The Maid of the Cursed Princess

No one welcomed the return of the bloodied Quasimodo.

Even without the blood, the reception would have been the same, for in the Lord’s own house, none greeted this grotesquely deformed wretch.

To the devout clergy, being likened to a demon was an unutterable insult. Yet they had repeatedly hurled that very slur at Quasimodo, so their treatment of him was hardly surprising.

Thus, when Quasimodo dragged his weary, battered frame back to the cathedral, the clergymen merely assumed he had once again provoked some unsavory incident elsewhere, not a single soul approaching him or even expressing concern.

“…”

Quasimodo was accustomed to such treatment. What was the point of taking offense now?

From childhood until the present, people had scorned and mocked Quasimodo’s deformities. It was the very reason he had grown into such a misanthrope.

Ignoring the familiar looks of contempt, Quasimodo ascended the stairs toward the bell tower – the sole space where this bell-ringer could find sanctuary.

“Quasimodo.”

It was also where he always met his beloved adoptive father.

“Yes, Father.”

Being deaf, Quasimodo couldn’t comprehend the Archdeacon’s words. Yet Frollo had never bothered teaching him sign language or writing from a young age, leaving Quasimodo to adapt as he could.

While Quasimodo hadn’t been born deaf but had lost his hearing later due to his bell-ringing duties, retaining the ability to perceive loud noises and read lips to a degree, it was far from a comfortable means of communication.

Still, Frollo made no accommodations for Quasimodo’s deafness, and Quasimodo was inured to such disregard. Thus, he strained to read the Archdeacon’s lips while faintly making out his voice.

“What of the task I commanded you?”

“The… task… you spoke of?”

The Archdeacon’s order to locate a certain woman – following those instructions, Quasimodo had meticulously scoured Hyperion, narrowing down the candidates.

No, candidates was inaccurate. Had he not identified the woman precisely matching Frollo’s description?

Though a possibility remained that he was mistaken, Quasimodo was convinced the woman the Archdeacon sought was the maid Esmeralda.

“…”

Quasimodo had always eagerly undertaken any task that might please his adoptive father, no matter how unpalatable or scorned by others. His father’s contentment was all that mattered.

The woman he sought resided at the palace. Her name was Esmeralda. Merely reporting those facts would undoubtedly delight the Archdeacon. If it brought his father joy, Quasimodo would divulge the truth unhesitatingly.

“Alas, I couldn’t…”

Yet:

“The woman you described… was nowhere to be found.”

For the first time, Quasimodo defied his father’s wishes.

* * *

“You seemed in quite a hurry fleeing earlier, only to return sooner than expected.”

“That hunched man appeared suspicious, so I chased him for a while.”

Soothing the visibly disgruntled Sibylla whose stroll had been interrupted, Dorothy contemplated the fleeing stranger.

A pitiful, wretched sight deserving of sympathy with his grotesque deformities and myriad compounded disabilities.

Yet Dorothy had sensed no outright malice in his eyes.

Flashes of hatred and resentment had flickered across them, but felt more akin to aimless diatribes than directed toward any specific target. And for one born bearing such afflictions, was it so strange to harbor resentment toward God and the world?

“So, what did you make of him?”

“I discerned nothing particularly suspicious or malicious about him.”

At the very least, his emerald eyes lacked the telltale unctuous malevolence and selfishness that Dorothy had witnessed in true villains. Rather, she had glimpsed a nobility rarely seen in the wicked.

“It seems you possess an innate ability to instantly discern one’s true nature upon meeting them, based on your assessments.”

“To a certain degree, yes. Though it’s not a magical ability.”

Dorothy did indeed possess a sort of intuitive perceptiveness – not sorcery learned from the witch, but a knack for reading people naturally developed through life experience.

“I gaze into one’s eyes. For me, at least, there exists no surer window into a person’s emotions than their eyes.”

One could perhaps call it an aesthetic fixation, or even a peculiar fetish of sorts.

Eyes held profound significance to Dorothy, the first feature she would instinctively study when appraising someone.

“Was your impression of Prince Louis based solely on his eyes?”

