A/N: Snow White as told by the snow-princess herself.

Fae Chronicles

Mother's Child

by Fiyero Oberon

Sometimes I look back on that time, those split seconds when I made those decisions, and I wonder: Didn't I know? Didn't I know she was evil? Didn't I know she wanted me dead?

Of course I did.

But I also knew that locking her out wouldn't keep me safe.

The first time she had come with laces and, I admit, that time I had been fooled; I had been chopping wood out back for the seven men and her voice shocked me so much that I nearly drove the axe into the old woman's back. Pity I did not, really. I felt guilty, so of course I bought laces from the poor woman. And as I had never really learned to tie my own laces, having always been done up by my father's servants, I accepted her offer graciously. The bodice dug into my flesh, crushing my ribs; I could physically feel my face turn blue as my breath grew short. As soon as she was sure I couldn't breathe, my mother fled. I called after her; I tried to chase her. But lack of oxygen was taking its toll. I tripped and fell when my lungs could no longer handle the pressure and my head collided with a boulder; the last thing I heard was her giggling laughter as she ran away and the world went scarlet-red.

That giggling gave her away. The light twinkle of bells that emerged from those perfectly-shaped lips, painted cherry-red in attempts to enhance her beauty.

It was by my luck that the youngest of the brothers forgot his lantern and couldn't see his way through the gold mines. He returned to retrieve it and found me lying by the road, a small stream of blood flowing from within my midnight hair. His instincts were correct; he ripped open the corset and placed his mouth on mine, blocking the air through my nose and breathing life back into my lungs. He carried me home and placed me on his own bed, and nursed me all day. Only after the other brothers had come home from work was I fully awake again.

The second time I knew the truth the moment I saw her hair; those curls, the deep maroon of red wine, were undeniable. But curiosity killed the cat and I let her in again; I yearned to feel her fingers run through my hair with that comb. She played with my hair when I was little; I would lie in bed, feigning sleep, and watch through slit eyes as my mother twirled my ebony hair around her fingers. When she run the ivory comb through my hair, I closed my eyes and pretended I had just seven years again, that this was the kind side of my mother. Hot tears burned as she dug the comb into my scalp and the poison was ejected into my head. That was when I knew the truth; she had truly gone insane. My mother had almost no trace of her former self any longer. Except for her radiating beauty.

And it was all the fault of that wretched mirror. She had received it at an auction somehow, the auction of a grandmother or an aunt twice removed, or some sort of relative. The first time it spoke, it dared her to strip her clothes and stare at the truth of her body, the naked truth of beauty or ugliness. The mirror vowed it would speak the truth and tell her where she ranked on the scale of beauty throughout the land; curiosity killed the cat and my mother pulled off her lace gloves and let the satin gown slip off her body. She stood before the mirror, shaking and shivering. The mirror smirked and told her the truth: "You are the fairest I have ever seen, my lady."

Suddenly embarrassed, my mother collected her clothes and redressed herself. She avoided her bedroom for weeks after that day; she slept in my father's quarters during that time. There were murmurs throughout the castle servants that my mother would be announcing her pregnancy any day, but no such declaration came.

My mother returned to her bedroom again and the mirror spoke again: "You know you're curious." And once again, she removed her clothes, bit her lower lip, and waited for the mirror's response. "You are the fairest I have ever seen, my lady."

She became addicted to the mirror's soothing voice, to the assurance that she was fairest. The mirror never lied; she took this fact for granted. I watched her every day, stripping down to stand before the mirror. Eventually she stopped shaking when she stood up - she held her chin high and waited for the mirror's response, the same every day. Sometimes she would spend whole days locked away in her room, just staring at her reflection; the truest and barest form of narcissism.

