Disclaimer: I don't own Code Geass.
Warnings: Spoilers for the series' ending, OOC, implicit sex.
Notes: The writing is intentionally weird. This is a little project I've had for a while. There will be an epilogue, which I'll get around to posting sometime.
The sly grey witch with eyes like molten amber. Her skeletal fingers, more like ivory chopsticks, bended and cracked and beckoned — come hither. Her icy breath burning cold on his skin, and death-frost touches searing. She wanders the marble halls in white spectral gowns, a phantom, eyes falsely welcoming. He sees her in Lady Marianne's shadow, sees her standing behind his father's throne.
Sometimes, she approaches him, melted eyes glistening with barely perceptible interest, hands carelessly stroking him. And his mouth presses itself into a thin line before he kisses her, and she feels soft beneath him, icy hands traveling across warm skin. Into his bedroom. That sense of iciness and mystique never leaving the air, and she coyly smiles at him before nonchalantly stripping out of her clothes.
Beside him, she lies like a corpse, limbs strewn haphazardly, hair clumped together in sweat-drenched strands. She lies quietly beside him. Even as he presses himself against her, she is not there. And soon her thin cool body is replaced with colder silk sheets.
She slips through his fingers like ice. Every time, with the coy bored glances, the wan lips sweetly singing mindless affections, the ice-hot hands burning his skin — every time she wanders into his bed and slips out like ice.
But ice must melt eventually, Schneizel convinces himself, lying naked in bed, hand against the slightly damp wrinkled sheets. It is merely a matter of how thick the ice is.
"I will make you want me."
The grey witch looks at him bemusedly from where she sits. "O really. And how will you do that?"
Schneizel does not crack his face into a grin. "It will happen. All walls must be broken down eventually."
"A man ambitious in passion, like your father," she comments dryly, lying down and not bothering to cover herself with the sheets. Her back to him, springleaf hair strewn out behind her, and he plays with it. "Do what you like. I assure you that I will not break."
Schneizel looks at her hair, polished and gleaming like glass, and wonders how many other men have played with such hair, fallen under the spell of molten eyes and airs of mystery — and failed.
He refuses to join their ranks.
Tender kisses and touches have no effect on the grey witch. And she laughs at him from the sheets, legs spread wide, a dark blotch of flush on her pallid skin, hair laid across the pillows like the branches of a tree. "Is this the best you can do?" she pants. He thrusts into her harder, and her laughter mingles with her ragged breaths.
A boy, a boy, she choruses. A mere boy like you cannot break my walls.
When she leaves, he feels as thick-coated and icy as her.
(He remembers when he first met her.)
Schneizel entering the Aries Villa. The maids bow: Your Highness, Lady Marianne has left on official business.
"I know that," he replies curtly — for the grey witch disappeared alongside Marianne. "Where is Lelouch."
"Master Lelouch, Lady Nunnally, and Lady Euphemia are in the first floor recreational room with their caretaker," one of the maids answers carefully. Schneizel walks past her and down warm topaz hallways until he reaches the wide dark double doors. There is warm children's laughter on the other side. He opens the door without warning, without announcement—
And it is not the surprised joy on Lelouch's face, nor the bright glimmering eyes of Nunnally and Euphemia that grabs his attention — it is the lady at the spool, with sun-fire hair and jade eyes like supernovas. She catches his glance and stands up to bow, entangled in her weaving-threads.
Catching her glance again. Her eyes, entrancing and lonely — like staring into a fantastic dream rather than the void of the witch's molten eyes. And skin so warm and glowing that it is like fey sunlight. She is not of this world, he thinks.
"And you are the caretaker?" he asks. She only nods. "What is your name?"
Euphemia answers before she can: "The Lady of the Sun."
The Lady of the Sun shuts her full lips tight and smiles.
