The New Queen - 1
Richard opened his eyes after a strange dream. He shuddered at the bizarre scenes that had unfolded within it. Yesterday’s coronation must have placed an enormous burden on him. Otherwise, he would never have suffered such a grotesque, outlandish nightmare.
He swept back his sweat-soaked hair and reflected that, no matter how great a knight he might be, shattering tradition head-on was no small weight to bear. Moreover, had he not heard the very voice of God?
He sat up and scratched vigorously at his scalp. It felt strangely tight. To be precise, it was not exactly stiffness, yet he could not name the sensation. So he kept scratching.
Then he noticed a figure in the corner of his vision. “Oh, Rio. You were there? Good morning.”
No answer came. Undeterred, he spoke again. “Listen, Rio. I had the strangest dream. In it I was a woman—a princess named Richelle…”
Still no reply. He turned his head. It was not Rio.
Yet it was not unreasonable that he had mistaken the reflection for the boy. The person in the mirror resembled Rio closely, only more mature, smaller, and distinctly more feminine.
Richard glanced around the mirror and its surroundings. It was his own bedroom, and no one else was present.
He sprang from the bed and dashed to the mirror. A scream tore from his throat.
“Eeeeek—aaaaaaaah!”
The cry was rough, yet unmistakably a woman’s voice. Realizing that the woman in the mirror—himself—was wearing a thin, semi-transparent nightgown, he looked down at his body. Beneath the fabric, pale, rounded breasts rose and fell.
“What in the world…”
He muttered, shook his head once, and called for the maid. “Jenny! Jenny, are you there!”
The thought that he ought to conceal his altered voice flickered through his mind, but far too many urgent matters pressed upon him. Pacing back and forth before the mirror, he shouted for the middle-aged head maid, Jane.
“Yes, I am here.”
“Bring my clothes at once! And summon Archbishop Herbert!”
“Yes, Your Majesty the Queen. I shall do so.”
“The Queen?”
The maid had addressed him as Your Majesty the Queen. She seemed puzzled by his reaction and asked in return, “Did you not hold the coronation ceremony yesterday, Your Majesty?”
The instant he heard those words, Richard kicked the bedroom door open and bolted out.
“Kyaa! Your Majesty! Your clothes—your clothes!”
“Kyaaaa!”
Jane had always been that way. She constantly insisted that marriage would make her more modest—or that it should—but Richelle had never intended to change. Of course, she sometimes felt sorry for Jenny and knew a stern lecture awaited her later, yet that was a problem for later.
What is this? What is happening?
Richard shuddered as unfamiliar memories crept into his mind. The loose, flowing hem of the nightgown tangled around his legs and hindered his stride. On top of the invading memories and the awkward clothing, his breasts bounced with every step, and his nipples scraped painfully against the fabric.
Even so, Richard ran many times faster than the maids. As he raced through the corridors, memories he had never lived poured into him.
Princess Richelle of Zylan had hated wearing skirts ever since she was a child. The aversion dated to the day she had slid down a banister and her skirt had flown up. Just like that childhood escapade, Richard was now spreading shock throughout Venterum Castle.
Maids who encountered him inside the castle shrieked and tried to cover the eyes of nearby male servants. Several chased after him, attempting to seize him.
Richelle had been the maids’ nightmare. From an early age she had shown no interest in ladylike accomplishments and remained ignorant of them. Instead, she had excelled in the monarchial studies required of the kingdom’s heir—and even more so in military science and martial arts.
She was the maids’ nightmare, the royal family’s hope, and the nobility’s headache. Richelle had been the perfect candidate for the throne. Yet the nobles opposed her ascension, for she was far too competent and would surely reclaim the privileges they had been granted.
Of course, they never voiced that true reason. Instead they claimed she was unfeminine and wild, and attempted to crown Matilda, the Countess of Malong, in her place.
Nonsense. Those bastards said I had no right to the crown because I was a man!
Richard screamed inwardly and kept running with his head lowered, fighting the tide of memories. He nearly collided with a servant at a corner. Fortunately neither was hurt, but the encounter forced him to stop.
The servant, seeing his attire, flushed and averted his eyes. “F-forgive me, Your Majesty the Queen.”
Richard frowned and broke into a run once more. Everyone called him the Queen. No one addressed him as Richard, as king, or even as prince. The alien sensations in his chest and groin threatened to drive him mad, yet still he ran.
