The Makings of a Monster and of a Myth
The squat man's offer hangs in the air like a fetid, oppressive mist- one filled with an unshakeable foreboding of danger. A slow, hesitant nod is all you can manage as apprehension settles around your chest, the accompanying anticipation weighing you down. Doc grins again, "E'eryone thinks it all began with the Queen." A low lascivious laugh ripples through those present and your own impulse to join in the feigned mirth is chalked up to the instinct of "self preservation". Several churlish remarks about the Queen and her "queinte" are volleyed between the six by-standers, each one raising an army of fine hair on the back of your neck. Doc waves his hand dismissively and the others fall silent- their owlish and unnerving gazes return rapidly to you. "All the stories start off with the Queen- youth and beauty obsessed- determined to remain the fair'st in the land…" He pauses for a moment, seeming to roll his next words in his mouth as if tasting them before continuing. "An' it was always safer to chalk it up to the Queen's "vanity" than to speak the truth an' risk a personal order of ex'cution from the King himself."
In spite of yourself, your eyebrows migrate to the vicinity of your hairline. Shock is plainly visible on your face. Doc grins absently and continues. "He was the one that started it all." As if to punctuate the sudden insertion of the King into the narrative, a door- located to the side of the room- opens, and a royal courier enters at a brisk clip. He approaches the diminutive raconteur and hands him a single leaf of parchment, ensuring its delivery and immediate perusal. Satisfied, the courier departs from whence he came. Curiosity and dread wage a silent battle in your head over the contents of the imperial missive, but any internal musings that may have been sown are quickly uprooted as Doc's gravelly voice rumbles over the table; a sinister smile spreading eerily across his lips. "It seems that the "Fair'st of them all" isn't so fair anymore. Her execution was carried out at dawn this morning." The statement's horror is betrayed by the disinterested humor in the voice of its speaker. A wave of nausea accompanies the rapid-fire blinking of your eyelids- the only physical manifestations of the fear and wonder now twisting its way through your soul. Doc continues on, as if he had merely relayed news about the weather. "A right shame that he beheaded his own daughter," he pauses. "She was a pretty one." The others nod in silent agreement, grim amusement flickering over more than a few of their faces. Doc sighs lightly, an amused smirk playing its way across his face. "Looks like we gotta find another one boys," he mumbles as much to himself as he does to his companions. Several move from their seat and proceed to exit through the same door the courier used, indistinct mumbles trailing behind them.
You slowly shake your head, trying to dispel the musings of Doc's cryptic side-comment; the attempts however, are made in vain as your host supplies the answer. "We seven," he gestures to his companions both present and not, "are in charge of the uh… 'discovery' and transportation of young, royal wards."
"Trafficking," you exhale- the word ringing sinister in your own ears.
"We would prefer a less… provocative description of our duties. We merely find those young women with constitutions too pretty for peasant life and we escort them to the palace where they remain under the King's care until such as time as he sees fit and they are… prepared, as it were, to face the world. The King retains only the most promising and further grooms them." He pauses, humming to himself for a moment before resuming his disturbingly nonchalant explanation. "Of course, they're instructed from the moment they come into our charge- as a method of weeding out those who are unworthy to be flowers of the King's royal garden.
The bile that had encroached on the base of your esophagus has steadily risen until it threatens to occupy the entirety of the back of your throat and even your mouth; the realization of the implications so casually laid before you is beyond the realm of nauseating.
"So all the previous queens have been…" You cannot bring yourself to give voice to the question, fearing the response that you know is coming whether you wish it or no.
"Aye, they 'ave… though the Queen lasted longer than any of the others. An' she wasn't killed by the King. She died tryin' the warn Snow White." Doc nods sagely, the gesture a disgruntling mockery to the horror unfolding. Contradiction reigns supreme in your head as you try desperately to process the tale being spun and the story that has spread like wild-fire throughout the country. 'The vainglorious and heartless queen who tried to murder her own step-daughter in order to protect her own claim to unparalleled beauty' was suddenly opposed by its antithesis. The evil queen was abruptly humanized and a protective parent- the secretive and elusive king now a lecherous predator. 'Impossible' you say to yourself simultaneously shaking your head to dispel the notion. So many people couldn't be wrong… could they? Your words jumble as they finally work their way out.
"But… the Queen… the spell!"
"All attempts to protect the Princess, aye." Doc leans forward, his forearms resting flat on the table, fingers laced together. "Yeh don't' have to believe it, an' it sure as glory ain't a pretty story… but it's the truth."