by Megan Derr
Yes, the candy apple poison would do nicely. He hoped. Uncorking the poison, he poured it carefully into the heart, a little at a time, until it was all at last absorbed. Then he tucked the vial away, closed the iron box and put it back into its own pouch.
All that he could do was done, and he returned to the castle as quickly as he could stand to go, as dusk turned swiftly to dark around him.
He had always thought the castle beautiful by night, lit from within by torches and fireplaces, the shadows of people bustling about in the last few minutes before everyone went to sleep.
Tonight, he could only see it as ominous. Very few rooms were lit, and no people moved within. It was too quiet for the hour, too quiet for the King's Castle at all. But, perhaps his view was corrupted by the fact he could see it only as his grave.
Reaching the castle, he climbed the stairs to the Queen's Chambers, pulled the iron box from its pouch, and knocked three times upon her door.
She called for him to enter, and Calder sent a last, loving thought to Lev before he opened the door and stepped inside.
The room was lit only with candles, and a small fire set in the enormous black marble fireplace. He had never known a woman intimately before she had forced him, but even without experience he knew the look of a woman expecting intimacy.
Her dark red hair was loose, spilling down around her shoulders in elegant curls that glowed in the candlelight. Her perfect skin was warm and golden where a robe that seemed made of little more than black gossamer barely hid it.
He was reminded, suddenly, of all the old stories of the notorious Bloody Beauty—but she had been fair-haired and blue-eyed, deceptively delicate looking. The Queen before him now was tall and fierce, too proud to ever let a man think her delicate.
Anyway, the Bloody Beauty was long dead, so too everyone else from that terrible time.
"My Queen," he said, kneeling before, bowing his head low, and presenting the box. "The Heart of Snow White, as proof she will trouble you no longer."
"My Huntsman," the Queen replied, and took the box. He heard the heavy thump of it being set on the table. Then her fingers, cool and slick as snakeskin, cupped his chin and forced his head up. She bent to kiss him.
He tried not to think about it being the last kiss he would ever receive.
Thankfully, she drew back after a moment, and settled into her chair. Opening the iron box, she made a soft noise of satisfaction. "Oh, Huntsman, you do please me. Even that moldy King, for all his slavering, did not perform half so well as you. I cannot wait to see how you well you perform tonight, hmm?"
"My Queen," Calder said obediently, wishing he could scrub away the oily, scummy feel of her from his lips. "I live only to please you."
"And please and pleasure me you shall, after I feast. Do you know what it is you have brought me, Huntsman? The heart of a Living Doll." She laughed, a cold, awful sound, like metal grating against metal. "It took me a great deal of time and effort, to solve the riddle of the Princess. But solve it I did, and now her heart is mine." Picking up a knife and fork, she reached into the iron box and cut off a bite.
Let her eat it, Calder prayed fervently. Just one bite. There was enough poison in one bite to kill a handful of people. He waited with bated breath, heart beating so hard in his chest he half feared it might break free—and then she bit, and chewed, and swallowed.
She started to reach for more, then suddenly paused. Confusion, uncertainty, then disbelief all flickered across her face. Then she looked at him, and her expression turned to one of rage—but still it was mingled with disbelief. "You—it cannot—"
Calder rose to his feet, smoothly drawing dagger and sword at the same time. "I cannot kill you witch, but gods above I will certainly try." He lunged toward her, but as quickly as that her magic came up, and there may as well have been a wall between them.
"You are mine!" She screamed, standing up and angrily shoving the table out of her way, sending dishes and goblets and bottles of wine crashing to the stone floor. "How—how did you resist me? No one can resist such curses, not so easily. You were mine, I made certain of it. You came to my arms and you fucked me—"
"Hated you every moment of it," Calder said with fervor, bracing himself as her eyes began to take on an ominous shine. He kept talking, hoping his reason would keep her from searching out the pendant on his corpse, because he sensed it would be very bad indeed if she took his pendant. He should have thought of that sooner. "My love and lust were never there for you to take, bitch. My heart was given to a wizard years ago, and he holds it still."
