fic: in the dark forest (snow white and the huntsman)
yuletide ficathon: kitsunejin requested Snow White learning to be a hero in the forest.
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: Not all tales get told.
RATING: R
CLASSIFICATIONS: Snow White/The Huntsman
SPOILERS: trailer!spec only
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
NOTES: Unbeta'd. Sorry.
WORDS: 1,085
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; December 2011.
* * * * *
In the Dark Forest by anr
* * * * *
He presses his hand against the dark, brown bark of the tree, and looks at her over his shoulder.
"There are stories," he says, tells.
He is wrong, she knows. Not all tales get told.
*
Standing in the snow, she presses a hand to her mouth.
"The prince," he says, shortly, "is waiting."
Her lips feel cold.
*
She has ridden her whole life, has explored her father's kingdom from coast to forest to field and mountain more times than she can remember. She knows this land, knows it like she knows her own heart. Better, even.
"We should return," he says, slowing his horse beside hers. "It is getting dark."
Yes, she thinks. It is.
*
He stands behind her and wraps his fingers around her wrists. His foot kicks at her own, forcing her legs further apart.
"Like this," he says.
When she twists to swing the sword, now, his breath falls hot and steady on the back of her neck.
*
In the dim, crackling light of their fire, she lies on her side and watches him sharpen his axe.
"Good night," she says.
He says nothing in return, but his eyes meet hers in the dark, steady and strong. She watches.
*
The boar charges right and then left, its tusks wicked in the twilight gloom.
"No," she manages, shouts, "look ou--"
He feints to the side, and splits the boar's skull wide open with his axe.
*
She sits on his horse and feels his warmth against her back, the strength of his thighs behind hers, the weight of his honour between them.
"Your kingdom," he says, as the first of the towers pierce the horizon.
Home, she thinks.
*
Your mother, he says.
"She is not," she says, clearly, "my mother."
Your step-mother, he says, and continues his story. It is nothing she has not feared before.
*
When she holds out her hand, he grasps her forearm without a word, their wrists pressing tight.
"Now?" she asks, lightly, smiling.
He laughs and lets her pull him up.
*
The armour fits better than it likely should, and she flexes her arms, her legs experimentally. Twists at the waist and stretches.
"We should go," he says.
She catches a look in his eyes before he can turn away, and wonders what it is he just saw.
*
She watches the men -- her men -- ride to their deaths.
"Now," he says.
She will not cry, she thinks. She charges forward.
*
She can feel the rough bark of the tree at her back as she presses finger-shaped bruises into his shoulders and clutches him closer.
"Oh," she manages, "oh."
When he removes his hand from her breeches, his fingers wet and slippery between her thighs, she kisses him and pulls him down to the ground.
*
The arrows make soft thwocking sounds when they land, almost like the flapping of wings on the ravens her step-mother so prefers.
"My prince," she manages, and wonders if she should curtsy.
Behind her, his gaze weighs heavily.
*
He does not kiss her, then.
"It is time," he says.
He lies, she thinks.
*
Her first cut -- as she bandages the wound, after, he stares out into the depths of the forest and does not say a word.
"I am sorry," she says, anyway. She pulls hard on the ends of the cloth to tie them and feels the fabric bite into her flesh. It stings more than the wound itself.
The muscles in his jaw tighten.
*
He tackles her from the side, their limbs tangling as they roll through leaf litter and soft moss.
"I was not ready," she admits when they have slowed and stopped, his weight pressing her into the ground, and waits for him to agree.
He says nothing of the kind, and his hand brushes her hair from her eyes.
*
She cages him against a tree, her sword and his axe crossed between their chests, and feels a smile tug at her lips.
"I have you," she whispers.
Neither of them moves.
*
The fire dies some time before dawn, the chill of winter slipping under her furs. She opens her eyes and finds him watching her, still.
"Good morrow," he says.
Heat spreads across her skin, as warm as the sun.
*
He holds her by the throat, his fingers hard on her skin, and lays his knife over the stays in her dress.
"Please," she says.
The tip of the blade pricks at her skin.
*
She bathing in the stream, the water cool and brisk on her skin, when she hears him calling for her.
"A moment," she calls back, before he can come closer. "Please wait."
When she gets back to their campfire, her hair wet and dripping over her shoulders, the clearing is empty.
*
She follows him, or he follows her, and the sounds of the forest still around them.
"Wait," she says, stopping. She touches his arm, his shoulder, his cheek.
He catches her when she falls.
*
The beast's skin parts like rotted fruit, his axe sinking in to the bone, and her heart skips a beat.
"Show me again," she says, softly.
He grins.
*
She straddles him the soft, soft darkness and feels him rise beneath her. Her knee brushes against the handle of his axe as she shifts on top of him. It is like riding, she thinks. It is like exploring.
"Mine," he says, and places his hand over her breast.
She gives him her heart, in lieu of her virtue, and hopes it will be enough.
*
His hands span her waist as he lifts her up, as he holds her, and she tells herself she can feel his heart beating in his chest where their bodies press together.
"No," she says.
She lies.
*
She tears strips from her skirts and catches him looking.
"You should not stare," she says, and smoothes her dress back down over her legs.
His gaze draws up slowly to meet her own.
*
His mouth hovers above hers, almost close enough to touch.
"Dear heart," he whispers. "I must."
She remembers his knife, then.
*
In the morning, in the shadow of her castle, she kisses him twice.
