The Prince by Clarice Sanchez Meneses

A Cinderella retelling set in the Philippines after the country regained independence from its Spanish colonizers.

First published in Pandan Weekly in July 2024.

​From the author:

I think Filipinos sometimes get caught up in guilt or existentialism when we borrow from our former colonizers. Personally, though, I’ve always found that the better approach is to own our complicated history. (National Artist Nick Joaquin agrees with me—his essay “Culture and History” argues we should accept that the Spanish both oppressed us and gave us tools for advancement, but what we made and can make with those tools is undoubtedly to our credit.) This theme pops up now and again in my stories, and nowhere more clearly than “The Prince.”

Here, I retell Cinderella—a fairytale I first encountered by watching Disney’s Charles Perrault adaptation—but with a fun twist: It takes place in a magical, alternate Philippines wherein we managed to shake off the Spanish colonizers much earlier and developed our own monarchy. The protagonist, Prince Dominic, is determined to maintain the (formerly Philippine) Islands’ independence—and believes that the key to doing so is by being able to stand up to his Western counterparts’ scrutiny. Of course, falling in love with a mysterious woman at a ball complicates things.

I hope readers enjoy this story and all its whimsy, as well as get a sense of empowerment about how we can build our identities as individuals and peoples. Also, I hope they finish “The Prince” wanting to know more about its world. I explored such a small part of it here and fully intend to go back for more in the future.

Illustration by Chelcy Sanchez Meneses

A sovereign ruler must be, above all, a man of duty and reason. Dominic of the Islands knows this principle down to his bones—and understands full well the consequences of failing to live up to it.

So why is he out past midnight, standing still as a statue as rain soaks him to the bone?

“Your Majesty!” someone calls to him from the darkness. Dominic knows this voice, as he knows every councilor and cook and scullery maid in his service.

“Captain Basilyo,” he says, just as the frantic old soldier reaches him. Immediately, Dominic feels the weight of a warm cloak over his dripping barong. He smiles faintly. “Thank you.”

“I apologize it took me this long to catch up with you,” Captain Basilyo says.

“Don’t apologize. I should never have left palace grounds in the first place.” The prince knows this to be true even as his heart screams in protest.

“Did—did you find her, Your Majesty?” Captain Basilyo inquires.

The mysterious woman in the moonlight-silver baro’t saya. The dance partner that had made him laugh and kept him laughing, as no one had been able to in years. When Dominic closes his eyes, he still sees her running away. He sighs. “No.”

“The night is still young,” Captain Basilyo observes. “My guards can still search.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin, Captain,” Dominic admits. “I managed to track her golden carriage here, near the Bridge of the Diwata. But then it—vanished. Like magic.”

The captain’s face darkens. “Fae magic, Your Majesty?”

“There’s no other kind,” says Dominic. As a rule, the royal family never deals with the fae folk. During the early days of the Revolution, when the Islands first rose up against their Spanish colonizers, the fae took no sides and caused merry mischief to whoever crossed their path—until the Spanish burned down the forests to smoke the Islanders out, destroying the mystical shrines in the process.

The fae folk’s wrath is still spoken about in whispers. While they had turned the tide of the war in favor of his kingdom, the prince knows how dangerous they could be.

“The freak storm only adds to my suspicions,” Dominic continues. “Our watchers predicted a clear night. No, I believe I’ve lost her, Captain. There is nothing that we can do.” The prince keeps his voice steady through sheer force of will.

“Are you looking for the moonlight lady?”

Both men turn around sharply. As it turns out, an ancient church stands behind them—and peeking behind its wooden doors is a skinny little boy drowning in festival robes. He bites his lip. “I saw her get out of her kalabasa.”

“Carriage, you mean?” Dominic says.

The boy shrugs. “She was in an awful hurry. She forgot this.” The boy raises his arms, sliding his overflowing sleeves a few inches to reveal a glimmering object.

Can you dance the tinikling in such a fine dress? Dominic had asked her, half-teasing and half-serious. It did involve leaping over bamboo sticks.

I can dance the tinikling in anything, she’d replied, and then paused. Well, she said, lifting her skirts, maybe not in these shoes.

Dominic walks over, takes the proffered glass slipper from the child, and gazes at it with wonder. So it hadn’t been a trick of the light.

“Where did she go?” Captain Basilyo asks. The boy gestures to a road. The captain grimaces. “That diverges into five paths,” he informs Dominic. But his face is set. “My guards and I can find her, Your Majesty. If I leave now, perhaps we can—”

“No.”