She has half-melted the ice of his heart, he concludes. O Lady of the Sun, your hair is so rich and you are brilliant like a dying star. Such long lashes you have, I don't think I've ever seen them so long. Their darkness bringing out the lonely shine of her eyes.
He walks up to her at the edge of the pond, sitting down behind her. Taking a lock of her hair in his hand — it seems to pulsate and glow like a ribbon of flame, warm and beautiful in his palm.
"May I?" he asks her. She only nods. Playing with her hair, twisting and braiding, watching smooth locks furl and unfurl. And their warmth is familiar in his hands, deja vu, like loose threads flying at the edges of his windy memory's grasp. "I feel as if though I've met you before, in a dream, maybe."
The Lady of the Sun says nothing and smiles.
He hears her singing, a ballad of lost love and ancient romantic kingdoms. Her voice is like a chorus of windchimes. She shines in the light of the arched window, and he realizes she is a different kind of phantom. The image of her hair glowing in the glare of the sunlight, the shine of the harp as she gently strums it, her musical voice rising beyond the walls and ceilings and sky — her radiance is forever burned into his memory.
They call a holy ghost an angel — and brilliant angels are called seraphims — but her eyes are too lonely and her radiance too searing for her to be an angel.
An angel? A goddess? he wonders. But angels don't wear dresses the color of mourning and become entangled in their own tapestry.
Silence and respectful clapping replace her voice and harp. Then she is before him, with her arm extended and a small gentle smile.
He daren't touch her. No, it is not meant to be; even now, as she stands mere inches away from him, her soft lips a mere stretch and crane of the neck away from a kiss — even now, he feels the heaviness of her presence. That invisible burden on her back, the melancholic void of her eyes, the light that illuminates it all.
She will surely burn him to a crisp if he touches her.
And so he kisses his brother and sisters goodbye, pats them on the head, and wishes for their good health — and not once does he look at her, for fear that he might be blinded forever if he should do so.
As he returns home, he sees her empyrean image in his mind again and again — that of the Lady of the Sun's.
"Did you find my performance unsatisfactory?"
Sweet windchime words spoken to him. "No, that's not it at all."
"Then why did you avoid me?" She steps closer. Smell of her perfume, and she smells like sweet rich summer flowers. The void in her eyes swallowing his heart. "Have I displeased you in some way?"
"No, not at all."
"Forgive me, it may be rude to demand such things of royalty, but I want to know what it is. It's just, Lady Nunnally and Lady Euphemia were a little worried, and Master Lelouch thought you acted oddly."
Her radiance clouding his vision, rich summer perfume closing in around his senses. How can you not see it? he wants to cry. It is wrong, a prince should not pine for a goddess, but my heart is a fickle thing. Reach. I will reach and reach until I am worthy to desire you.
"..."
"Your Highness?" Her hand, with all the warmth of a glowing fireplace, pressing against his forehead. "Are you alright?"
He grasps her hand in his — it burns him to his very core. "It is nothing," he says. "A little feverish, that's all."
And his heart never did leap as joyfully as it did when the Lady of the Sun gazed upon him with concern — with caring.
He sits next to her on the cool steel garden bench, smiling, speaking, soaking in her sunlight and feeling it scald him. She asked if he was happy with his life.
"...I am quite content most of the time. I have my brothers and sisters, the respect of the court and my father." Clasping her hand, craning his neck to get a better look at the face he loves so. "I have a few good friends. What about you?"
Her radiance dulled, solemn. "I find I am often lost."
"O? I would think you would be accustomed to the layout of the villa by now."
She shakes her shining head. "I didn't mean it like that." A small, false smile. "Really, it's nothing."
Realization hitting him like a sharp blow. "But if you feel that way, you should—"
"It is nothing. Pardon me for interrupting, but it is really nothing." She turns away from him, hair like autumn leaves.
And it is a small sliver of spirituality, a small sliver of belief, that keeps Schneizel's mouth shut — for what right has he to meddle in the divine affairs of his Goddess, the Lady of the Sun?
