Chapter I - Inauguration
Zeltennia's splendor was already a sight to behold on a regular day, but in the face of ceremonies and festivities the city's occupants became joyful and effervescent. Bustling through the town's arches and columns were peasants and nobles alike, all anticipating the event which was to take place. This time, it was Delita's ascension to the Ivalician throne.
The town's atmosphere was overjoyed, but not all for the same reason. Some were thankful that the Lion War had finally been ended and some happy that Goltana's grasp on the local economy had been loosened by his death. Whatever the motivation for their friend's opinions, no one cared; celebrations were in order, and that took precedent.
The city smelled wonderful. Breezy smells of freshly-baked bread, outside flower displays, fruit and vegetable bazaars, and restaurant items saturated everyone's minds until they could almost taste them. Not a soul roamed the town with a frown on their face.
But a stern-faced knight, carried by a black chocobo with a penchant for the same emotion, quickly became the lone exception. He rode erect in his saddle like a military man, his vision focused straight ahead despite the colorful world around him. His placid face was marked with a bushy black mustache, and the helmet he wore concealed hair of similar color. A few onlookers pointed at him and his steed, talking amongst themselves about the dark knight who had just arrived. He motioned the chocobo down a left-hand street with an imperceptible motion of the reigns.
This man dwelled in a world foreign to others, one of constant pessimism and blackness, always seeing things as how they make to occur rather than how they end up. A present tense world did not interest him, for he was a visionary of sorts, never allowing the world around him to overwhelm him with talk of revolution and 'change for the better'. He had made up his mind to never be satisfied.
Through the cobbled passageways leading between buildings, the chocobo carried its master on towards the citadel where the gala for King Delita was to take place. "Everyone has sovereign syndrome," he mocked in a breathless whisper. The knight's steady eyes followed two peasants carrying smoked hams and baguettes down the street ahead of him. "Do you think life will be better, you foolish herd-members? You must be happy that a king of your sort has pulled himself from the mud and into the king's seat." The chocobo perceived its master's body shake with internal laughter and it bobbed its head as if to confirm its agreement, snickering in coarse kwehs.
Past the thatched-roof houses and brick-layered residences, the skyline opened up. The chocobo walked ahead a bit, stopping on top of a lumpy knoll. The man--known to some as Antirine--gazed sullenly ahead, barely interested in the structural bravado of the castle before him. "Walled in, like a tomb." He reflected the sight over a cigarette, before setting the chocobo down the road like a gust of wind.
"Much obliged, my good man," said the professor to the coachman as he exited his carriage. "If you could bring my packages and luggage to my quarters within a half-hour that would be most kindly of you." The coachman bowed with an obedient "yessir" and disappeared into the castle. The professor followed suit, savoring the nature and architectural design of the entrance's columns on his way up the stairs. "Hmm, a little outdated, but very nice..."
Inside, the professor was blown away by the detailed interior of the palace. He had expected it, of course, but it was still a nice experience to familiarize oneself. For one as observant as he, it was mental anesthesia. He quickly ran over to all the nearest works of art, cradling his hefty face with a plump hand as he analyzed the layering of the paintings, their painters, the overall techniques used. At the opposite end of the room, his pudgy fingers traced and groped the wonderful statuettes, then tested for dust and age of the material like a venerable connoisseur of art. "I wonder what kind of chisel was used to do this," he remarked, rubbing his thumb across a pedestal's surface. "Maybe a delicate rasping tool?"
"Sir, your bags are in your room."
The professor turned around, startled, finding a pale-faced butler staring at him. "Has it been a half an hour already?" He wiped his balding forehead with his sleeve.
"It has been two half-hours, actually, sir. This way." The butler started off, a trailing hand beckoning for the professor to follow. He did.
On the third floor, the butler pushed open a door, standing back to let the professor take his first step inside. "It's glorious!" he barked, seeing the bare space. "Two adjoining rooms!" He didn't even have to close his eyes to imagine the places the bookshelves, tables, and alchemist's tools would go. Sure that the professor was satisfied, the butler sidled out the door.