“Your Majesty?” The captain looks at him in surprise.

The prince stares at him right back, taking in the soldier’s shivering frame. Two miles behind them is the palace, where the entire court no doubt waits in worry. Across the sea, his kingdom’s enemies are watching for just one wrong move.

Then there’s the marriage treaty proposal on his desk to think about.

The prince cannot justify putting all that he cares about in jeopardy for a woman he just met. No matter how much he turns the dilemma around in his head, it simply isn’t worth it.

“Don’t you want to look for her?” the child from the church asks.

Yes, Dominic’s heart sings.

The prince tightens his fist over the glass slipper and pockets it. He shakes his head. “If the lady wanted me to go after her,” he says quietly, “she would have told me her name.”

The last thing Dominic’s parents asked of him, before they retreated to their bedchamber to die from the plague, was to take care of their people. It haunted them, he knew, to leave his older sister as queen so young, and in the midst of such instability.

Only eighty years had passed since the Islands wrested their freedom from the Spanish Empire. Even now, their former colonizer circles them like a vulture.

He refuses to give them any chance to strike.

Over the years, this has meant many unpleasant things. Drilling himself day and night in fifteen languages and ten different types of court etiquette, so as to appear more civilized in the eyes of contemptuous ambassadors. Overthrowing his sister, when it was clear she was too grief-stricken to act as head of state. The parchment he is holding is simply putting forward another unappealing but advantageous action: matrimony between himself and the princess of Adstrum.

Adstrum is a small country situated on the European coast. While they could not compare to the Islands in natural resources, they offered something just as enticing: a marriage treaty with them would mean that their royal house, one of the oldest amongst the Western nations, must acknowledge his kingdom’s sovereignty.

That, the prince thinks, is worth his hand in marriage. He should accept at once.

So why is he placing the parchment on his desk? Why are his feet walking to the royal glassmaker?

“Your Majesty!” The elegant artisan Doña Rosaline beams at his entrance. She ushers him to a plush rouge couch and promptly places the moonlight lady’s beautiful glass slipper in front of him. Dominic resists cradling it. “I’ve been looking into this magnificent shoe, as you asked. You were quite right.” Her voice goes low and awestruck. “This is fae work.”

As he suspected. “Marvelous as always, Doña,” he says. “Do you have any idea what the curse could be?”

“Ah, but that’s where this gets interesting, Young Prince. There is no curse.”

“What?” He stares at her. “But there is always—”

“Not this time,” Doña Rosaline crows. She paces the floor in a flurry of lavish skirts. “I’ve never seen anything like it. As you know, Your Majesty, you cannot force the fae to create. You’ve heard of the Marqués Floribel?”

“I have,” Dominic winces. Years ago, the noble was appointed by Spain to rule the Islands. The marqués had a fondness for fine clothing and had actually managed to capture a fairy. He demanded of the creature a replica of the yet-unconquered mountain folk’s intricately woven designs.

There is still a crater where his mansion had been.

“So we can rule that out. Another option would be to deal with the fae—though there are consequences to that, as any fisherman with a greedy net or a farmer with parasitic mango seeds would know. Then there’s the price you’d have to pay for the magic.”

“Yet you’re saying that’s not the case for the slipper either.”

Doña Rosaline shakes her head. “I cannot imagine what someone could have traded for such a thing. The slipper is immaculate, with no discernible defects. When you look at it closely enough, you see that the glass itself is alive—and by the way its essence recoils at my touch, I suspect it can only be worn by the one it was meant for. Someone undoubtedly fae-favored.”

“But,” he says, unthinkingly, “she needed help.”

The glassmaker gapes at him, and he flushes. Her face turns thoughtful. Before he can retract his statement, she says, “Did this belong to your dance partner at the ball?”

“Yes,” he admits.

“No wonder she looked so lovely,” Doña Rosaline muses. She casts worried eyes on the prince. “Do you believe she used magic to put you under her thrall, Your Majesty?”

“What?”

“Perhaps she didn’t have anything of her own to trade. But offering to captivate the prince of the Islands might have tempted the fae into giving her powers of beguilement.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he says.

And it hadn’t been. His first sight of the lady had been her breathtaking descent down the staircase, wrapped in cloths of midnight-blue and moonsilver, but that would have been the end if she had merely been another fetching woman at a ball. His second encounter had been her approaching him with a platter of food, saying shyly he looked like he was famished. She’d been right—he had forgotten to eat that day.

