Homecoming and Reforms: May 5, 1919, Addis Ababa Railway Station
May 5, 1919, Addis Ababa Railway Station. The train began to slow. From Djibouti to Addis Ababa. The difference from that first ride along the line was simple: back then, I was departing; now, I was returning. Red earth highlands unfurled beyond the window. Eucalyptus trees swayed in the breeze, and far off, the palace roofs gleamed under the morning sun. A sight I hadn't beheld in half a year, yet it felt no stranger than yesterday. That very familiarity struck me as peculiar. When had Addis Ababa truly become my land? Forehead pressed to the glass, I pondered it, watching the station roof draw near. That station had opened just months after my ascension. French capital built it, but the trains racing its rails carried Ethiopia's bounty: coffee, hides, weapons—and now, the Empress's homecoming.
"Your Majesty."
Mateos spoke from the seat beside me.
"We're arriving."
His voice carried something profound, like the tremor of a long-held dream fulfilled. I pulled away from the window and looked at him. Secretary Mateos had endured all of Paris at my side. The deputy seat nameplate. The Italian diplomat's glare. Marshal Park Young-ho's pointed words. The endless subcommittee haggling. He'd witnessed it every step. His eyes were genuinely misting now.
"Mateos."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Don't cry."
"I won't."
He was, though. No tears fell, but they teetered on the edge... I let it go. Truth be told, I understood. For Mateos, this Paris journey had been different. Ethiopia had endured foreign pressures for over a century. We'd won at Adwa, but it hadn't quelled Europe's devouring hunger for Africa. Yet the Emperor of such a nation had stood in Paris's peace chambers, flung Adwa's blood back at the Italians' sneers, and carved words into the treaty itself.
I knew it wasn't enough.
"All stop—!"
Screeeeech—!
The train halted. Crowds filled the station. Tafari Mekonnen stood at the fore, with Ras council members behind him, Minister Habte Giyorgis, chief maid Ayenash, and the Mehal Sefari honor guard.
"Salute to Zenebework, Saint of Adwa and Empress of Ethiopia!"
Tafari saluted. He hadn't changed much in half a year. The same compact frame, impeccable posture, eyes forever calculating. But those eyes were different now—confirming my return.
I stepped down and approached him.
"Well done, Your Majesty."
His low, steady voice. Unchanged through every one of those six months.
"You've done well, Tafari."
His eyebrow twitched faintly at my words. I'd called him by name. He knew what that meant.
"Road construction?"
"Addis Ababa to Dire Dawa section complete."
I nodded. He'd followed orders. Routine, perhaps, but in this country, executing the routine with reliability was rare—and valuable.
"Much to discuss. Rest today, at least..."
"No, let's do it now. I couldn't rest anyway."
He studied me a moment. He knew I wasn't bluffing. The woman who'd died of overwork in her past life, now pulling all-nighters in this one.
"...Understood."
He relented.
Back at the palace, my first act was settling into the study. Ayenash brought coffee. Ethiopian beans, hand-dripped. As Empress, I cradled the cup, eyes closed. Half a year. Versailles's leaden skies, marble corridors, frigid conference halls. The subcommittee's dull, razor-sharp wrangling. The Italians had moved as expected. April, was it? When delegation head Sonnino and Prime Minister Orlando threatened to walk over Fiume, I'd thought two things at once: Here it comes, and This is our chance.
Fiume. Adriatic speck. Italy craved it, but Wilson's self-determination handed it to the new Yugoslav kingdom. Italy's war sacrifices seemed meager recompense; resentment had simmered months, then boiled over. The night rumors swirled of Orlando packing, I sent Marshal Park a note. Brief Hangul memo: Now.
Next day in subcommittee, the Korean Empire delegate formally proposed our clause.
"The territorial integrity of the Ethiopian Empire falls under League of Nations protection. All unilateral military actions without Council approval are permanently prohibited."
