Ice Princess - 1
(a Code Geass fan fic)
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She wore that smirk just to spite him. He knew it was to spite him. That ever-so-slight curve of her violet lips and furrow of the brow; the way her eyes – deep indigo with flecks of lavender – would sparkle with guile and flicker in his direction as she entered a room, absorbing all attention, assuming all command, thwarting all of his timeless plans and receiving glory upon victory. And he would bite his tongue, swallow his pride, and bow his head like a dog, not out of fear, for he had none of that, but respect.
She was Cornelia li Britannia, second princess of the empire, while he a mere soldier. "The Spearhead of the Empire" they called him, for his efficient strategies, admirable courage and incomparable dexterity with a Knightmare Frame, but a soldier nevertheless.
That was why she did it; to harden his humility, remind him just who was in charge, despite sex or skill. It was going to get her into trouble one of these days.
"Enemy bases are located along this mountain range at approximately five mile intervals," Guilford stated, standing above a holographic map of the Svalbard archipelago. Blue-tinted light illuminated his face, reflecting off his thin-rimmed spectacles.
He used a pocket-sized remote to elucidate various points. With one click, peaks and ridges sprung from the table, offering a three-dimensional view of the landscape. The coast line shone red. "We'll anchor battleships here as reinforcements should their use arise. Otherwise..." With another tap, a jagged line appeared around the base of the mountains. "A fleet of Sutherlands will line up in two separate groups – led by myself and General Darlton – at either side."
"Oh no, that'll never work," Cornelia said, walking up beside him. Her thin heels clicked against the tile floors, her hips swaying slightly. She smoothed her lilac hair with a flick of her wrist. "The troops are too far. We'll never capture the base if our weapons can't reach our enemies. It would be smarter to send an elite group, such as myself, into the base to eliminate the rebel leaders. Once enemy troops become chaotic and confused, we'll seize the base. It's that simple."
"That would be suicide!" Guilford argued. He jabbed a finger at the image. "The Norwegians chose an optimal point to fashion their base. Svalbard is a barren land with no vegetation and vast expanses of pure, white snow. They'll see us approaching from miles away and instigate counter measures before we even arrive."
"Hiding is cowardice." She placed her hands on her hips, straight-backed, and inhaled deeply, inflating her chest. In her shoes, she was still a foot and a half shorter than him. "'The best defence is a good offense.' Or hadn't you learned that?"
"Such a concept is entirely relative to the situation," Guilford replied, keeping his tone steady. He tried not to notice her large, round breasts pushing against the velvet of her blouse. "If we follow your plan and rush in guns blazing, they'll bombard us from above. It's in our better interest to remain out of firing range. That way, they'll be tempted to come down the mountain themselves in order to face us. Once they do, the rear forces will proceed, capture the base and continue to drive them into a death trap via the pincer manoeuvre."
Cornelia narrowed her eyes, staring straight into his, and pressed her lips into a thin line. Guilford never wavered.
"That may have worked for you in other battles, but I will not sit idle by waiting for an opponent who may or may not venture from their hideout to face me. You can't even guarantee they will face us. If we are simply waiting, and they know we're waiting, they'll continue with their training. It will be a waste of time."
He shook his head slowly. "Rebels fight for a cause; every tactic is executed with the intent to send a message to the world. They are passionate warriors, but passion is a weakness on the battlefield. You are susceptible to instinct and impulsiveness rather than plans and that often leads to failure. Our presence alone will awaken their thirst for vengeance."
With a roll of her eyes, Cornelia turned and strode away, towards the plush chair along the opposite wall. She sat, crossing one ankle over the other knee and rested her cheek on her fist. "We'll make a compromise, how about that? You and the Glaston Knights can stay at the base of the mountain range, as you suggest, while Darlton and I, along with three or four more Knightmares, will climb up to the base, destroy who we can and lure the rest out. Regardless if they can see us or not, it will be harder to kill a couple Frames than an entire fleet. Do you have any objections, Lord Guilford?"
The eyes of the other soldiers were on him now, awaiting his response with eager anticipation. To argue her orders further were grounds for insubordination. Though such instances were often kept hidden, rumours arose and gossip spread over the fates of those found guilty of the crime. He was not foolish enough to believe he had the loyalty and respect of all his subordinates. Britannia, the military or otherwise, was Darwinism at its finest. Should he lose his rank, power-hungry dolts would beat one another silly in an attempt to fill it themselves. And he would find himself carted back to the homeland in a prisoner's straightjacket to begin anew as a pilot, expendable goods in an operation such as this.
Behind his lips, he clenched his teeth so tightly, his jaw quivered. A stressed smile flashed across his face as he closed his eyes, dipping chin to chest, and pressed his hand to his chest. "No, Your Highness."
"Good."
There was that smirk again. The gloss on her lips caught the fluorescent lights above. At his side, Guilford's knuckles turned white beneath the strain. He sent her a glare that publicized his hatred, before taking his leave. He talked himself through deep breaths as he followed the steel corridors towards his living quarters.
