#dpr:snow

Fishermen were the only people often brought to her rocky beaches, and it was always the same faces. They had taught Snow how to cast out a fishing net, how to strike flint and make fire, how to tell sour berries from sweet ones: They were the only family she had ever known. 

As she got older, Snow began asking the fishermen to tell her stories of the mainland they sailed from. She could see its cliffs rise and fall behind the bay’s waves, and she counted as its lights would flicker and dim every nightfall. The stories only made her more curious. Why should she be confined to her dreary little isle? Yet, no matter how she pleaded or cried, none of the fishermen would allow her passage on their boats.

Piping tea was brought to the table in humble mugs, and Doc sipped from his fearlessly whilst Snow blew at hers to cool it. “See? Isn’t it so much nicer in here, in the warm?” Doc teased.

“Doc, I—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Snow. Promise me, no more waiting in the rain.” His tone wasn’t stern, but concerned. Snow fell in to another contemplative pause, before shuffling in her seat.

“Yes, yes, I promise. Now, do tell me,” her tone was hesitant, and it took a deep breath to lead her on. “How are you? How are things on the mainland? It’s nearly my birthday, isn’t it? And you said—”

“And I said I would take you to the mainland when you’re old enough, I know.” Doc levelled his mug to the table, to give Snow an equally level look. “Patience is a virtue, Snow.” 

“Oh, I’m trying!” She whined, glancing to watch the rain thump at the barred window panes. “I truly am, Doc. You must believe me. It’s just— I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I’ve never touched the apple tree, I’ve kept away from the well...” 

Doc followed her gaze steadily, and then further out to where that apple tree grew. It stood like a beacon in the rain, cherry red apples waving on the leafless branches. No matter the time of year, the tree always bore that perfect fruit. “I do believe you, but we just have to wait for the right time. Do you trust me, Snow?”

Though she loved all the fishermen dearly, Snow couldn’t remember a time when Doc hadn’t been there. Her humble home on the isle had grown to be an accommodating little palace by his hands, it was he who made sure she had enough fresh food each week, and he she would seek out on her loneliest days. He was a humble soul with a worn smile, and Snow trusted his word as if it were gospel.

It was mid-Spring, and at the height of wet season. Snow hadn’t seen the sun for what felt like weeks, and winter’s grasp still lingered on the breeze. She would never let something as measly as the weather interrupt her routine however, and waited faithfully at the neck of the pier for Doc that Thursday.

“For the love of Berries, Snow! What are you doing out in this rain? It’s heinous out here!” Doc called through the downpour, reeling in his nets and clambering from his boat.

“I was waiting for you, of course. It’s Thursday, I always wait for you on Thursdays.” Snow’s voice was gentle, so gentle that you’d have thought the rain would drown her out; but it didn’t. In fact, the wind seemed to hush whenever she spoke.  

“You’ll die of a cold out in this— and at my account? I don’t think so, little miss. Get yourself inside, get the kettle on. I’ll be along.” Doc smiled, that fatherly smile Snow had come to know so well. She paused at length, as if contemplating whether to argue.