“Not solely, we did converse briefly, but they did inform my initial assessment to an extent.”

It hadn’t been eyes alone, but their brief exchange had enabled Dorothy to fully grasp the Prince’s character, having already formed a preliminary judgment from his gaze.

“How did his eyes strike you, in your view?”

“Like that fountain.”

Scanning their surroundings, Dorothy indicated the central garden fountain as she responded to Sibylla’s query.

“Its waters are pristinely clear, yet utterly shallow and the surface is constantly rippling.”

The fountain continuously replenished its waters every 24 hours, ensuring cleaner quality than most wells. Yet that constant disturbance inevitably created a perpetually undulating surface.

“Prince Louis’s eyes are the same – beautiful, yet never tranquil. A kind-hearted man, yet no spiritual paragon. Human, yet easily swayed.”

In truth, few possessed unwavering moral fortitude, striving unerringly toward righteousness. The philosopher from Lombardy who coined the term ‘Übermensch’ described such idealized individuals as possessing an upright spirit and indomitable will surpassing mere goodness. Those who overcame suffering through self-discipline to elevate themselves.

While Prince Louis was benevolent, he was no such paragon. If anything, he epitomized spiritual frailty and moral weakness.

“I believe the Second Prince’s familial affection and guilt toward you are genuine. However, I can’t guarantee he would never bring you harm.”

Too many accounts in Orléans’s history recounted the tragic downfalls of overly virtuous souls. Prince Louis was one such tragic figure – a quintessential, well-meaning commoner.

“And Brother Charles?”

“…”

Dorothy hesitated momentarily before replying to Sibylla’s subsequent query. Should she speak candidly?

“He is… the abyss itself.”

Ultimately, she opted for honesty, judging the Crown Prince unlikely to take personal umbrage at an unflattering assessment.

“Just as tsunamis upon the ocean’s surface, even the motions of behemoth whales, can’t perturb the abyssal depths’ stillness, his eyes remain ever tranquil. Tranquil, yet fathomless darkness.”

If asked which brother more closely embodied the Übermensch ideal, Dorothy would unhesitatingly choose the Crown Prince.

“None can truly fathom His Highness’s innermost thoughts and intentions. Has there ever been one who could?”

“No, even my Father the King and Mother the Queen frequently remarked how impenetrable my brother Charls’s thoughts were.”

Not his parents, siblings, spouse or children.

The Crown Prince’s mind was a mystery unto himself alone, so utterly imperturbable were his emotions. Or perhaps he simply lacked the capacity for emotional fluctuations altogether.

“If he believes something to be right, he will pursue it by any means necessary, unhesitatingly sacrificing you, the Prince, perhaps even himself for that conviction.”

A sage devoid of humanity. Such was the Crown Prince in Dorothy’s eyes.

“In that regard, he may well be the most ideal monarch, working solely for the nation’s interests without being swayed by personal sentiments. His Highness’s eyes…”

Dorothy knew him better than anyone, yet understood him least of all. Though he eerily mirrored his ancestor Jason’s loss of human essence, at least in that aspect:

“…would likely taste of rusted iron.”

They wouldn’t be entirely flavorless.

“…A rather unique yet unsettling impression, comparing it to a flavor so abruptly.”

Peering intently into the slit eyes concealed behind Sibylla’s dubious mask, Dorothy continued:

“At any rate, His Royal Highness is unlikely to willfully harm you, Princess. At least while he deems your continued existence preferable.”

But should that judgment ever change, he would become a terrifying adversary unmatched by any other.

“I have heard your assessment. Quite intriguing on multiple levels.”

Seeming to appreciate Dorothy’s candid observations, Sibylla rose with a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Then let us return for now. This stroll has been sufficiently…”

“Princess Sibylla.”

An unfamiliar voice halted Sibylla’s steps-

A voice not belonging to Dorothy.

“You…”

Dorothy recognized the elderly lady, having encountered her a few times before acquiring her current feminine form and name while undertaking tasks as a client’s errand boy.

“Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess has invited you to a soirée.”

Yet despite their previous meetings predating her bodily transformation-

The moment their eyes met, Dorothy sensed the elderly lady had recognized him.