The grey witch and Marianne return unexpectedly early. The witch begins to haunt the marble corridors again, every now and then catching his eye, winking, smiling crooked coy smiles. And every time he sees her, he allows brilliant light to flood his vision temporarily — hair that burns like the sun and sweet windchimes and vibrating harp strings — and then the icy witch is no more.
Lady Marianne stops him in the hall one day, face unreadable. Her hand on his arm is too much like a lioness's death-grip. "She's waiting for you in the guest room down the corridor." She lets go and proceeds down the moonlit hallway, gliding gracefully over marble, raven tresses trailing out behind her like a reaper-cloak.
His mind and body numb, empty, frozen over with ice. He walks down the dark marble halls, not looking at anyone or anything, save for one.
She stands over the bed, pulling the blanket over the drowsy body beneath the sheets, glowing like soft lamplight. And her windchime voice sings a soothing lullaby all the while, pale glowing hands caressing hair as her own ghosts over their faces, warm trickles of fire.
He looks from the open door, meeting her eyes, and smiles at her.
And down the hall, peering from a crack in the door, the molten eyes of the grey witch burn with fury.
"Do you love her?"
Schneizel stares at the grey witch, her long thin body outlined by the sheets that stuck to her dewy skin. "Who?"
Her lips quivering. "Don't play dumb; don't make me say it. You love her, don't you?"
Schneizel's silence is enough of an answer for both of them.
The grey witch lunges forward, nails clawing at his skin, eyes wild. "Why? Wasn't it you that said you would make me want you?"
"I'd say I've already accomplished that," he replies, shrugging her off and pulling the covers over him. Her pride will make her back down, he thinks.
But it is the snarl in the witch's voice when she says, "I wonder what she'd think of you if she saw you like this," and the barely audible whimper in the stillness of the room that makes him think otherwise.
From afar, he sees them meet in the hallways, two specters in the sunlight.
The grey witch, words like knives, hands clenched into fists. The Lady of the Sun opening her mouth and silver words pouring forth.
The grey witch spits in her face and storms off, cheeks burning. The Lady watches her go, taking a small handkerchief out to wipe off the phlegm.
Schneizel approaches her worriedly. "Are you alright?"
"Yes."
"That was rude of her. I'm sorry."
"What a poor child she is," the Lady remarks, turning toward him, and he sees what made the witch's cheeks flush red:
His Goddess pitied the grey witch.
'She only wishes to be loved.'
The Lady of the Sun's words play again and again in his mind, an ominous refrain — and yet still, his skin, kissed and scorched by fey brilliance, crawls and tingles beneath the witch's icy cold touches. Yet still, he thinks of her jade-void eyes when he meets wild desperate amber ones.
He thinks only of the sun even as the witch clings to his body, skin and tears arctic, soft silent pleas to never be left alone muffled against his chest.
"You must have a name."
The Lady of the Sun smiles. "It wouldn't matter if I told you what it was." Looking up to meet the cold face. "Besides, yours is barely human."
The grey witch's lips drawing into a thin line. "Nobody is named Lady of the Sun."
"Of course not." A thoughtful pause. "Euphie gave the name to me."
The grey witch looks down at her, the melancholy smile on her glowing face, long fingers and legs woven in between thick threads as she sits before the weaver. A sinister smell of metal on the edge of her perfume, and the grey witch doesn't want to think about it—
"What I don't understand," she says, "is how he can love someone with no name."
And the Lady of the Sun, for the first time since she has known her, stops smiling and falls deathly silent.
The grey witch rests on his arm now, her dark icy presence always beside him. She shoots false proud smiles at all of the women, digs her nails into his skin and lets her frigid lips pass over his ear. He knows she will cry later that night, asking for affections she will never receive.
He searches and searches for the sun in the gardens and the halls — he chases her, calls her name and runs through bushes and flowers, reaching for her.