"Gilbert!" called a booming voice behind him. Guilford cringed at the sound of his given name and considered pretending like he hadn't heard Andreas Darlton speak and continuing around the corner. In the end, he hesitated long enough for the general with the ugly scar running from his right eye to left jaw bone to catch up.
"General, how can I help you? And it's Guilford."
"Come. Let us talk, you and I." Darlton put a large arm around Guilford's shoulders and steered him in the direction of the cafeteria.
Men and women of varying ages sat in similar uniforms, coats and pants trimmed with lace and edged with gold, complete with ruffles, frills, badges and gloves to keep their hands clean against the unwashed masses outside the sanctified walls of the bureau. Around circular tables, they ate fine dinners of steamed vegetables, potatoes and cuts of grilled meat by candlelight while classical music drifted from hidden speakers in the ceiling panels.
Guilford and Darlton took a seat in the corner, nearly swallowed up by the oversized chairs. The cafeteria was not unlike upscale restaurants. The walls painted a soft oxblood upon which paintings and photographs of the Emperor and the majesty of Britannia hung for all patrons to see. Windows overlooking the well-kept courtyard, fountain guarded by a stone cherub pouring water from a vase, and colourful flower garden were flanked by thin curtains. It was a spot for the elite to recuperate after a long day's work.
Darlton poured them each a glass of bourbon and said, "Please forgive Princess Cornelia's behaviour."The candlelight struck the crystal, painting rainbows on the wall. "Often times she forgets that rank is not everything, that experience is ultimately the best tool."
"You're apologizing to me on the Princess' behalf?" Guilford asked, stunned. If anyone, he believed he should be the one who beg for pardon.
"Yes. Of course, Her Highness would have my head if she should find out," he said with a gruff laugh. His shoulders shook like small tremors. He brought his glass to his mouth and swallowed half the amber contents with a tilt of his head.
Guilford stared into his own glass, his reflection murky. "I suppose I should accept this as a great honour."
Darlton continued as though he hadn't stopped. "Princess Cornelia is a proud woman. She hates to lose. I'm sure you can sympathize with this."
"Of course; no one likes to lose," he said.
"However, at the same time, she is empathetic. Perhaps she might not show it, but she is. She would never knowingly put her troops in harm's way and never allows another to take responsibility for her failures. She accepts the consequences of her actions. I believe that takes a very strong person."
Using his middle finger, Guilford pushed his specs further up the bridge of his nose. "Why, exactly, are you telling me this, General?"
Darlton leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and cradled the remainder of his drink between beefy hands. He brought his voice to a low rumble of a whisper. Guilford leaned in to hear him better.
"Princess Cornelia was in charge of administering Lady Marianne's person guard," he admitted and looked around as if to make sure no one overheard. The other soldiers appeared content with their dinners and conversations. "Despite rumours that Emperor Charles' other wives – the Princess' mother included – disapproved of His Highness' chose to marry a commoner, Cornelia held much respect for the late Lady. Loved her, really.
"It was very traumatic for her when Lady Marianne was assassinated. Not only had she lost someone she loved dearly, but she felt that it was her fault for not protecting her." He sat back with a heavy sigh and polished off the bourbon. "Ever since, she's grown obsessed with becoming better and stronger on the battlefield. There are still plenty of people she wishes to shelter."
"And therefore, her brash actions in battle stem from her desire to prove her worth and make up for the life she failed to keep safe?" Guilford's brow arched and he sipped his drink carefully. "Again I ask, why tell me this?"
When Darlton planted a hand on Guilford's shoulder, the young soldier strained from yielding beneath the weight. "You are a strong man and a brilliant warrior. I can see that each time you give in to Cornelia's orders, your own pride suffers and your hatred for her grows. I ask that you take into consideration her motives and sympathize with her, rather than hate her. Everyone has something they fight for."
He didn't even bother waiting for a response, merely getting up and left the cafeteria, returning to Cornelia's side. Guilford sat a while longer, nursing his drink and Darlton's words. The room slowly emptied, and young women in lacy skirts and black stockings cleaned the tables with damp washcloths.
When the candle on his table had burned to its base and extinguished in a swirl of smoke, he rose from the chair and retired to his quarters. It was a small space; larger than the bunks of warrant officers and generals, but smaller than a knight's. The carpet was linoleum and the walls were steel. There was a kitchenette in the corner consisting of a sink, stove and mini fridge. The washroom contained another sink and a toilet, but he was forced to clean in the public showers down the hall. There was a reading lamp and chair in the living area beside an oak desk where he spent entire nights over maps and scattered papers, switching from pen to compass to ruler and protractor, creating and refining different strategies. The perfect plan was more than work; it was almost like art.
But he didn't feel like working now, and headed straight for the alcove to hang up his coat. He changed into something a little more comfortable, left his glasses on the counter beneath the sink in the bathroom and crawled into his bunk after turning out the lights. Their expedition to Svalbard would begin the following morning.
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In the cockpit of his Knightmare, he adjusted the seat, tugging on his spandex flight suit. Around his ear, he clipped the wireless headset, adjusting the microphone over his mouth for optimal communication. Between his knees, he pulled out the safety lock, replacing it with a gold key and typed in his password on the monitor. All at once, a series of lights and screens turned on, scanning the instruments and confirming function.
