Snow White cried as blood the colour of her lips dripped down the side of her face diluted in salty tears and dropped into the leaves below. Snow’s maid gently dabbed at the long, jagged cut with a handkerchief. Snow was shivering. The huntsman stood over her holding the broken, bloody shaft of a crossbow bolt in one hand as the other reached forward to the Princess helping her back up. He wrapped her up in his own cloak and gently lifted her onto her pony.
Later, questions would be asked of him, how an experienced hunter could make such a grievous mistake. It might even cost him his life. Or the Queen may see how Snow could now never grow up to be the unblemished beauty she envied. And everyone could live.
Snow White quietly sobbed all the way back to the castle, her maid helped her dismount the white pony and hurried her still shivering form to the fire in the great hall. The Queen was generous and poured honey over the wound, binding it with sweet words and soft smiles. The wound scarred horribly, defying every doctor in the land who tried to cleanse it. Princes stopped sending their tokens of affection, kings stopped asking for Snow White’s delicate hand and Snow White stopped attending the Queen’s lavish parties. Hiding away instead to watch, jealously.
Wandering through the frosty stone hallways whilst her step-mother entertained the great and beautiful, Snow White discovered an old mirror. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” She asked wistfully swaying to the distant music.
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