But so long as the grey witch clings to his arm, the Lady of the Sun flees.
His mother arranges a ball, shooting knowing coquettish looks at the grey witch perched on his arm. She's pretty, my son, she remarks. Won't you take her to the ball?
Schneizel doesn't reply. His arm has grown numb from her weight, from her ice. He thinks of the Lady, avoiding him — What did I do wrong? he wonders. I did not ask for the grey witch to cling to me.
His mother takes the grey witch aside and to the dressing room, speaking of arrangements and engagements and public debuts. He wishes and hopes he meets the Lady — then he vows to meet her, to pursue her and reach until he is there with her. Surely he can do something right. The witch's road is too bitter and lonely and cold, and she is too much like the devil at his heels. Let me be scorched again. Let me drown in her fire.
His mother and the grey witch emerge from the dressing room, and the witch looks shockingly pale in a white ball gown. His mother smiles widely, revealing rows of false perfect teeth.
"Doesn't she look nice? I know you like white, and I think she should match."
Schneizel looks at the witch's desperate smile and pleading eyes. She is thin and skeletal in the dress, as bright and pearly as the moon itself.
"Perfect. She'll wear that to the ball," he says, smiling a warm genuine smile.
Yes! Put black-hearted witches in white! Liars dress themselves in purity, he thinks to himself. And only the honest and pure-hearted wear the black of mourning cloth.
(He selects a black tuxedo to wear to the ball — it will match her dress perfectly.)
She is putting on her makeup when the Lady quietly slips into her room, face solemn, lips pulled down at the edges. The grey witch puts her lipstick down. "What do you want?"
"I'm here to say good-bye." The Lady approaches her, insufferably warm, hair giving off an unnatural glow that she hates. "...I am giving him to you."
The grey witch glares at her venomously through the mirror. "Don't mock me. From all the glowingpraise he's bestowed upon you, I'd think you better than that."
"I'm not mocking you. I really am leaving, and I really am giving him to you." The Lady's soft serious face, almost dream-like in the mirror. "Please take care of him for me."
"O, so you do love him."
"'Love' isn't the right word," the Lady of the Sun says quietly, eyes haunting.
When the grey witch struts up to him, chin held contemptuously high, confident smirk gracing her pale lips, he feels a chill run down his spine. "You seem chipper," he remarks blandly.
"O, I am." Taking his hand, leading him across the crowded floor. "Humor me; ask me why."
"Why then, you wicked witch."
"Ha. You're a comedian. Your precious little Lady is gone. She gaveyou to me." The grey witch grabs a glass of champagne — she barely looks old enough to drink — and guzzles it down. "And when I asked, she said she didn't love you."
The music seems to fade around him, his whole world becomes icy-black. "You lie."
"Then look for her," the grey witch replies triumphantly. "You won't find her. All mine...! She gave you to me like a used toy! And then she called you her dear friend! Some friend she is."
Schneizel falls back into the crowd — he realizes he probably looks horrified, shocked, betrayed — So she didn't love me after all? He can still smell her summery perfume, see her long sun-fire hair, hear her voice whispering in his mind's ear. She cannot be gone, he thinks to himself. Not when she's still here. So clearly, I can see her so clearly in my memory.
The party picks up and the grey witch takes him out onto the floor, smirking all the while, twirling and waltzing to soundless music. He goes through the motions, feels the brilliance within him die down, the scorched sensation turn into dull chill. He watches the witch before him parade in a wedding-white dress.
I have been claimed by the darkness, he thinks plaintively. He tries to reason with himself: it might not be half-bad. I need it for this life I lead. She is experienced in bed. Coldly beautiful.
And yet her sun always remains within him — faint and dying. He sometimes thinks of her brilliance, the golden harp and the long dark lashes and the glow of her skin. Burned into his memory forever. Her sun continues to fade.
Dying suns burn the brightest, he thinks to himself as he slips a white coat on.