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dreamcrystals2022-10-24 04:23 pm
recreator) wrote in dreamcrystals2022-10-24 04:23 pm
Entry tags:
Act. 2. Home Beyond the Horizon | Garlemald
Date Sent: Forward-dated to October 31 - November 1 (Midnight)
Sender: Emet-Selch
To: Ensemble (Open to All)
Subject: Passive Dream Recording (Ghosts of the Past)
Warnings: Spoilers through Endwalker, speculative character details, (tw: character death, mentions of illness)
The scene opens on Garlemald, in the frozen north of Ilsabard. The hour is late and snow falls tirelessly. Armored soldiers keep watch over monochromatic streets. Here and there one might spot a suit of magitek armor glinting in the lamplight, yet despite this and the occasional barking from one of the patrol hounds, all appears calm. There is no danger this night, nor any for malms who would challenge the might of the Garlean Empire during the frigid chill of winter.
Yet the scene does not linger, for who else would? Instead it sweeps over a silent throne room, and deeper still into the emperor's private study. Emet-Selch appears younger here, not so old nor bent nor tired. He pores over a tidy pile of paperwork, alternating between studying the printed words thoughtfully and dipping a quill to ink. There is little time to discern the contents, for abruptly there comes a knock.
"Enter," he says. There is command in the word. A guard immediately lets himself in, salutes in haste, and begins:
"Your Radiance! M-my apologies for the interruption, but we can't find him anywhere."
A blink, and then Emet-Selch straightens, stern. "Of whom do you speak?"
The man looks uncomfortable, as if he's unwilling to say, or perhaps fears chastisement. Yet the silence proves enough.
"Ohhh..." The syllable rolls on the emperor's tongue for an extended moment, and then he nods. "Well, keep looking then. I daresay he won't have gone far. You've caught me at a highly inopportune moment and the palace is only so large, after all. I've no doubt you'll have him located ere long. Do see that this is the case."
"Y-yes, Your Radiance..." the man leans into a deep and apologetic bow and hurries away, shutting the door carefully behind him.
Emet-Selch remains motionless until the man leaves, and when he has long since gone, he lets out a put-upon sigh, his shoulders slumping as he rises from his work and turns his back to the door. Then does he slowly saunter into the adjacent room, not unlike a hunter stalking his prey - or a comedic villain from one of Jenomis cen Lexentale's many plays via the Majestic Imperial Theater Company. The corner of his lips twitch slightly.
"Someone's been a very naughty boy," he remarks into the still silence of the room.
His eyes trail to a table laden with books, maps, and various measuring instruments. Nearby a ceruleum-powered stove burns, ensuring that this corner of the room will never drop to the numbing cold temperatures of the outdoors. The heavy fall of his boots punctuate his words as he approaches the edge of the table where fabric can be seen rustling against something (or someone) hidden.
"...Turning the entire palace upside down, sneaking into the emperor's private study, making off with records easily containing some of the most sensitive and highly guarded secrets the Garlean Empire has ever known. What, then, does this criminal mastermind have to say for himself I wonder?"
He pinches the fabric between two gloved fingers and without any hint of concern tugs it upwards.
"Ah, just as I suspected. There you are. ...Lucius."
A muted giggle soon follows, and as the table covering is lifted further, a cherubic face peeps out. His hair is flaxen, so light as to appear almost white, and his eyes are a beautiful hazel, practically golden in the dim, warm glow. At least the child has the good sense to look a little guilty as he crawls out of hiding and immediately latches onto Emet-Selch's hem, in his other hand, clutched tight against his heart is a thick tome, far more advanced than a child of his apparent age could ever hope to read - much less comprehend.
"Papa. Read to me?"
"Papa is quite busy at the moment - or would have been were you not so set on causing trouble. Do you not have a nursemaid who can read to you?"
The answer's plain. They've hundreds of servants throughout the palace. Lucius himself has no less than a dozen tutors, all chosen with consideration to their strengths and the knowledge they might impart to a young Garlean princeling.
The boy pouts, clearly displeased. "She doesn't do the voices! Not like Papa. Won't you read to me? Please?"
Emet-Selch peers down at him a long moment as if he wishes very much to refuse outright. Of all the interruptions - a bedtime story, and one well past the normal hour as well.
But he does not refuse.
"...Fine. But only this once. One chapter and then you will return to your bed and your slumber. Understand?"
An emphatic nod. "I understand!"