Like a vulture, the man strode around his wrapped up items, inspecting them all to see if the content labels had fallen off. "Nope," he intoned, wandering to the drawn curtains. They opened with a quick lug of the side cord, the sunlight illuminating all the dust floating around. "Thankfully, I have no allergies," he commented. "Soon the room will smell like a real place of working."
Professor Hollister Chamberlain had grown up in Lesalia and had accumulated a pleasant work ethic and a dedicated disposition towards all things relating to academia. The pleasantries of the West now seemed to pale in comparison to the lofty structures and blue-collar societies of the East, and the stay--however long its length--would probably be chockfull of solemn characters bustling about with their heads elsewhere, he assumed. "I'll scrutinize and adapt, yes, that's just what I'll do."
"Book boxes, how could I forget you," he silently scolded, maneuvering around his other cargo to them. The pleasant face lit up as he unfastened the first's twine, unearthing a plaque beneath a load of perfectly stacked literature. "Awarded to Professor H. Chamberlain," he recited, emulating the presenter's voice he had heard at the dedication ceremony long ago, "for achieved excellence in the business and the sciences". Greeting the gilded plaque with a kiss, he gently laid it back in the box and hurried out of the room to inspect the castle's other neglected treasures.
Kleff Survane sat on a wooden stool in the kitchen, conversing with maids passing by. In the week since he had arrived, he had taken up root there, expressing his refusal to explore the castle's stateliness. "It's a waste, I tell you," said he to the head cook, who had started to make a habit of stopping by to chat. "I'm not that interested in the castle's grandeur or refined things. In fact, I'd much like to have my room on the first floor so I could see little of them as possible. I might as well pack a lunch and live under the stairs to get a head start." The cooking personnel he talked to could not tell whether he was low maintenance or lazy, so they agreed that he was both.
In fact, if you had known Survane in his earlier years, you would have found someone who diligently walked from location to location, attending meetings and conferences with an up-and-comer's charisma. A disaster had practically stripped his ambition away and he now scratched out a living as an accountant--a damn good one. While he stopped climbing the business ladder, he had not thrown away his schooling. Dissociating himself from non-mandatory living had given him time to sit in his third-floor room and pore over books to help his business knowledge grow firmer. Survane didn't want to gain more obligations and responsibility, but he didn't really know what he wanted, so he studied anyway.
Tired of Survane's incessant appearance in the kitchen, the staff finally decided to domesticate him into the castle's other activities. When he appeared the next day, they blocked way to his stool and cast him out. The sense of abandonment made its impression in the young man. He didn't know where anything was, save the meeting rooms and his residence, and he spent enough time in those already.
His legs moved residualyl up the grand staircase. A disheartened face glanced at the lively clerks and attendances moving by him with a second glance. "Is this how it's going to be," he wondered, heading towards his room in a huff. He didn't want to be preoccupied all day long and he didn't want to have nothing to do. "How can I be so damned indecisive about everything?"
"Oh, blast," shouted someone from a room nearby.
Survane lost interest for a moment; he didn't want to help anyone with their boring work, but there was nothing to do anyway. Sighing heavily, Survane forced himself to open the door where the voice came from. A sulfurous draft snaked into his nostrils, and he saw before him a lavish room full of boiling chemicals and mechanical contraptions.
"What is..."
A well-dressed man appeared from the next-door room, carrying an array of equipment in his arms. Kleff's interest was piqued. He had trained as an engineer before he came to Zeltennia, and was quite good at what he did. He immediately knew every tool the man held in his hands, and he wanted to use them for some odd reason. Survane watched as the man disappeared behind a curtain subdividing the room, reappeared, and then left into the other room. Each billow of the curtains wafted chemical aromas to him. "Interesting indeed. I can't believe I didn't notice this man before," Survane muttered, his eyes still going over the apparatuses and flasks. He shut the door and began inspecting them, greatly interested in what the scholarly man was making. As he approached the curtain, the man ran out from the bordering room and slid in front of him, arms outstretched.
"I'm sorry, my good man, but you can't go back there."
Survane figured this was some restricted area, but the curiosity got the better of him. "What's back there?" he inquired, craning his neck to see through the curtains. The man craned in front of his so he couldn't see.
