Flowers for a Grimm

High Ho'

Quintus was not a dwarf that liked to be kept waiting.

He fancied himself just as important as the Snow Queen herself, and no one kept Her Majesty waiting. He was one of the Seven Dwarves after all. That alone made him important. The seven dwarves that owned the one and only Fable Bank and Trust. His self important air disregarded the fact that he was the fifth oldest of seven brothers which put him a little above a bank teller. 

He flicked up the collar of his frock coat in annoyance.  He fiddled with his ruby cufflinks then readjusted the cravat at his throat. It was an elaborate affair fashioned from the purest of silks, done in the palest of blues, embroidered with the hammer and pick ax crest of his family. Blue was his signature color. The cravat was an old style to be sure, but it was still stylish and he felt all the more important for being brave enough to wear one. It took a lot of guts to be fashionable when everyone thought you were nothing more than a tunnel dweller. Troglodytes the lot of them. If it weren’t for dwarves and their knowledge of mining the entire realm would still be living in trees and eating bugs. Bugs were the worst. Gold and jewels moved them out of the darkness and into the Golden Age. If anything the fashion had improved, and Quintus was a fashionable dwarf.

Quintus was a very important dwarf that had things he needed to attend to.

Namely India Jin, that sultry strumpet of a singer at The Hatbox. His face heated up as he thought of her.

He shook his head of such fantasies. There was business to get on with, and for a dwarf business always came first. He looked down at his watch for the hundredth time and swallowed back a sigh.

He couldn't understand why they had to keep meeting in the Enchanted Forest. The place always gave him a raging case of the creeps. It just wasn't a place for sophisticated people such as himself. Dwarves liked wide craggy mountains surrounded by rich chocolate earth. Trees took up burrowing and tunneling space. Not to mention those damned pixies that too up residence in trees.

The Enchanted Forest was a dark abyss full of terrors that Quintus was of the opinion should have been illegal. Everything that dwelled in the forest spent the majority of their limited brain power looking for a ways to kill you, enchant you, or enslave your mind and body for nefarious purposes. Trolls were the worst. The absolute worst. They smelled, they scratched all manner of body parts in the presence of mixed company. And worse of all, they wore those tattered little loin clothes out in public. Whoever thought Trolls were a good idea should be banished to go live with the humans. 

Quintus looked down at his time piece. He sighed at the time. His partner was never on time, but this was pushing it. He looked back to his watch again. He couldn’t believe he went through all of this cloak and dagger business just for a few bottles of cologne. 

He heard a twig snap. His head snapped up. "Who's there?" he demanded. His eyes darted around searching in vain for the source of the noise.

With insect grace a figure stepped free of the trees. The figure’s midnight black cloak swished around his feet. The hood was pulled up, plunging the figures face in darkness. 

Seeing the perfection of his partner's entrance did not put Quintus in a better mood. "You kept me waiting." He barked. 

The figure chuckled. "You bow and scrap at the feet of that pretender on the throne and you dare give me lip about time." The voice under the cowl sent a cold sliver of fear down Quintus' spine, his soul doused in a bucket of ice cold water.

His heart rate quickened and he couldn't find enough air to breath. It couldn't be.

It just couldn't be. That voice should be singing lullabies in the Summerlands. More importantly, that voice should be dead!

For certain the voice did not belong to his partner. Quintus took a step back. "What have you done with Mr. Locke?" He hated the squeak that escaped from his lips, but that couldn't be helped. He was frightened.

The man chuckled again. "Nothing that won't fade with time and a lot of therapy." The cloaked figure took a step forward. His boots made no sound on plush carpet of the freest floor. "Haven't you missed me Quintus? I've missed you." Another step. "We were the closest of friends once after all." 

Quintus scrambled for more room to move. "We searched for you after that last battle." His back bumped up against a tree. He squeaked again. There was no escape route.

"Did you now?" The hood cocked to the side as the figure considered Quintus' words.

"Of...of course. I wouldn't leave a man behind." He swallowed. "We thought you were dead." 

The figure laughed. Without mirth or warmth. "The news of my death were gravely exaggerated." The figure rubbed a place over his heart absently. "I was given a kindness." He said in a soft whisper. Quintus had to strain to hear him. The figure stared off into the open space of the forest lost in thought.

Quintus leaned back against the tree and gave a nervous giggle escaped his lips.

In a motion too fast for Quintus to track the cloaked figure stood in front of his face. Quintus smelled the stench of his breath. He squeaked and banged his head against the tree in a futile attempt to retreat. 

"What do you want with me?" His voice cracked. Beads of sweat rolled down his neck, staining his silk cravat. That was never going to come out. 

"Oh my dear Quintus." The figure brushed back a strand of hair behind Quintus' ear. "You are going to be given a great honor." A hand shot out of the cloak and closed around Quintus' neck. The hand squeezed. "You are going to be the Snow Queen's harbinger of death."