Chapter 25: Take a break, please. (pleeeeeeeease)

Upper Fire Month, 10th Day, 600 AGG

"How is domestic trade faring?" Queen Oriculus asked him. "Any improvements?"

"Merchants are slowly returning to the kingdom, Your Majesty," Martin Beni Del Asturias tiredly rubbed his eyes. "I believe the Treasurer should have already talked about this with you."

"He passed out before the meeting started," a look of guilt flashed across the queen's face. "I decided it would be in the kingdom's best interests to allow him some rest."

"And I presume you have been keeping up with your own health as well, Your Majesty?" it was, truly, a worthless question. Martin had long been aware of how hard the queen was pushing herself. At the very least, she had not slept ever since the reclamation of Almersia.

It was less of an issue with Lady Yuriko constantly casting『Restoration 』on the queen, but Martin still saw the exhaustion that was deeply seated in her eyes; Queen Oriculus apparently worked hard enough to overwhelm the angel's healing.

"I'm fine," Queen Oriculus replied in an instant, her words carrying the air of a well-practiced response. "You should go take a break. You've been working too hard ever since Mohajar."

'Goodness,' the all-too familiar feeling of worry washed over him. 'It's like looking after a troublesome younger sibling.'

Martin still remembered the day Draudillon Oriculus took the throne. He had been a young man, yet his energy and ambition was already being grinded down by the reality that was the Beastman Country. The sight of the crown's burden being hefted upon the child queen was the saddest sight he had seen to date—even more so than the atrocities of the beastmen.

The Fourth-Generation sovereign of the Draconic Kingdom had only been ten-odd years old when she ascended to the throne. Normally, there would have been a regent—who likely would have been Martin's late father—but then the queen's absent great-grandfather arrived out of nowhere and claimed that position.

Martin thought it was salvation at first. The True Dragon Lord's mere presence deterred the demihumans, and the number of raids fell to an all-time low. Furthermore, the queen had displayed an aptitude for the magic of the ancient Dragon Lords, a trump card Martin once dared to hope might contribute to the kingdom's security.

Then the Brightness Dragon Lord left after a few years, and things got worse. As if making up for lost time, the beastmen resumed their attacks with a vengeance: villages pillaged and depopulated, cities set upon in lightning quick assaults. The queen's Wild Magic was a double-edged blade as well; countless souls needed to be consumed and annihilated for it to be used effectively.

For over two decades, Draudillon Oriculus was forced to lead the besieged kingdom. For over two decades, she stoically bore the weight of all the lives in the Draconic Kingdom—both literally and figuratively. Ultimately, she had laid her dignity upon the altar of desperation in an attempt to stave off their doom for even just a single second longer.

Martin could ask for no better ruler. No matter what insults the surrounding nations might spew upon his sovereign, he respected her.

His sister in all but blood—their bond forged in the fires of harsh tribulation.

Understanding all of that, how could he tell her to stop? How could he dare tell her to 'take a break?' How could he do anything less but silently support her as the Prime Minister?

"Very well, Your Majesty," Martin bowed. "I will take my leave."

But he did dare to confront the Lady of Wings.

And so he waited for the sun to set, until the angel who had so suddenly claimed the queen's heart arrived for their nightly visit.

The lesser angels, summons, silently stood by as he waited outside the room where the queen had temporarily taken up residence. A cheerful greeting filtered through the door.

Martin tuned out whatever was happening inside the room. There was no need for him to eavesdrop on their private time. He was sure Queen Oriculus and Lady Yuriko were already aware he was waiting outside anyways.

'I wonder, will she end up leaving like that accursed Brightness Dragon Lord?'

Hopefully, the Draconic Kingdom would be able to neuter the beastmen as a threat before that happened, though the queen's spirit was another issue entirely.

The Prime Minister was no fool, and even a fool would be able to tell that Queen Oriculus was completely and utterly smitten. He wanted to believe that the angel felt the same way, but…

He was tired of hoping only to have his hopes dashed.

"See you tomorrow!" Lady Yuriko stepped out the door, still facing the dragon queen inside the room. "Don't… Don't push yourself too hard!"

The queen said something that had the angel nod with a sad smile before they closed the door with a sigh. Lady Yuriko turned towards him and flinched. "E-Erm, so do you, um, need something, Martin?"

"I do, in fact," he ignored the ridiculously placed fear in her voice. "Stop restoring the queen's stamina everytime you come to visit her."

"What?" Lady Yuriko frowned, the air around her thrumming with power as their surroundings grew brighter and brighter. "Like, why—no, why would you say that? I thought you guys were friends—"

"And that is precisely why I am asking," a bead of sweat rolled down Martin's forehead. He did not think the being in front of him was in any way inferior to even a Dragon Lord. "She is working herself to a breaking point. Or have you willfully ignored her exhaustion?"