"I'm sorry, but this is for professionals only. Not to be rude, my good man, but you could get seriously injured in here. You should leave if you value your own well-being."
"I have a degree in engineering. You know, from Goug."
The man's eyebrows rose peculiarly. "Goug, you say? I never expected someone from so far away to make their way here. I'm rather inclined to let you in here, but I feel I must to have proof just the same. Do you have your degree on hand?"
Survane ran to get it.
Anyone looking for Soren Tartar at a particular moment could usually find him in the throne room having lively discussions with the soon-to-be king. Delita would give his vindications the best he could, but Tartar's virtuoso know-how was a massive, overpowering force. The young Hyral never felt quaint around Tartar, for he always visualized him as a man whose professionalism was well-brought, but he never liked having his ideas rebutted either. "Do you know why the farmers have rioted," he would ask Tartar, getting the logical reply of "they're dissatisfied because they don't make the rules".
Tartar was the man of the hour in Castle Zeltennia, and had the knowledge of what was going on nearly everywhere. In most matters he was akin to a military general, coordinating menial and crucial tasks alike. Delita felt he was a most trusted advisor and the rest of the castle regarded him in the way. He might not have had the supremacy in all matters of state, but he was a head council on the war board just the same. He was a gentleman in the very sense of the word, and when he was furious over something, he was furious. He grasped the sense of obligation and branched it out, but even his hands were full when the inauguration ceremonies had to be sifted through.
"Come in," he said insipidly when the secretary dropped papers on his desk. He thanked her in the same tone when she left. Normally he would have initiated a conversation, but the work at hand needed to be completed and he could permit a few hurt feelings.
He sat back in his chair, turning pages in front of his face. "Absentees, expected attendance outcome, catering, music ensembles." He wrote his replies in long-strung shorthand, pushing them across his desk for when his secretary came back in.
Fifteen minutes later, Tartar was exhaling cigar smoke when the door opened. The secretary's face popped through the door, looked to him, looked to the desk. "Are you done, Soren?" He had requested she drop the formalities.
"Yes, they're all there. If you'd check over, I'd be much appreciative." Inhale.
She smiled and carried the papers away, gently shutting the oak door behind her. Tartar took the time to relax, knowing that another stack of papers was being made down on the bottom floor and they'd be arriving in the next fifteen minutes. He scooted the ash tray towards him and threw the cigar in it. "Ahh, sweet, sweet silence." His feet found their way to the desktop, and he leant back.
Fifteen minutes later, another batch of papers came. "Let's see here," he said aloud, underlining the words with his quill as to catch every word. "Acceptance speech, ready and sent. Heretic list, updated and filed. Catering schedule, handed out already. Paychecks...unsigned." The next ten minutes were reduced to writing signatures; he pushed the papers to their waiting spot, then walked to the window.
The view from above showed the cliffs and crags above the North Loe Sea, the salty waters battling it out with the moonlight. Little campfires were placed along the cliffs but they didn't compare to the two lighthouses embanked on the minute peninsulas jutting out from either side of the castle. They illuminated the humid air and were a great way to deter invasions in the area.
"Tomorrow is the inauguration and the king will be out in public. Hopefully any dissenters will make the right decision and stay at home. I'm glad I didn't send out invitations." Chuckling, he closed the window blinds and walked to the door. With his methodical thinking patterns, how could things go wrong anyway?
The next morning, Delita called Tartar, Hollister, and Antirine to a board meeting to planning for the day's events. Delita arrived first, sitting at the head of the table, then Tartar, sitting at the opposite end, back to the door. Antirine arrived soon after, stone-faced and quiet; he took a chair on Tartar's left side. Hollister arrived next, tagging another man along behind him.
Delita jumped to his feet like he had been sitting on a spring, pointing to the uninvited guest. "He does not belong here. Get him out at once!"
Hollister stopped. "Your majesty, this man has been helping me with my work and I can assure you that he is a very trustworthy individual. He's actually quite useful to my work."
"But does he have use ihere/i," Delita said sardonically.
