Categories > Comics > Fables > Beneath the Surface
She remembered, as a child, asking her mother why she had been named Snow White.
"Because you're so pure, my dear!" was the reply. Then Rose tossed some mud at her, feeling somewhat slighted. They both giggled and ran off to play, setting it out of their minds.
Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, hair as black of ebony
The assessment had been true enough at the time. But years passed, things changed, and she didn't really feel as pure as she once was.
The week after her divorce, she spent an hour in front of a mirror, examining every inch of skin carefully. She expected some blemish to somehow manifest visibly the unclean feeling that clung to her, no matter how much she bathed, to somehow validate it.
But her skin remained pale, smooth and clear through the years. As pale as snow, as cold as ice. She had no reason not to play the part. A queen the kingdom could take pride in, quiet, distant, untouchable and ruling with a fair hand. Unmarred, pure beauty. Best to use it to her advantage.
Again, things do change, and her time as queen was short-lived. She moved on, but the role had largely stuck.
On the rare occasion a scar was left, she took a quiet pride in it she would never admit to. She had grown to dislike the perfection, and an interruption in the smooth surface -- a small and gentle bite mark, just above her hip, or the more painful crescent-shaped scar that marked her just above her temple -- became a thing of value.
Still the fairest one of all, but not pure, not completely. Still flawed, still real, still able to feel and not simply exist as an ideal. They grounded her.
Perhaps that's why the dance had made her feel more real than she'd admit, Bigby's hand resting gently above the mark he left all those centuries ago, separated by a thin piece of fabric.
And why, much later, she had reacted so positively to the same caress, without the fabric in the way.
"Because you're so pure, my dear!" was the reply. Then Rose tossed some mud at her, feeling somewhat slighted. They both giggled and ran off to play, setting it out of their minds.
Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, hair as black of ebony
The assessment had been true enough at the time. But years passed, things changed, and she didn't really feel as pure as she once was.
The week after her divorce, she spent an hour in front of a mirror, examining every inch of skin carefully. She expected some blemish to somehow manifest visibly the unclean feeling that clung to her, no matter how much she bathed, to somehow validate it.
But her skin remained pale, smooth and clear through the years. As pale as snow, as cold as ice. She had no reason not to play the part. A queen the kingdom could take pride in, quiet, distant, untouchable and ruling with a fair hand. Unmarred, pure beauty. Best to use it to her advantage.
Again, things do change, and her time as queen was short-lived. She moved on, but the role had largely stuck.
On the rare occasion a scar was left, she took a quiet pride in it she would never admit to. She had grown to dislike the perfection, and an interruption in the smooth surface -- a small and gentle bite mark, just above her hip, or the more painful crescent-shaped scar that marked her just above her temple -- became a thing of value.
Still the fairest one of all, but not pure, not completely. Still flawed, still real, still able to feel and not simply exist as an ideal. They grounded her.
Perhaps that's why the dance had made her feel more real than she'd admit, Bigby's hand resting gently above the mark he left all those centuries ago, separated by a thin piece of fabric.
And why, much later, she had reacted so positively to the same caress, without the fabric in the way.
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