Chapter Text
The Bozja incident.
June 20 th , 1562.
A thousand voices cried out, then, all was silent. In the same fleeting moment, a new life was brought forth from the sea of stars – an old soul, reborn. From a catastrophe was born the herald of a much more terrifying event, though no one knew in the moment. She was born in Ishgard, and in Ishgard, no one but a select few knew what had transpired just hours ago.
The aging Emperor looked wearily through the windows of his study, the wind howling outside. He’d hoped for a quiet evening, perhaps for a chance to slip away from his advisors and enjoy a play at the Majestic theatre, should there be any showings that night. But from what he’d seen through the day, the weather seemed content remaining as horrible as it currently was, and he was in no mood to endure the no doubt bumpy ride to the theatre he would have to go through if he were to obstinately go outside. That was without considering that the theatre company might annul any showings due to said weather.
His thoughts were interrupted by a rapping at the door, prompting an annoyed groan out of him. Truthfully, he wasn’t in the mood to see anyone, and he had half a mind to tell whoever had dared come just that. But he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and instead deigned speak up for the sake of whoever it was.
“Speak. “
“Your Radiance, you’ve received a missive from Ishgard. “
Now that interested him. Of course, he received letters from foreigners on occasion – a few merchants from Ul’dah, ignoring the ban on trading goods with the Empire to line their own pockets, but save from the rare letter from the archbishop demanding an agreement of neutrality, the people of Ishgard were to his knowledge too pious to dare communicate with Garlemald, much less him.
“Bring it in, “he said, moving back around to sit at his desk. The large wooden doors opened to an equally old, if not slightly moreso than him, garlean man, the head butler. A loyal servant, Solus rarely had any complaints about him; he was polite, prompt, and more than qualified for his job. The Emperor wished he could say the same for his entire staff, but the truth of the matter was, not everyone reached his lofty expectations, and he had to deal with it.
The letter was brought to him on a golden tray, no less than what was expected for a man of his status. On it rested a single, sealed envelope, bearing the seal made of the blue wax commonly associated with noble houses of Ishgard. Interesting. Dismissing the butler, Solus waited to be alone to cut open the seal, and, with gloved hands, carefully removed the letter, at the same time looking it over with his heightened sensitivity to aether for any traces of poison. None to be found. Curious, the man brought it then closer to himself, and began to read.
Your Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Garlemald,
I write to thee in the spirit of forging a lasting bond between our houses, presenting a proposal that looks to the future prosperity of our houses. As a merchant of noble descent, my aspirations lie in the realm of commerce and the potential for shared economic growth.
I propose an alliance through the bond of marriage between my young daughter and a suitable member of your revered lineage. This union, I dare hope, will symbolize a commitment to future trade relations that may show itself to be beneficial for Your Majesty.
Though my daughter is less than a summer old, I am open to discussions regarding a betrothal that would culminate in marriage at a more appropriate time. Should it align with your vision, I am also amenable to the possibility of a union with an older grandson, should such be the terms of our agreement. This is not a gesture of surrender, but a strategic alliance, cloaked in the velvet of secrecy, to forge a trade pact that will be the envy of our less enlightened peers.
Let us dispense with the charade of public enmity. In the shadows, away from the prying eyes of court and council, we understand the true value of this accord. I propose a clandestine meeting to discuss an arrangement that will cement our legacies in gold and glory.
I invite Your Majesty to deliberate on this proposition in the strictest confidence, with the assurance that the terms will be crafted to honor the commercial gain of those involved and the long-term interests of our domains.
Awaiting your guarded and favorable consideration,
Lord Ilvaran de Galanodel, of the House de Galanodel.
The Emperor read the letter. Once. Twice. On the third time, he finally realized the man was serious; he was offering a young daughter to his family in exchange for a merchant alliance, hidden from the eyes of the vigilant eyes of the Holy See and fellow nobles. Whilst he could possibly admire the man for his ambitions, the overwhelming majority of Solus’ being felt disgust at the proposition. To have a child for less than a year, and already offer them to not only another house to marry, but a conquering enemy nation’s head of state.
The letter was tossed into the fireplace, where the Emperor watched it burn with contempt. It was then quickly forgotten, as he turned back to his desk, and returned to his pile of paperwork, sifting through it through the night, distracting himself as always with work. Anything to forget the truth of his purpose in this world, anything to forget ...
