Snow glanced down at the proffered apple. It was beautiful. Perfectly shaped and deep red without a single blemish. She could practically taste its sweet flavor. Feel the crispness of its flesh against her teeth. It even smelled beautiful.

But she had learned long ago not to trust beautiful things.

Snow demurred again, watching the hag through her lashes. Rage and hatred flared in her pale eyes. The old woman pressed it into her hands, crackly voice insisting, "You won't find any better. Taste it."

Its smooth skin slid against her fingers, cool and tempting. Mind racing, Snow made herself take the fruit. She turned it over and over in her hands. Was the Queen as frail as she looked? Or was the appearance the only thing old about her? 

Snow half-turned in the doorway, looking back into the kitchen. Flour, cinnamon and sugar stood ready on the counter, and she was struck with sudden inspiration. Whipping around to the wicked woman, Snow lunged forward and snatched away her basket. More red apples rested in the wicker confines, just as tempting and deadly as the one in her hand.

"I needn't taste it," she said with the sweetest smile she could manage with her churning stomach. "I can see the quality of your wares. Instead, I'll buy the whole basket. I wanted to make a pie for my husband, anyway."

"Husband?" the Queen said, a note of suspicion slipping into her voice.

Snow nodded, flicking her long, black braid over a shoulder before she set the treacherous fruit on the counter. The dwarves wouldn't be back for hours yet and she hadn't seen...him in days.

The old woman stayed quiet for a long moment, and Snow held her breath, hoping against hope. But the Queen wasn't so easily put off. "Still, taste it," she encouraged, ducking beneath the low lintel and following Snow into the kitchen. "You never know if one might be rotted. Looks aren't everything, dearie."

Rich coming from you. Snow just smiled and worked the hand-pump at the faucet. Water gushed into the waiting basin. Without a word, she upended the basket, the fruit tumbling into the waiting water.

The Queen gave a startled cry and rushed up beside Snow, who jumped back, pressing a hand to her chest. "What?" she gasped. "What's wrong?"

"You...you..." The old woman grasped for words, her hands shaking as she reached toward the submerged apples. She went curiously still. "You've yet to pay for them."

Snow narrowed her eyes, lowering her hand. "Wait here," she said. "I'll retrieve your payment."

Forcing herself not to rush out of the room, Snow passed out of the kitchen and into the living room. One set of stairs led down into the dwarves' workshop, where they wrought such beautiful jewelry and weapons. Another led up to their living quarters.

She could go up and escape by shimmying down the chimney, its rough stones perfect for handholds. Or she could go down and hope to find a weapon. But would a knife—even one made with clever dwarf magic—be enough to kill the witch queen?

"My payment?" 

Snow jumped and whirled. The Queen had followed her into the living room, seemingly nothing more than a peddler suspicious of being cheated. Under the watchful eye of the Queen, Snow could do little more than wander to one of the dwarves' chairs and root around in the cushions until she came up with a small silver nugget.

"Will this be enough?" she asked, playing dumb. It was worth far more than the apples, but would be no loss if it got the witch to leave.

The Queen didn't respond for a moment, barely sparing the silver a glance. "Could I impose on you for a glass of water?"

Startled by the sudden question, Snow couldn't react at first. It was imperative the Queen didn't realize that Snow knew her true identity, and she couldn't think of any reasonable way to decline such a request.

So she nodded and once more led the way into the kitchen.

Once the Queen had her water, she settled at the kitchen table. "Don't mind me, dearie," she said. "I'll just rest here a bit. You'd best start on that pie if you want it done before your...husband returns home."

Snow clenched her teeth behind smiling lips. "If you really don't mind."

The old woman gave a returning smile, looking like the cat who'd swallowed the canary, and waved Snow toward the counter. 

The apples still sat in the sink. The water was crystal clear. Slowly, Snow plucked them up, placing them on the counter. She retrieved a small blade from a knife block and began to skin the apples. No sound of protest came from the Queen.

The smell of the fruit was mouthwatering. So tempting, Snow had to constantly remind herself that they were deadly. She was careful of the knife as she began to section the apples into eights. One small nick could spell her death.

"Won't you taste one?" the Queen asked, startling Snow so badly she dropped the knife.

It clattered to the floor as she whirled around. The old woman had approached silently and now stood just before Snow, pinning her against the counter.

