Long Live Her Majesty the Queen (2)
#81 Long Live Her Majesty the Queen (2)
2022.03.10.
Owen hesitated for a moment, and the Surpuk Duke couldn't hide his unease as he pressed him.
"What is it? Don't beat around the bush—out with it!"
"Well... There's no precedent for this, so Her Majesty wishes to consult Your Grace's opinion."
"And what might that be?"
Owen brought up the matter of dark elf titles.
Originally, the queen had planned to bestow a title yesterday, but the incident had delayed it.
In the discussions during the cleanup, they debated whether Owen, who had earned merits against the witch, deserved a higher title than initially planned.
They had meant to give him just a simple honorary position, but talks had shifted toward a substantive one.
Since this would mean granting a title to a foreigner, they felt it necessary to coordinate with the other side.
Owen explained all this and sought his liege's view.
"Her Majesty seeks Your Grace's opinion."
"Ha! What a thing!"
The Surpuk Duke, who had listened calmly, was utterly astonished.
The elders of Bris reacted similarly.
"Holding dual titles is possible, but..."
"I'm not sure if that includes dark elf ones."
"How does imperial law interpret it?"
Opinions varied widely.
Soon, those versed in imperial law converged, concluding it wasn't impossible.
"Hmm..."
The duke decided it would be best to accept.
The emperor might take issue, but the gains seemed greater.
'We can use that boy Owen as the link to the dark elves. For some reason, the queen seems quite taken with him.'
He was already appointed as envoy.
Having him take their title too would make him perfect for smoothing this alliance.
"Fine. It should be all right. Owen, what title is the queen offering? Baron?"
"Your Grace, dark elf society is matriarchal, and their title system differs entirely from the Empire's. Men rarely attain high ranks."
"What? So?"
"The title Her Majesty intends to bestow is called 'Parte'."
"Parte?"
"It means 'father' in dark elven tongue. It's a term for men of high standing. Generally, it's the highest title a male dark elf can hold."
"Hm... How does that stack up to ours?"
"Not precisely, but in terms of prestige, it's around baron."
"Ha! The pinnacle for their men is just baron? Those dark elf males must have it rough."
The duke deemed that level unproblematic.
"I was worried she'd give you something like duke. We'd have to sit as equals and speak casually or some nonsense."
That would complicate matters in various ways.
Duke on their side, but sub-baron here—protocol and such would tangle.
Fortunately, baron-level meant their titles aligned, so they could proceed as usual.
"Very well. Accept it. No precedent, as you say, but I believe it'll work to our advantage."
"Thank you, Your Grace!"
With the duke's approval, congratulations poured in from those around.
"Sir Leire, congratulations."
"Well done. Who'd have thought we'd live to see this."
"How's it feel to become a dark elf noble?"
Details would be hashed out by staff, but with both leaders agreed, Owen had effectively received the title.
As the Surpuk Duke prepared to receive the dark elf queen, people sought out Owen everywhere.
"Sir Leire, any colors dark elves consider unlucky? What about purple drapes?"
"Hey, Leire, anything special for the meal prep?"
"What music should we play?"
Before long, folks recognized Owen as an extraordinary expert on dark elves.
Or rather, they hoped he was.
With the weight of hosting the queen, they needed someone reliable.
Few remembered this had started because he'd learned more from Bellatel than most.
And now the queen herself would grant him a title.
Owen had ascended to unparalleled expert status.
Of course, his past-life knowledge made it effortless.
"Purple's fine."
"Load the food with spices—they love bold flavors."
"Grand, formal music, please."
Owen met expectations amid his hectic schedule.
And two days later.
The queen, who'd been frantic quelling the rebellion's aftermath, finally moved.
The duke responded by leading his retainers to greet her personally.
Bris's notables felt tension and excitement alike.
"What's the queen like?"
"Who knows? Sir Leire said she's hard to describe—best to see for yourself."
"Probably quite ordinary."
Speculation buzzed, but when the queen arrived and stepped from her carriage, all gaped in stunned silence.
"My god..."
"That's a dark elf?"
The dark elf queen possessed an otherworldly intellectual beauty.
Her pure white form, due to leucism, set her utterly apart from her kin—now clear why her epithet was Signet, the cygnet.
Freed of leprosy, she was a vision of transcendent allure.
Bris's elite wondered if she were goddess or spirit.
And indeed, tiny snowflakes swirled in her wake—not an unreasonable thought.
As she approached alone, silence blanketed the area.
As if the slightest breath would be grave offense.
Before the humans, the queen spoke.