The rays of the rising sun barely pierced through the cloudy skies as the Emperor placed the final finished document atop the pile on his desk. Over his many, many years, he’d learned how to finish his work in phenomenal timing. He only wished his long-lost friends had had the time to learn the very same set of skills, perhaps then they’d have been able to spend more time together, in the times before time, between the Wanderer’s travels and the bureaucrat’s work ... though he could only wish so in hindsight, himself being a harder worker than the two of them had been, often overworking himself, taking on more than was demanded of him. Had he known what was awaiting them, what he’d miss so dearly, he would have cherished those moments, made more time to spend with them...
What was done was done, however. Besides, should he and his colleagues’ plans succeed, there would be more times to come. More occasions to while away the days with loved ones now long gone. If everything went as planned ...
The Emperor suddenly jumped, almost out of his borrowed skin, when the door was once again knocked on. Ah, right, someone had probably wondered where the elderly man slept, worried perhaps that he fell asleep at his desk, putting his health in jeopardy. He’d forgotten to leave at all. Sighing, he called once more, though this time, it was not the head butler’s voice he heard.
“Your Radiance, it is me, Regis Marcellus.”
Solus barely held in a groan at the name.
It was said, in a joking whisper, that the Emperor of Garlemald had two wives: Regis Marcellus het Noctis, his head advisor, and his actual wife, Her Majesty Marcella yae Galvus. It was also jested that he had two wives because the both of them would nag, one for each of his ears, and that was the source of the Emperor’s constant foul mood. Of course, no one paused to wonder if the jokes had reached the Emperor’s ears and might have been what contributed in part to his eternal sourness.
“Come in, and make it quick, Noctis.” The man could not help but to pinch the bridge of his nose once more, by now a habit.
“Good morning, Your Radiance—”
“I said to make it quick. “
“Of course. Have you received the Ishgardian missive last night, Your Excellency?”
The Emperor raised his eyes at the man from behind the hand on his nose bridge, brows furrowing together.
“What do you know about that letter, Regis?”
“I see that you have. Your Radiance, to be concise, I believe you should consider the proposal with seriousness. Prince Varis’ son is almost ten years old, and still without a betrothed-”
“I am not in the business of giving every ten-year-old in my family an arranged wife, Noctis.”
“Your Radiance, it is imperative to ensure your legacy continues even after you are gone! Prince Varis will not even look at his son since his wife’s passing, may her soul be at peace, much less ensure Prince Zenos is engaged to a suitable noble girl! Don’t you want to make sure your legacy’s future is assured before you are gone too, Your Radiance?”
The Emperor leaned forward on his desk, fingers interlaced together as he rested his chin atop of them, quizzically looking at his advisor.
“You seem eager to see me do this, Marcellus. Planning for me to be gone soon, are you? “
A look of fear crossed the man across hims features as he stammered, hands raised to try and wave away the accusation.
“N- No, of course not, Your Radiance, Your Excellency! B- But we must be careful, you are in your sunset years, Your Majesty. Should anything happen, I dare think you would want everything sorted the way you wish it to be.”
Weaselly little prick. For as irritating as he was, Solus had to admit Marcellus was an intelligent man, and his advice was solid. Most of the time. This was why he hadn’t thrown him out the front doors years ago. With a sigh, the old man leaned back into his chair, closing his eyes and he thought on it. The discomfort crept back, as he thought of the father- no, the man who planned to offer away his own daughter to, assumedly, the highest bidder, no matter if it was a state enemy. His heart felt pity for the little girl, to have such a father.
... He could do something about it.
Opening golden eyes, the Emperor smirked as he looked at his advisor, who recognized the expression on his Lord’s face.
“Very well then, Marcellus, you've convinced me.” The two of them knew very well that wasn’t the case. “Tell my secretary to clear my agenda for the day and arrange a ship for travel to Ishgard. And send this Lord de Galanodel a letter, will you? I will meet him today.”
Steel-soled boots thunked loudly against metal as the Emperor rapidly walked down the catwalk to his private ship, soldiers flanking both sides of him, even more lining the sides of the pathway. Not nearly as many as would be brought during an official appearance, but still a lot for a single individual, if one was to forget who the man was:
Solus zos Galvus, First Emperor of the Empire of Garlemald.
As he boarded his ship, it took only a few seconds before the second pilot reached him, saluting the Emperor before speaking:
“Your Radiance, we are ready to depart on your command.”
“Well then, depart. I may have cleared my agenda for this, but I still do not have all day to waste on this,” curtly said the old man.
