'Tis your wife," she said finally, hesitating. "She is too weak. She won't make it through the night."
The babe's persistent cries shattered Henrich's reverie, and he realized that she was hungry, that she hadn't been fed since his hasty flight last night. He looked around, as if expecting the falling snow to yield milk for his child. When none came, desperation reigned on his worn face.
"'Tis all right, child," he whispered to the little babe who quieted down at the sound of his voice. "We'll find something."
Pulling the bundle closer to his chest for warmth, he staggered through the snow, each step harder and harder until he felt he could not go on any longer. Minutes dragged by, minutes that turned into hours, and the baby's cries faded into the screaming wind. Henrich knew the baby would die soon if he didn't find food.
Amelie lay still upon the big bed when Henrich entered. Her face was pale and her normally glossy hair splayed in damp waves across the sweat-stained pillow. A tiny baby slept safely in the cradle of her arms.
"Amelie," he whispered, brushing back her hair with a trembling hand. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open—eyes as green as emeralds. Slowly, she smiled at him.
"A girl, Henrich," she said, each word an effort. "A little girl."
Henrich looked at the baby, looked into eyes identical to his wife's. A shock of dark hair just brushed the tiny head, startling black against the pink of her skin and the pale of her mother's.
"She's beautiful," he said, stroking the tiny hand.
"Her name is Gwyneira," Amelie said softly. "Like the snow that welcomed her into the world." Her face twisted in pain. "And like the snow that will usher me out."
"No!" Henrich said fiercely, grabbing his wife's hand. "No, don't talk that way!"
"Henrich." And he fell silent. Amelie struggled against pain for a moment and then turned to him. "There is something special about our daughter. Guard her. Keep her safe against the evil that lies around us. But above all, love her. Love her as I love you both."
The slender white hand stiffened in his and as Henrich watched, tears streaming down his face, Amelie—his beautiful, kind, caring wife—died.
Henrich watched as all color slowly drained from Gwyneira's face and the baby's breathing slowed. He pressed her closer, desperate for her to live. Still, the breathing slowed until ...
"Damn you!" he screamed to the uncaring winds. "Damn you!" He stumbled forward and fell, tumbling down a drift that lasted forever, clutching the little child to his chest.
Something dark loomed in front of him; something solid stopped his descent. He lay motionless in the snow for a long time, gazing up into the grey sky. Death was welcome; now that Gwyn was gone he had nothing left to live for. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of death climbing slowly up his body.
"Excuse me?"
His eyes flashed open. A dark figure stood in front of him, blocking the snow from falling on his face.
His lips tried to form words, tried to beg for help, but he was too cold. The snow had frozen him until he could no longer feel his body.
As if on cue, Gwyn's faint cries slit the frozen air. The figure's face turned to the little bundle at his chest.
"A babe?"
Henrich nodded woodenly. Suddenly the figure bent down and, effortlessly, lifted him into the air. Henrich clutched at Gwyn, holding her close even when warmth and darkness enveloped him in a dead faint.
Henrich woke to the sound of a softly crackling fire and warmth seeping through his veins like wine. If he kept his eyes closed, he could imagine Amelie cooking a delicious meal over the fire.
Then he remembered—Amelie, Gwyn, snow, the dark figure—and his eyes flew open. He sat up abruptly and pain went shooting through his body. Slowly, he laid back down.
"Where ... is ... Gwyn?" he gasped.
Gentle hands helped him sit forward; soft hands made him comfortable. He peered into the palely lit room but still he could not see the person's face.
"She's sleeping," the person said, and Henrich realized it was a woman's voice as she handed him Gwyn. To his surprise, Gwyn's face was pink with health and with the heaviness of milk in her belly.
"Thank you," he said, cradling the little body next to his own. He heard the woman retreat to a far corner where the fire could not reach her face. He wondered if perhaps she was disfigured and ashamed of her appearance.
"You look as if you need something," the woman said abruptly. Her voice was old, but powerful, as if she lived a rich, full life.
"My wife died," Henrich said, feeling the need to confess something to the stranger who had helped his baby live.
A noise from the corner. Sympathy? Henrich wondered.
The woman rose and began tending the fire, her back to Henrich. He looked down at Gwyn, still peacefully sleeping in his arms. His throat tightened as he thought of his wife, so young, so beautiful, so good!
"Your child has drunk unicorn's milk," the woman said suddenly. Henrich turned, stared at her.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
She straightened, still staring into the fire. "It is a protection from evil. A gift from the forest. Your child is special, Henrich. Guard her. Keep her safe from the evil that lies around you." She turned, but still he could not see her face. A cold shiver was running down his back. "You have been given a precious gift. Nothing, not gold or jewels, can ever replace her."
Silence. Henrich leaned back, his heart beating fast in his chest.
Suddenly, the woman became brisk. "I have talked too much and you must sleep. But before you do, I will grant you one wish. Not your wife's life," she said, seeing him open his mouth. "I cannot raise the dead. Something else."
Henrich gazed out the window into the swirling snow.
"I wish for a kingdom," he said suddenly, looking at her. "I wish to be a king, so that I may give my daughter everything she can ever want."
The woman paused. Henrich yawned, wondering if she had heard him.
Then, softly, from beneath the crackle of the fire:
"Sleep well, King Henrich. Your wish has been granted."
Darkness once more surrounded Henrich as he fell into a deep sleep and into the land of dreams.
Okay, now hit the lovely review button and tell me what you think. Please! I beg you! (Do I sense desperation here?)
em