Snow White

Of mythic beasts and fairy wings she comes from light, her heart is sings But can a ravaged soul stay strong when no one loves you, heart of dark The stars are missing…death is here, but she can't quit, her fear is real She'll never cry or stop to die 'til she gives up the will to fight.

I am Snow White, both in mind and physicality. Not in the innocent aspect; I was never known for being innocent, or wicked, because those issues never really play a large part. I'm not naïve…yet I'm not…educated in very tough experience. I'm known as Snow White for my aura, its clarity so potent even a strong Christian can tell it's there. My skin, luminous and healthy, is very fair (for I was born in Irlande, on my parents' vacation, and they say the misty, enchanted ambience there quite affected who I was). It represents happiness: maybe of my parents, maybe of myself.

                A week after she knew of her pregnancy, my mother struck her fingers reaching for a pink rose in the middle of a sky garden. The blood cascaded from petal to petal, though it was just a little, and the flower sort of took on a surreal, bejeweled mien. She saw this as a sign for success, which is what the color represents, so I assume, unsurprisingly, that she wanted a girl, and she believed my lips would be forever crimson. Hmm. Although they're dark, it's not a shade of rouge. They were even considering naming me Rosalie, though after a brief month or two, they chose one more suited to my responsibilities: Nicolette, which means "Victorious People", which is what I must make them.

                I am the great princess of a land called Ange Beau, where, during the day, the sky turns to a magnificent shade of rich azure, painted with clouds that swirl and stream as if in dance, and the trees grow tall and bountiful, providing its citizens with fresh air of pine. The night, its enigmatic wonder, is lit by bright, wondrous stars that shine upon the artful traveler, resting once in the enchanted forests, guided by the tracks of dreamy animals to approach my home in search of answers.

My home. The castle…the beauty of gothic architecture and spacious French design collaborated, to make something so lovely, so captivating, it could only be fit for the most lighthearted of royalty. That's me. On the outside, the walls are gleaming white in the sun, giving off a sort of scintillating effect, rising high above the land on the tallest hill. If one ever got to touch the material, his hand would feel the smoothness, almost like a milky soft (yet durable) jewel. The windows, tall and arching, are of stained glass: pictures of our family past, and the Lord, and our symbol: the back of an angel, spreading her great wings across the colorful backdrop. I was quite proud of the look of our home. Not haughty or anything—leave that to virtually everyone else of my blood—but I felt both lucky and joyous to be able to reside in it.

Outside of the main doors, the magnificent, velvety color of their tone going rather nicely with the castle walls, the Masse Velours resides, the palace grounds (for fairs and things)—home to every type of flower known to man, including the illusive Fairy Bough—and past that, Ange Beau's largest and most magnificent city, Belle. I go there every day. The library in the center square is one of the greatest sights I've ever known: a large, dome building, with a glass roof and at least four copies of all the books published in this great Earth, including a copious amount of first editions. Ahh…to be literate! Odd thing to say, I know, but that's how this building makes me feel inside. The shops and cafés surround each other, even the tiny little crepe and pastry stands that unendingly emit pleasant fragrances from their source. There is music and dancing on virtually every corner. Prestigious jewelry stores and the Town Hall lay near each other, and I promenade down the sweeping streets all the time, watching the individuals of our great nation, hearing their tales and their foreign tongues. All my senses are so alive in Belle that I feel as though I could explode any moment with an overdose of bliss. Every day I have it easy. It's a learning experience, and what we should all be feeling when we live.

Up until recently, this was my life.

Things happen; people fall apart, even families are subject to that. My mother died when I was born (was the red a symbol for blood, the so much that she lost?), so I don't remember her at all—except for the portraits along our serene hallways. She was a lovely woman, with long, brassy blonde hair and dark eyes that seemed to shout into your soul. But I have no relation with her, no memories, no times. My father (I get my hair and skin tone from him, my eyes from my mom) always said that I was my mother's legacy: that I was her continuing existence on Earth. That made me feel all right.