The man bowed, then quickly made his way to the front of the ship, through a door separating the cockpit from the Emperor’s cabin, where said Emperor then made his way, his guards staying outside to guard his door.
With a tired groan, he sat on his chair, ignoring the gaze of the few advisors he’d brought with him, who’d entered after him and took their own seats. Snapping his fingers, it only took a few moments for one of the servants on board to understand the quiet command, bringing the man glass of wine.
Whilst clearing his agenda was easy enough, dealing with all the scorned people he’d dismissed for the day was another ordeal. One of those being his very own grandson, the son of Titus. Emet had never held much love in his heart for his family, that much was true, but the brief spark of hope and affection that Titus had rekindled in the all-too-short years he'd lived had truly died for good when he passed away, and poor unfortunate Varis was the recipient of his grandfather’s quiet rage at the mortal condition. In kind, he had begun to treat his grandfather much the same: politely, but not really bothering with concealing his displeasure in speaking with him. If anything, Solus could at least appreciate that in him.
But it was that same indifference with being frank that now had given the old man a headache. Walking down the quiet halls of the imperial castle, he’d come upon his grandson, who’d been looking for him, less than pleased to have been blown off by his grandsire in favor of seemingly taking an unprompted leisure trip to Ishgard.
“Your Radiance- there you are.”
“Varis. What is it now, boy? Can’t you see I’m busy?"
“Surely you cannot be, I’ve heard you cleared your schedule for the day.”
Damned be those loose lips from the staff. He’d have to find their names later.
“What do you want,” he curtly asked. “And be quick about it. I’m in a hurry.”
“Why did you reschedule our meeting, Your Majesty? I’ve already waited months for you to clear a day for this strategy meeting, and out of nowhere you’ve upended those plans – time is of the essence, we must discuss our plans concerning Bozj-"
“I've already told you, Varis. We will meet on this another day.” The grandsire squinted his eyes at the younger man, who frowned in response, lips tightening together. He wanted to say more, to talk back, clearly, but they both knew he couldn’t - not to the Emperor.
The matter settled, the old man had walked past him, leaving his grandson to stand behind him, fists clenched.
In the present, he now had a glass of wine in hand, the other one holding the side of his head as he rested his elbow on the armrest, looking vacantly outside his window. Nothing much to see, besides snow and clouds. Snow ... though in an age long past, he loathed it – loathed the way it made his robes heavy, cold and wet -, he’d learned over the decades of living in Garlemald, Ishgard and other such frigid places, to appreciate it, to enjoy it’s quiet, cold beauty. Especially when he wasn't outside in it.
His quiet contemplation of the storm outside was unfortunately and abruptly interrupted by Regis Marcellus’ voice rising from the soft murmurs of the cabin.
“Your Radiance?”
“What is it, Regis?” the man asked, displeased at the interrupted, and speaking to his advisors in general.
“Though I am glad you took my advice, I must admit to being curious; what changed your mind? On this entire affair, I mean. Frankly, I do not believe my words to have influenced you at all. “
“You are right, Marcellus, they did not. You do not hold such sway over me,” the Emperor tersely agreed, taking a sip of his wine. After closing his eyes to enjoy it, he redirected his cold gaze to the man sitting in front of him, unimpressed by the sight.
Marcellus het Noctis, head advisor to the Emperor, was not a remarkable man in his appearance. Average height, brown-haired, tan skinned, his forehead adorned with an off-white third eye – nothing much about his looks set him apart from the multitude. Only his eyes – pure black – interested the old Emperor. His eyes were of such a pure black color, it almost made him think of pools of void from the XIIIth.
“What changed my mind was the offer itself,” he continued, turning his gaze back to his glass, gently swishing the liquid around within it.
“The offer?” repeated the regis, confused.
“Yes. The fact that a supposed father would offer his infant child to me was... interesting. I wished to meet the man who’d be so cunning.”
Not a lie per se. But not the entire truth. Solus’ image was so carefully constructed over the decades, Emet-Selch did not wish to toss it carelessly to the winds outside by admitting to having concerns about an aan baby. He had much less qualms about disguising the truth ever so slightly.
“I see...” the advisor said in response. “And if I may, who do you have in mind for the arrangement, Your Radiance?”
“Why should I tell you?” the man simply responded, looking back to the advisor with a warning glare. “I am your Emperor. I do not have to share every detail of my deals with you, Regis. Remember that.”
“I-,” stammered the advisor, before giving up with a soft sigh, picking up his own drink from the small table between the two of them, “I understand, Your Radiance. Forgive me.”
