The Maid of the Cursed Princess

Whenever I close my eyes, I see that child’s irises.

Whether accusatory, admonishing, or utterly devoid of emotion, merely observing impassively.

Even now, having cultivated the ability to discern one’s character and heart through their eyes alone, those particular irises remained utterly inscrutable – an indecipherable void despite their vivid hues, as impenetrably dark as the blackest oblivion.

The beautiful starlight that had once illuminated the night sky was no more.

Perhaps it was nothing but the hallucination of a desert fox who had lost its master, eyelids scrunched tightly shut.

“Robin’s remains were brought to the Court of Miracles. Most likely interred in an anonymous pauper’s grave.”

Though he had heard a modest funeral had been held for Robin at the Court of Miracles, the boy didn’t attend. Because he couldn’t envision shedding tears on her behalf.

Whether Robin’s death saddened him or not, his eyes remained bereft of any moistening sorrow.

The desiccated oasis, the arid desert aridity drying his tear ducts. That parched heart had scattered its reservoir of potential grief with each bitter, briny drop squandered amidst that deluge until not a single droplet remained to be cried.

* * *

“…After that, I was taken in by Éclair. I don’t know why someone who lived with nothing lacking would pick up a child dirtier and more ragged than a stray dog.”

Having relinquished his will to live, wandering those rain-drenched streets until collapsing upon death’s doorstep. That was where the boy had encountered the Witch, and been subsequently sheltered under her wing.

Out of boredom or loneliness, the boy surmised – likely both, for Éclair au Chocolat, the Witch of myriad sobriquets, harbored surprisingly magnanimous facets beneath her gruff exterior if one considered the full breadth of her extraordinary longevity.

“From then until now, I grew up by her side – until eventually I received a commission, and became the Dorothy Gale Your Highness knows.”

Slaying his enemies, his mother, his friend.

The unanticipated talents Dorothy had unearthed amidst those decidedly unpleasant circumstances, she had assiduously honed and wielded with unparalleled finesse.

“To me, Princess, you were merely my charge, the one I had been contracted to safeguard.”

Dorothy divulged her candid perspective regarding her view of Sibylla without embellishment.

“Any devoted conduct or sugared words on my part were solely necessitated by that objective – nothing more than requisite necessities.”

Her princely gallantries, her ardent whispers of devotion – all mere falsities enacted as part of her commission.

“…At first, that’s how it was.”

…It should have been.

“My frantic determination to locate you should have stemmed solely from that request.”

Dorothy recalled her desperation in her search for Sibylla’s whereabouts.

“Frantic indeed, for had you perished, I would have failed my charge. But when I discovered Your Highness in the throes of those men’s brutalities, something… was different.”

A momentary lapse, as if she had briefly lost her senses.

Like that day, the day she had lost Robin.

“…I wonder why that was.”

Had that lingering trauma caused her to unconsciously superimpose Robin’s image upon Princess Sibylla?

Dorothy looked into Sibylla’s eyes. Those beautifully serene, deep azure pools.

Her tone remained impassive, retaining an almost detached neutrality whether recounting her dismal past or baring his innermost ruminations – as if reciting mere anecdotes or poetry, Dorothy’s demeanor exuded an unsettlingly placid tranquility.

“…You are truly a pitiful soul.”

Yet Sibylla perceived the sorrow seeping through, despite Dorothy’s outward composure.

“A deeply unfortunate person, you are.”

The anguish emanating from that heart entombed beneath fathomless, suffocating depths – bound and submerged.

“Now I finally understand you.”

Extending her arms toward Dorothy, Sibylla proclaimed.

“The root of your beguiling, mercurial aspects has become clear to me at last.”

She had ultimately pierced the quintessential essence underlying this paradoxical being’s exterior facades.

“You were terribly difficult to understand. Serene yet volatile, lascivious yet innocent, brilliant yet obtuse, affectionate yet indifferent.”

The myriad personae Dorothy had exhibited before Sibylla rendered her true nature virtually indiscernible as a singular, cohesive individual.

The utterly inept maid devoid of domesticated graces. The eccentric unfazed by curses. The cold-blooded killer slitting throats without batting an eye.

Fixer, the peerless problem-solver capable of granting any entreaty. The simpleton bereft of emotional intelligence. The shameless philanderer seducing both genders with nary a care.

“I continuously wavered between perceiving you as either the most intricate deceiver or the most naive fool in the world.”

So what was the conclusion?

“You are both, and neither simultaneously.”

Neither cunning nor ignorant.

“Because you have simply been unknowingly telling lies without any true comprehension.”

Never consciously deceiving, for you lacked even that awareness of your own lies.

“Unto your very self.”

A naive liar.

