The Maid of the Cursed Princess

A small raft adrift on the vast ocean, bereft of oars, sails, or rudder.

Such was Dorothy Gale, once known as Arachne – a being who drifted aimlessly, surrendering to the whims of the current, rising with the waves and resting in the calm.

He was destined to live thus, until one day, caught in a tempest, he would sink beneath the surface, never to rise again.

“…I don’t know how it came to this.”

Princess Sibylla had initially been but another passing wave – or so it should have been. A mere ripple to push the eternal drifter further from shore. 

Never did the boy expect this wave to guide his fragile vessel to land he thought forever beyond reach.

Instead of sweeping him away like countless waves before, this one extended an oar, as if to illuminate a path forward.

“I question whether I’m worthy of this chance.”

The boy confessed, grasping the proffered oar and gazing towards the unseen horizon. 

“Even so… I’ll seize it.”

I’ll forge ahead, towards the shore from whence this oar came. Towards the land we’ll someday reach.

“So, don’t stand in my way.”

For any obstacle daring to impede Dorothy’s path must surely be overcome, right?

Gossamer threads glimmered in the night sky, a web spun with preternatural skill, anchored indiscriminately to buildings and debris alike. 

Atop this aerial lattice stood Dorothy, gazing down at Ruslan with arachnid poise.

“I wondered… how to… those threads…”

Ruslan muttered, realizing that to reach Dorothy, he too must traverse this treacherous web – threads so fine and sharp they seemed impossible to balance upon, let alone leap between.

Yet Ruslan stepped forth without hesitation, bounding skyward. He ascended the threads as if climbing an invisible staircase, each step bringing him closer to his nemesis.

Would this confrontation end only with one’s demise? 

And if so, what prize awaited the victor?

“How to… this collar…”

No answer came, neither to Dorothy nor to Ruslan. 

Their past killings had been driven by others’ will. Requests, orders, but never their own desires.

Once, one might have gained coin, the other a moment’s respite.

“If I can… break it—!!”

But now, such trivial rewards held no sway. The raw emotion infusing their weapons spoke volumes.

“I must… kill you, Arachne—”

“My name is Dorothy, no longer Arachne!!!”

Clang—!! Their weapons clashed anew beneath the moon’s pale light. The boy who had reclaimed his long-lost will collided with another who could not accept such transformation.

Like macabre acrobats, they fought, leaping between threads with hearts more selfish and self-centered than ever before. Their battle, dazzling yet brutal, resembled nothing so much as the unrestrained brawl of children.

“Now, disappear—”

The one who was defeated at the end and fell from this lofty stage was…

“From my sight—!!!”

“—!!”

The boy who ultimately couldn’t become the protagonist.

* * *

The golden star, forever beyond reach no matter how one stretches towards the heavens.

There was a time when the young Prince dreamed of grasping that distant light, a pure and reckless longing for freedom ill-suited to one confined by castle walls.

A dream of reaching the star in that distant night sky.

“…”

But even as he grew, the Prince found the star no closer.

 Indeed, with each passing year, it seemed to recede further into the vast night sky.

No,t was not the star that had moved. The Prince had drifted away, carried by currents of duty and expectation.

Yes, just as now.

Thud…

Ruslan’s battered form, fallen from the gossamer battlefield, met the cold, unyielding ground.

The Slave Prince, defeated once more, just as he had been by Arachne in their first encounter.

“…Cough.”

Yet Ruslan felt neither anger nor sorrow at his defeat. He merely gazed, unfocused, at the star he could never reach. 

Whether from the impact of his fall or the loss of blood, his vision blurred, the golden light above seeming to flicker and dance as consciousness began to slip away.

Such trivialities held little import now. Perhaps even his impending fate paled in significance.

Loser.

Loser, Ruslan. No, Yuriy Vladimirovich.

The name he had shed, deemed an unnecessary luxury for a mere slave, suddenly resurfaced in Ruslan’s mind.

His ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps, unsteady and weary.

