Chapter 11: Unsaid
Time was constant; it didn't wait for any man. It didn't stop so people could better accommodate themselves to changes, so that they could take a deep breath and brace themselves. Time went forward, and so did Snow, exited and apprehensive about what the future might bring. The tumultuous thoughts still swirling in her head, she went through days that seemed oddly ordinary in the light of all that had happened, all that had changed. However, a routine was a great comfort. A structure, an order pushed aside the wilder, more desperate things in her mind, and gave her something to focus on.
Snow got quickly accustomed to life in the mines. She woke in the morning with the other women and helped them set out the breakfast. Almost everyone gathered in the central cave to eat the meals together, and breakfast had become a favorite part of Snow's day. In the morning, the conversation was mostly relaxed, a little sleepy; people were rested and the worries hadn't gotten hold of them yet. The new day was upon them, full of possibilities. But mostly Snow liked the breakfast time, because Eric always came to sit next to her, asking how she was, had she slept well. He looked at her with warm eyes, told her of his plans for the day, and then lapsed into comfortable silence for the rest of the meal.
Breakfast was followed by numerous chores, evenly distributed among the people. Sometimes Snow helped the women wash and mend the clothes, Julia always ready to instruct her how to do things properly. More often than not Beth rolled her eyes at Julia and drew Snow aside, her humorous and friendly company a joy. Snow enjoyed helping take care of the horses, the animals' gentle natures soothing her troubles. Henry, a painfully shy young man, had the main responsibility of the horses' welfare; luckily he tolerated Snow's presence as long as she didn't try to draw him into a conversation.
When chores had been done, Snow usually spent some time in the clearing, savoring the fresh air and natural light. Over the years people had brought books and parchment to the hideout; now Snow read them curiously, the letters and the meaning behind them coming back to her easily, falling quietly to the light from behind a curtain of mist. It felt miraculously wonderful to be able to read again, to hold a pathway into knowledge in her hands, to know she hadn't lost the skill, however unused and forgotten it had been during her imprisonment.
Sometime during the day William always sought her company, eager and warm, sure of his welcome. Mostly they talked about the past, the bright and happy memories, now more bittersweet than sugary. They talked about pranks and studies and games they used to play, about harmless things. William had been pleased and happy, when he had heard of her decision, convinced it was the right thing to do. His fondness and regard for her had grown more adamant, and were in the open for all to see. Snow was glad of him; she was, although she didn't quite know how to answer the adoration in his eyes and voice. It was one of the topics they avoided, as was the resistance's fight against the queen. However sure William had been about Snow's role in the coming fight, he didn't remark upon it now, but steadfastly ignored the subject. Maybe it was because there wasn't anything to talk about; the resistance was still hibernating, careful to be quiet and still to not rouse the beast's attention.
As much as William was avoiding Snow's prominence in the struggle against the queen, Eric on the other hand seemed to embrace it with a furious attention. The huntsman was adamant that Snow learn how to defend herself, learn how to fight. Although Eric hadn't sought out anyone's opinion on the matter, Thomas had wholeheartedly agreed when informed of the scheme. And so it was that Snow came to have fighting lessons every afternoon in the clearing.
It was still unthinkable to Snow to kill another human being, but she was rational and pragmatic enough to recognize that someday she might have to do so nonetheless. Their fights with the search party had made her aware how defenseless she really was against men, who were bigger than her and trained in the arts of war. Hence Snow was an attentive, if not wholly enthusiastic, student. Her teacher was competent, grim and strict; Eric, deadly serious about the importance of the task, tolerated no nonsense. In a strange way Snow was glad of the severity, for it kept her mind off the closeness of their bodies, off his hands adjusting her stance, off his warm breath on the back of her neck. When he was barking at her to concentrate, it was easier to forget how those same lips had kissed her so sweetly, so passionately.
They hadn't talked about the kiss. It lay between them, heavy and immovable, at the same time a source of sweet reminisce and anxious anticipation. Snow had thought that there was an understanding between them; a wordless vow of tentative more-than-friendship, of something like devotion, if she would be bold enough to name it that even in her own mind. But the more days went by since the kiss, the more she came to doubt herself. Was there really an understanding between them, or was it just a figment of her imagination? After all, he didn't seem to treat her any differently, and hadn't addressed the happenings in the storage in any way. And if his eyes seemed to sometimes sear through her, if his gaze settled hungrily on her lips, surely that could also be just her imagination, her own wishes playing havoc on her mind.
