The Maid of the Cursed Princess

Tl/note:

For those who had read the previous chapter almost immediately after its release. I edited the part with Dorothy’s panic attack – rather then ‘kill them’ it would be more accurately to translate as ‘kill me’. It’s confusing right now, without any clues what that means, but after few chapters of Dorothy’s past it will becem clear.

I forgot to edit it right after I was sure of the meaning myself, but this was a time when the site worked bad, that’s why I’m saying it now. It’s a small detail but it’s really worthy mentioning – because… You’ll know.

Many presume an assassin must derive pleasure from the act of killing itself.

But does such a person truly exist – one who genuinely revels in bloodshed and slaughter?

Perhaps somewhere in this world dwells an individual possessing such violently sadistic proclivities, savoring brutality and deriving glee from gore.

Yet at the very least, the Dorothy before-

No, Arachne hadn’t been that sort of person.

“…Hadn’t seen him around lately, thought he might’ve vanished or something…”

The person recalled Dorothy – the Orléans Spider who had massacred half of Königsberg.

An assassin who had perpetrated wanton slaughter with a dry, mechanical indifference, uttering that trademark ‘How annoying’ refrain.

His demeanor had resembled a disgruntled clerk suffering from workplace ennui far more than that of a killer.

“And now he’s turned into a woman maid.”

Yet no matter how dramatically one’s outward guise might shift, deeply ingrained habits, mannerisms and speech patterns seldom changed.

The sort who viewed every aspect of this world as an irritating inconvenience, regarding pebbles and people alike with the same apathetic indifference.

That had been Arachne, the individual ‘Dorothy Gale’ had once been.

“…”

Dorothy offered no response to the person’s words.

Whether she had been a stray she had overlooked or merely a bystander watching from the sidelines was ultimately irrelevant.

For what purpose was there in committing the faces of those she killed to memory? Such knowledge served no practical application.

“Stop now, Spider.”

The one impeding Dorothy’s path was an unfamiliar voice.

“…Clopân.”

“You certainly cut a most unseemly figure in more ways than one.”

Clopân had recognized Arachne despite his altered appearance, for his very aura remained unchanged.

The copper tresses, crimson irises, even his favored choice of wire as a weapon.

“You managed to recognize me.”

“For none but you would flay humans with such silken wires. Though your skills do seem… a bit rusty.”

Disregarding differing attire, physique and gender, everything else matched Clopân’s recollections of Arachne to the letter.

“So this current iteration is you, Clopân?”

“Indeed, for the regrettable demise of my predecessors has necessitated my reemergence, tragic as that may be.”

Clopân Trouillefou was well-acquainted with Dorothy – not just her present self, but her origins preceding even Arachne’s existence.

“Yet it seems you have undergone quite the transformation yourself… though I have many queries regarding your unorthodox guise and vestments…”

“I am serving the Princess of Orléans.”

“…Ah.”

With that explanation, Clopân immediately comprehended the reason behind Dorothy’s extended absence culminating in this garish return to the slums amidst such gratuitous violence.

The Witch undoubtedly lurked behind the scenes, having enacted some manner of mystical intervention to facilitate Dorothy’s current undertaking regarding Princess Sibylla’s abduction.

And if safeguarding the abducted Princess had indeed been her objective, then Dorothy’s frenzied rampage was hardly unfathomable.

“It would seem I owe you an apology.”

Observing Dorothy’s bloodstained ivory gloves, Clopân bowed her head contritely.

“The Slave Prince was the one who abducted Princess Sibylla. I permitted him sanctuary within the Court of Miracles.”

“…I see.”

Fwish!

Accompanied by the whisper of severed air, a crimson wire grazed Clopân’s cheek.

“I have no intention of making excuses, especially having accepted compensation. However, I would advise against slaying the man if I may.”

“…Why is that?”

“Would it not be more prudent to deliver him alive to the police? To root out whoever employed these rogues and bring them to justice?”

Although they can’t be said to be on good terms, Clopân held the capabilities of Hyperion’s police force in rather high esteem when it came to extracting confessions, albeit through somewhat unsavory methods.

“No need for such elaborate arrangements… or perhaps there is, given how laden with valuables these Lombardian vagabonds seem.”

Observing the hyena-like scavengers gradually converging upon the fresh corpses, Clopân remarked:

“And… shouldn’t you return to your master’s side?”

“…”

Her master.

Her ailing, injured master.

“…See you next time.”

The taut wires criss-crossing every possible vector steadily slackened as they retracted, one strand at a time.

“Take care.”

The spider descended from her web’s embrace.

* * *

Ordinarily, Hyperion’s police seldom ventured into the slums. Not only due to the nation’s tumultuous political climate stemming from recent upheavals, but because the impoverished district itself was regarded as a proverbial hornet’s nest of potential hazards.

Neglecting it invariably bred myriad issues, yet disturbing that beehive risked provoking utter catastrophe. Thus, the police had historically avoided treading within those lawless badlands.