"I…" the angel pursed her lips with a conflicted look in her eyes. "How am I supposed to tell her that?"

"What do you mean? If it were you, she would certainly listen."

"Look, it's not that simple, alright?" Lady Yuriko half-heartedly snapped at him. "It's just… she always talks about how it's her responsibility and she looks—I dunno, not happy, but satisfied? Like she's doing what she's supposed to be doing?"

The angel looked down at the ground. "I'm worried about her too, y'know? I think the only time she eats is when I come over and bring food for her."

Martin kept his words to himself and let the angel continue.

"I—I just dunno," Lady Yuriko heaved another sigh. "I want her to take a break, but—" she cut herself off.

"But then I look at her and think about all the stuff she went through, and," Lady Yuriko paused again and took a deep breath. "And I wonder how I'm supposed to tell her to stop when she's working so, so hard to make everybody's lives better."

'Ah,' Martin suddenly realized. 'She gets it.'

"D-Does that make sense?" Lady Yuriko suddenly looked nervous again, the contemplative energy from earlier fading away. "It probably sounded like a really dumb excuse, didn't it—"

"I understand your worries," not a hint of his usual dry sarcasm could be found in his voice. "But being concerned for someone does not mean going along with their every whim."

"Oh…" the angel slumped her shoulders. "I guess that's true…"

"If you believe me to be right, then do something about it. You care for her, do you not?"

"R-Right!" Lady Yuriko straightened back up with a fiery gaze filled to the brim with determination. "I'm gonna—I'll give her a piece of my mind!"

'You're in good hands, Your Majesty,' Martin smiled as the angel barged into the queen's room, a sharp yelp of surprise accompanying the bang of the doors being knocked wide open. 'But I must, admit, I'm still a little worried…'

Sounds of shouting arose from the queen's room—shouting that eventually turned into crying and then whispered words he knew he had no business hearing.

Martin huffed in amusement. Maybe, just maybe, the Draconic Kingdom had a future beyond mere survival.

'Though I don't see my work ending anytime soon,' he walked off to get some much needed sleep. 'They're both fools, after all.'

Home was a simple wood and stone cottage.

Varush walked up to the door and hesitated. Home. He had not been home in years.

To return now, seeking comfort before a journey that would surely lead him to his end, was audacious beyond belief.

No, he did not deserve to return home. Yet here he was, standing before the rustic entrance.

Varush knocked.

A second. Two. Three and four more. His heart thudded harder with each passing moment.

The door swung open.

"Varush?" a matronly Buffalo Minotaur looked at him in shock, her eyes widening as she stood stock-still in tearful astonishment. "Is that… is that you?"

"Mother," Varush nervously swallowed. "I'm home."

"Oh!" She wrapped him up in a powerful hug. "You foolish boy, what kept you?" Vrishabha released him and held his face in her hands as she examined him for scars and wounds. "Your father and I have been worried sick!"

"I am well," he smiled self-deprecatingly. "Though the same cannot be said about the Republic."

"Damn the Republic," his mother snorted. "My son is home! Come in, come in! I'll prepare a feast—it'll be some time before your father returns, so make yourself comfortable—"

"The Republic might not exist in the near future," Varush blurted out. Why was she so unconcerned about the apocalypse that was surely approaching? How was she so calm when the humans had reclaimed two of their cities within a month? "You two should leave as soon as possible."

"It seems your time away from home hasn't improved your manners!" Vrishabha scolded him. "That time is not now, correct? For now, you are home. Rest."

"... Very well," Varush carefully took a seat at the one table in the central room. "How is father?"

"You know how that man is," his mother grumbled. "Always out and about busying himself with everybody else's problems. You're just like him, I swear."

'No, I didn't know that,' his heart felt heavy, heavier even than his peerless warhammer. "I see."

He grimaced at the weakness of his own response. The day-to-day life of his parents was completely unknown to him; he had rarely, if ever, contacted them while he resided in the capital.

"You're lucky you came when you did, you know?" his mother laughed as she placed a hunk of cow's meat on a cutting board with a thunk. "One of the cows ran dry just a week ago, so we've got plenty of meat!"

"That's good," Varush tried and failed to smile. "Food prices haven't been rising?"

"There's plenty of sustenance to be found in these lands if you know where to look," Vrishabha shrugged and swiftly cut the carcass into select portions. "The conquests in the west hardly have any impact on most of us."

"Our conquests have created an unimaginably powerful foe," Varush dryly responded. "There will not be an inch of the nation that is unaffected after—"

"You can save that for later," Vrishabha softly interrupted him. "You… You aren't planning on visiting again, are you?"

"..." there was not a single comforting response he could think of. Varush cursed himself—why had he thought it would be a good idea to return home, to greet his parents only to tell them he was purposefully marching to his death?

Surely, his selfishness was a sin against the gods and his family alike.