"Friends. It is an honor to meet you thus."
Her courteous demeanor—unthinkable for the haughty dark elf queen—drew sighs from Bris's ranks.
"Ah..."
A mere greeting, yet many fell under her dignified spell.
Perilously forgetting she was humanity's foe.
In this, the Surpuk Duke recovered first.
"Welcome, Your Majesty. We sincerely bid you enter."
"My thanks, Duke. An exile from my homeland, I am humbled by such reception."
"Nonsense, Your Majesty. If we aid in driving out the rebels, it would be our honor."
"Most gracious words."
The monarchs' meeting brimmed with amity.
Naturally, their retinues' faces brightened.
Only Owen's soured.
Weary of the queen's pretense.
'She's no such lady—putting on all these elegant airs.'
The queen was actually quite the rascal.
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She lived with "shut it" on her tongue, and in past letters debating swordsmanship, she'd curse if opinions clashed.
Yet here she preened absurdly, leaving Owen unable to mask his expression.
Soon their eyes met.
Guessing his thoughts, the queen primped haughtily.
From afar, she huffed, turned away—then met the duke's gaze and smiled gracefully.
"Your Majesty, please, come with us. It's a field setup, modest, but we've prepared a feast."
"My thanks for your hospitality, Duke."
At the venue, key figures from both sides gathered for the banquet.
The queen kindly addressed each Bris notable in turn.
Naturally, they were moved; many warmed to her.
Undeniably, the dark elf queen was the banquet's star.
Then she called for Owen.
"Sir Owen Leire."
As the mood peaked, her summons drew all eyes.
What would she say?
At that moment.
As humans and dark elves glimpsed alliance's promise, strangers entered the East.
Or rather, unfamiliar after nigh twenty years.
They'd once plagued the East routinely.
Humanity's eastern nightmare.
Orcs.
They boasted massive builds, skins ranging deep green to dull gray.
Fangs sharp as beasts', but sparse—few intact.
Armor crude and thick, poorly fitted, exposing muscle here and there.
To them, that was warrior flair.
"Kwaaa! Hurry and build the camp! You brain-dead whelps, or I'll grind your teeth!"
Captains' roars echoed.
Clumsy grunts earned merciless beatings.
They believed bloodied fists sped all—cruelty unhesitated.
Blood and violence.
Ever the orc entourage.
Yet amid the din, one eerily quiet spot.
The army commander's.
Chieftain Bargulgu's tent, the "Human Reaper of the East."
No torch within—pure dark.
No orc dared approach.
In that gloom, Bargulgu quietly whetted his axe. After a time?
"...You've come."
He set the axe aside, looked up.
A ghostly figure before him.
Chaos cloaked in black robes.
Bargulgu eyed it with undisguised loathing, twitching.
Suppressing the urge to rend the abomination, he asked.
"Target's position?"
[...No worries. I have it confirmed.]
A phlegm-boiling rasp, repulsive.
Even animalistic?
Bargulgu stroked his axe haft, scrutinizing.
Robes shrouded well, but motion glimpsed innards.
Slug-like, slimy, revolting texture.
Viscous fluids soaked the floor.
He couldn't stomach it.
From sleeve hems, tentacles writhed faintly.
Unable to bear, he spat.
"Ptoo! Stay back and speak, demon."
[...Fine. But if you think that axe will... protect you... you're mistaken. Krhuhu.]
"Shut it. Say what you must and begone. Else I'd not suffer your kind, nor lead my men over the Arcane Mountains."
Bargulgu had lately achieved the remarkable.
Leading five thousand over the rugged Arcane Mountains.
Many lost—now three thousand—but enough for purpose.
[Of course... It was I who proposed it... wasn't it.]
Humans and orcs were barred by mighty fortresses.
Guarded by the duke's heir—even orcs balked.
But a secret bypass: the northern Arcane Mountains.
Through there, skirt forts to the East's heart.
Tactical win, perhaps—but strategic? Limited numbers.
Stir chaos, but no resupply; surrounded, exterminated.
Initial shock, then harried to hunted doom.
The East scoffed at three thousand orcs.
Yet Bargulgu crossed secretly for reason.
The demon's proposal.
He'd appeared at the chieftains' council, astonishing them.
[The dark elf queen flees her capital to the East. The Surpuk Duke will greet her personally. Cross unseen, and take both at once.]
Orcs thrilled at the heroic gamble.
Success? Sweep the East.
Many chieftains volunteered; favored Bargulgu chosen.
The demons hadn't dug just one trap for the queen.
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