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It was all a big misunderstanding when the word spread. A huge chunk of truth was missing. A different story was forged; one, wherein, Irene played the villain.
A false lie, of course, but who was Irene to stop them from believing it? She knows this is—was—the one thing Seulgi hated about her. How she had stood back and let the whole kingdom believe she was a being of evil. Immersed behind her potions, and poisons, and spell books, and how she had poisoned their king in a ploy of power.
False, all false. The king had died of old age, and if Irene were to truthfully admit, the sickest and most evil thing she did amidst their marriage was going and falling in deep with the king’s maiden daughter, the princess herself.
Irene sighs, as she moves silently through the woods. She hates reminiscing. Hates remembering how messed up her life became to be.
She staggers on a tree root, and nearly falls flat on her face. A bush nearby rustles, a rabbit bounding out, surprising Irene so much, the hood falls to reveal her face.
Pale and regal. Irene was proud of her beauty, once. Seulgi loved to praise her, singing songs and reciting poems she had learned and memorized by heart from the books in their palace’s vast library. Irene reveled in it, had stored those memories in a special place in her heart.
Seulgi had loved coming in Irene’s chambers, braving through the strange fumes just to catch a glimpse of her whenever matters of the kingdom had weighted Irene so that meals were often skipped, and conversations were muted to one-worded replies.
On special days, when the sky was clear and sun was bright, they would frolic around in the woods behind the castle. There was a clearing hidden behind a thorn bush that they would often frequent to. Although Irene has never been entirely fond of the great outdoors, Seulgi loved it—she loved the woodland creatures, the morning dew on the blades of grass, and the smell of fresh air.
It was in that very clearing that Irene had taken Seulgi’s maidenhood, and given her heart for Seulgi to keep.
With firm hands, she draws her hood up to cover her appearance. Standing up, Irene continues her trek through the woods without bothering to dust herself off. If Seulgi were here, she would fuss over Irene. There are twigs in Irene’s hair, and scratches on skin that used to be unblemished. Her eyes are sunken, and her shoulders fall heavy.
Oh, heartbreak.
She remembers very well, how it all came crashing down.
A servant had seen them in the throes of a passionate embrace; a scullery maid who had been sent by the head cook to scavenge for spices. Word travels fast, and Irene knew that if she allowed the servant to scurry back into the castle, the whole kingdom would hear of their affair by nightfall. So she killed her; allowed the vines to grow and strangle and pull her body apart, bit by bit.
For days they looked and looked, but no one could find her, and Irene could breathe a sigh of relief. Yet, repercussions came and news soon spread that the evil queen had killed a servant. The story grew, and everyone came to know the incident as an assassination attempt on the princess, in which an unlucky servant accidentally got herself involved in.
From there, Irene knew danger would arise. She would be seen as a villain. Surely, the knights and heroes from the surrounding kingdoms will see this as a challenge. Many will come and try to slay her, taking the kingdom and Seulgi for good.
They were in her empty throne room, her loyal huntsman by her side, when she told the princess she would be sending her away. Upon hearing this, sweet, sweet Seulgi fell on her knees and begged to stay. It had hurt Irene to see her beloved princess grovel before her very eyes, but she was adamant in her decision, and had Seulgi escorted to the deepest part of the woods, to where she knew a dwarf settlement lay nestled in. The look of pure heartbreak on Seulgi’s face was enough to send Irene in a fit of deep heaving sobs as soon as she was left alone in the throne room.
But the separation was short-lived, and somehow, a few weeks after, a dove flew in the window of Irene’s tower, startling her. She was never one to attract the attention of animals, she made sure of that. The dove had a missive attached to it, a short note, from her beloved.
The forest floor lightens as Irene travels, until she reaches a small clearing, in which a series of thatched huts are collected in. It is a familiar sight, as merely a moon has passed since Irene had last been here, upon the request of Seulgi. Irene was never able to say no to her.
Seulgi had asked for a spell to be cast on her, an incredibly potent sleeping spell, that can only be broken by the kiss of true love. Irene had been aghast, of course, upon hearing this. She had heard of enchantresses putting maidens to sleep for years on end, and the horrible nightmares it brought. She could never subject her love through that kind of torture!
But Seulgi was stubborn. “This might be the only way to prove your innocence! That, you too, have a heart that loves!” She cried, cheeks wet, eyes red, and Irene longed to reach out to wipe those tears. “Surely, the kingdom could not object to an act of true love. Men have killed to be with the women they love, why must we be so different?”
Irene shook her head, although she had sensed truth in Seulgi’s words. “That may be so, but that does not deter the fact that I have killed. My hands have been stained.” She gave in and cupped Seulgi’s face. The poor princess had resorted to kneeling before her, clutching her garments in a silent plea. “You may never wake up, my love. The true love’s kiss the spell speaks of may be that of a man’s.”
“Then let me rot. I would rather die, than live a lifetime without you.”
And with those words, the rest was history.
Irene hates how Seulgi had so easily convinced her, hates how she knew she would give anything she desired in the drop of a hat. It took less than a nightfall for the poison to be made, and by dusk of the following day, Seulgi had bitten the apple and fallen to the curse of an endless slumber.
Irene is broken out of her recollection when she feels something hit her. And then another. And another. She barely catches a glimpse of a flock of birds descending the sky at an angle to drop objects upon her: nuts, pebbles, branches. A squirrel pelts an acorn at her, and then scurries down its tree. A thorn of a branch catches on her cheek, splitting the skin open.
