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Eventually discovering a marshy hollow near the pond’s murky embrace, she indulged in stamping out sinisterly gleeful impressions with her feet. The thrill heightened fiendishly as she waded further until the chill caress of water crept treacherously over her ankles. Alas, this twisted joy was abruptly shattered when a rogue butterfly—radiant as fool’s gold—beckoned her fateful chase, leading to an untimely collapse into the abyssal waters of the pond.
Tragic was her fortune; yet by some stroke of dark fate, the dwarf’s milking ritual had ceased just in time to spare her tears. Instead, an unsettling solace was found in mounting the hunchbacked creature’s sopping form for her return journey—all while drenching his somber velvets with grave water ripples. He professed indifference to this cruel joke played out by fate—his only concern—that not a single tear from the skies or sea marred his precious pail of milk.
“I anticipate, Mark,” whispered the child with a sly grin, “do you prefer I address you as Mark perpetually instead of dwarf? If so, I shall oblige. I do indeed foresee the necessity for you to procure for me a fresh garment to adorn myself with.”
Elevating her soiled dress, she presented it to the dwarf, whose eyes widened with concern at the sight. The dress was a sight for sore eyes; caked with mud from hem to collar, an unsightly mess further marred by her attempts to rid it of stains using foliage torn from the trees along their path.
“Good heavens, Snow-white!” the dwarf exclaimed, his voice tinged with distress. “This is quite dreadful, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” agreed the child with a pout; “it is insufferable! You must present me with another. What design shall you choose?”
“Ah,” murmured the dwarf thoughtfully; “you see—I scarcely know—give me a moment, Snow-white.”
Retreating into his abode, the child awaited with bated breath in her wooden root-chair, optimism shining in her eyes. Assuredly he possessed some attire for her; he had everything else after all. Conceivably there lay hidden somewhere a chest brimming with gowns and accessories. Her heart yearned for azure to replace her drab pink attire she had grown weary of. Perhaps even a hat could be nestled within; when one owns such a chest of wonders, everything imaginable could reside there—a hat of plush pink velvet trimmed with delicate white plumes much like that which adorned the lady in the circus act. Comfortably sighing, she clasped her hands neatly and observed as robins industriously plucked worms from the rich green earth.
Meanwhile, the dwarf was embroiled in a frantic search within his bedroom; rifling through drawers and opening chests with a visage marked by puzzlement. He sifted through mountains of handkerchiefs, socks and undergarments, all exuding quality and care but alas - no trace of a blue frock. Surveying a brown velvet dressing-gown that reeked faintly of smoke and bore evidence of extensive wear - it would not suffice for the child’s desire. Hanging it back up dejectedly, he cast his gaze around in helpless despair.
A sudden revelation struck him - his brow unknitted and his eyes sparked with an idea not entirely innocent. A grim chuckle escaped him—off-tone and jarring compared to his usual warm laughter.
“Why ever not?” he reasoned out loud. “After all, we’re all kin here.”
With resolve steeled, he approached an ornate chest secluded in one corner exuding an aroma both ancient and intoxicating reminiscent of distant lands far and wide. Delving into its bowels unearthed silken fabric exquisitely embroidered with lively butterflies and birds; an Eastern shawl of delicate blue that danced within his grasp like captured sky. Observing it solemnly for one heartbeat too long before snapping shut the chest as Snow-white’s voice called out—impatient yet melodic—“Mark! Have you vanished?”
“Not at all,” said the child upon seeing him emerge once again into daylight. She pointed out a robin—a sinister little creature that had just devoured an entire worm fivefold its length and was now eyeing another’s prize with unabashed greed. “Observe that robin, Mark—it’s consumed its fill yet eyes more still unsatisfied,” she accused playfully while the bird eyed them back almost knowingly—its black beady gaze conveying an unnerving gluttony.
“He lurks, the most avaricious robin of this forlorn grove,” murmured the gnarled dwarf. “I vow, to ration his indulgence soon enough. Heed my lament, Snow-white, though it weighs heavily upon my spirit - no attire for your delicate frame has revealed itself.”
The child peered through wide, wondering eyes. “None to clothe me, Mark? Did you truly seek?”
“Indeed, amidst every shadowed nook and dusty cranny have I scoured, yet the bleak truth remains; not a thread exists here,” he muttered. “And so it dawned upon me—”
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“But you’ve not plunged into the depths of every chest! Remember, Mark!” the child implored. “Did you not procure all, each morsel and trinket for the feast?”
Alas; but feasting is another beast, the dwarf retorted. Vestments are neither conjured from porcelain vessels nor born in metallic containers. No, he deemed it pointless to thump his heel in vain demand for a sapphire gown at present. Yet perhaps—would not this suffice? Could she not swath herself within it as her dress is purged of its stains?
He proffered the vivid shroud and at its unveiling; the child clutched her hands tight before casting them outward with such force as to send a chill through his bones. Yet it surpassed all garments in splendor by leaps and bounds to her - no clasps to struggle with! She would be a vision in this costume; such joy! And didn’t she mirror the exotic figures within that Japanesy tome? Oh yes! The one perched atop the great parlor’s table - he must’ve glimpsed it during his scarce tidy-handed visits.
