The Maid of the Cursed Princess

It didn’t take an inordinate amount of time for the boy to thoroughly devour every last morsel filling the basket the girl had proffered.

The boy’s stomach had long since relinquished any semblance of restraint amid his prolonged starvation, while the aroma wafting from the freshly baked, crusty bread proved utterly irresistible.

“…Ah.”

Only after completely emptying the basket and licking away any residual crumbs did the boy finally regain his senses.

“…!!”

“Ahaha! You certainly have quite the voracious appetite!”

Yet the realization of his unseemly conduct instantly struck, prompting the mortified boy to step back in horror.

“There’s no need to be so abashed! It’s only natural for a hungry person to become weak in front of food. I guess even our King would do the same!”

“…”

The boy shielding his flushed face with both hands, the girl regarding his demeanor with an effervescent smile.

“Though you startled me with how swiftly you pounced upon that bread.”

“S-Sorry…”

Only after sating his ravenous hunger and allowing the searing flush in his cheeks to subside could the boy bring himself to properly face the girl.

To put it bluntly, her appearance wasn’t particularly extraordinary or remarkable in any sense.

That didn’t imply she was unsightly or unappealing – her features lacked any notable flaws or blemishes.

Lustrous tangerine tresses, emerald irises twinkling like gemstones, a light dusting of freckles and dimples adorning her radiant countenance, her sunshine-yellow raincoat contrasting starkly against the slums’ dreary backdrop.

An altogether cute impression one might readily encounter amid any idyllic rural hamlet, the sort of cherubic innocence destined to captivate the affections of an entire village populace.

In other words, her appearance exemplified the very archetype of commonplace, ordinary prettiness encountered anywhere without distinction. Nothing overtly remarkable about the girl’s looks.

“And… thank you. Thanks to you, I live.”

The boy averted his gaze, suddenly bashful.

“I, I can’t repay you right now, but…”

Yet to the long-famished boy:

An angelic benefactor who had unhesitatingly surrendered a basket’s ration ample enough to sustain even a grown man for several days if prudently rationed.

He couldn’t simply depart without offering some recompense, however modest, in gratitude for her munificence.

Thus, the boy steeled himself to oblige any reasonable entreaty the girl might request, only for her subsequent words to render him utterly dumbstruck:

“I have a request… could you draw me a sheep?”

“…A sheep?”

The boy could only gape in bewilderment at the girl’s inexplicable query.

“Heeheehee!”

Eliciting an effervescent giggle as she basked in his stunned reaction.

* * *

It seemed he had gravely misjudged the situation.

The precise timeframe from when the boy had regarded the girl as a benevolent savior to reassessing her as an utter eccentric – 30 minutes and 12 seconds, to be precise.

“You see, I once witnessed a desert fox before – they were ever so adorable! With their big ears yet small head, more agile compared to other foxes, yet…”

“…Enough about foxes already…”

Should one consider the astounding loquaciousness required to prattle on uninterrupted about mere desert foxes for nearly half an hour a laudable proficiency in oratory?

Yet to the boy, her incessant rambling constituted little more than unintelligible white noise, for her childlike vocabulary inevitably collided with his equally infantile comprehension – rendering any productive discourse nigh impossible.

“Hmm? Am I boring you?”

“Well of course you are. Who just launches straight into babbling about desert foxes immediately after meeting a total stranger? We don’t even know each other’s names.”

The boy and the girl were utter strangers who had never previously crossed paths.

Thus, the boy gently scolded the girl for behaving so overly familiar as if they were  old friends rather than having just encountered one another moments prior.

“So what is your name, then?”

“…Well…”

Yet the girl’s reciprocal inquiry rendered the boy momentarily tongue-tied, for:

“I… don’t have one.”

He couldn’t tell a name he didn’t possess. How could one proffer something they lacked?

The boy had never received a name, his mother having forgotten bestowing one out of sheer indolence.

Nor was he alone in that regard, for most slum children were born nameless due to their parents’ apathy.

“Really? Same here, I don’t have one either.”

The girl was nameless as well. Another child rendered identity-less through societal negligence, her parents having followed the boy’s mother’s example.

Upon hearing they shared that condition in common, the boy merely nodded in silent acknowledgment.

This girl is just like me. A bit of an eccentric, a bit of a chatterbox perhaps, but ultimately fellow victims of the same circumstances.

As his wariness dissipated and the boy prepared to fully let his guard down-

“Why don’t we give each other names, then?”

The girl’s proposal caused him to involuntarily stiffen once more.

“…Names…?”

The implications of bestowing names held profound connotations within the slums.

Technically, the act of naming itself held little inherent significance, for nameless children would spontaneously dub themselves during their formative years when the occasion demanded.

However, the notion of an outsider christening someone else carried far graver nuances beyond such casual self-designations.

