The next morning a long line of men left the Fortress, some on horse back, some on foot, a few riding small wooden carts.

Watching from his bedroom window Snow couldn’t help be amazed at how the Fortress had held so many people. And in the middle of the column of men slowly sliding up the hill, he could clearly detect a distinct group, their white hair reflecting the early morning light. Maybe he should have gone with them, he thought leaving his window to look at his own image in the mirror.

It had been a very long time since he’d last seen what he looked like.

Back when he’d been a child, one day Sand had returned home with a big piece of a broken mirror, the delicate jade frame around it cracked in more places than he could count. Even so she had treated it as if it were an irreplaceable treasure, carefully finding it a special place inside their small, poor house. Since then the broken mirror had decorated their dwelling, and Sand would frequently sit him in front of it as she patiently cleaned the dirt off his face.

Now he stood in front of a much larger, much richer mirror, its large golden frame wider than his arm, and no one looked twice at it. They would probably even leave it behind without a second thought when they left, Snow guessed, the irony of it making him sad.

With sigh he raised a hand to feel the short, spiky hair starting to cover his head. He could still see the scars marking his scalp but, soon enough, they would be completely covered.

When he was small Sand had kept his hair as short as possible, so it would be easier to wash and dry, especially in the winter. After that he couldn’t really recall what had happened. Only that they would systematically shave his head from time to time. Most of the times, however, he would only realize that something was being done to him when the rough hands that grabbed him hurt him, the pain clearing part of the mist away. The Lord of the Fortress too, had made sure his head was shaved clean. Back then he had never been able to really understand why they found it so important to do that. Now he was starting to suspect that normal people did not have hair like his, he sighed, his shoulders slumping. At least amongst those white-haired men and women now leaving the Fortress he might have had a chance to go unnoticed, he considered. No use thinking about that now. No matter what that beautiful prince had told him, he knew there was no way the monster would ever allow him to simply leave and go with them.

Looking around, he searched the bedside-tables, opening the small drawers, looking inside, but they were all mostly empty. He then proceeded to look inside the dresser’s drawers, but those were filled with undergarments and delicate-looking scarfs and matching gloves.

“What are you doing?”

Snow straightened his back with a startle, his heart almost jumping out of his chest. How come he always forgot about his presence?, he chastised himself with a frown. Sure he was mostly quiet, especially when he was writing or reading his papers. But to think that he could actually forget that there was someone else with him in that bedroom, when he’d always feared and hated the presence of others no matter who they were, frightened him and made him angry at himself. He was way too defenseless! When was he ever going to learn?

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“Are you deaf?” the voice insisted, quickly losing its patience, and Snow turned to look at him, at the compact mass of darkness still siting at the table. He blinked and forced his eyes the same way one might do to try and see beyond a sea of fog. But he couldn’t catch a single glimpse of the man he knew hid inside all that darkness. Averting his gaze he touched his short hair again.

“Blade …” he whispered the word so quietly he thought the monster wouldn’t be able to hear him.

“Blade?! What in the world do you want a blade for?”

Snow felt his cheeks grow warmer from embarrassment.

“Cut my hair …”

“Cut your hair? Isn’t it too short as it is?” came the reply and Snow frowned, annoyed at him. Was he being serious or simply playing dumb?

The noise of the chair scrapping against the floor startled him again, and he couldn’t help watch helplessly as the mass of darkness approached him. He cringed when it practically covered him, towering over him, making him feel even smaller than he already was. And then a hand landed on his head, a hand so big that it could easily grab his skull, making him turn his head right and left, back and forth.

“If you really want to shave your head you have to find a razor, not a blade. It’s because they used blades, and dull ones at that, that your head is covered in these ugly scars,” he pointed out with a critic tone. “In any case you should let it grow. It will protect your head from direct sun and cold.”

Snow looked up at him, at those bright blue eyes, in complete disbelief. Was he really being serious? Taking a step back to escape his touch he averted his gaze again.

“But … the color is wrong …” he argued and the darkness forming the monster’s body became more agitated as if his words had somehow made him angry.

“Screw that! Who said that it is wrong? You were born like this, were you not? If others don’t like it all they have to do is look away!” he spat out in anger and went back to the table, pulling his chair with so much strength that it almost fell back.

Snow blinked, unable to understand what had just happened. Had he said something wrong?

Looking back at the mirror he sighed.

He had grown a lot taller too, since the last time he’d looked at his own image, and although he knew he had finally managed to put on some wight, he still looked too skinny, his skin too pale. His silvery-white hair and pale, ice-like eyes didn’t help his overall image at all.

In fact, looking at his own image, he could only recall the occasional corpse he would find, when he used to scavenge the heaps of garbage that piled on the river banks after the rainy season, hoping to find something eatable to take home with him. And yet, even though he looked gaunt and like someone who’d been dead for a long time, somehow, after what the monster had just said, he no longer worried as much about his hair being different from everyone else’s. Sure, it would probably attract unwanted attention. But he remembered that the cloak he’d tried on had a large, heavy hood. Maybe he could simply pull it over his head, he considered, a small smile tugging at his lips. It would sure be nice to be able to have hair again …