The Maid of the Cursed Princess

“I’m departing.”

Dorothy rose to her feet, leaving the fallen Ruslan behind.

“…You won’t kill me?”

“Considering future consequences, it would be right to eliminate you, but I lack the strength to do so.”

She harbored no particular desire to end Ruslan’s life. It seemed incongruous after their recent mortal struggle, but Dorothy’s hostility had evaporated. 

Was it sympathy? Kinship? More likely, she simply lacked the will to kill. Her body felt leaden, her mind even more so.

“Unfinished business awaits me.”

Time was precious when she couldn’t guarantee consciousness should she close her eyes.

“So… farewell.”

A parting salutation laden with the fervent hope they’d never cross paths again – a final, eternal goodbye.

Unspoken thoughts flowed, inaudible to Ruslan: May you too one day realize, though perhaps you already have.

Dorothy pressed onward.

* * *

Her body felt heavier than a thousand pounds, teetering on the brink of collapse. 

Fatigue, as if she hadn’t slept in days, weighed upon her consciousness. What trials had a single night wrought?

Of course, she knew this was of her own choosing. She had willingly accepted the Crown Prince’s request, by far the most challenging she’d ever undertaken. Who else could she blame?

She craved rest more than ever before.

No need for alcohol, cigarettes, or gambling – just a bed and the oblivion of sleep.

“…Ah, no time for that…”

Shaking off such indulgent thoughts, Dorothy staggered towards Sibylla’s hiding place.

With the assassins neutralized and the rebellion seemingly ebbing, if she could just spirit Sibylla away now, all would be well. If only…

“…Ah, right.”

The problem lay in Sibylla’s refuge – the slums.

“I’d forgotten. The nature of those who dwell here…”

Underdog. Could there be a more apt descriptor for the slums?

The despised and oppressed had transmuted their very weakness into a cause, a weapon – dry tinder awaiting the spark. 

And when the flames finally licked at their heels, they hurled themselves into the inferno, heedless of their own immolation, hoping only that the conflagration would consume the world entire.

It was a maelstrom of malice and chaos. Should she encounter these frenzied souls, Dorothy’s battered body would surely falter.

Yet she had to breach their ranks to reach Sibylla. She had to navigate this sea of madness to attain her goal.

Dorothy wavered. Should she retreat? Would turning back spare her from these maniacs?

In peak condition, such deliberation would be unnecessary. She could have cut them down without hesitation.

But now, weakened, facing the kindling-turned-conflagration…

“Hey, check out that babe over there!”

“…Ah.”

While Dorothy hesitated, a man among the rioters pointed and shouted.

“What, truly a woman? And quite the beauty at that?”

“Don’t know where she’s been rolling to end up so disheveled, but she’s not hard on the eyes!”

Ruffians who normally wouldn’t dare glance her way now held the upper hand. Dorothy pondered, for the first time, not whether she should kill them, but whether she could.

“…Argh.”

As she gritted her teeth against the dull ache in her uncooperative arm, trying to evade them-

“Don’t let her esca…huh?”

Between the men and Dorothy, a mountain of a man intervened.

Disheveled red hair framed a hideously distorted face – a hunchbacked giant glowering at the men with fierce intensity.

“W-What, what is this monster…”

Even the senseless rioters regained their wits, so threatening was the giant’s mien. To those unfamiliar with him.

“…You are… from that time…”

But Dorothy recognized him, if not by name, then by nature of this deformed giant.

“…”

“…!? Y-Your face…”

The clear marks of violence visible as he turned his head made Dorothy catch her breath.

“Wh-Where, are you, going?”

Who had reduced him to such a piteous state? Given his unsightly appearance, despised wherever he went, and the current chaos, it wasn’t surprising he’d fallen victim to someone’s cruelty.

Dorothy discerned the emotion in his sole remaining eye – a sorrow so profound, a grief so fathomless that she could scarcely comprehend its depths.