“Now I can finally perceive you. The diminutive, childlike you obscured behind those once-inscrutable eyes has become visible.”

With a melancholic timbre, Sibylla told Dorothy what she saw of Dorothy in her own eyes.

“The anguish of loss, the desolation of that day robbed you of your full emotive capacities.”

Like the Snow Queen stealing Kai’s emotional spectrums, that overwhelming grief in the wake of Robin’s death had stripped that little boy of everything.

“Joy, anger, pleasure. All became overshadowed, undetectable amidst the encompassing sorrow.”

Dorothy’s heart impaled by those mirror shards rendered him incapable of genuine sentiments, every utterance emerging hollow rather than heartfelt.

“You, the sincere liar consigned to falsehoods.”

Enduring evident pain from the exertion, Sibylla raised her torso as she continued:

“It is those mirror shards embedded within your heart that I aim to melt away.”

And she placed her palm directly over Dorothy’s chest.

“It might sound a bit funny, yet I want to… make you cry.”

The hand that had sensed Dorothy’s heartbeat trailing upward until grazing the area beneath her eyes.

“I’m not your departed friend. Whatever you may envision me as, I can never become Robin.”

Descending in a caress along her lower lip before falling away.

“For you see, I – Sibylla Thérèse, want to become someone you could love.”

The pledge or declaration she made last time.

But this time, it stemmed from understanding – not the blind declarations of one oblivious to Dorothy Gale’s true essence.

“Whether you are the adopted child of my sworn enemy, a remorseless murderer, an emotionally barren husk, or a child still clinging to his first love. None of that matters to me now. There is but one thing I want to ask.”

Now Sibylla had realized everything about her.

“This is not an order from your master, merely an inquiry.”

In a tone far more composed yet brimming with sincerity than any of her prior overtures, Sibylla posed the question:

“Has Sibylla Thérèse managed to stir your heart even slightly, Dorothy Gale?”

“…”

For an extended interval, no response materialized in the wake of that question.

But Sibylla recognized this silence didn’t simply mean denial.

“…I…”

Repeatedly stammering with trembling lips, fidgeting restlessly.

Eyes flickering erratically, fingers twitching without cessation.

Dorothy was visibly unraveling in agitation – undeniably disquieted by Sibylla’s words.

Had she truly harbored no semblance of consideration whatsoever, such overt signs of indecision would not have manifested so palpably.

“I… that is…”

A demeanor starkly divergent from any repertoire Sibylla had witnessed so far.

“…Truly, you grow only more colorful with each new glimpse I am afforded.”

Surely that signified the boy was undergoing an authentic metamorphosis of sorts, didn’t it?

“I don’t demand an immediate reply. If my question proves too difficult, you don’t have to answer at all.”

Offering a mollifying smile, Sibylla was about to lie down again.

“…W-Wait, just a moment…”

Until Dorothy abruptly clutched her hand with palpable desperation, preventing her from reclining.

* * *

“Will you… will you listen… Your Highness..”

My head feels utterly discombobulated.

Assailed by a throbbing migraine akin to the most virulent strains of influenza, an incessant ringing reverberating through her skull – Dorothy exhaled in haggard, labored pants.

The mouth refused to properly articulate, the voice remaining obstructed like some unseen lump lodged in her throat.

The tongue that felt like it would curl up at any moment didn’t obey, as if paralyzed.

Yet Dorothy yearned to speak. Had to speak.

To unveil that deepest wellspring of sincerity.

“Not… Not yet…”

The agonizing throes of transformation.

Akin to the feverish pain of healing wounds, Dorothy grated her teeth with the sensation of blood about to erupt from her very innards.

“I can’t… give you an answer just yet.”

Has Sibylla Thérèse de Orléans managed to stir Dorothy Gale’s heart to any extent?

Undoubtedly, she had. Right now Dorothy’s demeanor toward her alone differed drastically from her interactions with any other.

“Because I can’t be certain. Whether these feelings are truly directed toward you, Princess, or if my perceptions are merely projecting misplaced impressions…”

Yet was that attachment attributable solely to Sibylla herself? Dorothy couldn’t be certain.

Perhaps she had simply superimposed lingering vestiges from the past upon her current impressions in a delusional trance.

…

“…However.”

However.

“If, I say if…”

If this metamorphosis could be definitively affirmed as authentic, not simply derivative echoes of cherished memories.

“…If, someday, I can say it with certainty.”

The day when Dorothy could unhesitatingly perceive Sybilla solely for her own unblemished existence rather than any phantasmal overlay.

“Then, Your Highness…”

Not Robin nor any previous infatuation, but you – Sibylla Thérèse, in your unvarnished singularity.

“…May I allow myself to fall for you?”