Wow. Thank you for the response on this story. I frankly wasn't expecting it? Well, walk with me on the dark side, my friends. Because this road ain't about to get any lighter.

I'm a bit uncertain about this chapter. Mostly because almost all of it is from Snow's point of view, and it was hard to get into the head of a 13-year-old little girl who doesn't know much but is learning too quickly things that she shouldn't and... I'm not an expert in disturbed minds and psychology but for my owns so... I tried.

There is a very disturbing dream at the beginning. You can skip the part in italics if you don't think you can stomach it. There's no graphic description of rape but the setting is pretty twisted.

Thanks again for the reviews, favorites, followers, it's always amazing. I'm taking this story slowly and see where it'll lead me.

On with the horror show!

.

.

Two days after Snow's illness has passed, Regina has a strange dream.

She is running barefoot behind Leopold's horse as the king is urging his mount to go faster and faster. The poor beast's coat is foamy with sweat, and it is huffing in painful rasps. But Leopold is relentless and keeps beating the mare's flanks with spurs, until a trickle of blood is running on the brown skin and down the legs.

"Faster, father, faster!"

Snow White is sitting astride the fence, mimicking a rider, her crop tapping against the wood soundly and she is laughing, all her bright teeth showing in the sunlight, shining aggressively.

"You have to keep up Regina, come on!"

She has to run, and run, and her feet are bloody and aching and useless lumps that can't make her go as fast as the horse, and why doesn't she have a horse, why does she have to stay on the ground and walk in the mud behind the King, "you can't have a horse yet," shouts Snow White, "father says you can't have a horse until you're grown!"

I am grown, she wants to say but she can only pant, pant and keep on running, you made me grown, both of you, you made me –

"Faster, father, faster!"

The scene is different and she is on a bed but she is still gasping, still hurting, but this time it's between her legs, and no, he's here again, grunting, spitting, biting, and she wants to cry, she wants to scream, oh no not again, not again I'm so tired, I'm so tired, please no let me sleep, just let me sleep, I'm so...

Snow White is giggling and Regina turns her head sharply. The girl is sitting backwards on a chair by her bedside table, her little head cocked, an eager expression on her face.

Go away, Regina wants to scream while her husband is becoming red in the face, a dangerous sign that he is coming close to his release, go away, child, go away!

But Snow White stays to watch and watch and watch and she's clapping her hands just like she did when she was encouraging her father on the horse, and she yells: "harder, father, harder!" and he does, oh gods, he does, and she's breaking, she feels ripped apart, her insides torn, but nothing can compare to the feeling of absolute helplessness, to the shame and terror and madness of seeing Snow White laughing and cheering and smiling as her father spills his old seed into her with a final shout.

"You have to keep up, Regina!"

Regina wakes up from her nightmare with bile in her mouth and crescent bruises on her cheeks, where her nails have dug deep. She throws back the covers with a strangled whimper and means to rise from the bed. She bends over and vomits as soon as her foot touches the ground.

She's the one who has to stay in bed that day.

Thankfully, Snow White doesn't come to visit.

.

.

.

It must be her fault.

Regina's.

Snow has been thinking about it (how could she do anything but? The images are etched in her mind), and this is the only conclusion that makes sense. The only conclusion possible. The only thing that reconciles what she has thought of her father until then and what she has witnessed.

Father is kind, he is gentle, he is loving, he is warm. He is a good man.

(She repeats that, like a snooty little pupil learning words that don't quite make sense yet. Kind, gentle, loving, warm. Good.)

So Regina must be bad. And that's why she's being punished. She wouldn't be punished if she hadn't been bad, would she? And her kind, gentle, loving, warm father would not have been so hard with her if he hadn't had good reasons.

Yes, it's all very simple (too simple, whispers a nagging little voice in the back of her mind, the one that fills her head with thoughts reeking of wickedness). Regina has been bad. She has been punished. This is logical. There is nothing to worry about. Her world is still safe and sound, whole and full of sense.

Yet, she doesn't forget. She can't think of anything else.

She's angry at her step-mother. It's a festering anger, one that isn't bright and righteous and vibrant, but dark and muted and exhausting. It brings with it sideways glances and strained smiles and biting words and foul temper.

