Off With Their Heads: A Tale of Innocence and Consequence

Not every story begins with “Once upon a time.” Some are born from heartbreak, others from joy, and a few from tragedy so deep that they change the course of lives forever. This story begins not with a princess in a castle or a dragon in a cave—but with death.

On the eighteenth of November, at exactly 11:34 AM, Elizabeth Ida Félicie entered the world. Her birth was marked not by joyous celebration, but by silence. Her mother, Idaliz Félicie, passed away in childbirth. The newborn cried, as all newborns do—but no one heard her.

Several hours later, a young man walking by the Félicie home heard the faint sound of wailing. Concerned, he knocked on the grand, bejeweled front door. No response. He rang the doorbell, tapped the window, even climbed the water pipes and pounded on the roof—but nothing stirred. The child’s cries echoed through the house, unanswered. Eventually, the man left, troubled but uncertain.

The next day, the same man returned. Again, the cries rang out—piercing, louder than bells, louder than reason. This time, he turned the doorknob. To his surprise, it opened easily, like butter on warm toast.

Inside was chaos: shattered picture frames, torn books, feathers from burst pillows, and bloodied wallpaper. The scent of something foul lingered in the air. Navigating the wreckage, the man followed the sound of wailing up the stairs, down two corridors, and through a long hallway. There, in the master bedroom, lay the late Idaliz Félicie—her body pale and still, her arms cradling a baby girl.

A crimson ribbon around Idaliz’s neck bore the words “Here lies Idaliz Félicie,” scrawled in dark ink. Her tattered nightgown whispered of grief and solitude. Yet in her arms, Elizabeth stirred—tiny, fragile, and full of life.

The man, moved by pity and something deeper he couldn’t explain, took the child in. He named her after her mother—Elizabeth Ida Félicie—and raised her as his own. Though poor, they made do. The man was kind, and Elizabeth grew into a bright, beautiful girl with her mother’s ebony hair and sapphire eyes flecked with red whenever curiosity struck her.

Years passed, and the bond between the two deepened. Though Elizabeth never knew what the man did for work, she trusted him completely.

One chilly afternoon, she came home early from school and, feeling inspired to repay her guardian’s kindness, decided to cook dinner. But the pantry was bare. With no food and no money, she set off to find the man’s workplace.

She searched every corner of the village but found no clues. Disheartened, she began her walk home—until she heard a scream. Across the street, one of her friends was shouting: “PICKPOCKET! THIEF!”

A figure darted through the crowd and vanished. Elizabeth helped her friend, who explained that her coins and a loaf of rosemary bread had been stolen. Troubled, Elizabeth returned home.

That evening, the man greeted her warmly. “Set the table,” he said, “tonight is special—rosemary bread, and even a few coins left over!”

Elizabeth froze. The rosemary bread. The coins. The fleeing shadow.

She stared at him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I cannot eat this.”

The man’s face fell. “Why not?”

“Because it was stolen,” she said. “You’ve always cared for me… but if the way you provide for me isn’t right, then I can’t accept it.”

The man said nothing.

The next morning, Elizabeth went to the constable’s office and confessed what she had discovered. She didn’t want to see him punished, only corrected. A warning, maybe a small fine—that would be fair.

Days passed. Nothing happened. Elizabeth worried. Had she done the right thing?

Then, on a freezing day in February, she returned home to find a note on the table: “Your presence is requested at the village square.”

Curious and anxious, she followed the call.

The square was packed. A wooden stage stood in the center, and upon it—a man, bound to a pole. Her guardian.

A large ax gleamed beside him. Elizabeth’s heart dropped.

The constable stepped forward. “Mr. Heart Alice Rebun, you stand accused of theft,” he declared. A ripple of shock swept the crowd.

“For your crimes,” the constable said, pausing dramatically, “the sentence is death.”

Elizabeth ran, pushing through the crowd, but the constable’s next words rang louder than her footsteps.

“Off with his head.”

Moral of the Story:

Doing the right thing is rarely easy, and sometimes, even noble intentions have heavy consequences. But truth and integrity must guide our hearts, even when the price is heartbreak.