"I-I..." Snow stuttered, trying to edge away from the woman. "I don't want to waste them," she managed, realizing she'd trapped herself in a corner of the room.

"Waste them," the old woman murmured. "You are wasting them."

With that, she lunged forward. Her gnarled fingers latched onto Snow's jaw, far stronger than they looked. The back of Snow's head thumped against the wall as the Queen forced her mouth open. A flash of white warned her as an apple slice came close. Its juice slicked her lower lip, and she screamed in rage.

All she wanted was a quiet life. She had never done anything to this woman, yet she had tried twice now to murder Snow.

At least she had the nerve to do it herself this time.

Her hands latched around the Queen's wrists, forcing the apple slice away from her mouth. They struggled, thrashing back and forth across the kitchen, banging into the walls and counters. Apples, flour and knives flew everywhere.

Snow hooked her foot behind the Queen's ankle, sending them both tumbling to the floor. The old woman knotted her fingers into Snow's hair, yanking her head back. She flopped like a beached fish, trying to pull free. Her hand landed on something cool and hard, bright pain lancing her fingers when she grabbed it.

A knife.

Apple juice smeared her cheek. She twisted, stabbing wildly. The blade sliced her fingers where she held it. A scream of surprise and pain cracked from the old woman's throat, her hold on Snow's hair disappearing. Snow slid her hand down the blade until the handle rested in her slick palm.

She flipped onto her hands and knees. The knife flashed and blood sprayed. Snow stabbed the Queen again and again, tears of pain and fear blurring her vision.

Her breath came in great, burning gasps. Her arm was heavy as lead. The knife flashed a few more times, Snow's movements becoming slow and uncoordinated. When the knife slipped from her blood-slick hand and clattered to the floor, Snow fell backwards.

Slowly, she scooted backward, flour and sugar smearing the skirt of her dress and mixing with the blood to form a sticky paste on her arms and hands. When she came up against the wall, she brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around herself.

Dead. She's...dead.

And I'm not.

I killed her.

"I killed her," she repeated out loud, voice soft. Then, louder. "I killed her!"

A soft intake of shocked breath came from the door. Snow shot to her feet, hands clenching into fists. They relaxed when she found the young man she used to know as a child. The Prince. The one who'd reappeared like a dream just a few days ago, promising he still loved her, even after all this time. Promising that he'd return her to her throne and they would rule both kingdoms, together.

His blue eyes were wide as they darted from the Queen's butchered, bloodied body to the blood-stained Snow.

"Y-You did this?" he asked, words shaky.

Snow swallowed against her sticky throat. Nodded. There was no use denying it. She didn't want to deny it. That woman had taken too much from her for Snow to feel remorse for what she'd done. 

Later, perhaps, when it sank in. But not now.

"You murdered her?" he asked faintly. "Your own mother?"

"No," Snow hissed. "Not my mother. My usurper." She advanced a step, her entire body shaking. "She took everything from me. My mother. My father. My kingdom and crown."

To her surprise, the Prince smiled, then let out a laugh. He ran his hands through his blond hair, pushing the strands out of his eyes. He turned, taking in the Queen's body. Snow followed his gaze to find the glamour wearing away. The grey faded into golden blonde, the wrinkled skin smoothing, muscles filling out, sleek and strong.

"I'm afraid it won't be your kingdom for long," the Prince said, still grinning. "The ministers won't take kindly to such treason."

The Prince turned on his heel and ran back out the door. Like a dog that had been startled by a hidden rabbit, Snow ran after him. She didn't really know why. He sprang up into the saddle of a great, white charger waiting at the garden gate and fled toward the forest.

Snow drew to a halt at the gate, watching him flee. "No!" she screamed, watching as the powerful beast surged toward the tree-line. "No!"

The twang of a great bow singing rippled through the air. Snow watched, mouth agape as a black arrow took the Prince in the chest, sending him tumbling from the horse's back. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, limbs flopping like a discarded doll and lay absolutely still, dead beyond doubt.

Feeling like she was moving through sticky syrup, Snow moved beyond the gate and toward the forest. As she reached the Prince's body, a dark shadow separated itself from the blackness beneath the trees.

Snow watched as he stopped, stared at her, then came forward at a sprint. His long legs ate up the space between them until he stood just before her. He dropped the bow, running his calloused hands up her arms.