When another one of those tempers strikes, she finds refuge in the huge royal library, with its purple hangings and mahogany shelves that are so tall they reach the ceiling fifty feet above her head. It's snug and comforting here, far away from the castle's buzzing activity, and no one will be looking for her in that place.

She has snapped at Regina again. She never does this. Never intentionally. But she is furious with her. Why, oh why did she have to be bad? Why did she have to make daddy angry, why did she have to bring that punishment on herself? Why does she have to make her doubt and doubt and doubt?

She's afraid. She's afraid because she recalls some other memories, some scenes and clues from her childhood that she begins to understand now and she doesn't want to, it's Regina, she thinks stubbornly, it's her fault.

Snow is crying, ugly, loud sobs echoing amidst the indifferent books, old repositories of a world's wisdom she wished she could possess.

She only asks for some guidance. She only craves for the truth.

But no one will give her truth. Too young, too royal, too girl. Truth and knowledge aren't for prim and proper princesses. They're only fed etiquette and pretty dresses and piano lessons, and gentle lies to protect their hearts, and careful avoidances to preserve their souls.

They are taught to be dolls. So she has no idea what it's like to be a woman, and what it's like to become one.

"After all what do I know about these things?" Snow hiccups between painful wails, "maybe this is normal. Maybe this is what happens between a husband and a wife."

Maybe it is supposed to hurt. Mother was hurt sometimes. She would never tell, never show but Snow would know because there was a cleft in her smile. Mothers hurt. Women hurt when the babies go out of their bellies (that she knows because she has heard the cook, Lucia, screams and screams and screams while the doctor was shouting "Push! Push! Push!" before Johanna had found her and brought her to her room, scolding that it wasn't for her young ears). So if having babies hurt, then making them must hurt too. Logically.

Were her father and Regina trying to make babies that night?

She needs to know. She needs to find out more about men and women and love and making babies and hurting each other. She needs to learn.

She scurries out of her hideout on the window seats stuffed with soft and large cushions, behind the heavy curtains, and runs to the nearest shelf.

She stalls, looking up helplessly at the books. There are so many of them. How can one know where to start? For all the times she has come hiding here, she has almost never opened a book. She's happy with the ones she has, all wonderful tales of bravery and romance and fierce knights and enchanted creatures and beautiful ladies, she reads them over and over again and doesn't bother to find new ones. She doesn't like reading very much, she prefers listening. Before Regina came into her life, it was Johanna's role to tell her stories at bedtime. Now she only ever wants Regina to do it. But her step-mother isn't always compliant, says she's too grown-up now for storytime. She is the only one ever to tell her she is too grown-up for anything, and Snow is so satisfied with herself and her great maturity then that she doesn't mind that much, and she consoles herself with the same old books sometimes before going to sleep.

As she climbs up the ladder, further up, further up towards the books that are not for little hands to reach, she peers at the titles, frowns when she doesn't understand, and blushes sometimes when she thinks she does and she doesn't want to know more. Yet. She just needs something in-between, something that would educate her without being too much of a shock... A bold-colored cover catches her eyes and her hand reaches for it on impulse. The illustration is lovely, bright green meadows with two little naked figures locked in a passionate embrace. The sun is setting down and there are tiny white figures everywhere that looks like sheeps. She bites her lips at the title. The Princess and the Shepherd. She knows a lot of stories about penniless men falling in love with royal women. They're her favorites. She opens the book shyly. There are a lot of pictures. Her eyes widen slightly at some of them, and she shuts the book close quickly, looking down to see if anyone's coming.

No one.

She takes a deep breath and peeps back at the book. Yes, this one will do.

Carefully, she begins her descent, holding on tight to the volume, and she jumps to the floor and runs to her special place, feeling already giddy with excitement, the book clutched hard in her hand, thoughts swirling in her head, about forbidden and naughty and dangerous and not proper, and she barks out a laugh and then she stops dead before reaching the curtains as a voice rises behind her.

"And where do you think you are running like that, young lady?"

Breathless, heart hammering in her chest to the point of being physically painful, Snow slowly turns to Regina, who is watching her quietly, with a strange glint in her dark eyes.

"I didn't do anything wrong!"

