Too late, Prince Charming found the woman who would have been his queen.

He gazed lovingly at Snow White through the glass coffin. Her beauty was undeniable; she was the fairest in the land. What a pity she was dead, her perfection wasted on the drab forest and seven little men.

He touched the glass, his fingers tracing the line above her sweet lips. They were a blood red, full and flushed with life. It seemed she was only sleeping, that she could wake at any moment and take her place at his side as queen. The only sign that something wasn't right was a thick bandage circling her throat. He signaled to his manservant.

“Yes, mi lord?”

He dropped to one knee, bowing his head as he waited for his orders; the seven little men watched from their hovel.

“Prepare the horses,” he said, “She's coming with us.”

The little men gasped, collectively, shifting horrified glances to each other, to him, to the polished coffin.

“Please, sire,” one of the men said as he twisted the end of his white beard, “Let her rest. It isn't right to disturb the dead.”

If a nobleman had spoke to him with reprove, his ire would have sparked. No one spoke to royalty that way, but this commoner, this little no one was so far beneath him, he could only chuckle.

“So brave,” he mused, “Do not worry for the beauty. I will give her the burial she deserves.”

Away from the likes of you, he added, reveling as the little men squirmed. As a child, he'd pulled the wings off a butterfly, just to see her twitch in the grass. The moment was the same. His servants hurried around, piecing together a makeshift platform with uneven branches and sideboards from the hovel.

“What are you doing?” another little man asked, his voice shaking, “You can't do that---”

“Can't I?” he asked, “As you live in my father's forest, illegally I might add, I think I can do as I wish.”

“But that's our home!”

“In my forest,” he said, “If you wish to die, please continue this conversation.”

The little men melted back into the forest, hiding in the snowy underbrush.

At last, Snow White and her coffin were hoisted onto the platform and secured. Her cheeks were flushed with the blush of life, her skin so smooth and perfect, his fingers ached to touch her. How could such a beauty be dead? Taken before she had a chance to live.

“Wait a moment,” he said.

The servants froze, his manservant dropping to one knee.

“Yes, sire?”

“Pull back the lid,” he said.

“Sire?”

“I wish to see her,” he said, “Without the glass.”

From their hiding places in the snow, the little men gasped. They murmured amongst themselves as the servants unwound  the thickly coiled rope.

“Please sire, “one of them called out, “Do not disturb the dead.”

The servants struggled with the glass; it seemed to fight them, to latch in place. As royalty's privilege, he had never been a patient man. His fingers burned to touch her, if only for a moment, and the delay left him aching.

At last, the lid fell free. Rather than the acrid stench of rot, the scent of apple blossoms filled the air, sweet and fresh as spring. He leaned over, marveling at her perfection. Her skin, her lips, her body, everywhere he looked he found no hint of decay. She glowed with life.

Only the bandage at her throat and stillness of her perfect breast suggested otherwise. The little men said her stepmother killed her as punishment for her beauty. She was no pock marked commoner, and her stepmother was no doubt a queen. Such a waste. Such a shame.

He traced her cheek with his fingertips, marveling at the softness. His fingers stopped their journey at her throat, at the tight bandage spotted with dark spots of blood. She was bound so tightly he couldn't slide a finger under it, and the skin bulged.

He undid the knot.

“Sire?”

The voice made him start; he had forgotten he wasn't alone.

“Leave us,” he said.

He heard their footsteps crunching snow as they moved away, but he couldn't tear his gaze from  the beauty. Curious to see what wound had claimed her life, he unwound the bandage. He was surprised to find two perfect holes spaced an inch apart.

What weapon could have made such a mark, he wondered. It looked more like a snake bite than anything, but the skin around the wound didn't bear the discoloration of poison or bruising. A two pronged fork of some kind, perhaps---a sudden sigh, so close at his side he could have sworn it came from Snow White's corpse, made him start.

“I said, leave us---”

But there was no one in the clearing. Even the little men had vanished. It must have been his own sigh, he decided, leaning closer to Snow White. Her full lips were open, just enough for him to glimpse the smooth white of her teeth and the soft pink of her perfect tongue.

He leaned closer. One kiss, he told himself, would be enough, but as his lips hovered above hers  he felt a weak puff of air on his face and the sound repeated. Impossibly, Snow White moved, her pale arms sliding around his shoulders and holding him fast in place.

“You're alive,” he said.

Her eyelids fluttered, chasing away the thought of 'just one kiss'. He could have her as he wanted her; he let her pull him down, her grip like steel. Her lips parted to reveal more of that perfect tongue and the white edge of her teeth.

But the edge stretched wider, her lips curling up in a snarl. She bit down hard on the flesh of his throat, before the danger registered, before the impossibility pierced the fog of joy in his mind. Hot blood spurted, dotting her face, her hair, and when he tried to cry out, to call for his servants, his voice gurgled.

Panic melted into pleasure as Snow White sucked hard on the vein; time seemed to slow as he languished in her arms, and when she finally pulled her teeth from his throat, her perfect tongue circled the wound, lapping up the last dregs of his mortality.

Too late, Prince Charming pushed away, collapsing in a bloodless heap at Snow White's feet.