The Maid of the Cursed Princess

The sewers, repository of Hyperion’s filth and refuse, concealed a secret – a pristine, serene park unknown to the world above.

Robin once spoke of the central tree, claiming it had been planted by the witch Medea to commemorate her lost child. Even now, long after Dorothy’s acquaintance with the woman once called Medea began, the truth remained elusive.

To Dorothyб no, to Araignée and Robinб this tree held significance beyond ancient tales.

“…You’re late, my dear.”

Beneath the tree’s canopy stood a woman – cursed, her decaying form shrouded from moonlight.

“…This is… the first time… I’ve revealed my true self to another.”

Sibylla crouched against the trunk, as if to shield her maid from her unsightly appearance. Just as Araignée and Robin had done in days past, leaning against the ancient wood.

“Can you truly call me beautiful, even seeing this form—”

“You are beautifulю”

Dorothy interjected without hesitation. 

“More than anyone else in this world, Princess, you are beautiful.”

It was neither platitude nor falsehood, but pure sincerity born of genuine admiration.

“…Is that so…”

The Sibylla of old might have doubted such words of love. But no longer. Now she understood Dorothy’s true nature, her genuine feelings.

“…May I sit beside you?”

“By all means.”

With Sibylla’s assent, Dorothy eased her battered body against the tree.

Just as the boy and girl who once frequented this place had done, hands entwined beneath the sheltering boughs.

“…What transpires outside? Did events unfold as you intended?”

“I’m uncertain if all went as planned. As you know, Princess, I’m quite the fool.”

The rebellion’s fate, the success of the chamberlain and Clopân against the assassins – such facts remained unknown in this secluded glade.

“But if I dare speculate… everything should have proceeded according to design.”

Dorothy believed, without doubt, that all had gone as intended. The chamberlain and Clopân possessed skills to rival even seasoned assassins, and she herself had facilitated the Crown Prince’s army’s rush to Hyperion.

The two would survive. Murat’s cavalry would gallop to protect their master and vanquish his foes.

“Now, if we can just lift the Princess’s curse… everything will truly be over.”

“Have you… discovered a method to break the curse?”

“Yes, I have.”

Upon hearing the witch’s third hint, Dorothy had realized the condition for lifting the curse.

Fairy tales. Prince and Princess. Love. Things Dorothy cherished. And things the witch adored.

“Éclair favors stories more saccharine and mawkish than they appear.”

She, too, thirsted for love with equal intensity.

“Do you know of unquenchable thirst?”

Dorothy asked suddenly.

“Unquenchable thirst…?”

“Yes. A burning thirst unquenched by wellsprings or damp throats.”

Thirst. A thirst water cannot slake.

A thirst so agonizing it crushes the chest, so unbearable it sears the innards.

“Éclair suffers from such unquenchable thirst. And that thirst…”

Dorothy’s crimson gaze met Sibylla’s azure eyes.

“The Princess and I endure it too.”

“…So it would seem, indeed.”

Sibylla, more perceptive than the oft-insensitive Dorothy, instantly grasped her meaning.

“Love… is it.”

Lack of affection.

A woman abandoned by her beloved, a girl betrayed by those who professed to love her.

And the deficiency experienced by a boy who knew not what love was.

The witch’s adoption of the boy, Sibylla’s obsession with Dorothy, Araignée’s slaying of Robin and subsequent emotional void – all stemmed from love. From hearts parched and fractured.

“I thought I would never comprehend it. Neither Éclair nor the Princess.”

The hollow vessel that was Dorothy had been incapable of comprehending love, much like the Crown Prince. For Dorothy, the sole treasure had been the friend who had once painted her world in vibrant hues.

Without that friend, her world had been rendered drab and desolate. Like the monochrome existence Sibylla had endured before encountering Dorothy, all was gray – sky, earth, people.

“…Surely that should have been the case.”

A lone passenger adrift on a vast ocean, bereft of compass, sail, or oar.

Dorothy’s fate had seemed an endless journey, awaiting the day she would finally sink beneath the waves.

“Princess. I beg your forgiveness.”