It is her kindness that lingers in his mind the most, what made her beauty more revelation than ornamentation. He’d never had anyone so bluntly show him their heart.

“So you simply fell in love,” Doña Rosaline concludes.

The truth of the statement hits Dominic like a slap. “I—”

“What made you think she needed help?” the glassmaker says.

“Just—just little things,” he answers carefully. How she flinched at the chamberlain’s loud voice. How she recognized his hunger because she was clearly starving just the same. He shakes his head. “But that’s no matter. The lady must be fine, if she has a fairy looking after her.” That ought to quell his fears of malnourishment.

“Perhaps,” Doña Rosaline grants. “But the fae’s ways are not our own.”

“And I cannot afford the time to comprehend them,” the prince counters. He stands up. “Thank you for your help, Doña. It was illuminating on more than one topic.”

The prince did not have time for love. If his own heart is what is stopping him from making an advantageous match to keep his kingdom safe, then he will crush it and shut his ears to its cries. He will accept the proposal as soon as he returns to his study.

“Young Prince?”

“Yes, Doña?”

The glassmaker fixes her eyes on him, and he remembers that once upon a time, she had been his parents’ closest friend. “At least consider speaking to your sister about this.”

Dominic looks away. “I’ll think about it,” he lies.

Months pass in a blur of the Islands’ tropical heat and feverish dreams of dancing. Finally, the marriage contract is finished, with both kingdoms and their respective advisors deeming its terms satisfactory. There is only one thing left to do.

The difficulty with being only a de facto ruler is that Dominic still needs his sister to sign anything binding to the kingdom. This will be true for three more years, until Queen Regine takes her final vows as a nun and officially relinquishes her title.

Fortunately, she never refuses to sign. As soon as Dominic walks the bright and bare halls of Saint Sofia Convent to knock on his sister’s door, he follows a strict and unbending pattern. He bows to Regine. Stands still underneath the wrath of her regal disdain. Then they sit in silence as she signs paper after paper.

There is no reason why today should be different.

So why does he hold his breath when she reaches his marriage contract?

She doesn’t even pause. She inscribes her name with flourish.

For a moment, Dominic feels a wave of utmost grief, before he forces it into terrible acceptance. His future is sealed. Starting now, he must not allow himself the luxury of even dreaming about the moonlight lady.

“I shall take my leave of you, Sister,” he says. He tucks his papers under his arm, bows again, and turns to the door.

“How dare you.”

Dominic freezes. Slowly, he turns around. His sister is breathing hard, eyes ablaze, and even when he staged a coup, she’d never looked so angry. “You show up here,” she says, “with the most miserable look on your face, and I wait for you to tell me what’s wrong. But you give me nothing. Nothing!”

“Regine—”

“Mother Superior said I should be gentle with you,” she continues, standing up and pacing. “That you’ll open up in time. Jesus in Heaven, I should never have listened to her. The only time you open up is when you’re pried like an oyster!”

“That’s not true,” he says. Briefly, he remembers soft laughter on a balcony.

“It’s true for us,” Regine says. She snaps her fingers. “Out with it. What’s the problem, Brother? Still getting crushed under the weight of your guilt? I see your hunched shoulders whenever you visit me. But no,” she says, crossing her arms. “You’ve already learned to live with it by telling yourself you did the right thing—without checking once to see if I forgave you. Which I did, by the way,” she adds.

He is speechless.

“Is it your statecraft?” she inquires, eyebrow raised. “I can give you some suggestions if you’re finally considering allying with countries that aren’t from Europe.”

The prince bristles. “Just because I started trading with Sweden—”

“Or should we talk about your mystery woman?” she says.

He stops short. “Who told you about that?”

“God,” she replies, gesturing at her room’s crucifix. He blinks. “Also, Doña Rosaline might have written me a letter.”

“That’s what I get for confiding in the wrong person.”

“I’m glad you told her!” Regine spits. “She’s the only one with the guts to inform me about what’s going on.”

“And pray, what is going on, Sister?” Dominic says in a steely tone. “I’m in love with a mystery woman—so what?” Regine’s mouth drops open and he instantly regrets his wording. He continues, “It never stopped me from doing what I must.” He holds up his papers, fist white. “What you just signed was the marriage contract I negotiated with Adstrum.”