She screamed again, and let loose her magic.
Calder lunged at her again, as her protections dropped to give her more power with which to attack—but even as he sank his blades into her flesh, he knew it achieved nothing.
Laughing, she struck him. He cried out in pain and went reeling back, crashing hard against the bed, cracking his head against the bedpost. Then he tumbled to the floor, landing with a grunt on his hands and knees.
Lev had told him once the worst thing a man could do was face a magic user ill-prepared. The stronger the magic user, and the more willing he was to go to any means for power, the harder it was to kill him. Even Lev, Calder knew, could not be easily killed. One more reason amongst many that most magic had been outlawed.
He wished to the gods he had the right weapons for fighting the Witch Queen, but he'd never had a need to obtain and keep such weapons. He'd never encountered a witch of even half this power, except for maybe Lev.
Lev…
Despite the futility, he tried to keep fighting, using every trick that ten years as Huntsman had taught him.
In the end, when he lay in a pool of his own blood, unable to move and the world rapidly dimming, he thought he could at least say he had managed to hurt her.
He heard her say something, speak some terrible word that seemed to shake the roof itself—and it hurt, gods he had not know it was possible to feel still greater pain. He let out a last screaming sob, then everything went mercifully black.
He stirred, briefly, just barely hearing distant murmuring. Her voice, and two others, as they listened to her command….to take the corpse away, leave it at the edge of its precious forest.
He woke again, feeling the faint thrumming pressure of his forest.
One last time he stirred, to the sound of a voice not heard in ten years, but never for a moment forgotten. A dream. Then, finally, the dark seemed to take hold of him for good.
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Part Four
Calder woke with a scream lodged in his throat, but it was too raw and sore to let the scream out.
Instead he stared, lost and confused, at the ceiling. The roof was thatched, he thought hazily, then let the pointless thought slide away. After a few minutes of staring, he began to realize he was not dead. He could not decide if that made him happy or sad.
When he finally grew weary of staring at the ceiling, he slowly turned his head, to find himself staring at only a wall. Against the wall was a small table, with an old bowl and pitcher for washing up. Next to that was a small bureau that looked as though it might fall apart at any moment, and spill its contents across the room.
Turning his head again, he stared at the ceiling for a few more minutes, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Then he turned it in the opposite direction.
Goulet. Fast asleep and still, a forgotten book in his lap, but it was truly Goulet.
Calder fought a sudden, stupid urge to cry. Goulet had somehow rescued him? He…how…?
He remembered the Queen. Remembered the forest, only just. How had Goulet managed to get to him?
Goulet's eyes abruptly snapped open, the book in his lap tumbling to the floor as he stirred from the position in which he'd dozed off. Then his eyes sharpened with alertness, realization. "You're awake. How do you feel?"
Calder tried to speak, but the words came out dry and cracked and garbled.
Go
ulet smiled. "Figured as much." He reached out and lifted a small, clay mug from a little bedside table. Then he moved to the bed and helped Calder sit up. "Careful, brother. The healers did what they could, but your body could only take so much more magic after all you endured. They should be able to help more, now that you are awake. Drink slowly."
In no mood to be yelled at if he disobeyed, Calder drank slowly. The water felt good against his throat, even if the sips he was being forced to take were entirely too small.
Goulet took the glass away after a couple of minutes.
"How?" Calder asked.
"We found you just in the nick of time," Goulet replied. "You were in a bad way, make no mistake. Thankfully, that stupid, know-it-all alchemist fixed you right up. Even saved all my hard work."
Calder managed a weak smile, and just barely was able to reach out and lightly touch the back of Goulet's hand. "I’m glad my tattoos still look good."
"Shut up, idiot," Goulet replied. "After all the trouble and worry and aggravation you've put me through, I'm doing your chest and no arguments. I've already got it sketched."