I love my father, the king of Ange Beau, and a gentle man. Being his only daughter, he always made me feel like I was his whole life (apart from the good of the people, I was) and boosted my self-esteem to the top, whenever one of my cousins would say something regarding my mother's death. A tall man, he has raven colored hair and misty, healthy pale skin that seems to glow under soft lights, and he's extremely handsome, factoring that he still looks like he's in his late twenties. Since for years it was just ourselves in the palace, we would travel many places, studying, exploring, all the while in the most beautiful clothes human hands could fabricate. My debutante ball, on my fifteenth birthday, was one of the greatest 'outfit' memories I have. I wore a blue dress, sleeveless, that hugged my waist in a corset fashion, the kind that had to be laced up, and from my hips jutted the fullest skirt I had ever seen, doused in amazing sparkles that shimmered like a bell when I walked. I never felt pain around him, because we were always happy.

And then the rain came.

During my seventeenth birthday (that's the one I had two months ago), the entire populace of Belle came to their princess's party. It was as if it was my coronation, and I was to ascend the throne that very hour.

I spent the entire morning preparing myself. There were seamstresses and maids at every angle, insisting I stand upon a pedestal, taking the sizes in and out and in and out; stitching me into a beautiful prison. My dress was glorious. It was a pink satin gown, with pink silk chiffon over my chest (it was sleeveless) and in my skirt, which was made to resemble a pale pink rose, each ripple of layer going over each other. When I spun, it flitted out like petals. The corset was also a lace-up, made of white silk and adorned with glistening 'flowers'. My hair, a mane of dark brown traveling to my waist, was pulled back partially with tiny little rose clips everywhere, and my makeup was done just enough to accent my face, my frame, and my outfit. I wore beads at my wrist and my ears, pale pink silken slippers (that resemble ballet shoes) and when I was finally allowed to look in the mirror, I thought I was a goddess.

My birthday is December twenty-first, the first day of winter, but no one has noticed that my favorite colors are of pastel—springtime colors—and my skin is soft and permanently light pink when I blush…which is often, because of my sensitive complexion. Perhaps there was a mix up? Whatever it was…my taste, and my birthday do not coincide. But snow does manage to soften the most intrepid of shades.

Manon, a servant girl who helped lace me into the dress, smiled brightly and lollopped up and down with thrill. We've always been friends growing up, so her formalities around me are completely diminished. "I love it! Nicci…no one's going to take their eye off of you."

"You think so?" I smiled happily; that was exactly what I wanted to hear…I guess I'm sort of self-conscious, because in truth, I think Manon is just as pretty.

But I did look beautiful, all vanity and egotism aside. I don't think it's in bad judgment to give oneself compliments from time to time. And as I paced around the room, anticipating my arrival in front of everyone, practicing conservatism, grace and amiability (the three qualities every princess should have), I realized that the only person I was trying to impress was my father. I wanted to make him proud of me; to make him realize truthfully it was okay he was without a male heir, because he had me. And on the day marking my seventeen years of life, I was going to try my very best to be the ideal daughter.

"Mademoiselle, it's time," said a middle-aged servant (I believe she was a mother), bending down and then opening the grand, white doors to the hallway for me. I breathed, watched the exit for a moment, and finally, quietly began my practiced walk into the red-carpeted halls. I passed a picture of our ancestors from two generations ago, seated before the mammoth glass window in the living room. They weren't exactly smiling, but I could feel pride of me sustaining their legacy.

"Announcing Nicolette de Neige le tiers of Ange Beau, daughter of Alexandre de Sang le septième of Ange Beau, born seventeen years ago on this day of December twenty-first, first day of winter. Your princess in all her glory, we present to you now," Marianne spoke, Manon's mother, who was a court announcer in her free time…an opera singer for her career and passion. She only did this, not because she was obliged to, but because she and my father were good friends, and she wanted to. Marianne is quite lovely, with long, fair hair like silk (yet looking nothing like my mother), and a nice, cordial attitude. She's a year younger than him (he'll be forty-three soon), and I always secretly wished they…well…you know. But back to my story.