Hollister looked at Survane so he could speak for himself. "I...I...I'm a very good diplomat, sir." Though it seemed like a lie, the truth was down below his nervous, stammering voice. He had acted as a diplomat for six years, the job taking him from Limberry to Igros to Warjilis. He smiled as best he could under the circumstances.
Delita cocked his head. "Diplomat? Diplomat. Can you confirm this, Chamberlain?" Hollister nodded his agreement, and both sat down beside each other at the table. Delita eyed the newcomer suspiciously, but the annoyance he felt soon subsided.
"Now gentlemen," he began, "how are things going to be run today? You first, Tartar."
Tartar stood up, dressed in a black suit and very poised. "Your Majesty, I have, myself, read over the speech and I can say it seems like it will hook the people very nicely. The plan is for you to walk to the podium when the band--which is extraordinary, might I add--finishes playing "Farewell to Yesterday". At that point, you are to give your welcome speech. There is a copy on the podium and here is also a copy." Delita took the pages, and began to read over them.
Tartar began again. "When you speak, make sure to emphasize the bolded words, and make sure to use eye contact at regular intervals. The crowd will be pleased with that. Afterwards, the band will start playing and you have the choice to stay and talk to the audience, shake their hands, that sort of thing, you know. Or, you can exit the platform and attend the party afterwards. It's all up to you."
Delita fingered and shaped his growing mustache as Tartar talked, tossing around the choices in his mind. The other three sitting at the table watched his mouth fidget over the suggestions. "Well," he finally began, "I want to gain even more favor with the crowd, but the security reasons are still large. I trust there will be guards patrolling the outskirts?"
"As a matter of fact," said Tartar, "I've entrusted Mr. Antirine sitting over there with controlling the crowd. I've looked over his record and I can personally say it is very sufficient for the task."
Delita looked to Antirine, sitting in full armor with his arms crossed. "Well, Antirine, are you up to the task?" All faces turned to the dark knight.
"Sure," he muttered. "I've yet to fail." His eyes flew to Delita who seemed to be reassured by the knight's gruff accent and buoyancy.
"Well, now that the crowd issues are covered, it comes down to the miscellaneous things. Did you whip up some of those fireworks, Chamberlain?"
"Oh, yes, Your Majesty, I made quite a lot of them yesterday. There should be a nice nighttime display when the time comes, and I made some for daytime use as well, just in case. In summary, it will be a very colorful event." Hollister sat content in his chair. If he was asked for an exact number, he was ready to give it.
"Good, good! I have confidence in your abilities, so all that's left is..." His face gained an inquisitive look when it fell on Survane. He looked at the perspiring man and saw him avoiding eye contact with him. "You there, what's your name?"
"K-k-kleff Survane," he spattered, adding in a quick "Your Majesty" to avoid a misstep with the people he had just met. Delita didn't seemt o notice.
"Kleff, since you're a diplomat, I'll give you an important job. Rally some support in town for the event. I'm sure the turnout will be just fine, but see if you can get them even more excited. Hollister made some of fireworks for the occasion, so supply them to the people as presents from me. As a matter of fact, you could get started right now." He purposely made the job important-sounding because he knew the poor man didn't want to sit in the room any longer.
Survane scooted his chair back, thanked Delita, and scurried away.
"Now then, gentlemen, is there any other matters of state to discuss? We might as well save ourselves a trip here later on."
Tartar arose once more, brushed a few wrinkles out of his suit and began: "It has come to my knowledge that acts of piracy have been committed on the coastal cities of Ivalice. Mostly around the areas of Yardow, Riovanes, and Goug, but they are being suppressed by knights of the respective towns. Not likely to happen in Zeltennia, but we do have spheres of influence in those three cities, so I thought you might want to know in case your hold on said areas were to be broken."
"What are 'spheres of influence' for the first part, and what industries to we have in those cities?" Delita asked, scratching his head. Antirine coughed at the question, hiding a chuckle, but Delita failed to catch the relevance.
Tartar smiled at the question. "Spheres of influence are regions were control is exerted over another nation or kingdom. In this case, Zeltennia has a grip on industries in Yardow, Riovanes, and Goug. As for what industries we control and where: metal refining in Yardow and Goug; Wheat and corn in Riovanes."