With Italy absent, Britain and France lacked grounds to object. By their return, it was in draft—and sealed in the final treaty.
I set the cup down slowly. Words were etched, yes. But when Mussolini marched in 1935, they wouldn't stop bullets. The League wouldn't send armies for us. I knew that.
It bought time. Built legitimacy. Logged proof to brand them liars later. And in that time, I would remake this nation.
I opened my notebook. Pages dense with Hangul. Notes scrawled in Paris, aboard ship, Marseille station, hotel rooms. Wars end; factories flood the market. Europe's arsenals had run hot four years, churning shells, rifles, barbed wire. Demand vanished overnight. No new contracts, warehouses stuffed. In Paris, I'd devoured not diplomacy columns, but business pages. Sipping Ayenash's coffee, I'd pored over Brussels and Antwerp dispatches. Machine tools. Looms. Generators. Steel rollers. War-spawned gear, now dirt-cheap.
Aboard ship, I'd crunched numbers. Listed, prioritized. What Ethiopia needed now, in three years, in five.
I flipped to the page.
Priority 1: Machine tools and parts manufacturing. Extend small arms standardization from the arsenal discussions. Not just rifles—farm tools, vehicles. One spec nationwide: repair anywhere.
Priority 2: Looms. Cotton and sisal mass-produced south. Hand-woven now. Looms multiply output. Synthetic fabrics: second forex earner after coffee.
Priority 3: Power plants. Electricity in Addis pockets only. Expand: more lights, night shifts, longer factory hours. Virtuous cycle.
Funding? Korean Empire accord, naturally. Grant them most-favored access to coffee, minerals—for capital, tech. Core of the deal. But not aid: investment. Our industries grow, their resource cut swells. Partnership.
I jotted in the margin: Partner secured. Time to work.
Cup to lips. Cooled, but fine. Ship had none.
Then—
Knock knock.
Study door. I knew the rhythm: low, precise. Emotionless cadence.
"Come in."
Tafari entered, sheaf of papers in hand. Half a year apart, he still carried something. Empty-handed, he'd seem adrift.
"Sit."
He took the opposite chair, papers clutched. Not yet business.
"Industrialization Phase 1 status first."
"Light industry imports rolling out regionally. Gojjam and Selale fastest. Ras Hailu Tekle Haymanot surprisingly aggressive."
I nodded. December council: my bulk-buy proposal. Hailu had tallied quickest. Wallet-sensitive, yes—but first to act when math checked out. Confirmed.
"Ammo production?"
"7mm Mauser rounds at 120,000 monthly. 60% target."
60%. Short, but trajectory right.
"Menelik Military Academy Class 2."
"Enrolls next month. Applicants double Class 1."
I mulled the figure. More recruits meant change. Cadets' noble rep shifted? Or war's end, eyewitness tales of great powers' armies? Either way, good.
"And Italian reaction to Paris treaty."
I met his gaze.
"Sonnino's post-return Rome internal leaked. Strong dissatisfaction. Ethiopian clause overly curbs Italy's East Africa interests."
"As expected."
"Resentment's one thing. Action's another. Italy's unstable over Fiume."
Mussolini's Fascists just stirring. I didn't voice it, but the name soured my mouth. Mussolini: power in '22, invasion '35. My timeline's wild card. This clause wouldn't stop him. So prepare.
I glanced at the notebook.
"Tafari, one more thing today."
"The Korean Empire delegation?"
He knew. My Versailles letter mentioned it.
"Yes. Due today."
He set papers down. Ready.
"Lodged east guest quarters. Same wing as Ras Mikael used."
"Suitable."
"Roster yesterday: chief envoy plus twelve staff."
"Chief's name?"
"Yeo Un-hyeong."
I turned it over. Yeo Un-hyeong. Past life's history knew him. Independence fighter there; diplomat here. Bearing similar burdens? Or just skilled? Meet to know.
"Understood. Escort on arrival."
I closed the notebook.