Even in the woods she is not welcome. The rest of the kingdom is mourning the loss of their Briar Rose, and Irene plays the role of the evil enchantress.
Irene knows she must hurry, else if she dawdles any longer, the whole forest might come upon her. She picks up the hem of her robes, and breaks out into a run. Beyond the homes lies a grove where the dwarves are standing vigil over the forest’s Snow White. A bird dives down to peck and claw at her, and Irene quickly swats it away. Her scalp feels warm and sticky, and she wonders how pathetic she must look in her dark robes; barely able to muster out any magic for her own safety.
She runs and runs, not stopping until the angry cries of the animals are gone. She slows down into a walk, catching her breath, and keeping an eye on every rustle of a bush and break in the foliage.
Just when Irene thinks she might be lost, she hears it: a cadence of voices.
“The princess isn’t dead!”
“We just saw—with our very eyes—how that prince, with his golden crown and great white steed, came to give her a kiss! Remember how he trotted off when it was quite obvious she wasn’t waking up?”
“It is only a matter of time before she starts rotting in that glass coffin!”
“What are you saying? That we should bury her alive?”
“How can you be so inhumane, Donghyuck?”
A curtain of vines shield the grove away from prying eyes. Were it not for the ruckus made, Irene would not be able to locate it. She contemplates waiting it out for the dwarves to disappear, but she hears a growl coming not far off, and she knows that time must not be wasted.
Irene marches in the grove. The sudden brightness assaults her eyes, and she squints, raising a palm up above her face to see. A series of closely-knit trees line the grove in a circular fashion, with wildflowers dotting the green grass. She hears the bubble of a spring. And in the middle, for all to see, lies Seulgi, in a glass coffin.
She nearly sobs with relief, taking a hasty step forward.
Someone squeaks in indignation as Irene bumps into something warm and solid. She looks down and finds herself surrounded by tiny men.
“It’s the evil queen!” the one she had bumped into exclaims.
“Have you come to get the corpse of Princess Seulgi?” a dwarf with a white cap calls out, threateningly holding up an axe, as he scowls menacingly at her.
“Have you not done enough already?” someone sobs out, sniffling and snorting into his sleeve.
“Please, let me through.” Irene pleads, putting what little magic she has into her words. The magic she casts falls like an invisible blanket over the dwarves. The fiery passion in their eyes put out to a blank stare.
Irene gasps, willing the last of her magic to leave her, not stopping until every murderous dwarf has been sedated. It has been so long since she has been without magic, and the sudden absence of it is akin to being without air.
She staggers to the coffin. Placing a hand over the glass covering, she concentrates on channeling the excess mana—the meager remains of what is left—into dissolving the glass. Her hands are shaking. As the glass disappears, her bloodied wounds drip onto Seulgi, staining the immaculate white dress she is garbed in.
Irene seats herself on the cushions, removing the hood of her robe.
Seulgi looks tranquil and pristine, asleep, and Irene wonders if she should leave Seulgi here. Away from pain and injury; and away from Irene, the source of it all. Irene wants to laugh as she brings a hand forward, to caress the cheek of her princess, and she sees the stark contrast of her skin against Seulgi’s.
Snow White, the people call her. Our princess.
The name has often been said with reverence throughout the kingdom, along with praises of untold grace and beauty. Irene had found it all too amusing, for those eyes have never seen the pink that graced her cheeks when embarrassed, the tan her skin baked into whenever a particularly sunny day came upon the kingdom, and the purples and reds that would dot her skin whenever Irene would have her way with her.
Irene is as pale, if not more.
But where Seulgi is the snow that falls like a blanket that muffles the rest of the world, Irene is the frost that creeps in the dead of the night. Beautiful, yet unwelcome.
It would be easy, to leave Seulgi here, and flee the rest of the kingdom. But Seulgi would hate her for it, and Irene—selfish, selfish Irene—cannot afford to let the one person that loves her in the whole world go.
Irene bends down, and kisses Seulgi.
The elation of reuniting with Seulgi is quelled when Irene kisses her. Seulgi feels like a corpse: cold and unmoving, and for a split second, Irene feels panic when she begins to pull away.
A breeze enters the grove, smelling of lavenders and flowers, rustling the trees. It swirls around the couple, before Irene feels it leaving with the curse’s dark magic, opposite the direction it came in.
Her heart crawls into her throat, thumping wildly, as she stares at the beauty before her.
When—finally—eyelids begin to flutter open to reveal warm coal pupils, Irene cries, hunching into Seulgi’s now-warm body.
“I love you,” Seulgi tells her, voice raspy from sleep. She strokes Irene’s hair as the queen sobs into her stomach. “Joohyun, I love you.”
Irene tries to say it back, but the words garble in her throat. Seulgi’s dress is getting stained, and Irene wants to pull away. But Seulgi gently coaxes her up, letting her head rest on her chest. Sleep still riddles her eyes, remnants of the curse, perhaps.
There might be magic in Seulgi’s fingertips when Irene feels them card through her hair. It surges through her body, coming in droves of warmth and happiness—an emotion she hasn’t felt in so long.
She settles for burying her face in Seulgi’s neck, allowing the soft, even strokes to lull her to sleep.
Soft lips press against a gash on Irene’s head right before she drifts off, whispering of love and happy endings.
XX
“And so, they lived happily ever after.”