Regine looks at him as if he’d grown a second head. “What possessed you to do that?”

“What do you mean?” the prince snaps. His heart is thumping madly in his chest. “To gain a strong ally, I must marry—”

“No, you don’t!” Regine throws up her hands. “You are the highest power in this land. God rest their souls, but you don’t need our parents’ permission to chase after the woman you love. You don’t even need mine! So why don’t you?”

The words strike him like a blow. When it comes to responsibility, they have always been worlds apart.

“Dominic,” Regine says. “Answer me.”

“Because I can’t!” he yells. Distantly, he is aware the contract is crumpling in his hands. “I can’t, Regine, no matter how easy it looks to you! I am the ruler of this kingdom and every aspect of my life must be devoted to its security! I am the only one left,” he says, his voice breaking, “and I can’t afford to be in love, because if I don’t do this, no one else will.”

Then he falls to his knees, sobbing.

The last time he’d spoken this truth he’d long buried in his heart was the night of the ball.

Dominic hadn’t meant to unbridle his tongue. It wasn’t his parents’ fault that they died, nor his sister’s for being too heartbroken to become the burdened head of the family. When he decided to take charge, he knew what the consequences were—and knew that he had to face them alone.

So why did he find himself spilling his guts to this beautiful stranger?

It was unseemly. It was embarrassing.

But she was so very easy to talk to. And as he began to apologize for his impropriety, she stoppered his flow of words with a gaze full of understanding. “I know what it’s like,” she said, “to be left behind and alone.” She bit her lip. “To be angry about it, sometimes.”

They were out on the balcony—far from the eyes and ears of the court, though he knew there would be whispers once they noticed his absence. For once, he hadn’t a care. Just as he hadn’t a care or thought about anything when he took the lady’s hand. “Not alone anymore, I hope.”

“Not right now, at least.” She twined their fingers together.

“Not ever again!” he declared, though he wasn’t in a position to make promises like that. Still, she smiled at him, and that made it worth it. “When can I next see you?” he asked. His heart leaped when her smile widened.

“Do you truly wish that?” she said. Her eyes shone with hope.

He grinned at her. “Well, a prince must always take care to be sincere.”

He’d expected a bump of his shoulder, a roll of her eyes. Instead, her smile faded. “Prince?”

“Yes?”

“You’re the prince?”

“Yes, of course—you didn’t know?” She had arrived late and missed his proclaimed entrance, and as a game, they dispensed with calling each other by any name, but he hadn’t believed she didn’t know who he was the entire time. He was flabbergasted.

And she looked devastated. She pulled her hand away.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“You are wrong, Your Majesty,” she said in a low voice. “My—my friendship would only be a burden to you. You won’t want to see me again. Not if you knew who I really was.”

“But I know who you are.”

“You do?” She sounded afraid.

“Yes. You, my dear lady stranger,” he said, “are the funniest person I’ve ever met.” This, finally, received the fond eye-roll. “Really, you are hilarious. Yet you’re honest enough to tell me when I’m not.”

“It was only the puns, my lord,” she protested.

“You are determined,” he continued. “You said you would finish that plate of stuffed pandesal and by God, I have never seen anyone eat so much so fast. That’s a compliment, by the way,” he said to her reddening cheeks.

“For a prince, your manners are deplorable,” she said.

“You’re also extremely kind,” he added.

“Deplorable!” she exclaimed, and both of them laughed.

He extended his hand to her once more, and after a beat, she laced his fingers with his again. “Tell me who you are,” he whispered. “I promise to stand by you no matter what happens, wherever you’re from, no matter what your name is.”

“It’s a terrible name,” she said. “An unworthy one on your lips.”

“Try me.”

The lady seemed torn. In the bright, pale moonlight, away from the glitter and ornaments of the ballroom, her masterpiece of a dress seemed a shade more quotidian, her elfin features more tremendously human as she nibbled her lip and decided. It made him fall for her all the more. “My name,” she said, and stopped herself with a shudder.

“It’s all right,” he said gently.

She squeezed his hand, as if asking for courage. He squeezed back. “My name is—”

Then the clock struck midnight.

At once, his dance partner broke away from him. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” she cried, and ran amidst the clanging of the chimes.

Dominic cannot remember the last time he was on the receiving end of his sister’s embrace. Or apologies, for that matter. “I’m sorry, Brother,” Regine says into his hair. “I didn’t realize.”

