There is a tale to be told, but if it is to be told properly, then we must first start towards the middle, rather than at the beginning. Within the chambers of a king, advanced in years, who is known as Gerard the Benevolent, since he has a reputation for being a most lenient monarch, who rarely issues stiff penalties. He has been disturbed by a most unsettling thought that revolves around one of his daughters.
The aged sovereign continues to pace before his open fireplace while his mind tries to reason its way out of the rat maze that is the conundrum before him. His skin is perspiring and more than once he smears his brow with his forearm which is just as slick, but he barely acknowledges it and does not remedy the situation.
At length he stops his motion and leans against the mantle as he stares into the fire. The flames dance before him, somehow calming his mind, bringing him to a more tranquil state. The matter has not been resolved, but the hour is late and his body is weary. It's time to retire, so that he might awaken with renewed vigor to tackle the dilemma.
Gerard makes his way across the floor, his body creaking and popping the whole while, before sliding beneath his plush comforter. The heat his servant had instilled with the bed-warmer has not yet diminished and its effects can still be felt. The soothing touch is enough to chase away his distress and allow his body to fully relax.
When next the king opens his eyes he finds that he's no longer in bed, nor reclined. Instead, he is standing upright, clothed in his best robes, girded with his best belt and sword to match. He is standing in the middle of a brightly lit dining hall, with a table covered with various foods and all the refinement of a regal celebration.
Feeling compelled to action, the monarch raises his goblet of wine and gives a toast. "To my daughters!" he proclaims aloud as he spies his offspring, who stand at the same table. "May you live long, full lives!"
"Here's to you, our father, our king!" his children respond with their own cheer and a raised glass as they drink to the toast.
Gerard is very pleased. The table is spread before him with a bounteous feast and three beautiful women, his offspring, stand near him, each bedecked in their finest raiment. Amelia, arrayed in her customary red. Erica, gilded with green. Cassandra, lavished in blue. They all stand before a proper setting for a private dinner, just the king and his cherished children.
The monarch's heart swells with pride, but something doesn't sit right with him. At first he dismisses the thought as its subtle approach allows it to go unnoticed, but with the passage of time comes the strengthening of that same thought and very soon it's far too prevalent to be ignored. Something indeed, is wrong.
Gerard keeps his glass pressed to his lips, while his eyes wander. He can tell the atmosphere has become thicker and the candles dim some. He looks to his daughters as they are his strength in all things and never has he succumbed to a fear so irrational that the glint of their smile could not chase it away. Unfortunately, in this endeavor, he is indeed alone.
His children have not stopped drinking and even now their glasses remain tilted. The small goblet clutched by each could not have held so great an amount and yet, they do not cease to drink. The wine pours so freely that it even begins to dribble from their chins, whereupon it drips to the table below.
Gerard sets down his cup, but does not move. He doesn't know why, but this strange sight terrifies him. At this very moment he would have liked to be anywhere else. Yet, no matter how much he tries to make his legs work, they simply won't. He is rooted to the floor and must endure what is to come with no hope of reprieve.
The old king observes the places upon the table where the wine falls and now gathers with the liquid bubbling and moving of its own accord. It scars and scorches the table, leaving behind an indentation as it boils away into the air, each creating a very specific, separate face framed by a head with blank expressions and closed eyes.
Insects manifest in the air and their numbers further thicken the atmosphere as they fly about. They swarm upon the neglected food, spoiling it with their touch, further causing the rotting vittles to squirm and wriggle as they crawl off of their platters and gather into seemingly preordained positions upon the table.
Now we, who are simple observers, will note only that upon the table are three oddly shaped mounds of putrid refuse, but this is not so for the king. His eye beholds the same nondescript mess, but in his mind he sees a very specific shape. To him they are bodies, all of which have no head, only a stump that shows where such an appendage is wanting.
Gerard is lost to all logic. He knows what these things are before him, but what he doesn't know is why they appeared now. He tries to call out to his daughters, but he cannot find a voice. He reaches to them, but his hand can only extend so far, as his feet still will not move, while his mind is finding it difficult to accept the scenario. Still, there is more to come.
Each of his daughters as one drop their goblet and, though made of metal, they shatter like glass leaving shards spread across the floor. Still acting as one, his offspring advance toward him, their bare feet treading upon the sharp fragments, which penetrate deep into their flesh, but there is no blood, neither on their feet, nor on the floor.
Gerard is beside himself, frozen in complete terror as his children approach. To his left side Erica now stands, while Cassandra takes to the right. The women grab hold of their respective arm, and twist them behind his back while forcing him to his knees. The king tries to fight against them, but they are too strong for him to contend with.
The monarch looks to them. Gone is the serene smile which oft grace their countenance, it has been replaced by a mask of shadow allowing no glimpse of their lovely faces. He watches further from his helpless position, as the table flees of its own volition, and is replaced by a chopping block still stained with the blood of the previous victim.
The block advances further until it's just beneath Gerard's head. After which his daughters force his head to lay upon it. With unbelieving eyes he observes the proceedings as Amelia steps out of the surrounding darkness, approaches her restrained father and kneels directly in front of him. He hopes she is here to dispel this terrible nightmare, but reality has its own dictations.
Instead, the woman in red reaches to his belt and withdraws his ornamental sword as she raises her body to its full height. The king looks to his daughter as best he can, but her face is masked in shadow as well, excepting two, glowing red eyes which glare upon him driving a cold shoulder down the length of his spine.
Gerard cranes his neck so as to look his offspring in the eye. "My daughters!" he cries aloud, as sweat pours from his body.
Amelia ignores her father's plea as she raises the weapon above her head, ready to strike.
"My daughter!" Gerard exclaims, hoping to get through to her while he continues to fight against the inhuman grip his children exhibit.
"You are not my father!" Amelia screams at him before swinging the sword downward, splitting his head in half.