What had transformed this Dorothy was a woman she had initially regarded as merely the subject of a request.

The cursed Princess of Orléans, with eyes more resplendent than the finest jewels.

“I… I have dared… to harbor feelings for the Princess… that I ought not.”

When had it begun? What had been the catalyst?

Was it her captivating gaze? Her pitiable circumstance? Her resemblance to Robin?

While none of these could be dismissed entirely, they were not the decisive factor.

“…If the curse is lifted, the Princess will once again be adored by all.”

The exceptional beauty of the Orléans royal family was widely acknowledged. Being the sole daughter of that lineage could alone be deemed sufficient to inspire adoration.

Moreover, the moment she overcame the curse and reclaimed her former appearance, all of Sibylla’s tribulations would transmute into a noble and beautiful narrative, further elevating her status as a sympathetic heroine.

“You will encounter others, individuals of noble blood to which I dare not even aspire.”

The influential figures of the continent would set their sights upon Sibylla, captivated by her beauty and the miraculous tale of her triumph over the curse.

“…I don’t want that. I detest the very notion.”

Dorothy recoiled from such a future.

“I can’t bear the thought of losing the Princess to another. I can’t endure seeing the Princess speak another’s name with affection.”

Dorothy balked at the prospect of witnessing someone else loving Sibylla, or Sibylla reciprocating that love.

“I want your gaze fixed solely upon me. I want your love reserved exclusively for me.”

“My dear…”

Childish possessiveness. Unsightly inner thoughts. A child’s tantrum, refusing to share what they deem theirs.

“…Are you… crying now?”

“…Huh?”

This was the visage Sibylla had revealed to Dorothy. In Dorothy, unknowingly shedding tears, Sibylla saw a reflection of her past self.

“…Ah.”

So this was my countenance?

This youthful, immature aspect, these were my emotions?

How truly vulgar.

How truly endearing.

“…Dorothy, guide me to where the moonlight shines.”

“Where the moonlight… shines?”

Sibylla beseeched Dorothy, who wept like a fountain, to lead her into the moonlight’s radiant embrace.

“Very well… I understand.”

Though bewildered, Dorothy acquiesced to Sibylla’s request. The Princess’s cursed form was exposed to the lunar glow, yet her azure eyes, still alight with life, remained fixed in a single direction.

“Is there something you wish me to—”

And in that moment, as Dorothy turned her head after stepping from the shadows, Sibylla’s hand in hers,

Sibylla pulled her close.

Or perhaps more accurately, she cast herself into Dorothy’s arms.

“…Princess?”

Somehow, they found themselves in an embrace, the tall maid cradling her diminutive mistress.

Naturally, Dorothy lowered her gaze to the Princess nestled in her arms.

Sibylla, in turn, rose on her tiptoes.

“Wha-“

—Chu.

In truth, no such intuitive sound actually occurred. The contact between them was too gentle to be called a collision, too soft to produce any audible noise.

Perhaps it would be more apt to say they simply pressed together, the space between them a vacuum of silence.

Yet undeniably, they touched.

Even if no sound was heard, they felt the contact, the sensation upon their lips unmistakable.

“…”

“…”

Dorothy and Sibylla’s lips met.

The kiss was neither deep nor lascivious.

It was silent enough to be solemn, yet intimate enough to feel each other’s presence more acutely than ever before.

Mutual love. A kiss between two who shared the same feelings, the same love—not a one-sided affection from either party.

Crash—! With a sound like shattering glass, at last the key engaged the lock of the curse.

“Princess, your body…!”

“I know.”

The pain is receding. The agony of the curse that had tormented Sibylla for so long, the suffering that had seemed escapable only through death’s embrace.

Yet Sibylla’s heart raced faster than ever before, her blood boiling with newfound intensity.

“The curse, it’s been lifted.”

Brilliant platinum-hued tresses, skin as white and flawless as the finest marble.

“How is it, my dear?”

The curse of the royal family that had been devouring Orléans, the bloodline of the sun.

“Is it as beautiful as you imagined?”

At last, it was vanquished.