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Elayne was doing nothing but minding her own business. She, Cid, and Gaius were at the Ironworks workshop in Terncliff; the latter two reviewed captured blueprints for the Weapons project with gazes of the utmost seriousness. Alphinaud and G’raha were visiting, taking notes on Black Rose for the upcoming chemical warfare conference with the Eorzean and Eastern alliances. Elayne herself penned a letter to Bajsaljen, to inform him of the crisis in Werlyt while she was away from the Bozjan frontlines.
All activity in the workshop ground to a halt when the iron door flung open to reveal Nero, eye twitching and a radio in hand. Everyone but Gaius jumped and stared at him as he strode through the shop and slammed the radio down before Elayne.
“Woman,” he started, nostrils flaring, “tell me mine ears do not deceive me.”
Raising an eyebrow, Elayne reached over and switched the radio on. Warbling out of the speaker were the opening notes of a very famous ballet. She bobbed her head for a moment in tune with the familiar sound, then her blood went cold.
“...This is the official news station, isn’t it?” she added, grimacing.
Nero nodded slowly. Cid and Gaius instantly jumped out of their seats to swarm around the radio.
“So, how fucked do you think we are this time?” Cid inquired, squatting with his arms and head resting on the table.
“Depends. Who do you think is dead?” Gaius posited.
“My money is on a legatus. They never interrupt broadcasting for a minor member of the imperial family,” Nero suggested surely.
“Who knows, maybe Nerva finally did us a favor and snuffed it. We won’t know how bad it is until we check the other stations,” Elayne reminded. She switched the station to an obscure one she and Rostik had liked to listen to on deliveries, and the four waited with bated breath. After some static, more notes of Swan Lake chittered through, and the four looked up at each other with barely concealed terror.
“...Oh,” Cid squeaked.
“Yep. We’re fucked,” Elayne pronounced simply, drifting out of her chair and pacing through the workshop.
“Should we inform the alliances there is new turmoil in Garlemald, or wait for word from Maxima?” Nero asked.
“Both,” Elayne and Gaius told him.
Alphinaud and G’raha stared at the entire procession, politely perturbed, then glanced at each other. “Why in the world are you all panicking? It’s just a ballet,” Alphinaud said, confused.
All four paused to turn and look at him like he’d sprouted an extra head with antlers.
“Boy,” Nero announced, shaking his head, “you have not grown up in Garlemald.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Alphinaud questioned.
Elayne pressed her fingers to her lips and inhaled deeply with her eyes closed, likely praying for Mother Marena to grant her strength. Or bail money. “Ach, monkey, how do you not know this…fuck it. You know how much Garlemald has stolen from the people they conquered?”
Alphinaud nodded. Gaius slowly lowered his head and averted his gaze.
“They stole arms, armor, and martial techniques from Doma. They stole land and an origin story from Corvos. They stole gunblades from Bozja. But out of all the things they could have stolen from the Rus, what do you think they ended up taking?” Alphinaud shrugged. “Ballet. Fucking ballet. And they didn’t just steal any ballet, they took Swan Lake. The most famous ballet on the star. My country’s love child. And do you know what they did with it? They couldn’t just make their own show like normal people, they decided it was the best way to cover up when something is very wrong in the government.”
Alphinaud’s jaw dropped open. G’raha’s perked up in disbelieving curiosity. “How in the world did that happen?” he wondered.
“It’s only a thing in Garlemald proper and neighboring provinces, so those of you who are from outer provinces like Ala Mhigo and Doma and Corvos wouldn’t know about it,” Elayne started.
“In the past it only meant someone important was dead, often a legatus or someone in the direct line of succession,” Gaius informed them. “The first time they interrupted broadcasts with Swan Lake was when Prince Lucius suddenly passed. Then it was used again when Basch van Gabranth died. Then another legatus snuffed it, and by then everyone knew what it meant.”
“But then they also started using it for any significant political crisis,” Cid added. “It played on every station for a week after the Bozja incident. Then you had swans dancing on a never-ending loop throughout the entire first war of succession.”
“These days you know which one it is if all the stations are playing it, or just the official imperial news station. If it’s just the state station, then someone is dead. If it’s all of them, then there’s a crisis,” Nero noted, lighting a cigar. “The only certainty is that if suddenly they stop telling you what’s happening and switch to swans, you know you’re fucked. You don’t even need the news.”
“You know, as propaganda goes, that is actually quite fascinating,” Elayne admitted to the three Garleans. “You’re trying to hide the political crisis from people who already know the ballet means political crisis.”
“As I am sure we all know by now, Garleans are not always the brightest,” Gaius said with a grim smile.
G’raha shook his head. “Trust you four psychopaths to be nonchalant about this kind of thing,” he muttered. “Using a ballet to tell citizens your crown prince is dead…only the Rus, I tell you, only the Rus…”
Elayne and Gaius cackled.