Chapter 17
Seventeen
The Queen traveled alone up and down the lands close to the southern foothills.
She encountered some travelers and villagers as she searched, but no one had knowledge of a young man with skin as pure as snow and hair as black as ebony.
Every day that did not yield up Makellos’ location fanned the wind of her hatred.
She had searched high and low without success when she heard tell of a small cottage in a clearing where the men who mined the hills lived.
So, the next morning, she set out for the area near the mines, tying her horse to a tree and wandering on foot past a burbling stream until she smelled chimney smoke and saw golden thatch peeking through the trees.
She followed the gleam to the edge of the tree line, and there she found a cottage, a humble dwelling with a garden and a well.
She hid just out of sight behind the trees and watched the house intently.
The little men had already left for work, it seemed, for the house was quiet.
The heavy front door opened, and a familiar figure stepped out.
Makellos had a broom in his hand and swept over the threshold, whistling a jaunty tune as he did.
The sound of it made her jaw clench. She had told him many times as a child that whistling was vulgar.
Not that it mattered though, for he would be dead shortly.
She started to step out of the trees, then quickly ducked back in.
Someone besides Makellos was at the house.
She peered out from behind the tree again.
A short man with chestnut hair and a pointed beard had appeared in the doorway, carrying a bow and arrow.
He was quite diminutive. She vaguely recalled they were not far from the mines where she had sent the little men of the kingdom all those years ago. This must be one of them, she reasoned.
She watched as Makellos leaned down and pressed a kiss to the man’s lips.
The little man hugged him around the neck as he kissed him back before he set off into the woods.
She shrank back behind the tree as he approached the tree line.
She heard him walk across several crunchy leaves and twigs, close by, before the sound faded again, leaving the area in wooded silence once more.
She stepped out from behind the tree. The door to the little cottage was closed now, but the window next to it stood open, at which she could see Makellos in his ever-white shirtsleeves, filling a bucket with water from a pump.
She approached the little cottage, her back bent as if with age, clutching her basket tightly.
“Fruit for sale,” she called, her voice a haggard croak. “Lovely fresh fruit for sale.”
Makellos looked out the window, his blue eyes meeting her own, and she gave him a small, toothless grin. “Hello, good sir,” she said, lifting her bony hand in a wave. “Might I interest you in some fresh fruit today?”
The poor older woman looked to be no more than a whisp that would be blown away by the wind.
And being able to offer his lovers a fresh fruit tart would be a wonderful surprise as well.
Makellos opened the door and stepped out into the crisp air.
“Good morning. I believe I would be interested. May I offer you a seat, ma’am? ”
“So polite,” she cooed. “Don’t worry about an old woman’s comfort, dear boy.”
“Please, I insist,” Makellos said, offering her his elbow. She took it and hobbled over the threshold into the little cottage, casting her eyes about for anyone else who might be in the way of her plans, but it seemed as if they were all alone.
Makellos sat her upon one of the wooden benches. “May I offer you tea or something else to drink?”
“Oh, no, no,” the woman said, waving her hand dismissively. “I am more spry than you might think, dearie.” Makellos laughed and sat on the bench next to her. “My, you are a strapping young lad, aren’t you? What is your name?”
“The little men call me Snow White,” he said, giving her a kind smile.
“Snow White.” The Queen had to stop herself from cackling aloud.
What a silly, childish name, for a silly, childish boy.
Makellos looked none the worse for wear after his attempted assassinations.
In fact, if anything, he looked even more fair.
His blue eyes sparkled with delight, and his cheeks were pink and rosy.
Her hatred boiled within her like molten lead, but she just gave him another smile as set her basket upon the table.
The bright red apple was on the very top of the pile, the only apple in the lot. “The little men are not here?”
“No,” Makellos said. “They work at the mines in the mountains. I tend the house for them.”
“What a good boy you are,” the Queen said, reaching up a withered hand to pat his cheek. “I am sure they would love some fresh fruit after a hard day’s work.”
