The huntsman had brought her Snow White’s heart in golden box, just as she had asked. It was strange that so much depended on this thing, dark, oblong, and forever silent. She held up the heart, and droplets of blood dripped to the ground. She would eat Snow White’s heart, and eat it raw. She pictured Snow White’s body on the winter landscape, now nothing more than a corpse. The wolves could have the rest of her, devour her, tear apart her body.
As Boric, the huntsman, walked away from the queen’s chamber he could hear the dripping of blood. He was the queen’s through and through. He had served her well, too well he knew. What was he now? Was he any better than before? The days had long since passed when he would wake up, lie to himself, say that today he would be better. Despite his strength, he knew himself to be a poor excuse of a man, a coward, too fearful to take a stand for good or evil. He could hardly remember the nights that had not been plagued with the thoughts of his wrong doings. He must have been a boy.
He had done well here, and could support those those he loved. After all he served the royal household; they could afford it. He would do whatever it took.
Why had he let her go? It was not because of her fabled beauty, no. It was because in a single instant as she had reminded him of his sister as she had looked into his eyes. His blade had fallen to on the snow, and he knew that she must not die, not by his hands.
He let her go.
What had he done? He took no risk. The queen had a heart; he made sure of that. He was cruel, crueler that if he had killed her with his own hands. He saw no hope of survival for the girl. She would die slowly, painfully from starvation, or cold, if the wolves didn’t get her first. He could never be a better man, only a worse one.