"Yours," she says.
She leaves him at the forest's edge.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: Not all tales get told.
RATING: R
CLASSIFICATIONS: Snow White/The Huntsman
SPOILERS: trailer!spec only
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
NOTES: Unbeta'd. Sorry.
WORDS: 1,085
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; December 2011.
* * * * *
In the Dark Forest by anr
* * * * *
He presses his hand against the dark, brown bark of the tree, and looks at her over his shoulder.
"There are stories," he says, tells.
He is wrong, she knows. Not all tales get told.
*
Standing in the snow, she presses a hand to her mouth.
"The prince," he says, shortly, "is waiting."
Her lips feel cold.
*
She has ridden her whole life, has explored her father's kingdom from coast to forest to field and mountain more times than she can remember. She knows this land, knows it like she knows her own heart. Better, even.
"We should return," he says, slowing his horse beside hers. "It is getting dark."
Yes, she thinks. It is.
*
He stands behind her and wraps his fingers around her wrists. His foot kicks at her own, forcing her legs further apart.
"Like this," he says.
When she twists to swing the sword, now, his breath falls hot and steady on the back of her neck.
*
In the dim, crackling light of their fire, she lies on her side and watches him sharpen his axe.
"Good night," she says.
He says nothing in return, but his eyes meet hers in the dark, steady and strong. She watches.
*
The boar charges right and then left, its tusks wicked in the twilight gloom.
"No," she manages, shouts, "look ou--"
He feints to the side, and splits the boar's skull wide open with his axe.
*
She sits on his horse and feels his warmth against her back, the strength of his thighs behind hers, the weight of his honour between them.
"Your kingdom," he says, as the first of the towers pierce the horizon.
Home, she thinks.
*
Your mother, he says.
"She is not," she says, clearly, "my mother."
Your step-mother, he says, and continues his story. It is nothing she has not feared before.
*
When she holds out her hand, he grasps her forearm without a word, their wrists pressing tight.
"Now?" she asks, lightly, smiling.
He laughs and lets her pull him up.
*
The armour fits better than it likely should, and she flexes her arms, her legs experimentally. Twists at the waist and stretches.
"We should go," he says.
She catches a look in his eyes before he can turn away, and wonders what it is he just saw.
*
She watches the men -- her men -- ride to their deaths.
"Now," he says.
She will not cry, she thinks. She charges forward.
*
She can feel the rough bark of the tree at her back as she presses finger-shaped bruises into his shoulders and clutches him closer.
"Oh," she manages, "oh."
When he removes his hand from her breeches, his fingers wet and slippery between her thighs, she kisses him and pulls him down to the ground.
*
The arrows make soft thwocking sounds when they land, almost like the flapping of wings on the ravens her step-mother so prefers.
"My prince," she manages, and wonders if she should curtsy.
Behind her, his gaze weighs heavily.
*
He does not kiss her, then.
"It is time," he says.
He lies, she thinks.
*
Her first cut -- as she bandages the wound, after, he stares out into the depths of the forest and does not say a word.
"I am sorry," she says, anyway. She pulls hard on the ends of the cloth to tie them and feels the fabric bite into her flesh. It stings more than the wound itself.
The muscles in his jaw tighten.
*
He tackles her from the side, their limbs tangling as they roll through leaf litter and soft moss.
"I was not ready," she admits when they have slowed and stopped, his weight pressing her into the ground, and waits for him to agree.
He says nothing of the kind, and his hand brushes her hair from her eyes.
*
She cages him against a tree, her sword and his axe crossed between their chests, and feels a smile tug at her lips.
"I have you," she whispers.
Neither of them moves.
*
The fire dies some time before dawn, the chill of winter slipping under her furs. She opens her eyes and finds him watching her, still.
"Good morrow," he says.
Heat spreads across her skin, as warm as the sun.
*
He holds her by the throat, his fingers hard on her skin, and lays his knife over the stays in her dress.
"Please," she says.
The tip of the blade pricks at her skin.
*
She bathing in the stream, the water cool and brisk on her skin, when she hears him calling for her.
"A moment," she calls back, before he can come closer. "Please wait."
When she gets back to their campfire, her hair wet and dripping over her shoulders, the clearing is empty.
*
She follows him, or he follows her, and the sounds of the forest still around them.
"Wait," she says, stopping. She touches his arm, his shoulder, his cheek.
He catches her when she falls.
*
The beast's skin parts like rotted fruit, his axe sinking in to the bone, and her heart skips a beat.
"Show me again," she says, softly.
He grins.
*
She straddles him the soft, soft darkness and feels him rise beneath her. Her knee brushes against the handle of his axe as she shifts on top of him. It is like riding, she thinks. It is like exploring.
"Mine," he says, and places his hand over her breast.
She gives him her heart, in lieu of her virtue, and hopes it will be enough.
*
His hands span her waist as he lifts her up, as he holds her, and she tells herself she can feel his heart beating in his chest where their bodies press together.
"No," she says.
She lies.
*
She tears strips from her skirts and catches him looking.
"You should not stare," she says, and smoothes her dress back down over her legs.
His gaze draws up slowly to meet her own.
*
His mouth hovers above hers, almost close enough to touch.
"Dear heart," he whispers. "I must."
She remembers his knife, then.
*
In the morning, in the shadow of her castle, she kisses him twice.
"Yours," she says.
She leaves him at the forest's edge.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*