A/N: ...er. I don't know what to say?

Warnings: Squishy subjects! As it's LelouchEuphemia, an obvious incest warning, and— I can't say that there isn't spoilers for all the things that Euphemia does at the ending of season one (the last few episodes, I mean), but I can't say that there aren't any spoilers, either. I'd go in with an idea of what happens, though. Just in case.

Even though I don't think this counts as a warning, this is AU, in which Euphie (ye be warned, spoilers lurk here) survives and Lelouch, in an attempt to save her, was captured.

Disclaimer: I definitely don't own Code Geass. I mean, I wish I did—but, nope. I don't own the two lines at the beginning of the fic, either. Kudos to the person who knows the ballad it's from!

but she has a lovely face
god in his mercy lend her grace

The pages, covered in spider-like scrawl, fluttered under Euphemia's tentative fingers. They were old and yellowed and fragile. It felt like she was holding an entire world in her hands, a world of words and endless possibilities.

"Look, Lelouch!" She turned towards him, sprawled out on the couch in the middle of the room. There was a bored expression on his face. A book was laid prostate on his stomach. Being who she was, she only saw how relaxed he looked— not how that was only a farce and underneath it, tension knotted in his shoulders. She would never see the way he looked like a predator, waiting and prepared to react. "It's the book we used to read when we were children!"

"Mhm?" he raised his head from where it laid against a cushion, lazy violet eyes scanning the cover. "That it is. What about it?"

She shook her head and laughed, covering her mouth with a thin hand. "Silly! I wouldn't have taken it out if we weren't going to read it!" Euphemia skipped over and sat at the end of the couch, thighs inches from Lelouch's feet. Her half-brother sighed and sat up. He looked over her shoulder and thumbed the edge of several pages, flipping quickly past several stories and gently tugging it out of her hands.

"What story?" he asked her, licking the fabric on his thumb, apparently forgetting he was wearing gloves. It looked like he'd done this many times before. Euphemia felt guilt coil, curdle in her stomach, but she knew what she'd done had been right. She had gotten both Nunnally and Lelouch back, and all three of them were together. Even though Lelouch wasn't happy now, he would be.

Long ago, she'd compared herself to a caged bird. There were thousands of them in the royal aviaries, singing sweet melodies to nobles. She had set and fed them from the palm of her hand. They were all beautiful, ranging from exotic toucans to cardinals and bluebirds. But now, she felt no pity for herself. She glanced at Lelouch from the corner of her eye. He was the one she felt pity for.

The thin manacles around his ankles rattled as he shifted, a frown appearing on his face. It evaporated in seconds when she placed her hand on his knee, dissolving into surprise and freezing into dismissal within seconds. She felt something sharp within at it, but swallowed. Her throat felt tight. Euphemia smiled at him wretchedly, fighting back tears.

It had all gone wrong that day, the one she couldn't remember. She had gotten up and gone to what would have been the Special Administrative Zone of Japan, and the last thing she remembered was seeing the Gawain and— Lelouch. The next thing she knew, she had woken up stuffed full of needles and tubes, beeping monitors and breathing machines all around her.

For a week, she had lain in that white hospital bed. Scheiznel and Cornelia had both come and visited her, as well as members of her guard and Suzaku. She'd made the mistake of asking where Lelouch was, once, when he was around. Her answer had been for Suzaku to press his lips into a white line and for his entire expression to transform into something ugly and hateful, so potent and tangible she'd pressed herself against the pillow and tightly shut her eyes.

Months had flown past. The nurses and doctors that visited her had all been Britannia. She didn't think to question it. Eventually, she was told that she was to go back to Pendragon Palace. They didn't give her a reason then, either, and she still didn't think to question it.

During that time, she'd assumed that Lelouch had died. She cried for him and told her therapists it was just the pain, smiling through her tears, and they gave her bottle upon bottle of pills. Some were for her sleep, and they stopped the nightmares for a little while. But she still woke up in the middle of the night, blood smeared red against the back of her eyelids, fingers clawing into the tangled sheets and the afterimage of mismatched eyes piercing her to the heart.

The day she walked into the library and saw him standing there, back turned to her, had been the shock of her life. He had turned to face her when the door creakily slammed shut. The look on his face hadn't been happy, but when she ran forward and threw herself into his arms, he didn't protest. She hadn't noticed that chains until she felt one of the links digging into her back, though it could have just been his fingernails. Euphemia had buried her nose in his hair; he no longer smelt like a rebellion, bitter smoke and tangy metal. Instead, it was the scent of cool running water and a million flowers: the gardens, he'd explained later. He spent lots of time there.

He'd been shell-shocked, those first days. She could tell it in the way he dazedly followed her around. It had worried her until she asked Cornelia about it. She didn't dare ask why he was there when her answer was that he was drugged, of course— Euphie, did you really expect us to let you be allowed around an aware killer?

No, sister, had been her demure response. The truth was that when she tried to remember anything about that masked vigilante, Zero, there was a blank spot in her memory, like someone had taken a whiteout or a flame-thrower and scoured him away. It made her hands shake when she thought that someone was inside her head, disassembling her thoughts and then putting them back together. There wasn't anything particularly personal inside her head; she'd always been outspoken, unless she thought it would hurt someone. But it was just... What if, in those places she couldn't remember, there had been something dangerous?