Ruslan knew instantly to whom they belonged – after all, only one person would approach him in his fallen state.

“You look utterly pitiful. What a waste of the moniker ‘Prince’.”

His eternal nemesis, once a fellow puppet dancing to others’ tunes, now imbued with unmistakable self-awareness, gazed down upon him.

“Do you intend to continue this futile struggle?”

“…”

In times past, no matter how grievously injured, he would have clawed his way back to his feet, compelled by his master’s iron will. 

But now, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, the desire to remain prone weighed heavily upon him. Even knowing the dire consequences of defying his master’s edicts, Ruslan found himself unable to rise.

“You seem… different somehow. You used to struggle upright even with your limbs in tatters.”

Even in his days as a man, before acquiring his preternatural healing abilities, Ruslan had never shied from injury. Like a caged bird denied flight, the terror of his master—more frightening than death itself—had always forced his body to rise.

“…It hurts. My whole body aches.”

But for the first time since his enslavement, Ruslan acknowledged pain. He, who hadn’t flinched in the face of death, now recognized his agony and gave it voice.

“I thought your body was impervious to pain.”

“…Is that how it appeared…?”

Their frank exchange belied the fact that mere moments ago, they had been locked in mortal combat, painting the ground with their blood.

“…Arach—”

“Dorothy.”

“…Ara—”

“I said Dorothy. Dorothy Gale. Can’t you understand?”

Each time Ruslan attempted to use her former name, Dorothy cut him off with irritation.

“…Dorothy.”

Finally, Ruslan acquiesced, cowed by her sharp tone. What did names matter now?

“…How were you able to change?”

Ruslan, still uncomfortable with her unfamiliar appellation, repeated his earlier query.

“You were once… the same kind as me.”

In the past, before adopting the name Dorothy Gale, she had been indistinguishable from Ruslan.

An empty vessel devoid of self-awareness, a mere tool bending to others’ wills. 

Her eyes had been vacant, like peering into a void wearing the shell of a person.

But Ruslan sensed a profound shift in the current Dorothy. Where once there was emptiness, now there brimmed emotions, self-awareness, desires, and dreams.

“How… can one transform like that…? I must know.”

Ruslan implored. What was needed to remove this suffocating collar, this mark of subservience to a master?

Surely Dorothy, who had severed her puppet strings to become human, would know the method.

“I believe you misunderstand something…”

Dorothy began.

“You and I have more differences than similarities. Now and before.”

She illuminated the aspect he had failed to perceive.

“I’m not subordinate to others as you are. Though an orphan from the slums, my human rights were never stripped away.”

Dorothy and Ruslan were clearly distinct individuals. Between oneself and another, which is swifter to discern – similarities or differences?

The answer, of course, is differences. Dorothy and Ruslan were not in positions to fully empathize from identical circumstances. They might sense a kinship in certain aspects, but…

“So… I don’t know. What you seek is, strictly speaking… freedom, is that right?”

A person who could have cut their strings at any time but lacked the will to do so, and one who possessed the will but was unable to sever the bonds.

Naturally, Dorothy couldn’t offer a perfect solution to cut Ruslan’s collar. How could she know whether to cut it or not without becoming a slave herself?

“Hmm… it may not be of much help… but if I were to offer advice that’s not truly advice…”

Nevertheless, after pondering Ruslan’s question, Dorothy eventually proffered a vague suggestion.

“Be selfish. Become a person who thinks only of yourself and knows only yourself.”

“…”

Advice that seemed problematic in myriad ways.

“Is that… the solution?”

“It’s all I can conceive.”

For the first time, by being honest with her desires and dreams, by rowing with the determination to reach land by any means necessary, Dorothy had finally become human. She had transformed from puppet to person.

“…Be selfish…”

What a preposterous notion.

“How childish.”

Ruslan scoffed. Even at his criticism, Dorothy merely shrugged.

“Fairy tales are originally for children, anyway.”

Indeed, wasn’t such a childlike answer most befitting a fairy tale protagonist?