The Maid of the Cursed Princess

Fairy tales, Princes and Princesses, and love.

“…That hint is far too blatant.”

Dorothy thought that if one couldn’t discern the answer from such an overt hint, they must either have never experienced fairy tales or simply be a fool.

“Not that I am particularly smart myself…”

Yet for Dorothy, who adored fairy tales, the Witch’s hint pointed in an exceedingly unambiguous direction. And:

“…Must it be that way? No, must I be the one to do it?”

For Dorothy, that course of action was something she would prefer to avoid if at all possible.

“Why, do you not like it after all? Does the notion of being intimate with a disfigured wench displease you?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I…”

It wasn’t Sibylla’s unsightly, repulsive appearance that gave Dorothy pause. She had never truly placed much weight on outward appearances to begin with.

Her unhesitating acceptance of serving as the scorned Sibylla’s maid, her nonchalant kindness toward the reviled Quasimodo – those traits stemmed from Dorothy’s intrinsic character of prioritizing one’s soul over superficial exteriors.

“…I’m uncertain if it is appropriate when I don’t love her.”

Yet Dorothy didn’t love Sibylla. Contrary to Sibylla’s own brazen proclamations, Dorothy’s feelings toward her remained unchanged…

Or so Dorothy herself had believed, at least.

“I am incapable of loving anyone, you see… Oww.”

“Hmph.”

Scoffing derisively at Dorothy’s claim, the Witch flicked her squarely between the eyes.

“Only scoundrels like Jason are truly incapable of love, not you.”

To the Witch who had indeed witnessed individuals wholly unable to nurture affection, Dorothy’s words rang as nothing more than a child’s petulant grumblings born of ignorance.

“You are merely a fledgling unversed in the ways of love. Or perhaps you have simply forgotten how to love.”

“What… does that even mean?”

“Do you truly expect me not to know the reason you were abandoned like some pitiful stray pup that fateful day?”

The Witch was privy to the misfortunes that had befallen Dorothy’s childhood through her unintentional mumblings, cognizant of what had caused her to forget the concept of love itself.

“Well, those are matters your beloved mistress should enlighten you about, not I.”

Yet would it be appropriate for an outsider to intermeddle in such whimsical romantic affairs?

Reconciling the slightly askew affections between two naive youths was an issue only they could resolve themselves.

“…Honestly, a witless wench preaching about wooing maidens…”

If only she had foreseen this, she might have imparted Dorothy with greater discretion.

Regretting her oversight from the past, the Witch clicked her tongue in vexation.

“Well, are you going to stand there gawking or proceed upstairs already?”

Yet what purpose did belated regrets serve now? The die had long since been cast, choices made that couldn’t be unmade.

All she could do as an adult was offer her encouragement.

“…But the Princess is a woman, and I too am female now…”

“Either go up there or I’ll send you up the hard way. Your choice.”

Urging the dithering Dorothy onward despite her incessant stalling, the Witch mused to herself:

Indeed, my son is quite the oblivious fool, isn’t he?

* * *

Even after the Witch’s insistent prodding had compelled her to ascend to the upper floor, Dorothy found herself unable to readily open the door to Sibylla’s chamber, pacing restlessly like an anxious dog.

What insecurity shackled her hand from grasping that doorknob? What trepidation induced such profound hesitation?

This was an unprecedented experience. For Dorothy who had lived life rather impulsively and whimsically, it was virtually unheard of for her to agonize over any decision for such an inordinate duration.

“Kkhhrrnngghh, kkhhrrmmphh…”

“…So noisy.”

The resonant, guttural snores rumbling like a slumbering giant’s bellow.

Quasimodo, who had proven so invaluable if only briefly, could offer no further counsel even if conscious – for a deaf-mute, the result would have been no different regardless.

“…Alright.”

Even so, she ought to at least confirm Sibylla’s condition.

Somehow mustering her resolve, Dorothy forced her unwilling feet forward to grasp and turn the doorknob.

“…Nothing has changed at all.”

A hauntingly familiar setting, exactly as her memories had etched into her psyche.

This room had once been Dorothy’s – no, the boy’s room. One of the more spacious, well-maintained rooms compared to the others.

The Witch must have tended to its upkeep even after Dorothy’s departure, for not a speck of dust marred its pristine interior. An unsettling, frozen temporal capsule utterly unchanged, not an iota deviating from when she had last resided here prior to her self-imposed independence.

There upon the bed lay Sibylla, the faint rise and fall of her chest providing the sole indication that she still drew breath.

“…Princess.”