"You rescued me just for an inarguable excuse to ink me. Goblins." He tried to smile again, but it felt decidedly shaky on his face.
"Shut up, idiot," Goulet repeated gruffly. "I’m happy to see you're alive, brother. We were not certain you would make it, at first." He stood up. "Now, I had bet go fetch your primary healer. I barely got him to finally get some rest, and then only because that damned alchemist helped."
"What?" Calder asked, baffled, but Goulet was already gone.
He waited, tense and shaky and in pain, wondering who in the world could have helped him and since when did Goulet know an alchemist?
Then the door opened.
Calder stared in disbelief.
It was…he was ten years older and the scar on his face looked like it could tell quite the tale, and he did not seem as light-hearted as he once had been, but he was still so damned handsome and striking and—
"Lev?"
"Cal," Levaughn replied, and his voice was still the same and Calder had never thought to hear his name said that way again. He wanted to reply, but could do nothing but continue to stare as Levaughn sat down alongside him on the bed, shuddering as Levaughn's hands cupped his face. "You're in pain," he said, murmuring softly.
Calder felt a warm sensation. Like the spread of good brandy, or slowly thawing after spending all day in the snow and ice. The pain eased steadily, until at last he felt like he could breathe and move without wincing.
"Cal," Levaughn said again softly. "You should have come to me."
Calder gave a shaky laugh that came out more of a sob. "I know. But—it was worse than I thought, but I didn't realize that until too late. We were ten years ago and I didn't want to bother you or force you to help for old time's sake if you had—other responsibilities. I didn't even know if you would remember—"
The flood of words was stopped by the very last thing he expected—a kiss, soft as silk, brushed across his mouth. Levaughn's eyes were harder now, filled with shadows that had not been there once, but they were still the same soft, warm brown Calder remembered. "I could never forget you, Cal. Not in ten years, not in a thousand."
"Lev—" Calder broke then, but the arms that wrapped around him kept him from falling apart entirely. Calder held on for dear life. "All—all I could think about was you, Lev."
"I'm here," Levaughn replied, "and here shall I stay, until I am no longer needed—for anything."
Later, Calder thought, he would over analyze those words to death. For now, they were all the reassurance he needed, as he held fast to Levaughn until exhaustion finally stole him back.
When he woke again, he was alone. Calder fought back the crushing disappointment. Of course he was alone. What had he thought, that Lev being here and saving him and kissing him had been real?
That aside, he felt a thousand times better than he had the first time—or when he'd been dreaming, or whatever. Perhaps the dreams of Lev had helped him heal. He half thought he could still smell Lev, but that was definitely the remnants of a dream.
How was he alive? He remembered talking to Goulet, him saying something about an alchemist—maybe Goulet had been a dream, too.
Sitting up, sighing in relief when the room did not spin or otherwise move inappropriately, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there for several minutes, just breathing and feeling, then stood up. When he did not immediately fall over, he took it as encouragement and walked around the bed to the small bureau tucked against the wall close to the door.
Awake and aware now, he recognized the room as one of the rarely used guest rooms in the dwarves' house. So Goulet had brought him to the dwarves, unless Goulet was a dream, in which case the dwarves had somehow found him.
That made more sense, really. Goulet should be sealed away with the rest of his clan—and he didn't know any alchemists.
Lev…
Calder fought a sudden, crushing sadness. He wished that part of the dream had been real, but he didn't see how it could be. If the dwarves had gone for Lev, they would not be returning until…Calder realized he had no idea what day it was, how much time had passed since the Queen had killed him. Almost killed him.
Shaking his head, Calder opened the top drawer of the bureau and managed to smile as he saw that his thing were inside, just as he had expected. They had even been cleaned and repaired—they might look better than they had before, really.
