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Playlist: 'Einaudi: Nuvole Bianche' by Ludovico Einaudi.
5
I heard myself whisper your name, I was asleep in a dream
Then you woke me up, Little Sun.
Well I remember those few nights
When the sky it stared right back at us
And I felt so small standing next to you, Little Moon.
Carrying my father's clothing back to the bathing chamber was like holding a dream, a tangible dream, in my shaking hands. The silky loose shirt and blue embroidered surcoat, the velvety breeches, the expensive braies - they felt as though they were going to melt away at any second.
The castle was just as Ravenna had left it. I hadn't even seen it since - well. Just since. But I remembered what it had looked like then, and shuddered at how it had transformed. Her possessions, her clothes, her colours, her obsessions all stained the place. Especially the master chamber I had just dared to enter - the one that would soon be mine.
Every object seemed ready to spring; morbid, looming, occult and ugly. Even the tapestries. I found it repulsive, but unsurprising, that in all her time here she had only ever surrounded herself with ugliness. That her face in the eerie golden mirror was the only thing that ever brought her true joy.
"Come in." my nameless friend growled like a contented big cat.
"I found them." I said needlessly, as I placed the neat stack of rich clothing upon a heavy chest, and then perched next to it.
'Einaudi: Nuvole Bianche'.
The huntsman had taken me by surprise - he was already out of the bath and towelling himself dry. One hand clutched a swathe of material around his hips, keeping at least his dignity intact, but the rest of the flannel he was rubbing over his upper body, frequently exposing chunks of flesh - his solid chest, his sides, his defined back, his broad shoulders.
The candlelight did things to his rippling arms as they worked. Glancing off each muscle, casting his body in shadow, revealing it again. Soaking him in a golden-tinted light that brought out bright flecks in his hair and made his skin look like it was honey-smothered.
I had intended to look fixedly at my feet at the first moment I registered his physical state. But after the initial glimpse I found myself staring - I couldn't not be transfixed by this show of unconscious, exquisite beauty.
I had never seen him like this before.
I had never imagined he could be so pure and - handsome.
He finished drying his hair and, knotting the towel around his waist, reached up to tie most of the copper-coloured strands back again.
Then he strode towards me, extending a strong, large hand for the new clothes. I must have looked like some kind of gawping simpleton - or frozen prey under the magnetic gaze of its hunter - maybe both.
The point was, I couldn't speak or move for the way he was shocking, provoking and enchanting me. The first man to ever have presented himself, honest as they came, to my open stare. He didn't even treat it as a heinous social faux pas. To him, I didn't think it mattered at all.
Or perhaps it did matter. And that was why he was taking the opportunity to dazzle me. Maybe he was toying with me, trying to make me look stupid by breaking the rules in front of me and ignoring my protests. Watching me crumble into a starstruck mess as he flaunted.
Or - maybe I was overestimating his ability to spite me. Maybe I was blowing all of this out of proportion... The proportions of his exposed figure were certainly clouding my judgement.
I thrust the new garments into his hands suddenly, spitting out, "Cover yourself up, you rascal."
"It isn't my fault you walked in whilst I was drying off."
"You let me in!"
"You're still staring."
It was true. His torso, shaped and scarred by war, by the forests and long treks over land, was practically blocking out all other possibilities of vision.
"Don't sound so smug." I leapt from the chest and crossed the room, looking at the bath, at the candles, at the windows, "Just because you're the first man I've had the displeasure to witness without his decency. It's unfair."
There was a pause, and I felt as though I'd stung him.
Good. He needed taking down a notch or two.
"Is this decent enough for you?"
I kept my face a perfect mask of indifference, determined not to show him any of these unwanted stirrings he was causing - but nothing could prepare me for the image he presented now. Internally, my jaw dropped, my stomach exploded and my knees buckled.
Externally, the corners of my mouth turned down a little, but that was all I gave away.
The first thing that struck me was the strangeness of seeing my father from the neck down - similar stature, posture, same illustrious attire.
The second shock was how, when I added the huntsman's face to the top of the picture, he seemed to fit it so well. He was transformed. He was clean and regal, his fresh visage looked almost heavenly.
Then I managed to laugh at his bare feet, which completely ruined the picture.
"I'll have to fetch you a pair of shoes, too. Those old boots won't do."
His lips curled. Again, he was smiling. And again, I was at a loss as to why he was encouraging my laughter. Up until today - ever since we had camped around that fire with the dwarves, and I had danced with Gus - he had been a cold, sober statue of dedication and single-mindedness.
"You're so different." I blurted out, all evidence of mirth gone.
He confused me. Unsettled me, still. And I didn't like it.
I preferred this jovial man to the stern guide I once had, but it didn't mean I felt more comfortable. It was all too unfamiliar.
"I am dressed very... differently." he picked at the clothes self-consciously, "What do you think?"
"I don't think anything about how you look." I lied. His expression dropped immediately, and it made my gut clench, "I meant about you."
