Old
She is always swimming in his mind, no end and no beginning and nothing else (in-between). She can smile and play, or cry and do whatever she may. But when her laughs and jolts have all been spent, C.C. acts the martyr (once again).
And tonight, she is there next to him, all bloodied up and bruised and smelling of death—of something decaying, putrid, vile, and old. Centuries old, and still breathing. Her breath is shallow (deep too, deep like the ocean and bottomless).
The world outside is lonely and bustling. And they are just lonely.
"Hey."
C.C. stirs, smiles—is awake.
"Hey, yourself."
"How're you feeling?"
"Dead."
And he grinned stupidly back.
-x-
That night, she is flying over him and herself (limp and restless, catching the flickering light spinning out the window). Her arms are aching, and her mind is racing.
There is something she has to do. Something she should, must remember. But does not.
And soon, the night is gone. And in the morning, C.C. remembers nothing.
-x-
Sometimes, she imagines kissing him. Just to see what it was like, what it felt—how it was (and is). How it should be.
If only she wasn't a millennium too young and spent.
If only—
-x-
Now, she is the heroine, and he is the Near-Dead. But she's decided to give him Geass, and maybe, he'll do something good (unlike that damned father of his). And so, his heart is beating again, palpates harshly underneath her callused palm.
But he is alive, and she is satisfied.
Because she has lived for far too long. Too long to still be walking.
C.C. falls, and Lelouch sees just that—before carrying out of the dust—
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.