He dressed slowly, grimacing when certain ways of moving pulled at different wounds. But eventually he was dressed, minus his weapons and those were probably downstairs. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he opened the door and headed down the hall, keeping his head slightly ducked to avoid the low ceiling. The dwarves had built large to accommodate their guests, always invariably taller, but they had not quite accounted for anyone of even remotely above average height.
At the foot of the stairs, he hesitated, then sighed at himself. The dwarves and Snow White were downstairs, and would be happy to see him up and moving and feeling much better. They had saved him. Maybe, just maybe, someone was even now fetching Lev—
Oh, stop it, he thought irritably. Lev had been a dream, accept that and move on.
Finally, he did, at last, manage to move on, going down the stairs slowly just in case his dizziness. Halfway down, a familiar laugh reached his ears and he froze with shock—was Goulet really here? He took the last few stairs more quickly. He froze again at the foot of them, staring across the room in disbelief.
"Cal?" Lev asked, turning from where he'd been talking, laughing, with a man Calder didn't recognize. "Are you all right?" He shoved the plates he was holding into the stranger's arms, then strode across the room. He wrapped his hands around Calder's upper arms, squeezing gently. "What's wrong? You do not feel as though you are in pain or sick…"
"I thought—" Calder swallowed, then laughed unsteadily. "I thought you were a dream."
Levaughn stared at him a moment, surprised, then broke into the warm smile Calder still remembered. "No dream. Your goblin friend—"
"Has a name," Goulet cut in, looking disgusted.
"Goulet," Levaughn corrected with a chuckle, "came to find me. We came as quickly as we could, but some bandits stalled us briefly." He reached up with one hand to cup the back of Calder's neck, drawing him close, until their foreheads were pressed together. "I was scared to death that we had arrived too late."
"I kept—I kept thinking of you," Calder said, voice low, the soft brown eyes so close, so reassuring and disconcerting all at once. "How much—" he broke off, unable to continue.
Lev only smiled, and kissed him again softly, so very softly.
Calder shuddered, began to shake, and could not make himself stop. He buried his face in Levaughn's throat, as Levaughn bundled him close. "Every time she touched me. Used me. Kissed me. I thought of you. It kept her deceived, but—"
"I'm sorry, Cal," Lev said quie
tly. "So damned sorry you were forced to endure that. The Black Widow curse is a terrible thing."
His breath was warm against Calder's skin, body warmer still pressed against him, a warmth finer than even the heat of a fire after trekking through a blizzard-ridden forest. It thawed things no fire would ever reach.
Calder drew back. "I know—ten years gives me no right—kiss me? A real kiss."
Levaughn looked at him in surprise, but asked no questions, merely curled his fingers in Calder's hair and tilted his head just so, then bent to kiss him. Calder shivered, and wrapped his own arms around Levaughn's neck, clinging for dear life.
He'd never forgotten Levaughn's kisses. More nights than he could count—every night for the past ten years—he had recalled those kisses. Levaughn kissed the same as he had ten years ago, and yet completely different. It was old and new all at once. It was Levaughn, but with ten years of life added, and Calder thought he already loved this new kiss even more than he had the old ones.
Though, at the moment, he was just relieved he could still kiss. Still appreciate the heat and flavor of Lev's mouth, the scrape of unshaven skin, the feel of a hand in his hair and their bodies pressed together. Still remember how good it was, to be this close to someone.
When they finally broke apart, they stared at each other for what seemed like ages.
"I missed you," Calder finally said. "Even before this mess. I'm afraid I ruined that pendant you gave me."
"The last three jewels were destroyed absorbing whatever else she tried to do to you," Levaughn replied. "I gave it to you in hopes it would protect you, should you ever need such protection. I'm happy you kept it. I—Cal—"
"Lev—"
The door slammed open, startling them apart, and only as Goulet filled the doorway did Calder realize that at some point he and Levaughn had been left alone. "They've found the last corpse, and are bringing it now," Goulet announced. "You two are going to have to do your whole 'I've always loved you' thing later." He turned and left as abruptly as he had appeared.