"What about me?" he already knew what I meant, and was just extending the time he could evade my comment. It irritated me.
"You're like a jolly farmer. You look as though you've no trouble in the world."
He was about to reply, but bit his lip.
"I've already asked you if you don't prefer it this way." he took a few steps towards me, as though he thought his words required more intimacy, "You've spent enough time looking miserable, don't you think?"
"I have an awful lot more things to think about than you, tomorrow and all the days after." I felt that we were repeating our earlier debate, going in circles, but I didn't have any other point to make, "You can go off and do as you please. I have to mend this country."
"I will not be going off anywhere."
"Then what?"
"I will remain. Your sense of humour needs somebody to look after it. Or what's left of it."
His eyes were saying something less light-hearted, but I brushed it away. I wouldn't be taken in like this.
"What will you do?"
"Whatever I can. I'll take responsibility for the horses. Perhaps I'll be offered the position of huntsman, still?"
I didn't want to talk about this. Not now.
I was tired, and so many things remained to be taken care of before I could even begin to assign positions to friends.
"We'll find something. After the more important things are seen to."
He bowed his head slightly, taking the insult as impersonal. Which it was.
"The girls are waiting outside. Who knows what they think is going on." I sighed. I had worked myself up into an awful temper despite his attempts to cheer me. And I did feel guilty. But being in the same room as him, dressed like that, looking so desirable, was too confusing. And I didn't need confusion. I needed consistency.
"Snow White."
He stopped me in my tracks on the way to the door.
"You can't let the future weigh you down. At least, not tonight."
He hadn't moved, but I felt a sudden, horrible urge to run back to him, to let his comforting words wash over me like the sweep of his hair on my cheek. I could feel William's arms around my shoulders, around my waist, from all the times he had touched me today, with such familiarity.
I wanted the huntsman's arms, in this singular moment. His speech was so inviting it seemed to require physical accompaniment. If he held me as he said all of those things - maybe they would finally take on some meaning for me. Perhaps they would finally sink in.
I realised that I was numb. I had been numb all day long - no matter the tears I had already shed.
I could reach a certain point of feeling, and then I was shut off from myself, from the things that really lurked beneath my streams of thought.
The catalyst that would allow me to break through my self-constructed barriers was only a few metres from me. All he had to do was extend his arms. He was still my companion, my huntsman, and the only person I currently felt safe with.
Not even William would be able to break the spell. Only, only him.
"Would you like to know why I am so free and flippant?"
"Please, do explain."
I didn't have the courage to make even one movement towards him. I was afraid of what I might find there, in the net of his arms.
I was afraid that I might betray my true love, once caught in that snare.
Not openly. Never physically.
But my soul was crying out in hunger for this man, and I couldn't give it the satisfaction. I couldn't allow myself to fall head over heels for a friend whom I relied upon to be so constant in his singular aspect of supporting me.
I couldn't jeapordise my chances of eventual, appropriate, happy marriage with William. My childhood companion who had been through hell and high water to rescue me. Who had proven himself a thousand times over to be as worthy of a crown as I - to share my crown, my throne, my chamber...
"The witch is dead." he said, with a note of hesitation, planning his words carefully, "The kingdom is on its way to restoration, and it has the most perfect future sovereign to ensure its safety. But that's not the reason I feel so uplifted."
He paused, and cleared his throat. He was now a million miles away from the celebratory mood he was talking about. It looked so ironic, his shy, serious face clashing with his words.
"If the Queen had died, and the kingdom was restored, but you were not here to see it done - if you hadn't survived - I should be beyond consolation."
That was all he needed to say. I no longer had any trouble restraining myself from running to him - I was rooted to the spot with the electrifying chills surging up and down my spine, disabling me completely.
But now I could see it was his turn to be distressed. He shifted on his bare feet, fists slightly tensed at his sides. He wanted to approach, but after that I couldn't guess. Shake me violently, for being such a miserable let down? Embrace me? Exit the room, striding straight past me?
"Well... thank you." I answered pathetically.
It crossed my mind to tell him that if he had died, I too would have been broken with grief. But even that seemed like a line not to be crossed. For William's sake.
I would have been just as distraught had William died. I remembered my manic rush to his side, the way my body refused to function and my graceless fall as I prepared to lose him.
"I really need to find somewhere to sleep, now." I continued at last, glancing at the round, black window, "What a waste of time, getting into clothes I don't even intend to sleep in."
"Welcome to palace life." he agreed with a small, knowing smirk.
The three maids and Greta were, as I'd expected, listening at the door. They all jumped back in an awful fright when I opened it, and tried to look innocent.
"I need a room, right away." I was almost swaying on my feet, I was so tired.
They rushed to obey, and my faithful huntsman followed me down the corridor towards the adjoining chambers, where fresh sheets would be thrown upon a soft mattress for me.
"Damien?" I asked under my breath.
He glanced sideways at me, shook his head almost imperceptibly, and then matched my genuine smile with one of his own.