"Good. Now come along."
The boy visibly beams as Emet-Selch settles onto a plush sofa. It perhaps isn't until Lucius is properly seated on Emet-Selch's knee that one would notice just how tall he appears for a boy of his winters, yet neither of them appear to pay that particular detail any mind. And as the tome is spread open, Lucius determinedly navigating to the page marked by a black satin ribbon, the hint of a smile can be seen in the corners of Emet-Selch's eyes as well. One might almost think the emotion was...pride...or hope as it were - one of a personal sort, illogical but very real.
* * *
Years pass and Garlemald grows no less harsh and no less cold. Lucius is a bright young man, full of intelligence and promise, yet it is perhaps his physique which is most held in awe. He towers over his tutors now, and later above the soldiers he would come to command. Throughout the empire he is admired. For why wouldn't he be?
Such knowledge, Emet-Selch finds, has become something of a source of vexation, his hopes having no outlet - no path towards a reality. Mere fancy - the stuff of dreams, all. And yet he watches through a high window as two forms spar together in the courtyard, Lucius and his second son, Titus - obscured by the driving snow.
There is no doubt in anyone's mind that Lucius will become the next Emperor. His future, they say, will be one of inspiration and strength, and he will lead Garlemald to new prosperity and power the likes of which they have not known even after a young Solus lifted them up from the frozen soil.
* * *
Emet-Selch already knows.
He has seen the light of his soul wane, the faint spark of color draining out completely as the first crown prince succumbs to some ridiculous illness. A disease, one as of yet incurable. Humankind remains short-lived, yet even so, Lucius left them well before his time.
His - no, Emperor Solus zos Galvus's heavy steps echo in the silent halls, and outside the prince's room Hypatia kneels weeping against the cold stone wall. Her son, Varis, is elsewhere at present, spared from the stifling atmosphere - the only legacy that Lucius would ever leave behind.
The chirurgeons are a flurry as their emperor enters the room; kneeling, bowing, making assurances that everything in their power has been tried, has been done. Solus says nothing, his gaze sweeping those gathered before it settles upon the corpse laid out on the prince's bed. Its eyes have been closed, its skin pallid and cold and blotched.
A fool he was for letting himself grow attached, he thinks. Particularly to something which had always been frail, feeble, insignificant...
But the soul is not always logical.
And for a time, somewhere, one which is ancient and deep and alone - it mourns.
Sender: Emet-Selch
To: Ensemble (Open to All)
Subject: Passive Dream Recording (Ghosts of the Past)
Warnings: Spoilers through Endwalker, speculative character details, (tw: character death, mentions of illness)
The scene opens on Garlemald, in the frozen north of Ilsabard. The hour is late and snow falls tirelessly. Armored soldiers keep watch over monochromatic streets. Here and there one might spot a suit of magitek armor glinting in the lamplight, yet despite this and the occasional barking from one of the patrol hounds, all appears calm. There is no danger this night, nor any for malms who would challenge the might of the Garlean Empire during the frigid chill of winter.
Yet the scene does not linger, for who else would? Instead it sweeps over a silent throne room, and deeper still into the emperor's private study. Emet-Selch appears younger here, not so old nor bent nor tired. He pores over a tidy pile of paperwork, alternating between studying the printed words thoughtfully and dipping a quill to ink. There is little time to discern the contents, for abruptly there comes a knock.
"Enter," he says. There is command in the word. A guard immediately lets himself in, salutes in haste, and begins:
"Your Radiance! M-my apologies for the interruption, but we can't find him anywhere."
A blink, and then Emet-Selch straightens, stern. "Of whom do you speak?"
The man looks uncomfortable, as if he's unwilling to say, or perhaps fears chastisement. Yet the silence proves enough.
"Ohhh..." The syllable rolls on the emperor's tongue for an extended moment, and then he nods. "Well, keep looking then. I daresay he won't have gone far. You've caught me at a highly inopportune moment and the palace is only so large, after all. I've no doubt you'll have him located ere long. Do see that this is the case."
"Y-yes, Your Radiance..." the man leans into a deep and apologetic bow and hurries away, shutting the door carefully behind him.
Emet-Selch remains motionless until the man leaves, and when he has long since gone, he lets out a put-upon sigh, his shoulders slumping as he rises from his work and turns his back to the door. Then does he slowly saunter into the adjacent room, not unlike a hunter stalking his prey - or a comedic villain from one of Jenomis cen Lexentale's many plays via the Majestic Imperial Theater Company. The corner of his lips twitch slightly.