Dorothy found herself musing: Truly, this person’s life has been no less arduous than my own – perhaps even more unfortunate.

To have been born under such inauspicious stars, afflicted by a horrific curse despite being the daughter of royalty rather than some destitute slum urchin.

Having intimately experienced the agonizing depths of descending from felicity to abject misery herself, Dorothy couldn’t begrudge Sibylla as anything less than her equal in suffering’s cruelties.

“…”

So did this hesitation stem from mere pity toward Sibylla’s plight?

No, that couldn’t be it. If Dorothy had been one to waver under such sentimental compunctions, how could she have survived those unforgiving slums?

“I… am uncertain what feelings I harbor for the Princess.”

Clasping Sibylla’s hand, Dorothy murmured in hushed tones.

“I can’t discern how she differs from others, nor why my heart ached so upon witnessing her collapse.”

Like a penitent sinner confessing their transgressions to a priest, an unfortunate lamb baring their soul.

“Am I… the one in the wrong? Or is the Princess truly special?”

For the first time, she had divulged these innermost ruminations destined to fall upon deaf ears.

“…And why do you pose such queries to me, I wonder?”

“!!!???”

Utterly oblivious that her unspoken musings had been overheard in their entirety.

“S-Since when…?”

“Ever since you entered this room…”

Only then did Dorothy perceive Sibylla’s azure, luminous gaze regarding her intently.

“P-Princess, th-that is…”

“It doesn’t matter. I have already heard everything, so…”

A faint rasp laced her words.

“…Some water, if you would?”

“Y-Yes, of course.”

Hastily pouring a cup while shielding her flushed face with her free hand, Dorothy silently berated herself.

“…You grow more peculiar with each new facet unveiled. One moment a ruthless assassin, the next a bumbling, inept maidservant. An emotionless doll, then an bashful, overawed child in the next breath.”

“…”

Whether intended as mockery, rebuke or some indiscernible nuance, Dorothy couldn’t bring herself to refute Sibylla’s commentary, unable to even raise her averted gaze.

“Which of those personas represents your true self? I… still don’t know the real you.”

Which was the mask, the facade, and which was her real side?

Dorothy couldn’t provide an answer, because she didn’t know herself.

“However… there is one aspect I am certain of. The you who came to save me, cradling me with such frantic desperation…”

-You weren’t looking at me.

“…?”

Inadvertently meeting Sibylla’s gaze as she raised her head in puzzlement, their contrasting crimson and blue irises mirrored one another.

“Tell me, what did you see in that moment?”

“…”

What had Dorothy truly beheld overlapping the collapsed Princess and her ethereal, exquisite eyes?

“…Was that an order?”

With a trembling voice, Dorothy asked. Had that been a command issued by her master that she must obey as a servant?

“No, this is… a request. This is…”

Regarding the visibly trembling Dorothy with a serene, tender tone, Sibylla replied:

“The beseeching plea of a lovesick maiden blinded by unrequited love.”

“…”

Not an order, but a request.

Something she could choose to divulge or rebuff if she so desired, not an obligatory directive.

“I…”

Opening and closing her mouth repeatedly like a gasping fish, Dorothy…

“…It may not be a particularly amusing tale, nor much of a fairy story… but still, will you listen?”

At last parted her lips to recount her tale.

* * *

Many children born into the slums never receive names.

Their parents deem it unnecessary, for what purpose would naming a child serve? One destined to perish in infancy, abandon them through runaways, or inevitably depart by some means regardless.

Of course, one could argue it stems from parental negligence and abuse – a reprehensible, appalling excuse unworthy of justification.

Yet is’t not said that the essence of human nature shines most vibrantly in times of crisis, when staring death’s door in the face?

A den of beasts that are too busy just trying to make ends meet day by day, surviving instinctively without any purpose.

The slums are such a place. The eternal shadow where the sun’s radiance never reaches, the dark side of the moon obscuring its brighter facade.

And yet even in such dismal straits, glimmers of hope persevere. Because some children nurture diminutive dreams while surrounded by that cannibalistic abyss of violence and depravity, sipping those fleeting raindrops in an oasis-bereft desert.

Enduring the scouring sandstorms, they await the day their vibrant blossoms will finally unfurl in breathtaking splendor.

“S’il vous plaît, I have a request…”

One day, a whimsical reverie found its way to one such nameless youth.

With neither omen nor portent, deposited haphazardly into that barren wasteland devoid of prospective shade or shelter.

“Dessine-moi un mouton! Could you draw me a sheep?”

The dream of the little prince with beautiful emerald light, holding a sparkling jewel.

This is the tale of stardust and withered roses.