Page 34 of Snow White and the Seven Little Miners
And then, the mirror went dark again. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Grim said, “So, I guess we’re fucking killing the Queen.”
Nineteen
It was indeed several long, excruciating days before they heard from the old sorcerer again. At least having to carry on with work as though nothing had happened was not an unfamiliar task. Each morning, they all came to the coffin to tell Makellos good morning, and at the end of the day, they bid him good night. Whomever stayed home to take care of things would check on him and very often find the tracks of animals in the snow around the coffin. Squirrels, rabbits, birds, deer, all manner of forest-dwelling creatures had come to pay their respects to the fallen prince, it seemed. And through it all, Makellos remained asleep, as still as stone, though his body did not waste away. He seemed but to slumber peacefully under the cold winter sun.
Hardwic was the one tending the home late in the afternoon when Zel and Ulrich arrived, bundled in furs against the cold, though he had not heard them approach through the trees. He invited them in and offered them tea and ginger cookies from the market until such time as his companions madetheir way home from work. They all gathered around the table expectantly, Zel and Ulrich at the head.
Ulrich reached into his pocket and withdrew something small that he set before them. It was the apple that had been on the floor where Makellos had fallen, ignored and forgotten in their grief, with the single bite out of it. “The Sleeping Death,” he announced without preamble. “No doubt the Queen assumed he would be buried, or burnt upon a pyre, never having awoken again.”
“Well, dead is still dead, so what’s the antidote?” Grim asked with a pointed glare. The others seemed aghast that he was so rude to the mighty sorcerer and his companion in their midst.
But Zel merely laughed and pulled out a rolled-up piece of parchment from a pocket, spreading it out next to the apple. “The victim of the Sleeping Death spell may be revived by True Love’s Kiss.”
The seven little men looked amongst themselves in confusion. “Must it be upon the lips?” asked Der.
Zel raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “There is no stipulation as such.”
“Then why hasn’t he revived?” Sigurd demanded. “We have all kissed him goodbye.”
“And we love him,” Sigmund added. “Surely there is not one of us who loves him more than the others.”
“Did we not love him enough?” lamented Hardwic, his usually cheery countenance falling into a dissolution of tears.
“Of course we did,” Grimwald snapped. “We loved him, and he loved us. There has to be something we’re missing.”
“Did he perhaps have a first love?” Bernhardt asked helplessly. “An unrequited love or lover scorned?”
That sent grumbles and mutters through the group, each voice growing louder and more intense, as such that when Dagobert raised his hand, none of them noticed for several seconds. Whenthey finally did, and silence fell once more, Dagobert said softly, “I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?” Der asked gently. The others all leaned in with wide eyes, as though disbelieving that the young man could not have loved the sweet prince.
“Kiss him.” Dagobert’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “The guards came.”
Each of them thought back to that horrible day when the guards had broken down their door and they had hidden Makellos beneath their blankets on the very table they currently sat at. Each remembered pressing a kiss to the prince’s hands, lips, forehead, cheek, as they shared in their collective grief. But no one could recall Dagobert, the weepy last of them to come forward, completing the same embrace.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Grimwald said, leaping to his feet. And he ran out the front door into the icy winter without cloak or covering. There was a scramble as the six others followed after him, tailed by Ulrich and Zel. They all hurried out to the garden, the glass of the coffin shining under the starlight, the only real source of light.
Sigurd and Grim lifted the glass lid from the coffin and set it aside, and then all gathered round to gaze at the sleeping prince, still so peaceful in his bed of satin.
Dagobert swallowed and stepped forward, but Hardwic held up a hand. “Wait.”
“We’ve waited long enough,” Grimwald snapped.
“I know. But should we perhaps… all kiss him again? If Dagobert alone kisses and awakens him, might that present a question as to whether he is the most beloved amongst the lot of us?”
There was an uncomfortable silence as the seven little men exchanged looks. Each was suddenly realizing the truth in Hardwic’s words. Makellos had never shown favor to any one ofthem over another; that did not mean that there might not be one particular favorite in his heart. But that was his own secret to keep, not theirs to be inferred from a single moment. At least if they all kissed the prince, there was equality between them.
“I think that is fair,” Bernhardt said with a nod.
So, they all lined up, one by one, from eldest to youngest, Dagobert at the end of the line. Bernhardt pressed a kiss to Makellos’ lips, then stepped aside for Der, Hardwic, Grimwald, Sigurd, and Sigmund. Last came Dagobert, kneeling by the coffin’s base. He stroked a hand over Makellos’ cheek, still so soft even in death. His tears fell upon the prince’s enchanted clothes and immediately dried. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the sinful, pink lips that he had kissed so many times before.
The silence of the night felt like a living thing as all nine of those gathered stared down at the prince in the coffin. And then, the softest rustle of clothing, the smallest intake of breath. Makellos’ blue eyes, the one as clear and shining as a cloudless summer sky, slowly opened, staring up at nothing at first, as if unsure what he was seeing. He blinked a few times, and then his whole body slowly stirred to life, hands unfolding from one another on his torso, limbs stretching as if awakening from a long slumber.
He turned his head to the side and found Dagobert staring at him in wide-eyed shock. He blinked, taking a deep breath of crisp, sweet forest air. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently, pushing himself up from where he had been lying down. It was cold, he realized, very cold, and the ground was covered in a layer of fluffy snow. They were in the garden, he realized. Had he been asleep? But why was he sleeping in the garden, of all places?
Dagobert’s eyes were as round and wide as saucers. His hand with its stubby fingers reached out and touched Makellos’ cheek, then patted over it, as if the man were a specter who was notcompletely solid. But yet he was. The warmth had returned to his skin, the blush of the rose upon his cheek and lips once more. “You… were dead,” he said in his soft, sweet way, still staring at Makellos in disbelief.
The words took him by surprise, and he cast his mind back to his last memory. Sitting in the cottage, a bright red apple in his hand. An old crone in black talking with him as he bit into the luscious scarlet fruit. And then, nothing. Had death really come for him?