After his mission was mapped out as a computer simulation on the three monitors in front of him, the Knightmare was transported on a series of strings and pulleys to the launching deck. The countdown began as he made final adjustments to his settings and established the positions of every other troop.
Upon authorization, he shifted into drive and careened down the deck with the speed and agility of a first-class ice-skater. The frigid land of Svalbard awaited him at the end of the tunnel, the reflection of the sun on the snow blinding him. Britannian forces lined up as planned along the mountain range, guns at the ready.
The Norwegians, having seen them from sentry posts, opened fire, their missiles sending up ice and clouds of snow. Aside from blurred windows and shivering pilots, the Britannians were un-phased. The missiles hadn't had the range to hit them.
On his monitor, Guilford followed Cornelia and Darlton's Knightmares' ascent up the icy cliffs. So far, they'd remained undetected by the forces concentrated on the army down below, but their violet Gloucesters stuck out against the snow.
As predicted, the Norwegians couldn't resist meeting them face to face in combat and began down the slopes. While cannons fired rounds of fire rain over their heads, troops in armoured trucks rumbled closer. Guilford commanded the Sutherlands into formation and the assault began. He wove in and around skull-rattling blasts, firing like an expert sniper at enemy vehicles. White snow lost its colour to blood and gunpowder.
Twenty minutes in and it appeared their victory was already confirmed. The Norwegians' attacks were sloppy and direct. Obviously, these were amateurs; trainees with too little experience.
"Have you secured the base?" Guilford inquired, changing to a private line between himself and Darlton.
"Not quite," he replied. Guilford sensed an underlying quiver in the general's voice. "There is a fair amount of resistance up here we were not expecting. We've lost two Knightmares."
Guilford scanned the field before him, watching the enemy causalities increase by the moment. This battle had been easy, perhaps a little too easy.
"They've seen through our trap," he stated evenly. "Our opponents are merely grunts. Their best fighters are still at the mountain's summit. They've been waiting for you."
"Just as I thought," Darlton said. A whirl of hydro drives and explosion from his Gloucester's cannon echoed in the headset.
"Requesting permission to aid Her Highness and your Lordship," Guilford said. "I'll transfer command to the Glaston Knights."
"Permission granted. Hurry Guilford."
Sniper fighters set their sights on him as he climbed the mountain, narrowly avoiding falling shells and cannon blasts. He was struck from behind by a tank hidden in the cliff; his monitor displayed damage to his left arm. His lips curled up over his teeth. He didn't have the time to waste on fodder like this. In mid-turn, he shot two bullets at the tank, one to the base, the other down the cannon, forcing the awaiting bullet to detonate early.
In her Knightmare, Cornelia struggled against the side of the mountain while enemy gunfire struck her from all directions. Her computers were flashing, turning off and on at varying intervals while sirens rang, warning of a dozen different and contradictory problems at once.
"Damn you!" she screamed and raised her gun at the nearest cannon. She was blinded by a bright spark as her right arm was shot clean off, exposing wires and hardware. Suddenly, the lights in her cockpit shut off; the energy filler was running low.
On the front screen, through the eyes of her Knightmare, she watched a simple Sutherland speed in front of her.
"I thought you could use some help, Your Highness." A corner window appeared on her monitor. From his cockpit, Guilford smirked. Cornelia bit her lip. She didn't want his help, but she knew she needed it.
When the insurgents were dealt with, the barrage ending with smoke and a flurry of light snow in its wake, Guilford turned his Knightmare in the direction of a wounded unit. "You there. Can you make it to the bottom?"
"I think so," whispered the weak voice on the other end.
"Our medical station is just beyond that ridge. Rest there, and have another unit bring Princess Cornelia a new energy filler."
"Yes, my Lord."
The Knightmare descended the mountain and in the quiet, Guilford relaxed. With his thumb, he played with the detonation switch and scanned the ridge for signs of any lingering troops. There were a couple tanks milling around, but he preferred to arrest them rather than kill them if he could. Down below, the war was still raging, but statistics assured him there side was winning. Ninety percent of dots on the monitor were marked ally.
His screen warned of an approaching enemy unit on his left. He watched it carefully, raising his gun. The target quivered before locking onto the tank. It didn't appear to be aiming at him or the princess. When the shell burst from the barrel, he followed it over their heads. A wave of goose bumps coursed down his neck and spread out over his back and arms.
"That was a kamikaze manoeuvre!" he shouted, pressing his headset into his face so not a word was missed. "They've created an avalanche to take out our forces! Everyone retreat! I repeat: pull back now!"
"What?" Cornelia swivelled her Knightmare's head just as the snow fell away from the mountain summit, racing towards her like a hungry beast.
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Disclaimer: Code Geass and its related characters belong to Sunrise, CLAMP and all respected creators.
Author's Note: Guilford x Cornelia is perhaps my favourite pairing in Code Geass. I hope I can portray a believable transition between hatred to love in no more than three chapters.