The Weight of Dual Memories

Cecil de Malong — 1

Richelle’s first menstruation — though it could hardly be called that — arrived like a storm and departed like a gentle breeze. The pain was not as severe as he had feared. What he truly could not adapt to was the sensation of blood flowing ceaselessly from his body in the middle of the day. During his bleeding, the only things he could manage were state affairs and light martial training; everything else was impossible due to emotional instability.

When his period finally ended, he confirmed the feeling of its conclusion and, with a light heart, called for Rio first thing in the morning, almost the moment he opened his eyes. Rio, seeing him dressed in men’s clothing for the first time in a long while, looked visibly relieved. And seeing Rio’s relief, Richelle felt a wave of reassurance himself.

He deliberately grumbled at Rio, who had bowed at the waist in greeting.

“Well… I’m not sure if this will be any comfort, but…”

“Don’t. I forbid it.”

“Understood, Brother.”

The true concern was not the pain. With a dark expression, he told Rio,

“There ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is no need to worry about that.”

Rio chose his words carefully while observing Richelle’s face. He feared even this subject might wound the other’s pride.

“The memory loss you experienced last week was likely not due to your monthly cycle, but because you struck your head.”

Of course, the fear of damaging his pride had been nothing more than Rio’s overthinking. Once Rio finished speaking, Richelle asked with a mischievous expression,

“Th-that’s…!”

Without the slightest idea why Rio’s face had flushed scarlet, Richelle gave a small chuckle and continued.

“Yes, Brother?”

“I haven’t been able to meet him either.”

Richelle asked again with a playful smile.

But Rio could not take those words as a joke. His face hardened as he answered,

“That is not the case. I meant I have not had the chance to speak with His Majesty Philip, not that I have failed to catch sight of him at all. It seems His Majesty Philip has suddenly become very busy handling the kingdom’s affairs these days.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but my elder brother is not the sort of person who makes such dull jokes.”

Rio bowed politely as he replied, and Richelle burst into laughter.

“It is an honor to have made you laugh, Brother.”

“Yes, Brother.”

In truth, Richelle had not summoned Rio merely because he wanted to see his beloved younger brother. This matter was also tied to the question of titles. Rio had been addressing him consistently as “Brother,” but Rio was by nature kind and deeply considerate of others. Richelle suspected that even while thinking of him as Richelle, as a sister, Rio was calling him “Brother Richard” simply because that was what he wished to be called. And after the conversation he had shared with Marion, such suspicion seemed entirely reasonable.

He put the question to Rio directly.

==========

This time he changed the setting, asking the same question in the royal office to Herbert. Herbert’s answer was not very different from Rio’s.

“What do you mean, Your Majesty?”

Of course, Rio had answered slightly differently. He had countered with, “What sort of absurd joke is this?” and added the same thing Herbert now said.

He refined the question and asked again.

“That, too, is of course both.”

Richelle spoke in a frustrated voice. Herbert waved his hand and answered,

“But that is how it truly is, so I cannot give any other answer. My past consists of both Herbert, who was kicked by the heel of Her Highness Princess Richelle’s boot off the coast of Milehaven, and Herbert, who nearly had his throat slit while receiving a bishop’s ordination from His Highness Prince Richard.”

“……My apologies.”

Richelle waved his hand, dismissing Herbert.

“Understood, Your Majesty.”

He, too, needed time to think. Whether Herbert had read his thoughts or not, the man bowed deeply, saluted, and left the Queen’s office.

Richelle sank deep into his chair and propped his feet on the desk. It seemed Rio and Herbert were correct. Even he himself was proof of it. He still possessed the memories of the time when he had lost his memories as Richard. Not only the actions he had taken then — memories that still made him shudder with shame when he closed his eyes — but even the feeling of “wearing the wrong body” that he had experienced as Richelle during the week before his period began remained with him.

Now that he knew the nature of that feeling, it was somewhat more bearable. He never wanted to experience those emotions again. Shuddering, he reached for the documents Herbert had handed him and began to review them.

Thanks to the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠skillful preparation by his two capable officials, Rio and Herbert, most of the work required him only to choose between two or three options. The truly important matters would need the Council’s approval anyway. Because of this, Richelle was able to devote some of his mind to thinking calmly about his own situation.

It seemed both Rio and Herbert were different from him. Both had said their egos had fused to some degree. The only difference was the extent. Rio had always respected and followed the male Richard so deeply — though lately Richelle had begun to suspect that Rio’s gaze toward him was not merely one of respect — that his sense of self from the male world was stronger. In Herbert’s case, the impression left by the fiery, cross-dressing princess who rode like a man, followed by the strong image of Princess Richelle, had made his female-side ego the dominant one.

He continued turning pages as he thought. None of the documents still awaiting his attention caught his eye. Both Rio and Herbert had said that although the directions differed, there was no problem with the two selves mixing. Marion, on the other hand, had become an entirely new person with a completely new ego. All three were utterly different from Richelle.

He murmured softly.

That had been three weeks ago. On the day he had suddenly become a woman, he had gone to Marion and told him that the only two people on earth who could understand each other’s pain were the two of them. It turned out that had not been true either.