With a content huff, Solus then turned his gaze to the porthole next to him, distracting himself with the storm outside, reflecting on the snowflakes dancing upon the northern winds beside them, both elegant and dangerous, threatening to sink their airborne ship at any moment should it feel inclement.
Such beauty in danger, indeed.
A babe cried as it was swaddled in a bulky but small blanked, stuffed with dove feathers. In contrast to the white lining interior, its outside fabric was the light, pastel blue of the house the infant belonged to, color of which their silver exports shone under the cool light of the Coerthan sun.
A man paced around the room as the child had a bonnet fastened clumsily over its elongated ears, the Hyurean maid flustered in her attempts to accommodate the young one’s anatomy, different to hers. As the crying did not stop, the Elezen man stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Ilvaran de Galanodel, patriarch of the Galanodel house, held no love for his children. Not many nobles– not the ones as cunning as him at least –did. They were but tools for him, to use to his advantage, and, once the chosen one was of age, take over his merchant empire. If only it could rise to the title of empire proper – though his revenues and connections were nothing to scoff at, the Galanodel name was not yet a household one. Oh, but that would soon change.
Selling wares meant taking risks, if one wanted to grow richer. And Ilvaran knew it. It was rumored amongst his accomplices that the man’s cold, silver eyes were sharp, sharp enough to cut one’s fingers on. And those sharp, cold eyes knew an opportunity when he saw one. Garlemald was a prospering nation, he had no shame in admitting it. You cannot conquer half of the known world and severely threaten the rest without prosperity within your borders, at least for your own people. And all that conquering also meant rich, fat coffers, begging to be plundered.
But for that, he needed to endear himself to Garlemald—or more specifically, her ruler. Solus zos Galvus, a brilliant garlean strategist, a soldier turned Emperor in under two decades, rising from poverty to sovereignty. Ilvaran was no fool, he knew he couldn’t dupe the old man even as he was aging. He needed to convince him they were looking at a beneficial partnership for the both of them.
The Elezen man walked into his study, where two younger, brown-haired young men of pointed ears and curled locks sat in waiting, turning their eyes on him. Their eyes, equally silver, betrayed who they were born to, though their father’s hair was long, straight and white, almost silver-blue, not unlike their house colors and silver exports. His sons, born together of his wife, Aevan and Alberic de Galanodel. Proud young men of Ishgard, one his merchant heir, and the other a knight-in-training of the Holy See. Their father’s pride, perfect pawns of his.
In contrast, the wailing babe across the manor was all too easily disposed of. Needing a daughter to betrothe to potential future business partners, but his wife refusing to bed with him anymore—though he himself barely wished to do so either, only having produced their sons out of patrimonial duty—he had lain with a maid under their service, a Hyurean woman who no longer worked for them, with the purpose of producing a girl. Thankfully, she had done so, and he had quickly taken the girl from her, in exchange for a satchel of gold. Of course, the woman had argued, but it was nothing a quick call to the authorities couldn’t fix. Or at least, the threat of one.
With a sigh, he sat heavily into his desk chair, sitting in tense silence as his sons, hesitant to speak up, looked at him apprehensively. Ultimately, the youngest twin, Alberic, spoke up:
“Father, are you certain you wish to go? What if this is a trap?”
“Not going would show dishonesty in my proposal to be equal partners, Alberic. This is a show of honesty I must make, to gain the old man’s trust.” The man sighed, pinching his nose bridge.
The noise quieted down outside the study before his son continued.
“But he has made no show of it either. You cannot be sure that the Emperor of Garlemald himself will hold true to his word – that he will not have you executed on the spot, or worse!”
“Why do you think I bring guards with me, foolish boy? I am not so dense as to go alone.” the man looked up at him with annoyance, shutting up the young lad. The father sighed once more as he reclined into his chair. “I will go with four guards of ours, a pilot, the maid dressing up our crying little ... princess to be , and Aethelreda. Surely, he is not naive enough to execute so many people and expect no one to grow suspicious, or demand retaliation for the murder of a noble lord of Ishgard.”
Aethelreda de Galanodel. A young babe, barely a year old. Little girl born between a nobleman, and his hyurean staff, on a most tragic day. It is whispered in the hallways that the moment she was crowning, Dalamud evaporated Bozja after satellites had tried to make contact with it. It is murmured in the rooms of the manor that she is the herald of something big. Something sinister.
And now, she was to be given to the Emperor of Garlemald.