“She is fae-favored,” he croaks, “which makes her dangerous. She is most likely a commoner.” It is the most logical conclusion, after thinking about it for months.

“And yet, you still love her,” Regine says. It is not a question.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says dully.

It would take a miracle to see her again, let alone offer her what he wished.

“So why am I still hoping?” he murmurs. Then he curses himself, realizing he has spoken out loud.

But Regine does not mock. “Because, dear Dominic,” she says, raising his chin, “you have a good and loving heart. It’s part of what makes you such a wonderful king.”

“What does a good heart have to do with running a kingdom?” he scoffs.

“That’s your Western mentality speaking,” she chides. “That’s not who we are. Tell me, Dominic: What prompted you to stage a coup against me? You never wanted power.”

Dominic stays silent.

She sighs. “Because the kingdom was falling apart,” she answers for him. “And you had compassion for our people.”

“Regine,” he says, but she holds up her hand.

“I’m where I need to be now, Dominic,” she says with conviction. “Still. Even if I wasn’t half as good a ruler as you, I know enough about the Islands’ situation to promise you need not give your hand in this way.”

Dominic glances at his marriage contract, now in a heap in one corner. “Spain is still watching us,” he reminds her.

“So is every other greedy nation with half an army. Let them watch. We are the country that threw off our chains and used what they gave us to gain our salvation.” She touches the cross around her neck. “We didn’t follow their rules then. We’re not starting now, when we have a chance to make our own.”

“And how do we do that?” he asks.

There’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Why, following our beloved prince, of course.”

He groans.

“It’s not a joke, Brother. Your kingdom is watching how you make your choice. We will be led by how you make it.”

“What choice do you speak of?” Dominic says.

“What to do,” she says, “when love beckons you.”

By the time he and his guards reached the farthest mansion in the capital city’s outskirts, Dominic had seen enough feet he had ever wanted to encounter in his lifetime. The too-small soldier’s uniform he’s disguised in does little to console him.

Still, he persists.

The glass slipper will fit only one woman. He intends to find her.

The two young ladies of this next house try and fail. Their mother, of grand bearing and clad in even grander skirts, glares at them bitterly. He and his company bow, take their leave, when—

“Wait.”

And there she is. Dressed in dirty rags, fists clenched and shaking. “I would like to try the slipper on,” she says steadily.

The lady of the house hisses, “You are nothing but a scullery maid! What right do you—”

“Every right,” Dominic says, stepping forward. “The prince proclaimed every maiden in each invited household.”

When he turns his gaze to the lady, she pales. She recognizes him, too.

But to his relief, she doesn’t run. She sits on the sofa. Takes long, calming breaths.

He kneels. “It’s all right,” he tells her again, even more gently than before.

“It’s you,” she whispers. Her eyes are bright with tears.

He smiles at her. “What’s your name?”

Her mouth twists. “Cinderella.”

He notices the spray of ashes on her cheeks. Remembers how she never did like puns.

“My stepmother is right,” she says in a sudden rush. “I am nothing but a scullery maid—worse than that. I have nothing worthwhile to offer you.”

“All right,” he says.

“All right?” she repeats with an incredulous laugh. She lowers her voice. “You are known to be a wise ruler, you know. They say you never make a decision without considering it twice, thrice, and once more for good measure.”

“I don’t think I’m as hesitant as that,” Dominic protests lightly. “But yes. I do like being sure of my choices.”

“So why, my dear, famously pragmatic Prince Dominic, are you here?”

He slides the slipper onto her foot. It’s a perfect fit.

“Cinderella.” He says her name softly, with his whole heart, and somehow that vanishes the fear from her eyes. He offers her his hand, and she takes it. “I think you know.”

Clarice Sanchez Meneses’s first full-fledged story was of a sparkling magical girl with terrifying titan-like power, which she daydreamed about in grade school French class. Since then she’s gotten a minor in Spanish, a bachelor’s in communications, and a computer folder full of coming-of-age magical realism stories. Writing, for her, means reaching for the truth, delighting in beauty, and finding ways to share God’s love and creativity with others. Previously, she’s been published in Ateneo Writerskill’s zine Wither and in Storyletter Xpress Publishing’s Take Me There: A Speculative Anthology of Travel.

Instagram: @clanoodlessuncheese

Substack: @sparrowsongs

If you’d like to send Clarice a tip, you can do so via Ko-Fi.

Thank you for reading!

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