Yet the current circumstances differed drastically, for in the face of the unprecedented crisis of Princess Sibylla’s abduction, what did a mere hornet’s nest signify?

The police had scoured every inch of the capital including the slums, eventually uncovering one man who had confessed to attempting to assassinate the Princess himself.

Thanks to his inexplicably cooperative demeanor, the authorities soon identified the true mastermind who had commissioned her murder.

As Hyperion braced for a turbulent night erupting with pandemonium on numerous fronts:

“…What’s with that appearance, worse than a rain-soaked mouse?”

“…Hello.”

An unexpected, bedraggled vagabond had arrived at 11 Sansong Street – the Witch’s workshop, in other words.

“You’re really stabbing the heart of the person who raised you, huh?”

Surveying Dorothy’s haggard, battered appearance slouching on her doorstep, the Witch sighed in exasperation.

“I took the time to teach you how to style your hair properly and all, only for you to return looking like some mangy mutt fresh from the gutter. Then again, I suppose one can’t even feign knowledge without first being taught.”

Much like scolding a child returning home in disheveled disarray after playing outside, the Witch gently rapped Dorothy with a small wooden stick while stepping aside to permit her entry.

“Well, are you going to stand there gawking? You should bathe at the very least, shouldn’t you?”

“…I’ve returned.”

“…Yes, welcome back, My son.”

The prodigal child’s arduous journey had finally concluded, returning to that familiar, comforting homestead. Neither spacious nor extravagant, yet undeniably a sanctuary.

* * *

“…It hurts.”

“Endure it. You never so much as flinched when stabbed, yet some paltry scratches have you whinging?”

After applying ointment and wrapping her wounds with bandages, Dorothy silently studied the outfit she used to wear.

“…Aren’t these the clothes from my old room? Why are they here?”

“I brought them over while cleaning house. Rather than rot away in that pigsty you called a room paying exorbitant rent, you’ll be staying here in your old quarters upstairs.”

“…”

First kicking her out in the name of independence, now this apparent change of heart?

Tuning out the Witch’s increasingly strident nagging with one ear while lending the other, Dorothy put on clothes that didn’t fit her size.

“You’ve grown quite scrawny.”

“…”

“Even so, you’re still rather tall for a woman.”

Her diminutive height and frame, her physique conforming to the differing anatomies between male and female.

Of course her former outfits couldn’t accommodate her current proportions.

Dorothy was keenly reacquainted with the full extent of her metamorphosis, both outward and inward.

“…Is the Princess here?”

“Why would your mistress be in this place…? Ah, the circumstances do seem rather dire, now that I recollect. She came in the arms of some deaf-mute hunchback.”

Fortunately, Quasimodo had successfully fulfilled Dorothy’s request.

“The Princess received preliminary treatment before being put to rest, as did that overly bulky lout – kept blathering ‘Esmeralda’ this and that until the very end. Just what the hell is this Esmeralda?”

“It’s nothing important.”

Only after confirming Sibylla’s safety could Dorothy finally catch her breath and regain her composure.

“…Medea.”

And the moment tranquility returned, Dorothy at last voiced the question that had lingered ever since that unfortunate soirée, the identity she had longed to inquire about:

“I’ve heard that name before…”

“…Tsk, seeing that name coming out of your mouth, I guess some wench went flapping her gums, huh?”

A response effectively affirming Dorothy’s query.

“Yes, that was one of the names I went by long ago during my human days before becoming a full-fledged witch.”

A survivor from an era bordering on myth itself, a living witness to history.

“The curse afflicting the Orléans royals was indeed one of my handiworks as well.”

Simultaneously, the perpetrator who had birthed that terrible blight upon the Kingdom’s lineage.

“…Why?”

“Are you not well-versed in the dreary ancient folklore yourself?”

The Witch Medea.

“Then… you also know how to lift that curse…”

“Do you truly believe I would be unaware of how to undo a curse of my own making?”

A complicated blend of indiscernible emotions contorted her expression into a tangled knot.

“However, I can’t dispel that curse. No, to be more precise… it’s you who must lift it.”

“…?”

The one who had inflicted the curse couldn’t undo it, while Dorothy inexplicably held the power to break its shackles.

“Curses aren’t so simple as mere spellcasting where they manifest if you chant one phrase and disperse if you utter another enchantment to countermand them.”

Just as curses required specific conditions to be laid, certain prerequisites and proceedings were mandatory to nullify them. A form of ritual or invocation.

“Yes, I had hoped it might be undone eventually. We witches do so adore fanciful fairy tale-like stories.”

Scowling in displeasure while clutching her brow, the Witch exhaled a weary sigh.

“Yet never could I have foreseen that arduous path would lead to you of all souls. Never could I have anticipated such an outcome. Never…”

A side of candid sincerity that even Dorothy, who had dwelled by her side for so long, had never glimpsed.

“Listen carefully, Dorothy Gale. I’ll give you the final hint.”

Yet having seemingly reached some manner of resolution, the Witch contorted her features once more as she parted her firmly sealed lips, straining her constricted throat to force out each word.