"Someone's been a very naughty boy," he remarks into the still silence of the room.
His eyes trail to a table laden with books, maps, and various measuring instruments. Nearby a ceruleum-powered stove burns, ensuring that this corner of the room will never drop to the numbing cold temperatures of the outdoors. The heavy fall of his boots punctuate his words as he approaches the edge of the table where fabric can be seen rustling against something (or someone) hidden.
"...Turning the entire palace upside down, sneaking into the emperor's private study, making off with records easily containing some of the most sensitive and highly guarded secrets the Garlean Empire has ever known. What, then, does this criminal mastermind have to say for himself I wonder?"
He pinches the fabric between two gloved fingers and without any hint of concern tugs it upwards.
"Ah, just as I suspected. There you are. ...Lucius."
A muted giggle soon follows, and as the table covering is lifted further, a cherubic face peeps out. His hair is flaxen, so light as to appear almost white, and his eyes are a beautiful hazel, practically golden in the dim, warm glow. At least the child has the good sense to look a little guilty as he crawls out of hiding and immediately latches onto Emet-Selch's hem, in his other hand, clutched tight against his heart is a thick tome, far more advanced than a child of his apparent age could ever hope to read - much less comprehend.
"Papa. Read to me?"
"Papa is quite busy at the moment - or would have been were you not so set on causing trouble. Do you not have a nursemaid who can read to you?"
The answer's plain. They've hundreds of servants throughout the palace. Lucius himself has no less than a dozen tutors, all chosen with consideration to their strengths and the knowledge they might impart to a young Garlean princeling.
The boy pouts, clearly displeased. "She doesn't do the voices! Not like Papa. Won't you read to me? Please?"
Emet-Selch peers down at him a long moment as if he wishes very much to refuse outright. Of all the interruptions - a bedtime story, and one well past the normal hour as well.
But he does not refuse.
"...Fine. But only this once. One chapter and then you will return to your bed and your slumber. Understand?"
An emphatic nod. "I understand!"
"Good. Now come along."
The boy visibly beams as Emet-Selch settles onto a plush sofa. It perhaps isn't until Lucius is properly seated on Emet-Selch's knee that one would notice just how tall he appears for a boy of his winters, yet neither of them appear to pay that particular detail any mind. And as the tome is spread open, Lucius determinedly navigating to the page marked by a black satin ribbon, the hint of a smile can be seen in the corners of Emet-Selch's eyes as well. One might almost think the emotion was...pride...or hope as it were - one of a personal sort, illogical but very real.
Years pass and Garlemald grows no less harsh and no less cold. Lucius is a bright young man, full of intelligence and promise, yet it is perhaps his physique which is most held in awe. He towers over his tutors now, and later above the soldiers he would come to command. Throughout the empire he is admired. For why wouldn't he be?
Such knowledge, Emet-Selch finds, has become something of a source of vexation, his hopes having no outlet - no path towards a reality. Mere fancy - the stuff of dreams, all. And yet he watches through a high window as two forms spar together in the courtyard, Lucius and his second son, Titus - obscured by the driving snow.
There is no doubt in anyone's mind that Lucius will become the next Emperor. His future, they say, will be one of inspiration and strength, and he will lead Garlemald to new prosperity and power the likes of which they have not known even after a young Solus lifted them up from the frozen soil.
Emet-Selch already knows.
He has seen the light of his soul wane, the faint spark of color draining out completely as the first crown prince succumbs to some ridiculous illness. A disease, one as of yet incurable. Humankind remains short-lived, yet even so, Lucius left them well before his time.
His - no, Emperor Solus zos Galvus's heavy steps echo in the silent halls, and outside the prince's room Hypatia kneels weeping against the cold stone wall. Her son, Varis, is elsewhere at present, spared from the stifling atmosphere - the only legacy that Lucius would ever leave behind.
The chirurgeons are a flurry as their emperor enters the room; kneeling, bowing, making assurances that everything in their power has been tried, has been done. Solus says nothing, his gaze sweeping those gathered before it settles upon the corpse laid out on the prince's bed. Its eyes have been closed, its skin pallid and cold and blotched.
A fool he was for letting himself grow attached, he thinks. Particularly to something which had always been frail, feeble, insignificant...
But the soul is not always logical.
And for a time, somewhere, one which is ancient and deep and alone - it mourns.