Brimming with uncertainty, Snow sometimes felt she could just burst. She wanted to ask Eric what it all meant, why he had kissed her, how they would go forward now that everything had changed between them. But the right words were never in her possession; moreover, hesitation and fear were all too quick to nip her courage in the bud. Other things were also hard to put into words. Snow had yet to tell Eric of her strange dreams and of her conviction that they were somehow significant. Every time he asked if she had slept well, she lied and felt immediately guilty. But how could she explain to him what she saw in her dreams, when she didn't understand it herself?
Snow dreamt every night. She had almost become accustomed to the strange dreams that were a queer mix of the past and something she was too afraid to name. One night the dream had begun normal enough; she had been a child, running through fields of corn. She had been happy, content, and somewhere far her brother had called for her. Except Snow didn't have a brother, and the home she had run to hadn't been her home, and the mother at the hearth hadn't been her mother. The next night she had been by the pool again, looking at its surface, the water turning into a great, golden mirror. Nothing else had happened, but just the sight of that big, round mirror had been enough to waken a baseless terror in her. Another dream had been an entangled collection of stray things: ravens that searched for her desperately; white milk spilling and drowning the floor; Greta a young girl and a crone at the same time, the skin switching from smooth to wrinkled in the blink of an eye; Greta turning into a cackling Moira; the queen's brother watching her sleep; a heart beating in the deep, furiously; Eric turning away, vanishing into darkness. From that dream Snow had woken sobbing, but other times she had managed to wake silently.
The women didn't suspect anything; at the most they thought she slept a little restlessly. Moira didn't sleep with them, she had her own little cave that Beth called her "witch's lair", but still Moira's eyes were knowing, and Snow was sure that somehow the old woman new much of what Snow struggled to say. Snow debated whether to confide in Moira or not; she wanted answers most desperately, but could she trust the old woman? Moira seemed mostly harmless, as she muttered to herself and tottered around the mines complaining of her ailments. However, most people seemed to be wary around her, and her cryptic words and sharp cackle were enough to chase some out of her way. Thomas was an exception, as he regarded his grandmother with a tolerant impassiveness, taking her occasional sharp rebukes in his stride. Beth didn't seem to hold any fear for Moira either, although the old woman definitely got under her skin, for Beth detested Moira's "nonsense".
If her new friends, who had known Moira far longer than she had, didn't fear the woman then there was no reason that Snow should be so apprehensive about her. She acknowledged the need for help, for her own reflections on her dreams hadn't yielded any results. Maybe Moira could offer her at least some more puzzling riddles. Or maybe she should just tell everything to Eric, even if he didn't have any answers, he would surely reassure her, make her feel better, not so alone. The crux of the matter was: Snow had to talk to someone.
-o-
It had been a week since the kiss, a week since Snow had dreamt of standing by the pool, talking with Moira. Now she was ready to talk with Moira again, expect this time it was not a dream. She had finally sought out the old woman, determined to get some answers to the questions burning in her mind. When Moira had retired to her own little cave after supper, Snow had seized the chance and had followed her.
Now she stood awkwardly at the entrance, the dim little space looking alarmingly like the lair of some solitary, dangerous beast. It was dank and stuffy and cramped. The light of a small torch revealed the miscellaneous things lining the walls and littering the floor; there were scraps of cloth, various pots and pans, parchment, glass bottles and vials, a heap of tattered blankets. In one corner there was a collection of dried plants and herbs and small white bones, all in a neat row. Snow shuddered and almost turned to go, uncertain.
"Don't just stand there girl," Moira said, bustling around her cave, picking things up and then putting them down again with a frown. "It's not very polite."
"I'm sorry," Snow said quietly, but to her relief her voice didn't betray her apprehension. "I wanted to talk to you. Can I come in?"
"Well, now you ask," Moira muttered. She turned around to watch Snow, her eyes black as coal. For a small moment they both stood still, facing each other. Snow didn't dare to turn her eyes away. Finally Moira snorted and beckoned Snow inside, "Come in then! Pardon my humble abode. Sit where you will – not there…watch those bottles!" Snow swirled around, but there wasn't an empty spot where she could sit safely, without touching anything.
"Just sit on top of those blankets," the old woman ordered and Snow did as instructed, trying not to think of how filthy the material looked. Moira sat down in the middle of the cave, impatiently pushing some vials and parchment out of the way. When she had settled, she turned her small, penetrating eyes back on Snow.
Snow swallowed and tried to think of how to begin. Her mind was suddenly blank, all her earlier plans and thoughts about confronting Moira gone.
"Good grief girl," Moira sighed, "No wonder it took you this long to come – I would think you were mute as well as dumb, if I hadn't heard you speak just now."
Blushing from embarrassment, Snow reminded herself that she had sought Moira out for a reason; she needed answers and storming out now wouldn't solve anything but make her look even more foolish. "I have these…dreams. Since I came here. I want to know what they mean."