The nobles’ rebellion had invited foreign intervention and ultimately brought war. But Richelle had displayed a genius for warfare and overcame the crisis with ease, succeeding at last in becoming Queen of Zylan.
Richelle had returned in glory, gone straight to the chapel to marry her betrothed—Marion, Count of Zard—been enthroned in the sanctuary, and returned once more to the chapel for her coronation. In joy she had embraced her consort Marion. Lord Marion had gazed at her with warm eyes, and she had closed hers and…
No. That had never happened.
Richard shook his head violently. Before he knew it, he stood before the very chapel where he had married Lord—or Lady—Marion and received the crown.
He steadied his breathing and slowly pushed the door. Yet fear would not change the outcome, nor would opening it more slowly. Richard flung the door wide.
Herbert was inside. Prince Rio was there, and King Philip as well.
With a startled face but a clear voice, Rio said, “Brother?”
At last the tears Richard had been holding back spilled over.
He had not been erased.
The three men were startled by the tears streaming from Richard’s eyes. He was a stalwart knight who seldom showed weakness. Rio was the most shocked of all. He called out again.
“Brother?”
Hearing the word, Richard tried to smile. “Say it once more.”
“Pardon?”
“Hurry. Call me brother again.”
“Yes, brother.”
“Good. So I was not forgotten after all.” Richard wiped his eyes.
Archbishop Herbert spoke. “Of course not, Your Majesty.”
“Herbert.” Richard addressed the bishop. “You definitely remember me as I was, yes?”
“Yes. I opposed Your Majesty’s ascension because you were a man—”
At the past tense, Richard cleared his throat. Herbert corrected himself at once. “Because you are a man, I opposed the ascension. During the ceremony I deliberately delayed and attempted to sabotage the rites. Please forgive my rudeness.”
“It is forgiven. And you, Philip?”
Richard sank into a chapel chair. Philip answered, “That was about fifteen years ago. We first met when you joined the Zylan army to help suppress the rebellion at Mont Cassel. I had not yet become king and was still quite young.”
“Yes. I remember. Spring, fourteen years ago.”
“Late spring. Unusually hot for the season. We pitched camp beside the river during the march. Somehow we ended up bathing naked and arguing over whose manhood was larger.”
The subject was hardly fitting for a young woman in a transparent nightgown to discuss with a man, yet the two continued naturally.
“We nearly dueled over it, as I recall.”
“If we had truly dueled, we would never have become friends.”
“Especially since neither of us knew what a real duel even looked like. Sorry about breaking your leg.”
“Thanks to that, I never made it to the battlefield. My gratitude.”
They spoke in relaxed tones until Philip’s expression grew serious.
“Still, Ricky.”
When Philip paused, Richard urged him. “Go on, Philip.”
“In truth, I have other memories as well.”
“……”
“I know this will be painful to hear, but I also remember the day I first met Princess Richelle of Zylan. You looked at my lower parts and… remarked that it was fascinating.”
Philip lowered his gaze between his own legs. Richard knew the words left unspoken. The memory belonged to both of them.
“I remember it too.”
Richard—or Richelle, the one who was both—sighed and asked the others, “And you two?”
Herbert and Rio hesitated, then slowly nodded.
“Damn it all. What in the world is happening?”
Richard muttered a curse and slumped deeper into the chair. Philip spoke again.
“Hey, Ricky?”
“Hm?”
“…I know you’ll be angry, but I must say it. Your posture is far too indecent.”
“Hm?”
“Both your posture and your state of dress!”
Philip immediately looked away. Rio added, “It would be wise to put something on, Your Majesty.”
“Ah… yes. Forgive me for presenting such a disgraceful sight.”
Richard had misunderstood. He had assumed that, still possessing a man’s body, wearing women’s sleepwear would appear ridiculous. But that was not why Rio had spoken.
Philip and Herbert kept their gazes averted, yet they stole occasional glances at Richard’s nearly naked form. The nightgown revealed his back completely, and he sat with his legs spread wide. The garment concealed neither the breasts, belly, nor hips of the woman Richard had become—nor his sex.
Rio cleared his throat to regain the men’s attention, then removed his own outer robe and draped it over Richard.
Richard was startled for a moment, but soon understood and flushed crimson.
“…I shall go put on some clothes.”
“Please do, Your Majesty.”
“Hm. Hm.”
As Rio led Richard from the chapel, he shot alternating glares at Philip and Herbert. Neither man could summon the courage to meet Prince Rio’s eyes.