Vrishabha sighed as she seared the meat in a massive metal pot. "There's no persuading you, is there? Then at least for the time you're here, forget about what you think you must do."

An awkward and weighty silence passed between them until the backdoor of the cottage opened to a strongly built and tired Minotaur that bore a striking resemblance to Varush.

"You've returned," Manviksh, his father, simply observed. There was no great show of emotion, no dramatic reunion—only the same unshakeable calmness Varush remembered him having from even before he had left. "Welcome home."

"Where did you go this time?" Vrishabha rolled her eyes while she took out the seared meat before pouring in cut vegetables. "Did someone need you to carry something heavy again?"

"No," Manviksh looked almost disturbed for a moment, a sight that shook Varush to his core. "There was… I do not know how to describe it. It bore the form of a beastman but only barely. A flesh monstrosity that should not exist."

"I have never heard of anything like this," Varush shamefully admitted. "Was it an undead?"

"That thing still drew breath," Manviksh crossed his arms and sat down at the table with his son. "We killed it, but that there may be more of them out there does not bode well." His father took a deep breath. "But enough of that. Where are you going, Varush?"

An aromatic scent filled the air as Vrishabha stirred in a mixture of spices.

"To the west," Varush could not meet his father's eyes. "I will beseech the human kingdom for mercy."

"They will not grant this nation mercy," Manviksh calmly told him. "Not after the devastation your peers had brought upon them."

"It is better than doing nothing and waiting for death," stock and other ingredients he could not recognize were added to the pot. "I ought to act like a leader for once."

"Why?"

"What?" Varush did not understand. The plopping of beef, potato, and carrots falling into the pot felt far away. "This catastrophe is only because I was incapable of reigning in the Viziers—"

"Maybe," his father stood up and pushed in his chair. "Come. It has been a while since you've last visited."

Varush shakily rose from his own seat and followed his father out the door. The village they lived in looked nearly the same as he had remembered it, give or take a few people.

"You must think it strange, that so little has changed in the years you have been absent," Manviksh's eyes flicked to Varush's before facing the front again. "The Council's reach is limited in remote places like this."

"I'm aware of that," a refreshing breeze blew past Varush. "The Council thought it inefficient to closely administrate the remote areas of the Republic."

"An excuse to avoid conflict with the Mac'tal."

"I cannot deny that."

"No matter," Manviksh continued along the path through the forest by his son's side. "They have been quiet. No doubt for the same reason that is driving you to petition the ruler of the humans."

'So even the eight-legged abominations have heard of the Winged One—and fear her.'

"Where are we going?" Varush changed the topic. Ruminating over the task ahead would be an activity he'd save for later.

"Nowhere important."

"Then why are we going?"

"Does something have to be important for people to visit it?" Manviksh snorted. "Work, fight, run around too much, and you'll lose sight of what you were working towards in the first place."

"What makes it worthwhile then?" they passed into a clearing where a large stone monolith stood. Its intricate carvings had long been worn away by the ages—whatever story they once told now lost to the ravages of time. "When so many tasks demand one's attention, how can you justify spending time away?"

"I do not have all the answers," Manviksh rubbed off a piece of moss from the structure. "In the end, you must make your own decisions."

"My decisions have brought the Republic to the brink of ruin," Varush glared at the monolith. "In my indecision, I have brought shame upon myself along with you and mother. I no longer have enough pride and certainty in myself to make decisions for an entire nation's worth of people."

"Whatever you decide to do, and however little you think you deserve it, know that we are already proud of you, son," Manviksh quietly answered, not taking his eyes off the ancient menhir. "Your mother and I were not mighty warriors, yet you now stand as the strongest in the Republic."

"A worthless strength," Varush bitterly said as he spat on the ground. "What good is my power if I can do no good with it?"

"It is not worthless," Manviksh turned around, taking the path back home. Varush hurriedly caught up with him. "It is the sum total of your life. It is who you are."

"Then I am a pitiful person."

"We do not think so," Manviksh placed a comforting hand on his back. "No matter what happens, know that you will always have a place at home."

"I…" Varush did not want to go to the human kingdom. He did not want to trudge towards what would certainly be his doom.

"Let's go back," Manviksh smiled. "The food should be done by now. Your mother must be worried sick about us."

Varush nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

He was a bull leading itself to the slaughter. It would be simple to take his parents and run away— far, far away—from the encroaching storm. All he needed to do was throw away the last few scraps of pride he had left.

But he could not choose that.

Would not.

He knew Hell awaited him.

And that was fine.

AN: Hello everyone! I just wanted to give a quick shoutout to CritKhagan, author of the Overlord Fanfic "The Art of War"! It's a really neat fic with some fun characters, an interesting premise, and an enjoyable plotline, so check it out whenever you have the time! (I've got some top-secret information that it might even update soon...! Who knows...)

As always, thank you all for reading!