"Oh, I see" was the only reply Delita gave.
Tartar did not sit down. "Back on subject, did you want to do anything in those areas? Things like aid, soldiers, or money could all be of use and they would help us keep an upper hand on our economies in that area."
Delita looked nonplussed and indecisive. Tartar, having kept tabs on Delita's past, knew of his upbringing and let the question slide. "Perhaps another time, Your Majesty," he said, sitting down. Delita's expression changed to a relieved one.
Antirine, showing the thin wisps of a smile, looked across the table to Hollister, who glared back, obviously not impressed with his showing moments before. An unfazed Delita stood, looking at all of his retainers. "Well, since all the issues seem to have been resolved, you can all get back to your routines. See you at the inauguration, gentlemen."
An anxious gathering simmered with static energy outside the castle gates, waiting for the sun to finally disappear out over the Finath. Instinctively, a few people had brought shawls and umbrellas, claiming to their friends that the reddening sky meant that a thunderhead was approaching. Most were dressed in their most luxurious evening attire--silk and satin for the richer persons and burlap for the destitute. Most intermingled as if the foreshadow to celebrations had broken the barricades of upper- and lower-class citizenry. "When's this gonna start here," bellowed one gentleman who appeared to have gotten drunk in anticipation for the night ahead. A few laughs came up, and the man was shoved aside to make room for others. The hum died down to a whisper when the town's church bells sounded in the city, marking the beginning of the night. When the ninth and last peal faded, the crowds' voices erupted, turning into a booming chain reaction. The gates shivered with life and slowly began opening, but the throngs of bodies sprung through in a deluge before the metal bars could come to a stop.
"The coronation ceremony will begin shortly and the attendance is probably the biggest these walls have ever held, I'd imagine. They come to see a ruler born before their eyes." Tartar, clad in a white breastplate and robe, leant on the stone railing, looking down upon the platform Delita would occupy in the coming minutes.
"They come like moths to a torch," remarked Antirine, biting into his third cigar. He was dressed in his same outfit, black on black, looking away with the same cold demeanor he had in the war room. "Perhaps the turnout would be half as high if there were no food being cooked for the occasion?"
"Always the cynic, aren't we? The night is young; the king will soon take the step into manhood; the festivities are just getting started. You can even hear the snap-crackers and fizzlers that our friend Survane passed out to the crowd earlier. Lighten up and everything will be as smooth as it was planned out."
"I'll lighten up once I get some liquor in my system, Soren."
"Nonsense, you have the easiest task out of them all. I can tell you with a bit of exactitude that the need to crack skulls and break arms won't arise. I should hope you would enjoy the fragrance of the location and attempt to stay sober until sunup."
Antirine laughed gruffly, flicking the remark aside. "Why waste the night divining meaning? If you have an itch, you scratch it. I know you have the sensible drink now and then, so don't try to deny it."
"Oh, I won't deny it. Even so, sometimes a person has to have a drink to stay sane. I think I'll go get one myself before I'm assigned to do any further work and, on that note, I part in good company. Farewell for now." His white cape eddied as he turned and a moment later the fleeting crackles of his footsteps were dying away in the stairwell.
"There's a sobering thought," the dark knight mused, crushing the remains of his cigar into the hewn stone. He looked off to the castle grounds where, from the gate to the grandstand, campfires were springing up. The scent of roasted meat on spits drifted to the castle walls. It hooked in Antirine's nostrils, and he started walking down the stairwell, popping his crystalline sword out of its sheath on the way. Maybe he could grab some food and drink while he greeted his crowd.
Delita paced around his lavish room, the ceremonial red robe and crown already atop his head. His hand clenched and unclenched in fidgety motions, like he was grasping a thought and losing it again. Even though he hadn't taken ascended to his kingdom yet, he maintained the air of one ready to step up to the responsibility, one who desired change. Tartar watched him out of the corner of his eye from his seat across the room, sipping on some brandy he had scored from the kitchen awhile before.
A mammoth crowd was amassing below the room's decorated balcony, celebratory cries and exclamations rocketing upwards and through the curtains. Delita stopped his pacing, listened, and began again.
