The rains had passed, leaving the land washed and green. The roads Tafari had carved out of stone and sweat ran firm beneath wagon wheels. Harar was louder than ever — the clang of forges, the chant of children in schoolyards, the steady tramp of boots on parade. Yet in the middle of this storm of change, another matter pressed on Tafari's shoulders: marriage.
For two years, whispers had followed him wherever he went. Nobles muttered that a prince of his age should already be bound by alliance, not only by ambition. Merchants asked quietly when he would bring a queen into his halls. Even his father, Ras Makonnen, though gentle, pressed the point one evening over spiced coffee.
"You build roads and rifles, Tafari," Makonnen said. "But a man is not a fortress alone. If you do not bind your house with marriage, others will bind against you with theirs."
Tafari did not flinch. He had expected this moment. "Then the question is not whether I marry, Father," he answered, "but to whom. For this choice will not be of love alone — it will be of Ethiopia's future."
The emperor and empress took notice as well. Menelik, who watched his young kinsman with cautious admiration, saw the match as a chance to keep Tafari's power close. Empress Taytu, sharper-eyed, saw it as a way to test the prince: if he married into the wrong house, he might find himself tangled in webs spun tighter than any rifle barrel.
Proposals came quietly. A daughter of Ras Gugsa, meant to draw Tafari back into the nobility's fold. A cousin of the imperial line, meant to strengthen loyalty to the throne. And whispers of other matches, offered by envoys who spoke of gold, horses, or land.
But Tafari listened with patience, and then chose with care. He settled on Woizero Menen Asfaw, a woman of grace, strength, and keen mind. She was of noble blood, linked distantly to powerful houses, but not so close that she would bind him as a pawn. More importantly, she was known for her steady counsel — a woman who read, who listened, and who could stand beside a man building a nation out of dust and vision.
The wedding was held in Harar, though invitations went across the empire. Nobles came draped in silks, priests in their white robes, soldiers in the first uniforms woven by the textile mills. The air was thick with incense, the sound of drums echoing against the city's new walls.
The people, too, came in crowds. Farmers, smiths, weavers, and schoolchildren pressed along the roadsides to see their prince and his bride. For them it was not only a wedding — it was a sign that Tafari was no longer simply the boy who had turned wheels and rifles. He was now a man, and his family line would continue.
When Menen entered the church, veiled and solemn, the air seemed to still. Tafari stood waiting in robes of deep blue, the gold embroidery simple compared to the grandeur of old nobility, but woven in Harar's own mills. The priest intoned blessings; crowns of thin gold leaf were touched to their heads.
For Tafari, the moment was both heavy and clear. He felt the eyes of nobles measuring him, the warmth of his father's pride, the curiosity of the emperor, and the silent approval of the crowd outside. But he also felt something simpler: the calm presence of the woman beside him. Her eyes, sharp and steady, met his, and in them he read not ambition but resolve.
The feast that followed was grand — roasted lamb, flatbreads stacked high, honey wine flowing. Songs praised their union, some old, some newly written. But even in the joy, tension lingered. Nobles whispered at their tables, calculating what the marriage meant. Some saw danger: with Menen at his side, Tafari would command more respect. Others saw opportunity: perhaps they could sway her where they could not sway him.
In the shadows of the hall, Abebe leaned close to his prince. "You have won a bride and a bond," he said. "But you have also painted a larger target on your back. They will strike harder now."
Tafari nodded, his hand brushing the carved stock of a Harar-1 rifle gifted to him as a symbol of loyalty by his soldiers. "Then let them," he said quietly. "For every bond they think to use against me, I will turn into a chain that binds Ethiopia together."
That night, as the city still celebrated, Tafari stood on the balcony with Menen. Below them, the lights of Harar's workshops flickered like constellations brought down to earth. Smoke rose from the forges, steady and unbroken.
Menen looked out with him, her voice low. "You are building more than roads and rifles here. You are building a nation."
Tafari smiled faintly. "Then I am glad to have a queen who sees it too."
The drums still beat in the streets. The stars hung above like watchful eyes. For Tafari, marriage was not an ending to his long nights of labor, but a beginning. Now, every plan he made, every risk he took, would not be borne alone.
And for the nobles who thought marriage would tame him, the truth was clear in the glow of Harar's lights: this union had not weakened Tafari. It had strengthened him.