Chapter Text
Rain hammered the castle walls, a rhythm of thunder clamoring over the massive towers. Wide, empty halls drumming to the eerie tune of pelting water. High in the central tower, deep in the storm, a woman lay in bed, screams of birth harmonizing with nature's song in a horrible muse of pain and anguish. For any mother-in-the-making this would be a most glorious day, but not for Empress Misako. Her joy was drowned out by the dread that her royal husband, Emperor Garmadon, had just returned from his latest failed campaign.
The Emperor, in his regal esteem, had taken control over a newly born empire quick for its prime. Instead of a golden age they entered into what’s been described as a “Purple Age.” His great empire broke apart, and through each loss, each failed reconquest, Emperor Garmadon grew more unstable.
‘Mine is the blood of glory!’ he had said, ‘And your’s is the blood of magic. Together, when our blood makes but one being, none could stand against us!’
Now that ‘one being’ had been born, and Misako knew she had to do it. Her baby, her minute's old infant son had to be hidden. There was no other way to save all of Ninjago. It broke her heart, a deep bitter pain to give the order. Exhausted from birth, hardly able to cease crying, Misako refused to even look at him. All of it hurt enough-- marrying the emperor, falling in love with him, watching as he slipped further and further into insanity.
“My queen, you must try and calm yourself.” her midwife slipped into the room, a stranger’s baby swathed in her arms, “You did the right thing! He’s somewhere safe now, in a place the emperor will never find him.”
“Jana… can I see him?” Misako wiped her tears away, as best as she could. With a fair bit of restraint, the midwife passed the baby to the new mother.
For several minutes Misako stared at him, trying her hardest to imagine what her real son looked like. It seemed like such a clever ploy when the empress plotted it months ago. Just after birth, Jana would take the baby to ‘get cleaned up.’ After that, she would return, this time with an orphan. Under no circumstances could Emperor Garmadon have his son- that had been the empress's goal.
“He’s healthy…” the green-eyed mother whispered, her royal husband having just entered the room.
Emperor Garmadon was cloaked in black and purple robes, his burning red eyes lacking their usual ferocity. This time he bore hope, fleeting hope that this healthy newborn would soon grow up to save his fathers empire. Every aspect of that notion was written across Garmadons face, taking the form of a twisted grin.
Chuckling lowly, he sat next to the empress, almost gently. He said nothing as red fire met closed eyes, strong face softened in awe. Misako knew what he was thinking, of carnage and conquest, yet some abandoned part of her saw another thing present in his stare. Garmadon- described as the cruelest man fate ever made, someone who could kill with a glare, he looked almost… almost loving. There was no love between him and his wife, he married her purely for the magic she possessed- that much was a plain fact. Yet somehow the fruit of that marriage seemed to make him happy; even if most of that joy was sickeningly cruel.
“He’s perfect.” Garmadon rose, grin stretching from soft to his usual ambition. “And soon enough wife, he will be my perfect weapon!”
Something dropped in the empress. Maybe it was relief, more likely it was fear. At that very moment his- no, her real son was First-knows-where. Sent off with strangers to be whisked away from the crumbling empire, safe-guarded as far away as possible from his father. Her treacherous feelings told the sorceress she was wrong, that Garmadon’s foolish idea of magic and elemental power fusing was just that: foolish. And yet, none alive had any clue how elements work, not her, not Garmadon. That secret had died with The First Emperor.
“O-of course husband…” desperation filled Misako, driving her to stare at the stranger’s baby in her arms. For the sake of all she ever held dear the empress had to believe this child was hers, and never show a single sign otherwise. All done well this kid would grow up mundane, Garmadon would believe he had been wrong, and this whole ‘ultimate weapon’ nonsense would be over. “He will be the most perfect weapon.”
Satiated, her royal husband departed. A long time had passed before Jana or Misako said a word. The midwife went about tending to the baby, the empress still swimming in her own doubts. At ten she had chosen to defy her father and practice all forms of magic, at thirteen she defied fate and graduated top of her class, and at twenty Misako told her one true love goodbye forever, marrying the Emperor and putting an end to the bloody war between The Empire and her own home. So then at age twenty-three, why was she struggling to save all the land?
“It’s too damn big.” Jana whispered, kneeling by the baby’s low crib. “The world, I mean, ma’am.”
“What point are you making..?”
“Well, the world m’lady. It’s too big for me to really… forgive me for this morbid thought, but it's too big for me to really care about saving.”
“Jana, it’s- it’s what we all have to do.”
“But you can’t quite think about the world right now, can you?” Misako turned after that, her eye’s alight in shock, staring at the hand-maid. “I’d guess not. As I… well, you know. I couldn’t think about the whole world! All those people, big cities like this, it's all too much.
No, all I can think about is what I care for. My elderly mom, my kids, my husband, you. Well, when I think about those things, not this place or Shintaro or Stiix or any of it-”
“You feel like you did the right thing.” the new-mother had leaned back further into her bed, cupping a hand over her head as fresh tears began to pool up.
When Jana went to see that Misako was alright, the lady had pulled her companion into a tight hug. Call it motherly feelings or call it compassion, Jana couldn’t help but share in her tears. From then on, those words in her heart, perhaps Misako could begin to believe she had made the right choice. Perhaps the empress could see this baby as her own, and maybe, pull the wool over the eyes of history itself.
“A plan for the generations.”