“I am certain they would,” Makellos said brightly. “Please let me see your wares.”
The Queen pushed the basket toward him, and, sure enough, Makellos’ eyes landed directly on the single bright red apple at the top. “Ah, you are a lover of apples, good sir?”
“Indeed, I am,” Makellos said with a sheepish grin. “And it has been a long while since I have had a fresh one.”
“Oh, poor lad,” the Queen said. “I only have the one apple. Please, take it for yourself, no payment required.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” Makellos said, his blue eyes wide. The idea of taking something for free from this poor old woman when he had the means to pay her with some of the silver squirreled away in the cottage did not sit right with him.
“Please,” the Queen said, plucking the rosy fruit from the basket and holding it out to him with both hands. “I insist. Then you will know how sweet and fresh the rest of my wares are.” She held out the bright red apple toward him.
Makellos took the apple from her hands. “You are so very kind,” he said, giving her a warm smile.
He lifted the fruit to his nose and gave it an inhale.
The Queen’s heart quickened, watching him closely.
He sank his teeth into the apple with a satisfying crunch as he broke through the blood-red skin into the white flesh beneath it.
As he chewed the bite, his vision suddenly swam and melted before him, making the world into streaks of watercolor.
His head pounded ferociously, and his limbs felt heavy, like they were dragging him to the ground.
He took a breath that felt like nothing in his lungs.
A coldness spread over him, starting at his lips and moving outward and downward.
There was a thump as the apple fell from his hand onto the floor, his fingers no longer able to clench.
As the cold seeped into his knees, his vision went white.
He fell off the bench and collapsed to the floor in a sprawl of limbs.
He let out one more breath that expelled everything in his lungs, and the whiteness in front of his eyes faded to nothing as they closed. Prince Makellos was dead.
The Queen cackled with laughter as she saw his stillness at her feet.
“Foolish boy,” she said. “Your heart was too tender, and I am once more the fairest in the land.” She picked up her basket and left the cottage with a swish of her dark cloak.
She hurried to where she had left her horse, and she set off back toward the castle once more, confident now that when she asked the mirror who was the fairest, there would be only one answer it could give.
Sigmund returned a time later, bearing the carcasses of several fat hares over his shoulder.
The weather was suddenly icy cold, his breath visible in the air as he walked.
Winter would be upon them very soon. The door to the cottage was closed, the house quiet.
Perhaps Snow had laid down for a nap or was sitting by the fire darning socks.
He opened the door, and his bow and the leash of hares hit the floor with a thump.
Snow was lying on the ground by one of the benches, limbs akimbo, his head tipped at an odd angle.
Sigmund rushed forward, dropping to his knees next to him and giving him a shake.
“Snow!” he said urgently. The body under his hands flopped listlessly.
The blue eyes were closed, as if asleep, but the body was so heavy.
Sigmund looked at his chest for signs of breath, but he saw no rise and fall there.
He leaned down, pressing his ear to the young man’s chest, but he heard no flutter of a heartbeat either.
“No,” he moaned, lifting the prince’s head and peeling back one eyelid.
The beautiful sky-blue eye was lifeless and staring.
“No, no, no, no…” Sigmund rocked the prince gently in his arms. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have left you,” he murmured, tears making their way down his cheeks.
“You can’t be gone, beautiful, you can’t.
We love you so much. We love you. Please come back to us.
” He sat there on the floor, Makellos’ head curled in his lap, rocking him gently and stroking his hair.
And it was there that the six other miners found him when they returned at the end of the day.
“What happened?” Der asked in shock, dropping his tools and rushing forward. The others crowded behind him, and then there was screaming and commotion as they all surged inside and saw the horrific sight before them.
“I found him like this,” Sigmund said, barely looking up. His cheeks were bright red from crying, his eyes so swollen that he was squinting up at Der.
“Let me see,” Der said gently, but there was a catch in his voice as he knelt next to Sigmund. Sigurd stepped up behind his brother, placing his hands on the man’s shoulders and squeezing lightly.