In the streets of Tokyo, a boy lay dying. Blood spread across his white robes; a martyr's robes. Lelouch smiled at the clouds as they drifted above him. His face appeared serene, like the face of a gambler who'd played his last hand and won.
Appearances can be deceptive.
Marianne Lamperouge watched her son die. She felt every exquisite sensation—the numbing hands, the tremors, the insistent, undeniable pain. The roar of the crowd echoed in her ears as the Elevens cheered on her son's executioner. Even as she watched, she felt Lelouch's vision growing dim.
She felt these things because she was looking through her son's eyes.
The boy had been clever…and ruthless. Oh, yes. She had expected no less from her own flesh and blood. When Lelouch had geassed humanity's collective unconscious, Marianne thought she was finished. If she hadn't been able to make eye contact—if she hadn't been able to jump to her son's mind just in time—it would have been endgame.
She wondered if Lelouch would have chosen death voluntarily. No, she concluded; probably not. At least not like this.
And now…
Now she'd won an empire.
Her son was fighting her. Even dying, she felt his implacable will strive against her own. But Geass brooked no challenges, no protests. Through blurred vision, Marianne saw a face. Childlike. Innocent. The face of the girl she'd bounced in the cradle and sung songs of Britannian knights and ladies by the fireside. The girl was crying. Marianne raised a comforting hand to Nunnally's cheek.
Hello, daughter…
The Empress leaped from brother to sister just as Lelouch drew his last breath.