"The time has almost arrived, Your Highness," Tartar chimed, standing from his chair. "The band is ready, your subjects are ready. All you need to do is take that first step towards your people. This is the moment of a lifetime, so please, make sure you're composed."
"I know what you mean, but..." Delita trailed off, leaving the rest of the excuse in his throat. This was the time to rise to the occasion; this was the time to leave behind his former image and gain a new one. He breathed deeply, as if to hold his breath, and exhaled his worry. "This is it, Soren. I'm going."
Delita flashed his boyish smile and slowly walked to the balcony. It amazed Tartar at how young this man was, who would take the reins of the kingdom he knew barely anything about. This would be the liege he would serve until his death, and he would do his duty to ensure that it was as free of hassle as possible. "...this is my vow," he murmured, walking over to the curtain and listening. To think, a minute ago he was standing next to a friend and now...now, he was a king. "Foolishly sentimental," he chuckled. "Must be the brandy talking."
Bolstered on its own satisfaction and bliss, the crowd swelled, dashing itself against the castle walls in one, single motion. Delita walked to the edge and threw his hands upward, feeling the complements and praises warm his entire being. "There is no feeling like this," he spoke silently through his grin, closing his eyes to absorb every minute of it. His elevated arms slowly fell, and with them, the decibel level of the crowd. The listeners were on the fringe of another cheer.
"I welcome all of you to this very special day!" The sea of people burst into cheer, even louder than the previous showing. Delita quieted them once again. "For it is not only you who are opening up your arms to me, but I am opening up my arms to you, Zeltennia!" The crowd erupted again, applauding at the very mention of the kingdom's name. Inside, Soren laughed with for the sheer momentum of the moment, almost choking on his liquor in doing so.
"My people," Delita began once again, now the crowd had settled into a thin ripple of voices, "It is my utmost honor to be here this day. Though I suffered halfway across the land, I suffered with you! My broken spirit mended with yours! Your hunger, disease, war...I have felt it all"--Delita pounded his hand over his heart--"and, now, I will nurture this kingdom the best I know how, and I hope you will stand alongside me; for, this day begins not only the celebration of a new era in Ivalice, but in a new way of life for everyone!"
If the people were happy before, they exploded. Antirine had taken a seat on the western castle wall, forced to retreat as the crowd expanded and stamped in place, empowered by their new ruler and ready to take whatever action they were bidded. Delita saw this and was pleased, evidently catching the feverish excitement the crowd was making.
"With the coming of dawn, this land will be born anew. No longer will the people be forgotten, no longer shall the people be mistreated. The framework is already in place. Will you help me finish it!" The crowd let loose a guttural roar, knocking Antirine and his bottle held out of their seat. Another spontaneous roar superseded the last as Delita threw his arms up once more. The crowd was ablaze.
Hollister and Kleff walked into Delita's bedroom just as Soren was reaching for a new decanter. "How goes it, my good fellows" he asked jovially, pouring himself a refill. "I should hope you're each having a pleasant time as a new era of Ivalice commences."
The professor nodded, taking the decanter in hand. "Of course, my friend! There's nothing more invigorating than seeing a new king and kingdom uniting as one. The two make a great couple, as I'm sure you've been hearing outside. A brilliant display, if I may say so. And that reminds me! The fireworks I made should start when the speech ends." The professor chortled as he filled himself a glass. "Would you like one, too, Kleff?"
The timid man shrugged, eyeing both of the men present. "Sure...I guess." He took the glass from Chamberlain's outstretched hand. A few yards away, Delita continued to rouse the crowd's interest, and the room seemed to shake with each favorable reaction.
"I've never heard a gathering this loud before," spoke Soren, "and I hope I'll never have to hear another. I'm afraid my ears can't take much more of the king's lively fans. And you can sit, gentlemen! No need to stand around like statues."
Kleff sat on the chair by the door, and turned to staring at his glass' contents. Suddenly, he spoke with a newly-found vigor. "A toast to the people and their new king. May they never be forgotten." Soren nodded and raised his glass high; Chamberlain followed suit, although his was half-empty. The three clinked their glasses from across the room.
The crowd shouted their agreement, as if they had been listening in.