Naming was considered the sole inalienable privilege and obligation reserved for parents alone. Slum children only nomenclated themselves because their progenitors had derelicted that fundamental duty. So could an unrelated stranger truly claim that right, let alone a peer of the same tender age?

“Don’t dwell on it so deeply. A name is a precious thing, yet one you can readily discard and replace with your own volition if you so choose.”

As if perceiving the boy’s misgivings, the girl smiled disarmingly as she explained: To be treasured, yet malleable according to one’s personal agency.

“The names we bestow shall be our childish monikers – nothing more than bittersweet mementos to be entombed within the dusty diaries of nostalgic reminiscences once we have matured into adulthood.”

“Our… childish names…”

Following the girl’s wistful gaze toward the heavens as she reclined beside him, the boy mirrored her upturned stance.

The drearily overcast skies could hardly be considered picturesque vistas, yet.

“…I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

What better time to indulge such fanciful whimsies than amidst their current straits?

“But we can’t simply slap together any half-baked appellations, mind you – I refuse to sully my tongue by addressing you as something asinine like ‘Dingbat’ or ‘Numbskull.'”

“…I have already decided upon your name.”

“Oh? You have already? Then, what is it?”

Even before the girl’s proposal, the boy had already firmly imprinted his impression of her indelibly – an incessantly chirping little songbird.

“…Robin. That is what they call the rossignol in other lands.”

And of those fledgling chicks, the rossignol – the nightingale – had been his selection for her moniker.

“Mmm… I love it! Robin, Robin…” 

She beamed radiantly, as if savoring the sound.

“Why, it even sounds like a name befitting a skilled archer!”

Her approbation evident, the girl’s smile blossomed into unrestrained rapture.

“As for myself… hmm, I wonder… do you happen to have any particular talents? If you were adept at, say, leapfrog or somersaults, ‘Grenouille’ could be rather apt…”

A fitting title for some obsessively fragrant assassin, perhaps.

The boy wished to eschew such monikers redolent of malicious connotations.

Thus, while wrinkling his nose in distaste, he nevertheless contemplated – what particular skills or proficiencies did he possess?

“…Needlework and embroidery?”

“Needlework? Embroidery? In that case…”

Tapping her lower lip pensively at the boy’s suggestion, the girl’s brow furrowed in intense concentration until her features lit up, their gazes locking intently.

“How about… Araignée!”

“…Araignée?”

Araignée – the ‘spider’ in the Orléans language.

Strictly speaking, the creativity and thoughtfulness suffusing that designation seemed negligibly different from rejected proposition of ‘Grenouille’ – leapfrog equals frog, needlework equals spider, underscoring her capricious whimsy.

“…I suppose it’s a good choice.”

Yet the boy readily accepted the hastily improvised moniker without further demurral. Not only because his own christening of her had required comparably minimal deliberation, but because ‘Araignée’ resonated as a marginally more elegant appellation than ‘Grenouille.’

“Then it is decided – I shall be Robin, and you Araignée!”

“…It feels as if we have swapped roles, somehow.”

For while ‘Robin’ conveyed a relatively masculine aura, ‘Araignée’ exuded a distinctly more feminine ambiance compared to its complement.

“Would you prefer a different name instead? If so, then ‘Grenouille’ might be-“

“No, Araignée is fine.”

Not his first choice, nor an outright favorite, but certainly preferable to the alternative. Especially when they were naught but transient monikers destined for eventual discard once they reached adulthood regardless.

“I will be Araignée, then.”

Thus, the boy ultimately acquiesced to that appellation.

“Araignée, Araignée… Arahnyé. It does have an amusing little ring when you say it.”

“…Such mocking tones are hardly appreciated.”

Araignée and Robin.

“Hehe, so does this mean we can become friends now?”

“…Friends?”

The abrupt query from the newly christened Robin prompted a perplexed reverberation from Araignée.

“Yes, now that we know each other’s names, we have grounds to be acquainted. So the next logical step is becoming friends, isn’t it?”

“…”

Did the dynamics of human relationships and bonds truly progress along such simplistically linear escalations? Could the mere exchange of idle conversation catalyze an instantaneous transition into friendship?

Araignée hesitated, for the concept of ‘friendship’ remained something he had never properly learned or cultivated in any meaningful capacity throughout his childhood.

“Let’s become friends. Best friends!”

Yet heedless of Araignée’s reservations, Robin extended her pinky finger with an impish grin, undeterred.

“…”

That mischievously childlike smile gradually melted away the boy’s apprehensions.

“You will be unique in the world for me, and I will be unique in the world for you. (Tu seras pour moi unique au monde. Je serai pour toi unique au monde!)”

“Unique in the world… to each other…”

Though Araignée himself remained oblivious to the weight of those words:

“…Very well.”

Their pinky fingers intertwined in a solemn pact, sealing that whimsical promise.

The two children who had encountered one another amid that arid desert wasteland became friends on that day.