Into the Villain's Mirror

Chapter 7 - Shades of Morality

The idea crystallized in Lucy's mind while she was sitting for a portrait - an annual luxury (task) commissioned by the King to celebrate his wife's ever-lasting beauty and preserve her appearance for generations to come.

It was more exhausting than it sounded, decked out in layers of embroidered fabric, sitting still with heavy jewelry dangling from her hair, ears and neck, pooling around her hips and in her lap in a broad belt of pure gold. At least Lucy wasn't required to remain standing, instead she was allowed to recline in a plushy, upholstered chair that desperately wanted to be a throne.

In the morning she had been accompanied by the steward, who recited from his terror-inducing list of expenses, but his even cadence and silky flattery had at least given Lucy something to focus on. Now she was left with her own thoughts, which grew more muddled with every stroke of the painter's brush.

The air around her was still, smelling of the heavy paint oils, the crushed petals from her bath water and that musty smell that always seemed to accompany the heavy carpets and wand tapestries peppered throughout the bigger rooms of the castle. The only noise was the soft swish of a brush gliding over the fabric of the canvas and the muted breathing of the cowed servants waiting behind Lucy, ready in case she wished to take a sip of refreshing juice, mellowed mead or even a bite from one of the deliciously-smelling pastries, all waiting for her perusal.

But Lucy had no leisure to consider any of it. The dreams might have stopped, but their significance had only allowed them to deeper infest her mind with all their implications.

All the extravagance surrounding her could disappear in a blink, replaced by pain and death. Instead of sweet delicacies Lucy would only taste stale sweat mixed with her own blood, dripping down her lips.

She wasn't safe here - or anywhere really. As long as this world revolved around Snow White, Lucy would never be more than an adversary to overcome, a villainess whose end would invoke cheer and no remorse. She couldn't reverse her fate, couldn't suddenly become benevolent and kind - because her crime had already been committed a decade ago.

She had ordered a child to be killed. And not just any child, but the beloved, only daughter of the king.

The painter - an older man with an impressive mustache who hadn't uttered more than three sentences in her presence - lifted his brush away from the canvas, scrutinizing his work with yellowed eyes. Lucy's own were focused on a drop of black paint, hovering on the tip of his brush, soaking through the bristles until it stained the man's fingers, greedily tainting everything in reach. Absently Lucy wondered how hard he would have to scrub later to banish the spots from his skin.

The stains clinging to the Queen's body, no, her body, were not so easily washed away. And Lucy dreaded the day they would be unveiled for judgment, everyone able to see the darkness painted onto her by someone else's hand.

Snow White will return to the courts ...

Snow White's fate is to become a beloved queen ...

And mine is to die at her feet, hated and alone.

Could Lucy kill someone, not to go back home, but to save herself?

It's not like she's a real person, she tried to find an excuse, the lie settling heavy in her stomach as if she had swallowed a rock. She's just a character inside a story, words on a page ...

But Lucy couldn't even convince herself. This world was real, in some twisted manner. The people around her were real, the mousy servant girl with the nervous hitch in her breath whenever Lucy looked her way, the intelligent and ambitious steward, the gruff painter with his failing liver, even the mirror, who was the farthest thing from reality as Lucy would normally consider it.

Everyone had a story, everyone had faults and strengths, everyone considered themselves real ... and so they were. Just because this tale focused on Snow White didn't mean it was the only story taking place.

But it was certainly the most gravitating one, dragging everything into its orbit and onto a set path, and Lucy was like a small piece of space debris battered and burned in the stratosphere.

She didn't like her choices. Maybe it would have been much easier if the life-or-death-situation was immediate, adrenaline pumping through her veins and the danger a physical being towering above her. Instead it was an abstract concept, a vague prophecy without any way to just scream and fight back, kicking and punching, nothing to grab onto.

If Lucy decided to save herself, she wouldn't be able to rely on a hind-brain instinct. She would have to plot and plan and remain steady in her conviction throughout the process, never faltering because she wasn't sure she would be able to continue once she broke away.

The mirror would show her how to brew poison ... and Lucy would have to make sure Snow White really died this time.

Even thinking about it made her nails curl and Lucy's eyes once more sought out the painter in front of her, desperate for anything to distract her from her own mind.

The man was in the process of smearing a new glob of paint onto his wooden palette and Lucy's strained attention was caught by the color. Shining white and pristine, a glob of pureness among its blended company, standing out like untouched snow among clumps of dirt and earth.

Exactly the color of her skin, Lucy thought, her gaze focused with single-minded intensity. Pure, pristine, special ... just like her.

And then she almost jolted out of her stiff pose when the dark-dripping brush was plunged into that pureness without hesitation, black mixing with white in quick swirls, no color remaining the same until the only thing left was a deep shade of gray.

Lucy's breath seemed to be trapped somewhere between her corset and the emeralds and rubies collaring her neck. Unaware of her shock, the painter grunted in satisfaction and started lathering the new color onto his painting.

Shades of gray ...

Was there really such a thing as pure evil or pure good? Lucy had long learned that the world wasn't that simple - but this wasn't her world, this was a fairy tale with a clear moral component, a heroine, a villainess, a happily-ever-after ...

But it felt real enough. And reality was never just black and white.

The blotch of gray could as well have been a nugget of gold for the focus it drew from Lucy, a gift from a whimsical deity to spur her thoughts in a different direction.

White and pureness could be easily tainted by outside influences, one speck of black enough to change its essence forever.

The mirror had told her that to succeed, evil should triumph and goodness shall fall. But what if the lines were blurred, until only shades of gray remained? No matter who triumphed, there would be no hero.

And what would remain of a fairy tale once its princess lost her halo?