But curiosity killed the cat and the day I turned thirteen I slipped away from the swishing gowns and formal greetings of my birthday ball and, my breath caught in my throat, I stepped bravely into my room. The mirror smiled the moment I entered and presented me with the same dare it gave my mother: "Strip your clothes, young one, and let me gaze upon you. I will tell you where upon the ladder of beauty you rank." I quickly stepped out of my crimson gown and stood before the reflecting glass; my knees were knocking as my mother's had when she had first presented herself to the mirror. "You are the fairest I have ever seen, young one."

I instantly knew the mirror lied, for it told my mother she was fairest and surely we could not both be fairest! I redressed quickly, discarding my bodice and hiding it beneath my mother's bed; she had given it to me as a present, black and embroidered along the edges. I planned to return after the ball to retrieve it, for I knew not how to lace myself up. I fled my mother's chambers and returned to the ball. But after those moments with the mirror, I could no longer look my mother in the eye.

The next day I watched as my mother again removed her clothes and stood before the mirror. "My lady, you are fair," the mirror said, "but I have seen one fairer than you."

My mother's voice was cold, low, and deadly: "Who?"

"Your daughter, Bianca."

I could have sworn my mother heard my heart pounding for it was so fast and loud to my ears.

"I don't believe you."

"Look beneath the bed."

And my mother found the corset, for I had forgotten to get it after the ball. She screamed and tour at her beautiful hair; her porcelain face was twisted into a reflection of hate and fear: beauty had become her only security. It was the only thing she knew to be true. Without bothering to dress, my mother fled her chambers and ran through the castle. The first servant she found was the stable boy, a young man of sixteen years. He stared at her as she came up to her, stunned by the vulnerability she displayed. I watched in disgust as she grabbed the boy roughly by his shoulders and planted a long kiss on his lips, letting his hands run over her bare body. Pulling back slightly, the boy half-moaned, "What is it you want?"

She kissed him again. "Kill Bianca."

"Yes . . ."

"I never want to see her wretched figure again."

"Yes . . ."

"Do it tonight and you shall receive the pleasure of a lifetime." With a squeeze to his bottom, my mother turned and hurried back down toward her chambers. The boy stumbled off, googly-eyed and drooling slightly, a silly grin spread across his face. It was disgusting really; she was twice his age.

I was prepared when the boy approached me an hour later. "My fair Bianca, might you grace me with a walk through the woods?"

I hesitated a moment, but I knew that if I stayed in the castle my mother would kill me herself; and I was willing to do almost anything but die by the hand of the woman I loved the most. I agreed to a walk through the forest; he kept his hand on the sheath of his knife the entire time.

At last he pushed me up against a tree and pushed his lips onto mine; I did not resist the kiss, but pushed his groping hands away. After a moment, I pushed him away. "Just do it," I hissed at him. "Don't try to push guilt onto me." And he pulled out a long rope and tied me to the tree.

"She commanded me to bring back your heart," he told me. "But I can't spill your blood; you're too beautiful."

"You disgust me," I spat.

He grinned and tightened the knots. "I hope the wolves don't hurt you too bad, Miss Bianca." With that he was off through the woods again.

The boy was stupid; he didn't check me first. My hands were tied down by my sides, so it was easy to reach my knife. I sliced neatly through the ropes and fled through the forest, as far from the castle as possible.

I fell into a trap the seven men had set up for animals; they took me home and fed me and I agreed to help them in return.

The trees outside the cottage of the seven men were apple trees. The trees were gnarled and dead and produced no fruit and I still look back on this detail as a cruel taunt.

The apple my mother had brought forth was impossibly red; no blemishes, no spots of green or yellow. Solid red. I knew instantly that it was poison, that the wicked woman would finally defeat me. I should have saved myself, yes; but keeping locked doors locked would get me no where, and I knew that. Curiosity killed the cat, and I ate the apple.

And I died.

It's funny, the way things work. My death brought me more life than I ever thought it would; bliss is here, where I am. I suppose I am not quite dead, but I am not quite alive either; all I know is the snow. The never-ending snow, and the blood, and the ebony trees. And the mirror. The mirror that looks at me constantly, taunting me and teasing me and whispering secrets and lies in my ears.