"Read it to me," the Queen ordered, her black hair swooped up in the strict fashion which could be observed on her person day and night. Her black-painted lips pressed together, her eyes keen, echoing the sharpness of her voice. The Huntsman slipped the note from out of the inner pocket of his coat, feeling the thin paper quivering in his hold.

The paper was crumpled, now soft from the folding and unfolding which had overcome him. But now he found himself unable to read the note, despite knowing even the curve of the letters, the elegant script with which Snow had written. Looking on the page, he did not even recognize the words as English. They seemed distant to him now, unreachable – like the clouds poised in the sky, but could not be impressed upon.

The Queen's eyes narrowed in on him, on the empty look in his eyes, and with a great sigh she took hold of the message herself. Her eyes fell upon the black ink which marked the white sheet, her brows arching menacingly as if they were arrows which would strike out the image of Snow which she clearly imagined before her. The Huntsman noticed her lips quivering slightly, her breath catching, and before she could even vocalize the first word, he began reciting.

"Dearest Stepmother," he began, hearing her voice in his head, that sweet, soft voice—that maddening, patient voice, which he had silenced with the flick of an arrow. "By the time you read this, I will be dead..."

She was dead. Graham had killed her.

Snow was lying at his feet, her skin pale, eyes closed. He had closed her eyes, the movement detached from him, as if he no longer possessed his own body. He had done it. Now he could claim his freedom. Dropping the knife, he heard it thud against the forest floor, as he removed her heart, the blood glistening down to his wrist, dripping onto his clothes. His own face turned ghostly as he looked on the source of her life, before placing it in the wooden chest.

The moon presented to him the first night after he had taken her life, after he had slipped her heart out of her chest. Graham could hardly believe he had done it, yet the wooden chest resting a few inches from his face as he lay on the mossy ground, told him he had. His back rested against the scratching bark, his body now moulding to it, so accustomed to the forest was he. He lifted his eye to the stars, but felt unable even to find beauty in them.

"Oh god," he choked out, covering his eyes with his hands. "Oh god." Before he had shot her down with his bow, in the moment when he took breath before releasing the string, the Huntsman had hesitated. But his fingers had released the string, and as always, his shot had been perfect. She fell inelegantly to the ground, despite what he had imagined. He remembered feeling surprised by this, and now he remembered it with a deep loathing. How could he have been so inhumane? Had he, in that moment, detached himself from what he had known to be himself—to hunt like a wolf, not a monster? Not one of them?

But now he had joined them. One of those stinking, looming men that filled him with disdain. But the price is freedom, he reminded himself. The Queen promised you freedom. You won't need to shrink from people any longer. You and your wolves can run free, without worry. But he could not forget the sickening feeling in his stomach, and he pressed his knees to his chest, the darkness overcoming him. It seeped into his pores from the air, and the wolves must've sensed his despair; for not even they would come close to him this night. They stood revealed themselves only briefly on the ridge of the rocks before disappearing.

For the next two nights, the Huntsman had been possessed by the chains of insomnia. In those hours, by the reflective light of the stars, he read over the note, until he felt the words imprint themselves on his skin, and formed an armour around his soul. He toyed with the splinters on his bow, carefully shaving them off with his knife...memories reflecting back to him: the zip as the arrow shot through the air, her cry, the wood which dug itself into his hand, which bore no glove ... Violently, Graham snapped the weapon into pieces, its splinters now jutting out into spiked points.

Now silence fell on the room where he met the Queen. Nobody, nobody interrupted her when she began speaking – but even Her Majesty could tell he was no longer there, not truly. He looked dishevelled, his hair askew; and though his beard was beginning to grow, it was not an indicator of sorrow, for he often kept stubble on his face. Regina had found this to be an attractive trait on him. But his disobedience was not attractive—but even she knew the uselessness of reprimanding him, for how can one reprimand a person who is already gone, who possesses no mind with their body? Only for those words did he seem to breathe, now.

"I understand that you will never have love in your life because of me," the Huntsman declared, his voice trembling slightly, despite the strength his body displayed. "So it's only fitting that I will be denied that same joy as well..." Graham did not even register the rest of the words that left his lips, distorted sounds to his own ears, hearing nothing but what seemed like the rush of wind blowing against his ears, though there were no such gusts in the Queen's castle. And then, finally, "I'm sorry and..." The Queen had already read the words on the page, it seemed, and without noticing it, the Huntsman had begun to lose balance, wobbling slightly on his own feet. He corrected his posture, but he felt it did little to give him the semblance of a person in their right mind. "I'm sorry and...and...I forgive you. I forgive you." His brow knit together, not for the first time, but no tears breached his eyes, nor did the beating of his heart increase its melancholy pace. It remained still as the grave. Still as the person lying in the forest, whom he had not buried—whose body he had desecrated for his own selfish purposes.

The Queen, forgetting him for a moment, seemed to be absorbed in thoughts of darkness, unsettled by Snow's last words—and then violently she threw the parchment in the air, exploding it into a cloud of black smoke, which curled and twisted in the air above her. Graham heard her mutter "Whore" before looking back to him.

"Congratulations, my dear Huntsman," she purred, regaining her composure. "You have completed your task. Now, show me the proof." Numbly, Graham gave her the chest, which she inspected minutely. Finding everything to be to her satisfaction, her black eyes fell upon him once more, as though he were a pet and not a subject. She could not hide the desire in her eyes, either, but the Huntsman was unaffected. Nothing in the world could affect him now.

"Since you have done such an excellent job, I will reward you even further." The Queen stepped closer to him, until their noses nearly touched, and slid a hand down his chest. "What is your price, my dear?" She hoped to sleep with him. Her body language was enough of an indicator. Graham took her hand in his own, roughly, and her eyes widened with shock, but not displeasure. Silently he strode next to the window, looking out into the night.

"My price," he replied. "Is freedom." Now Regina looked disappointed.

"Yes," she replied sharply. "And I've already promised you that. Now what else?"

"But that's the thing, my 'dear Queen'," he replied, sarcastically. "That price is too high. One can never have freedom in this world. Never." Before she could impede him, Graham stood on the baluster, hearing nothing but a shocked cry, which became a distant yelp as he vaulted himself off the edge of the balcony. He fell into the night, seeing the tower flash by as he fell further and further, until he reached the place where there was no more guilt, nor were there voices, or pale girls lying dead in the forest.

Snow.