"Where?" he asked. "Where are you wounded?" 

"Wounded?" She frowned, confused.

"Did he do this?" It surprised her when he turned, kicking the prince's body viciously.

"No!" Her answer rang out, making the birds fall silent.

The Huntsman, cocked his head, grey eyes hooded and lips pressed into a thin line. Silently, Snow offered her hand to him. He took it gently, turning it over to expose her lacerated fingers. Blood still welled, trickling down her skin and smearing onto his.

"I...I did this. It was...me." Snow gasped when he brushed his fingers lightly along one of the cuts. She looked down at the Prince's body. At his glassy, dead eyes staring up at the cloudless sky. "He was...happy. He was glad I killed her."

"Killed her," the Huntsman asked. "Killed who?"

Snow looked down at her bloody hands. Silently, she took his hand, ignoring the pain that flared. He didn't flinch away as she began to lead him back to the cottage. They ducked through the doorway and stopped, both staring down at the Queen's body.

"Oh," the Huntsman said softly.

Then, without another word, he turned them both away, took Snow's hands and stuck them under the faucet. He worked the pump, water gushing out over Snow's hands. When she hissed and pulled away, he grabbed her wrists and forced her hands beneath the stream.

"You need to clean it," he said. "I'll bind it and then...we can decide what to do with the bodies."

Tears welled in Snow's eyes as the blood rinsed away, splashing over the apples still sitting in the sink's basin. He scrubbed her arms until they were clean, then grabbed her elbow and led her back outside. Lowering her to the grass, he lifted her hands above her head. "Hold them like this. I'll be right back."

Snow did as she was bid, staring at the grass softly ruffling in the breeze. Her shoulders were aching by the time the Huntsman returned. He sat beside her, pulled her hands into his lap and began to bind the cuts latticed across her palms.

When it was done, the Huntsman didn't release her hands. He held them, cradling them as he looked up at her. His eyes widened and he brushed gently at her face.

"You survived, Snow," he said. "You didn't have a choice."

She blinked at him, her wet lashes sticking together. "How do you know? You weren't here."

"I saw the kitchen, the struggle. I see the cuts on your hands, your hair and the bruises coming up on your face." He gave a grim smile. "I know a fight when I see one, Snow. She attacked you. Tried to kill you." His eyes flicked away. "It wouldn't be the first time."

Snow's gaze drifted to the black bow and quiver of arrows still resting on his back. Memories of one of those arrows leveled at her heart popped into her mind, but she shoved it away. He'd made a different choice—one that had put those horrible scars on his face.

"The apples," she said. "They were poisoned."

The Huntsman nodded, brushing away another tear.

"I'm not...I don't think I'm sorry that she's dead." As soon as she said the words, tears surged up her throat and poured down her face. She fell forward into the Huntsman, who caught her, holding her tight as she sobbed into his chest.

He pulled her into his lap, stroking her hair with his scarred hands. 

"You don't have to be sorry that she's dead," he whispered. "But it's okay to be sorry that you killed her. It's okay to be sorry for yourself."

Snow wrapped his words around her like armor. They sat there like that until her tears ran themselves dry. She rested her head on his shoulder, twining her fingers through his.

After a long moment, he pulled back and grasped her chin, tilting her head back. Snow's heart stopped when he pressed his lips to hers, just to kick into a high gallop when he pulled back. When she slid her fingers through his dark hair and tried to pull him into a deeper kiss, he turned his head.

Her lips touched one of the scars carved across his cheek. He flinched away, but Snow leaned into him, kissing the scar he'd been given for his disloyalty to the Queen. For his kindness to her.

His cheek pulled as he smiled, his hand stroking over her hair again.

"Go inside," he said softly. "Bathe and change your dress."

Snow looked toward the darkening doorway, swallowing hard. She didn't want to leave the safe, warm confines of the Huntsman's arms.

He pressed his lips to her forehead. "I'll deal with their bodies. You can decide what you want to do after."

"Do?" Snow leaned back so she could look into his face. "What do you mean?"

The Huntsman smiled, brushing an errant strand of hair out of her face. "The Queen is dead, Snow. Long live the queen."

Word Count: 2592

So, a Snow White retelling (or alternate ending, more like) is a bit obvious with the picture prompt, lol. But that's what I got.

Written for Avadel Community's monthly competition.