When his thoughts reached that point, a violent loneliness swallowed him. She was not in the same situation as him. The realization that he was truly alone brought a wave of depression crashing over him. He shook his head fiercely. His hair swayed against his ears. He lightly slapped his own cheek.

He could not afford to grow weak. He was the ruler of a kingdom, a monarch with more than a dozen direct vassals, and the sovereign of Zylan who in turn commanded dozens of nobles beneath them. What did it matter if there was no one else in his position? A sovereign was always one of a kind. No matter how much people claimed a spouse was equal to the monarch, that was merely a matter of ceremonial courtesy. And though he hated to admit it, Marion was not even a King Consort at present — merely a noble of Prince Consort rank. How could such a person possibly claim to be in the same position as Richelle?

He thought to himself: What about David Bloomfield? In any case, there was no one inside the Kingdom of Zylan who stood on equal footing with him. If status did not matter, then perhaps a Jihan like David could speak with him as an equal, sharing the same memories. But the mere thought of that man’s name made his entire body break out in gooseflesh. He shuddered at the memory of two weeks ago. Not David. At the very least, it had to be a human being.

He shook his head vigorously. Someone equal to him and also human. There could be no such person…

With that thought, he continued skimming documents, signing them, and setting them aside. Then his gaze fixed on one particular sheet.

The document, decorated several times more ornately than the others, read:

Why had he not thought of this sooner!

With light steps, he headed toward Philip’s room. After not seeing the man’s face for more than ten days since the Trial by Combat, he felt strangely pleased. It really was good to have a friend one had known for a long time.

“Oh my, Your Majesty. You seem to be in a good mood?”

“Indeed. I’m going to see Philip.”

A maid passing by in the corridor blushed at his words. At first he did not understand why she made such an expression, but he soon realized her misunderstanding and turned back, grabbing her wrist to explain.

“Y-yes, Your Majesty! Of course, Your Majesty is devoted only to Prince Consort Marion. There is no way you would do such a thing.”

“Th-that’s…”

He recalled the actions during his period that could only have looked like courtship toward Marion and abruptly released the maid’s wrist. The positions had not been completely reversed, but they had shifted considerably. Unable to bear the situation, Richelle turned his body so she would not see his reddened face and strode toward Philip’s bedroom. The maid, heart pounding, bid him farewell.

“Damn it.”

Women were utterly incomprehensible creatures. He was simply going to meet a friend — what in the blazes did she mean by “having an affair”? He walked down the corridor breathing roughly. Had this been an ordinary road, he would have kicked a stone, but unfortunately the royal residence of Zylan’s queen was not the sort of place to allow such behavior. His already complicated and frustrated mind had been thrown into complete disarray by a single maid.

For a moment he considered going back and punishing her on any pretext, but he soon decided against it. He had already paid far too high a price for entertaining such thoughts.

Richelle took a deep breath in front of the room designated as Philip’s bedroom and straightened his clothes. Since it had been a long time, he wished to observe proper etiquette toward his friend. After composing himself, he knocked on the door and said,

There was no answering voice from inside the room. But he heard what sounded like something being poured. Richelle listened closely, yet the sound did not last long. He tilted his head and knocked again. Still no answer.

When there was still no reply, he opened the door despite knowing it was rude and stepped into Philip’s bedroom. What he saw inside made him doubt his own eyes.

He had naturally expected to find Philip on the verge of suffocating under a mountain of documents. Instead, what greeted him was a half-naked woman.

“Ack! □□□□□□□□? □□□□□□! □□□□□□!”

The woman seemed far more startled than Richelle. She screamed in a language he could not understand.

“Philip? You mean I’m □□□□ □□□□ □□□□ Philip? That □□□□□? Or □□□□?”

Listening carefully, the woman’s words sounded somewhat like Derim speech. But the unfamiliar accent made it almost impossible to understand. He asked as slowly, calmly, and clearly as possible in Derim.

He found himself at a loss for words. He knew what his male name was called in the Derim style, but he had no idea about the female version. He did not even know if one existed. He scratched at his hair — long for a man, yet too short for a woman — while pondering. Then the woman asked him,

“Rishar? Your name? □□□□?”

“Hm? Ah, yes. You… do you not speak Derim either?”

Richelle lifted his head and met the woman’s eyes. And then he became slightly flustered.

The woman looked very much like Philip. The thick brown hair, the straight nose, the sharp yet broad shoulders. Of course, he did not ask the foolish question of whether she was Philip himself. If she were Philip, she would not be unable to speak either Zylan or Derim. Moreover, she possessed a waist that appeared far more slender because of those broad shoulders, and hips that contrasted astonishingly with it in their firm fullness.

For the first time in a long while, he felt the stirrings of a man’s heart. Her body was shaped in a way that ignited a man’s desire to conquer, and Richelle’s masculine instincts responded, growing hot. It was surprise and delight. However, it was not without its interruptions. One of the three was his own female body itself. Instead of an erection, he felt his lower region grow warm and wet, and a small wave of despair washed over him.

The other two interruptions were the woman who had suddenly begun screaming while clutching her collar, and finally Philip, who had burst into the room upon hearing those screams.

“□□□□□, Cecil!”

“Your Majesty Philip! □□□□□□! □□□□□□!”

Philip spoke in the Eranian tongue, his voice flustered.