"Euphemia," he said, and his face was concerned. Her hand was clenching his knee, fingers digging in and occasionally flying into spasms.. She sucked in a sharp, short breath and tried to convince herself that there wasn't anything different about this. She'd never been involved in anything to do with terrorists and Japan— all she'd done was try to create the Special Zone, right? ...Right? "Euphemia! Euphie!"

"I'm so sorry," she exhaled shakily, closing her eyelids. Both of her hands went up to her face and she pressed her fingertips against her cheekbones. It was hard to take those deep breaths the counselor had told her to, whenever she felt a panic attack coming on. Pain was another thing that would steady her, but her hands were already aching. That was something she'd have to apologize for, when she gathered herself again: there was no doubt that she'd made Lelouch bleed. "I— I'm supposed to be getting better, but—"

Her fingers fumbled at her throat. Her chest was constricting; it felt locked, with keys and mechanisms. Euphemia's ragged, bitten nails finally caught on the choker tied there: a simple ribbon, black in color. She still wore her pastels, yet when she'd searched for her old necklaces, she'd found nothing but broken string and scattered beads.

Where was the clasp— she couldn't find out where she'd made the bow— and she was choking, breath coming out in gasps, hands fluttering uselessly like a caged bird's wings just might. There was a taste like salt in her mouth; she was sobbing. She couldn't find enough air in her lungs, and she was seeing that dark purple color— that red, not of blood but of something else— and then, yes, the red of blood. The red on white of Japan, but the flag that stood stark against her memory was gray and dirty.

She nearly vomited when the ribbon landed in her lap. Euphemia lurched forward, only to find a pair of arms around her waist. Distinctly, in the background of her hysteria, she could imagine the cooler fingers against the nape of her neck, a whispered here warm against her neck, and the overwhelming relief of no longer choking.

"Sorry," she whimpered. She turned her face to the side. Lelouch was looking at her, all distaste and contempt previously there gone. He was looking at her as if she had changed, but if he thought it was for better or worst, she couldn't tell. She did the only thing she knew to, that might make this better. And she wanted to. All her relief at seeing him again, every sense of sorrow she'd felt when she thought he'd died— she tried to communicate it to him, as she leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.

He made a soft, surprised sound in his throat. She felt the edges of the book of fairy-tales press hard into her stomach, opening one eye to see that it was open to Beauty and the Beast— and closed her eye and the book. Euphemia tangled her hands in his hair, spreading them across his scalp. His lips trailed down to her throat, swept across her right clavicle, his hands still at her waist, as if to catch her from a precarious fall. She felt solid for the first time in nearly a year, complete.

As things slowed down and stilled, she could hear the pattering of rain against the window. She looked out there, surprised— the sun was still shining, pouring golden midday light across the grounds. The drops were streaks of darkness against the yellow backdrop of shadow that pooled across the floor. Lelouch was leaning his head against her shoulder, the ends of his bangs tickling her skin. She smiled and placed another kiss against the part of his hair.

"I never got to read for you," he said, abruptly. He sat up and, with one arm stilled wrapped around her waist and pulling her against his side, opened the book to a random page. It was East of the Sun and West of the Moon— a ridiculous name for a fairy-tale, he commented. She laughed and closed her eyes, content to just listen to his voice.

When they were children, they had done this all the time. One of them had cradled Nunaly, and he would read. His voice had always been inflected according to what part he had been playing. It was one of the only ways to get his little sister to sleep. After, they would sit and talk.

When he was done reading and everything was quiet, so peacefully quiet, she tucked her hand into his own. Things had changed; he had changed, and so had she. But at the core, they were the same.

"Lelouch," she started, "you're not taking the drugs anymore, are you?"

"You knew?" he asked, nuzzling the the junction of her hand and her wrist. He didn't seem to be the least puzzled that she had knowledge of what her siblings had been doing. Yes, she thought it had been wrong— but they'd called him a killer. She didn't want to believe it, yet... There was a treacherous thing that told her that they were right. "Of course you did. But you're right; I'm not."

"I'm glad," she replied, and smiled ruefully. "You weren't yourself when you were taking them. By the way... How's Nunnally?"

"I'm not allowed to see her," he said, playing with stands of her hair. There was that look on the him— leonine, cruel and bitter. "They say I'm dangerous. She doesn't want to see me, anyway."

The path of his fingers, pressing against her sternum, set fire to her skin and made her face flush. They had whisked up, traced the curve of her shoulder with a lightness that should only belong to feathers, and skimmed along her side. She knew the pressure he applied wasn't intentional.

"One day," she whispered, lacing their fingers together and holding their hands between them, "I'll change things, I promise. Nunally probably does want to see you, and I'll make sure she will. After all, you're her onii-sama, right?"

Later, they were both found asleep on the couch, limbs entangled. No one knew who it was that found them, but the noble who walked in and found them reading, covered by a blanket, was quite shocked.

Three months later, Lelouch Lamperouge, formerly Lelouch vi Britannia, was hung for crimes against the Holy Empire of Britannia. In his pocket was a black ribbon.

Euphemia li Britannia died a year later, shot by a former Japanese citizen during a press conference.

She never fulfilled her promise.

A/N: My personal feelings are that the first three-fourths are good, and the last fourth is terrible. ;_; My apologies. I had two different directions in mind of which this could go in, and then when I tried implimenting them, neither worked, so I scrapped both. But I hope it isn't that bad.

Feedback appreciated!