Grimhilde dashed through the woods. She needed to get to the top of the mountain before anyone saw her. It was critical to her plan that she fall from a height into a river. She wouldn’t die any other way; her body would need to be disposed of immediately upon her death. Grimhilde thought that, if her body was never seen again, it would add to the mystery behind Matilda’s coronation, thus increasing publicity. Now, Grimhilde had never been good with publicity, but she thought that this would be a good idea.
As she ran, Grimhilde heard yelling and stomping behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the exact thing she needed not to see: the seven dwarves were stampeding with all the wild animals of the woods after her, a kilometer or so back. By now, they had probably figured out her true identity. But the only thing to be done now was to get to the mountain peak as quickly as possible. She ran on.
Finally, she left the woods for the rocky area surrounding the mountain. She risked another glance. The dwarves had gotten closer. Grimhilde realized that she would need to somehow erase their memories of her death. She quickly recited a few lines she had memorized and began gathering strength for her spell.
As the last stretch of her run to her death came to a close and Grimhilde began scaling the mountainside, she looked down at the seven dwarves who were following her. She thought that she recognized someone. Grimhilde found a resting point on the road she was following and took a better look. Yes, she was sure! It was Mr. DuPointe, the last servant to be fired from her castle. The one who had tried to kill Mirror, and, by extension, her. She could recognize his face anywhere because of his inability to grow facial hair. She shouted down at him, “Mr. DuPointe, I see that you are once again making an attempt on my life. Unfortunately, I will not allow you to take something that I can easily do away with myself.” Mr. DuPointe looked around, pretending not to know what his former mistress was talking about. “Mr. DuPointe, or do you prefer… Dopey?”
Upon the mention of this name, two bald vultures perched themselves on a branch directly above Grimhilde. Beacons of death. Two more low, vile creatures that would benefit from her death.
Mr. DuPointe looked up at her. “Yes, Miss Grimhilde. I remember.”
The other six looked at him in shock. “Yes, you fools! I can speak. And get ready, because I’m about to speak. You idiots have been housing public enemy number one for the past five years. I am wanted for treason, theft, attempted murder, and slander of a government official. But not to worry. Even if our noble queen manages to escape somehow, she could never gain enough popularity to gather a mob of villagers, much less a trained police force.” the short man turned to Grimhilde. “She’s just an ugly, vain, bitter old bitch. So why don’t you do everyone a favor and turn around and walk off that cliff?”
“I may be unliked, Dopey, and I may be a bitter old bitch, but as long as I am alive, I am your queen, and if I am a walking corpse, I demand that you treat me as your queen. After I die, Prince Charming will walk by and will kiss Matilda, and she will wake up. But you will not notice that. Your life will be plagued by the thought that Snow White is dead, and you will be driven to insanity. As for the rest of you, you will remember none of what has happened since her death. Now then, if no one will give their queen a proper farewell,” Grimhilde turned towards the cliff, “I’ll see you all on the other side.” And she ran towards the edge and lept off.
Well, this is it. Grimhilde couldn’t go back anymore; she couldn’t do anything but fall to her death. But she’d known that this would happen. What was different was that she was actually dying. As in, when she hit the water below her, she would not come back up. Either she would splatter against the rocks at the bottom or she would run out of oxygen before she could surface. She had no time to say a spell. No one would catch her at the bottom. She would be dead. And, for the first time that terrified her.
Perhaps it was fitting that her greatest feat in life was her death. Despite the rumors that had followed her for her whole life, she’d lived a very neutral life. Her monarchy had had no defining moment, so she supposed that this was it. People would only remember her because she’d died.
Grimhilde contemplated the circumstances that had caused Matilda to become so much more likeable than herself. Neither had really done anything to deserve their conditions. The only thing different was that Matilda was not looked down upon as Grimhilde was. But that was enough. The name “Grimhilde” had been enough to make one woman kill herself and another become queen. Yet she knew that this was how it should be.
Grimhilde stared down at the point in the river she thought she would hit. Yes, this was how it should be. This was what was right. She thought I am dying and that’s okay.
Dying. Skeletons. The pitcher of water. When she’d spilled it, she’d said, “Have a drink.” The skeleton she’d hit with it, was it possible that it was one of those thousands of victims that had dehydrated to death in those dry cellars her parents had had? That its last request had been for water? That she had fullfilled its dying wish, to have something to drink, and therefore, had undone the Sleeping Death by performing a good deed instead of an evil one?
What an ironic way to die, to think of the last act of good one did and be horrified by it.