She winces as her voice sounds unpleasantly high-pitched to her ears, and sweat begins to gather on her brow as Regina steps towards her, her head cocked with curiosity.

"But I didn't ask you anything dear. What are you so anxious about?"

Snow swallows heavily, her eyes never leaving Regina's, which seem now rather predatory.

"I'm not. I'm just... I'm sorry for what happened earlier. I didn't want to be so mean. It wasn't fair of me to speak harsh words to you."

If she thought the apology would placate her step-mother, she thought wrong. Regina is still looking at her as if she is going to pounce any minute from now on, and when she does, it's with a delighted drawl:

"What is that book you're hiding behind your back, Snow?"

"N... Nothing."

"You're lying. Give it to me now."

"I'm not lying it's nothing I swear!"

"Fine, then if it's nothing there is nothing wrong with giving it to me."

"Please, Regina, I..."

"Give. It."

The hiss makes her shudder, and slowly, tears threatening to spill on her cheeks that aren't completely dry from her previous crying, she lets her arms fall to her sides. But just as Regina makes a move to grab it, she slaps her hand away and yells in her face with all the rage a thirteen-year-old girl can muster:

"I hate you! I hate you! You're evil and cruel and I wish father had punished you a thousand times worse... oh!"

She stops short, her cheek stinging with the violent slap she just received from Regina. With great care, she brings her free hand to her heated flesh, whispering with disbelief:

"You slapped me."

No one has ever dared slap her. No one. Not even her mother when she was 'acting out'. Not even her father. But Regina did. Regina has raised a hand on her. And she's going to make her pay. She looks up at her step-mother to see her huffing out short, panicked breaths and wringing her hands in extreme agitation.

"Snow..."

"I'll tell father. I shall. I'll tell him and he will kill you!"

"Snow, please, I'm sorry, I hadn't mean to – "

"Let me through! I'll go to him now!"

"Don't you dare"!

Regina snarls and grabs her by the arm, shaking her violently until the book falls from her hand. For a minute, Snow is terrified. This woman looks nothing like the kind princess who rescued her from her devilish horse, nothing like the sweet mother who braids her hair, nothing like the slightly uncomfortable queen who still manages to smile with warmth at her. This woman has wild hair and crazy eyes, and her skin is glowing purple, and Snow is certain that she is the one that's going to be killed. But then, Regina's seething expression fades away, leaving her face bare, frightened, pleading.

"Please don't say anything. Please Snow don't tell. Please don't tell them, please don't tell, please keep that secret, please?"

Regina's nails are digging in her arm, bruising it, but she doesn't care for the pain anymore, and she isn't mad or frightened anymore, well yes she is, she is afraid, but not of Regina. She thinks about how her voice broke on the word 'secret' and something like shame slithers in her insides like a venomous snake. She sees the drowned eyes where the dam has broken. She sees the soft patch of skin the sleeve has revealed in the violent move, and the darkened marks that look like stains of wine.

"It's okay," she whispers, "I won't tell."

But Regina keeps breaking before her eyes, repeating "don't tell" over and over again, shaking her head like one tries to shake out fever and fear, and Snow suddenly remembers that her step-mother is only five years older.

Only five.

Why has she never thought of that before?

She gently puts her hand above Regina's one on her arm, and presses it lovingly.

"It's okay, Regina. You can let go of my arm now."

She pulls off the fingers one by one with her smaller hand, and then she holds them tenderly, and kisses each knuckle, and then drops a kiss on each of Regina's cheeks that are soaked with tears.

"I'm sorry."

Regina lets out a wet, gravelly laugh, and lets Snow wrap her arms tightly around her. Lets her puts her head on her bosom. She's too stunned to move for a long time, but eventually she raises a trembling hand and begins to stroke the girl's hair softly.

"Is that what you think your father was doing? Punishing me?"

Snow shudders. The question is genuine. As if Regina is really asking herself. Slowly, she shakes her head, and repeats: "I'm sorry" in a quiet little voice.

And then, sounding even smaller if possible, Snow speaks words that wound them both for different reasons:

"Sometimes, mother had blue marks on her arms too."

.

.

AN: So what did you think of young Snow? Do you think her struggle with what's happening is believable or not?