“I’ll… I’ll escort you. Any-Anywhere.”

He stammered, his face contorted not by physical agony but by mental anguish.

Dorothy pondered. Could she truly place her trust in this soul?

Certainly, Quasimodo possessed a nobler heart than any she had encountered.

Yet, she hesitated. For a kind heart and good intentions do not always yield benevolent outcomes.

“…Would you guide me to the sewers?”

In the end, Dorothy chose to trust him, hoping her decision would not prove misguided.

* * *

From birth, the world had branded Quasimodo as cursed.

His body, grotesquely distorted and deformed – a curved spine, clouded eyes.

How could they not deem it a curse? Whether laid by devil or deity, one thing was certain: whoever had molded Quasimodo’s form must have harbored deep antipathy.

To the world, he was a spectacle deserving only of scorn. His twisted visage led many to declare him forsaken by God.

The intensity of persecution didn’t wane even when he bowed his head and clasped his hands in perpetual submission.

Whether Quasimodo caused harm was irrelevant. To them, he was a cursed abomination, a spawn of the devil, and they believed themselves justified in meting out punishment.

This is why Quasimodo cherished Archdeacon Claude Frollo, the man who took him in and raised him.

Without Archdeacon Frollo’s intervention, Quasimodo would have perished in infancy, a cold corpse discarded. Even the faithful who professed belief in God cursed him as demonic; his fate seemed sealed.

Thus, it was natural for Quasimodo to love the Archdeacon as a child loves a parent.

Even if Frollo’s motives for adopting him were less than pure.

Even if the Archdeacon persecuted and abused him like others did.

Even if he, too, regarded Quasimodo as a monstrosity born of the devil.

Nevertheless, Quasimodo loved the Archdeacon and strove to fulfill his every wish.

And this Archdeacon desired a woman – a beautiful creature with copper hair and red eyes, Esmeralda.

It was too base an emotion to be dignified with the term ‘love.’

Lust, obsession – such terms more aptly described it.

Claude Frollo was by no means a righteous man. He cloaked his desires in the guise of faith.

Yet even knowing the Archdeacon’s true nature, Quasimodo did not rebel. No matter how rotten his character, Frollo remained his benefactor and adoptive father.

If the Archdeacon desired Esmeralda, Quasimodo believed it right to deliver her to him.

“We’ve… we’ve ar-arrived.”

However, Quasimodo had defied the Archdeacon’s will.

“This… this is the right place, isn’t it?”

Not once, but twice, he had betrayed his beloved adoptive father.

“…”

Despite the warning never to disobey again and the order to bring her to the cathedral, Quasimodo gently lowered Esmeralda before the sewer entrance as she nodded in confirmation.

It was all because of her.

Both betrayals stemmed from his love for Esmeralda.

Though he had barely encountered her a handful of times, even knowing she loved another – Quasimodo ultimately chose her over his adoptive father’s commands.

Was this woman so significant?

Was that fleeting encounter meaningful enough to defy the will of the man who had raised him for so long?

To this self-directed query, Quasimodo could answer unequivocally: Yes, it was meaningful.

The momentary kindness Esmeralda had shown that day – a kindness another might have offered once had Quasimodo been ordinary.

But for him, born with a hideously twisted, monstrous form, there was no one who would show even that modicum of compassion. Not even his adoptive father.

So to Quasimodo, Esmeralda was precious beyond measure.

Even if his love could never be requited, even if his devotion went unrewarded.

It didn’t matter. Truly, it didn’t matter at all.

“My, my name is Qua-Quasimodo.”

His sole wish: for her to remember him.

To remember him as kind Quasimodo, not as the hideously deformed giant.

That alone would suffice.

“…Farewell.”

May your future be radiant with hope.

May the one you love return your affections.

And may the conclusion of your tale be adorned with joy.

Please, be happy.

Quasimodo wished, with all his heart.