"And how should I know anything about your dreams?" The old woman sounded bored, but Snow could see the sudden sharp interest in her eyes.
Emboldened by her discovery, Snow said, "I think you do know something. And if you could help me – I would be so grateful."
"Gratefulness is worth next to nothing in here. But –" Moira paused and seemed to debate something silently. Snow waited with bated breath. "But you are the heir. And my grandson wants to help you. There is some softness in his hard heart still, and you remind him of his daughter." Again she paused, and Snow thought there was a shadow of sorrow in Moira's face. "But I fear your fate will be the same as Thomas' little girl, and so you'll bring him nothing but fresh pain – I should think to spare him from that at least."
"I want to help Thomas and the resistance to defeat the queen," Snow confessed, waiting for ridicule. For it was a rather laughable thought, that she could be of any help in a war.
"It's not a question of you helping the resistance, but of them helping you – you will lead the fight," Moira's words were measured and severe.
"But what can I do? How can I fight back?" Snow's heart was beating wildly; Moira's words settled a heavy responsibility upon her that she didn't know how to bear.
"That is not for me to say, but for you to see."
"But how?" Snow asked, frustrated beyond any measure. It seemed that there would be no easy answers, not that she had really expected them, only hoped.
"The miners left this place, because they thought these caves were cursed. They said there was something queer in here, something that affected their minds," Moira told pleasantly, like she was telling a simple bedtime story. "They were not that very wrong. You can feel it, can't you? The heart, the core of magic, of all life itself – it is strong here, pulsing through this mountain, and getting stronger and wilder since you came here."
Snow did feel it; had felt it the very moment she had stepped into the caves for the first time. "The pool," she whispered, certain that it was the center of everything.
"Yes," Moira murmured, "it always is, has been, will be."
"That's why I dream?" Snow asked, although she already knew the answer.
"What is a dream if not another reality, a memory, the whisper of things to come – the pulse of magic," Moira looked at her sharply, a small smile on her lips. "You dream because it dreams and because she dreams – you are all bound together by blood and spell and beating heart."
A sudden flash of memory struck her then, a bride in her wedding dress, telling Snow, I feel you and I are bound. The horrible rage and planned betrayal had been hidden beneath a gentle smile, beyond a child's comprehension. The memory was bitter now; the last day before the fall, the joy of the wedding turned to grief, the pure white to bloody red.
"She wants my heart," Snow told, the horror of it once again fresh.
"Her power fades – she thinks you are the cure."
"I don't know why," Snow said, feeling the injustice of it suddenly very keenly, "Why me?" Why it had to be her that was hunted for slaughter?
Moira laughed. "Aren't you the fairest in all the land?" Her laugh was short and sharp, more like a bark. It was over as soon as it had begun, her next words harsh and without any mirth. "You know why."
Snow thought about her strange dreams, about the queen, her face always smooth and beautiful. She thought about the many pretty girls and young women in the cells around her, their youth turned into ash, their future years stolen from them. She had always known, but the truth had been too terrible to bear alone, in that dark prison, fearing she would be next. So she had not thought of it, had pushed it away, pretended it didn't happen.
"She drains the beauty, the youth – she needs it," Snow whispered it like a secret. "I think…she is old."
Moira nodded, pursed her lips. "Older than me." Her age was clearly visible in her wrinkled face, in her stooped figure, but now Snow imagined she could see the numerous years in Moira's eyes, the heavy pull of time in her gaze. "When I was a little girl, I lived in a village far away from here. One day, our liege lord got a new wife…young and beautiful. Within a fortnight the lord was dead and his new bride ruled in his stead."
"Ravenna," For the first time Snow said her name. It had always felt too intimate to call the queen anything but her stolen title; the name was acknowledgment of familiarity, of a bond. The title, however falsely taken, had formed a barrier between them. It felt odd to say the name now, but it was still somehow fitting.
"Yes. That is her name," Moira grinned and then rose from the floor slowly, wincing as her feet didn't want to follow the rest of her. Snow stood up to help, but the old woman waved her away, muttering, "Cursed bones, always giving me trouble." Seeing Snow watch her still, she grumbled, "You can go now, people need their rest. We have talked enough."
"Thank you for – for talking with me," Snow said, truly grateful for the old woman's help.
"I told you that I'll do nothing with your gratefulness – but I'll accept it nonetheless."
Snow gave Moira a small smile and left. It had been a strange but illuminating talk. She had found that to many questions she had already known the answers; she had just needed someone to nudge them out of her. Some of the answers had raised even more questions, and some hadn't been addressed at all. And although they had discussed many things, Snow felt that the most important things had still been left unsaid. But it was a start, and Snow decided it was a good one, one to be glad of.