I surpassed the jewel-encrusted doors, which were fashioned like two book covers, sparkling and saturated with primordial gems. It also has a sort of glittery surface, so whenever I swept my hand over its firm body, shimmer dust rubs off. I've no idea where that comes from, but it always replenishes.

Gasps and stares of awe arose almost immediately, and I lifted my chin and smiled grandiosely at my father, proud upon that throne. No fear. I was positive…positive every eye was on me, and I was intent on keeping it that way.

At last I could here the music. Grand…streaming…yet not pompous (how I hated pompous music!), just…beautiful. For me. I blinked twice and slowed my walk. Everything here was for me. The people, my friends, family…this very room was mine! My dress, beauty, title, virtues—I had it all. I was a splendid human being with perfection in her life, a heart for people below and above her, and a girl who could do anything. People would go to the moon just to bring me back its surrounding stars and think nothing of it. I was wonderful!
I spun around gleefully and filled my ears with the sweet music and people's surprised exclamations, right into the arms of a handsome boy my age as we began to dance. Very soon other couples joined us and normal partying resumed…the room was spinning with brocades of silk and glister…stainless tuxedos clasped with flowing, satin dresses and bows. Everything was as though it was wrapped up in Christmas boxes, which are so illustrious and magnetic…they're usually better than what's inside.

"Princess…" the boy began, leading me with the ease of an equal, "you look exquisite, as you normally do of course, but tonight…there's just something…almost…magical about you…." He let one of my hands go for a graceful turn and one hundred and eighty degrees into it I rolled my eyes—then turned back into his arms, cloaked in rich green and white. "If I may…may I comment that you—"

"Please, your grace, can't we just start off as friends?" I smiled brightly, trying to suffocate his blinking, wide-eyed stare, and then with a sheepish grin and nod, he said 'yes', and I said, "Good. Call me Nicolette, if you will. May I ask your name?"

"Certainly…Ni…Nicolette. It's Clement." I saw he stuttered inwardly and hurriedly added, "Son of a Court Adviser who has been praised by Mon roi many times, you must know him? Camille."

"Camille?" An image of a doe-eyed man with a contagious laugh came back to me. "Ahh yes, Camille. I know him well." I chuckled femininely—not like a giggle, but a sort of skipping laugh. It was cute, I must admit. "He's one of my favorite of those silly men. You must agree, their costumes are a tad outlandish, no?"

He watched me for a minute, blond hair slipping into his bluer than blue eyes, and then he laughed. "You're right!"

We carried on like this for a long while, talking of frivolities that were as lighthearted as we were. I got him to open up; I knew I would, and was quite pleased at what he was. A poet…an artist…dangerous things that have nothing to do with politics. I think I was in love. No…that can't be it…maybe I was for that night…but when I picture his face—still fresh (I wonder what he's doing now; it's been less than half a year since I talked to him), I don't see l'amour at all. It's not strange.

The present opening was delightful, yet I had most of these things before. My favorite was a Rococo dress in the box of pure gold, and the least was…a rather gaudy gold necklace with my name inscribed, though I still accepted it with a warm heart and smile.

And then something caught my eye.

My father…my father. Not looking, nor talking about me. Entranced. By someone else. Marianne? No. The people past out of my vision (unknowingly) as my heart pumped with warm blood. A woman…with ringlets the color of ravishing blood…and eyes that warmed with romance. I could barely breathe. She was gorgeous. Prettier than I am? I…I didn't know. Entranced. Entranced! I felt my face go cold. Why was this such a burden? I had prayed every night since I could comprehend God that my father would find his love. This slender, beautiful woman…my vision blurred…was an angel.

So why did I feel like a demon?