Snow White

His fingers traced over the veins that lay beneath the surface of her translucent skin. They were just visible, like flower stems crushed by the morning snow, or a few rude brush marks left by a painter in a moment of contempt for the Academy. He, at that moment, felt no such fire burning in his blood – just a sick, panicked feeling that came in ebbs like the evening tide. Her satin ruffled as he moved his hands from her neck to her face, and then to her slim shoulders. She was fragile, but not as fragile as this.

He gave her a playful shove, managed a crooked smile and whispered in a tone that lay somewhere between choked hope and frightened disbelief, "Snow. Hey, Snow, wake up."

He leaned over her, watching with almost vicious concentration. No response. She was perfectly still, like an image from a painting or poem by those damn Romantics; their full colours and pretty words hiding the darkness that was always brimming just underneath. Lovers weren't meant to kill and they certainly weren't meant to die. They came to this Earth to do just what was planned for them – to love. With this in mind, he tangled his hands through her thick, dark hair and gripped her shoulders more urgently. Leaves crackled and dress material shuffled, but there was not so much as a peep from the girl. He shook her. "Snow. Damn it, Snow. Wake the fuck up."

Nothing. To love. To love. To love. The thought kept going around and around in his mind. Meaningless and childish as it was, he just couldn't let it go. He frowned at a blurring in his eyes and realised he was crying. But that was ridiculous: crying meant that something was wrong, and everything was fine. It was fine. His hands were in her hair again. Laughing briefly, he shook his head and wiped away the tears. He brought his hands to her face and caressed it with his thumbs and fingers and palms and oh, every part of his unworthy hands – something he had been so afraid of doing before. The tree branches above them threw strange patterns over her face, dappling her skin in shadow and light. Some tiny blossoms had fallen and settled on her eyelashes. The trees around the boy and girl seemed oblivious to their plight. They in their hundreds of years of life were now so heartless; compassionless towards this girl with only her few.

He folded his hands – shaking, now – and leaning down, he kissed her. He kissed her fully and passionately. He kissed her the way he should have done for every hour, every minute, every second of her life.

And she was so perfect in death.

He pulled away, for the feeling of her ice lips was near enough to shatter his heart. He didn't know what he had expected – the forest to burst into bloom, maybe, or a string quartet to strike up. And maybe, just maybe, the slightest movement from the girl who wouldn't move. But he had not been expecting that gripping, winter cold. He gasped, fearing and hoping that it would stop his own heart. It didn't.

That's it. Finally allowing hopelessness to take its rightful place, he crumpled and buried his face in her gown. He'd been as useless as the forest around him. For some minutes, all that could be heard were his own despairing sobs. And then, a faun that had been watching from the edge of the clearing crept quietly over. It approached him on thin, unsteady legs and folded itself at his side. It placed its head on her breast and blinked at him with wide, docile eyes. He glared at it, but let it stay.

He closed his eyes, listening. The forest seemed to breathe again around him, slowly gathering the courage to join in his lamentation. I'm not the only one that loved her. He knew that. It didn't help. Lovers were meant to love – but much like human hands, caresses from the woodlands didn't ease the pain when love was over. And like human melodies, the night world's songs to salute her passing could not save the part of him that had to die with her.