In mere moments, she was shrouded in blue silk, enthroned atop the kitchen block like an effigy of divinity cloaked in night sky’s fabric, overseeing Mark as he labored upon her frock. He managed a fair scrubbing; some stubborn marks endured despite his effort - an imperfection that surely wasn’t his to own - and now it danced with the breeze upon a branch.
“Tales we must exchange,” she decreed to him as if from an ancient rite. What stories could spill forth? Ah! Revelations from his former fellowship of cave and shadow dwellers—provided no mention fell upon that dastardly Amber Imp or those reticent seven forest guardians or even that rouge-eaten rogue from ‘Snow-white and Rosy Red’. For those myths were etched already deep within her mind’s eye.
The dwarf’s grin twisted into a sullen scowl as he sparked his pipe to life, engulfing himself in a shroud of smoke, brooding silently. The little girl watched, eyes wide with anticipation; the passage of days felt like a fleeting week. Finally, he began.
“Once upon a time—”
Relief washed over her as she nodded vigorously. Her doubts about his storytelling skills dissipated—he knew the sacred incantation.
“Once upon a time, Snow-white, there was a man—”
“Not a man! A dwarf!” the child interjected.
“You are correct,” Mark Ellery conceded with a grim chuckle, addressing Snow-white. “My error. Not a man—a dwarf! Shall I commence anew? Once upon a time, there lurked a dwarf.”
“Exactly!” she asserted with glee, settling into the folds of her blue shawl, exhaling contentedly. “Proceed, Mark.”
He leaned in closer, voice dropping to an ominous tone. “But you see, this dwarf—was cursed by birth as a human babe; only when his nurse malevolently let him fall did fate decree he’d be confined to the stature of a dwarf-creature and renounce any semblance of manhood. That was his misfortune; for within him were things foreign to dwarves: a heart fraught with longing, a mind too keen, sentiments most delicate.”
“Sentiments? Would pain assail him like any man if pricked?” she pondered.
“Indistinguishably so; one could easily mistake him for man if blind to his grotesque frame. Alas, his mother nurtured him with the illusion of humanity. Her love was boundless—blinding even; foolish woman that she was. She tainted his soul with beliefs that inner virtue matters most—that purity of heart and nobility of spirit might overshadow physical aberration.” His eyes dimmed with sorrow recounting the tale.
“And so he grew—a fool ensnared by delusion?” the child’s eyes narrowed in curiosity.
“Aye, enveloped in ignorance,” Mark conceded darkly.
“For surely the mirror could dispel such folly?” she remarked.
“Indeed; reflections confirm reality yet he clung to maternal fallacies that others might share her blindness—but they did not.”
His tone grew colder as he spoke of wealth. “This afflicted dwarf was burdened with riches beyond measure—”
Excitement flickered in her eyes again; perhaps there was more intrigue to come.
“Dwelling in an abode wrought from darkest gold? Carriages heavy with sorrow? Diadems devoid of joy and hoards of cursed lucre? Speak now—does tragedy befall the Princess entwined within this tale? When will her sorrow be revealed? Why delay?” Her questions spilled forth with morbid fascination.
“If you whisper, I am undone, Snow-White. Wealth was his curse, hence the masses donned him a human cloak and revered him as such. A folly, deeply engrained in absurdity. Albeit, he was dimwitted, as you’ve mentioned, and basked in the illusion of acceptability; bathed in a concocted kindness, cradled by maternal love — thus he expanded physically but shrunk within.”
“Yet he remained a miniature man?”
“Indubitably, a miniature man to the end.”
“And his visage? Was it monstrous with bulbous eyes set on a sinuously twisted beak of a nose? A ghastly green hue? You spoke of your own metamorphosis from green to brown once, Mark.”
“A green tint defiled his flesh; not the vibrant green of life but rather a sickly sallow shade that whispers of decay.”
“And his orbs were grotesque spheres?”
“No—not precisely ghoulish in gaze, Snow-white. At least I earnestly hope not.
“But as time marched forth,—though for him it merely stutter-stepped!—sorrow struck. His mother succumbed to the void.”
The girl fought valiantly with her own restlessness, but as the silence stretched on like a shadow at dusk, her resolve frayed and faded.
“Why do you summon no words, Mark? This tale weaves no intrigue. Does his existence flutter so feebly that naught befalls him? Or is your voice shackled?”
“Aye, his life was punctuated by events most grim. The narrative’s pace mirrors the sorrowful tread of our protagonist’s own journey, Snow-white. Understand this is my maiden voyage through this bleak fable, and words fail to capture its shadow properly.”
She responded with a mournful nod; within her eyes glistened an empathy born from her own trials with untold stories. “Perhaps this narrative evades even your grasp Mark? Might there reside another in your mind’s labyrinth more familiar?”
“There exists not another tale that I grasp even half so tightly,” whispered Mark. The woman who gave him life had departed into mystery—and then... then he stumbled into the dark halo of the Princess.”