Title: Bright Colours
Characters/Pairings: Clovis-centric. Also contains mentions of the Imperial Family.
Rating: G, with PG-13 being the murder of Marianne.
Word Count: 2806 words
Summary: Lelouch is not the only one against the man he has to call father. Prince Clovis is one of those from his brothers and sisters, and even he has emotion.
Notes: When potential -coughyaoicough- fanservice dies that fast and has character development after they're dead, they need moar love. So here's some love with Clovis as a proud little boy who likes to paint pretty pictures.
Warnings/Spoilers: Episode 2, 3, 17, and 24. Extremely minor details, though, from the last two.
Disclaimer: Code Geass does not belong to me. If it did, Pizza Hut would overthrow the Order of the Black Knights and become triumphant with C.C as the almighty queen. We don't want that, right?

- Bright Colours -

- Written by: Xin Fyrrae -

Clovis la Britannia, when he could swallow his pride, considered himself a very simple person.

His tactics at chess were simple to spot; he always moved the strongest forward in one swift movement, and kept his king protected by weaker pieces. His svelte but skinny figure proved he wasn't a candidate for jousting, horseback riding, or any physical activity for the matter. His manners were also not the best when he would fail at a challenge, and his leadership skills were way below par.

And even though the other branches would look down upon him as nothing more than a spoilt brat who was unfortunate enough to be the son of her Highness Empress la Britannia, they all knew one thing about him that was his most redeeming quality. There was no doubt that his Highness the Third Prince Clovis was one of the best painters in the royal family.

And it was something the young noble was proud of, but it was more than just that. Fine arts have always been a passion of his. If it wasn't painting, it was acting or music, or maybe something more diverse like sculpting. But for Clovis, it was usually painting, preferably still life. At times, he would doodle or try a unique, abstract style, but most of the time, he liked to paint realism.

He enjoyed the feeling of a brush in his hand, dipping the tip gently into the paints and gliding the fibres across a canvas with precision and ease. Each careful yet wistful stroke of colour, like a rainbow, until finally the thing that he wanted to paint would come to life on his canvas. It was collecting the beauty and emotion of even the most dullest, lacklustre things, and using it to turn nothingness into something bright and beautiful.

Creation, his art teacher had told him. It was creation; it was power. But that wasn't it, she had continued. It was more than simply power. It was a born talent; a gift.

It made Clovis happy. This gift; it was a treasured, precious talent that he was thankful for. It was his gift, and it brought him a sense of relaxation and freedom, yet at the same time, it was exciting as well.

Enlightenment, said his art teacher once when he had asked her what that great feeling was that he felt in his heart. It was enlightenment that he was feeling. When the painting was finished, the feeling would usually be accompanied by victory. But it's more than just a victory; so much more than that, she had added when Clovis had finished painting his Highnesses Pollux and Castor rui Britannia in still poses.

The prince learned this as he grew older. Clovis began to use his emotions to his advantage; this was usually when he freehanded or painted abstract. If he was in a thoughtful mood, for example, he would doodle a swirl of bright, vivid pastels against dark, broody contours, or paint a castle against a moonlit, starry sky. When it was a gloomy, rainy afternoon, he would still go out (making sure there was a good, leak-proof roof), and paint it. He would feel its mysterious air, and channel it into his painting, so that when he was finished, it held emotion.

He also painted to get rid of any stress he had. Any time he was beaten badly at a game, if he was humiliated in any way by the other branches, or if he was just in a bad mood; he would take a canvas, a palette, his brushes and his paints, and go out in the courtyard, his room, or anywhere else where he could paint away his troubles. It always made his mood brighter, and it still contained the emotion he wanted.

Emotion is painting, was one of the final shining pearls of wisdom his art teacher had told him. Without emotion in a painting, then it is only a picture; something to gaze upon and marvel at, but it would never touch hearts. Always try and incorporate emotion and feeling, an inspiration, into your paintings, your Highness. Never abuse it.

It was on the same day her Highness Empress vi Britannia was assassinated that his father had abused his gift.

"So, little Lelouch, I see you're trying to use the same tactic yet again if you think you can topple me," the blue-eyed boy of imperial birth had scoffed on that day, a smug smile on his face as he moved his knight to the side of the board. He ran his fingers through his golden tresses. "Not that easy, since I know how your mind works."

The dark-haired, younger boy forced his lips to curve at the edges. "You're all talk, Clovis," retorted Lelouch vi Britannia. The smirk became genuine as the knight fell victim to the black rook. "Take my word for this, chess is not your suit. You've only gotten a draw against older brother Oscar, you've lost every time against older brother Schniezel, and as for I, this is our thirty-seventh game thus far, and you haven't been able to beat me once out of those thirty-six times."

It was Clovis turn to fake a smile as he watched Lelouch pick up his fallen white knight, and put it aside his queen and her other fallen subjects. "Well, none of those losses will count. This time, I do intend to beat you, once and for all," he remarked. He sat for a while, observing the board, before he moved his pawn.

"And as usual, sacrifice the lowly subjects if you don't have anymore strong warriors," Lelouch chuckled slyly, using the same rook to take the pawn down. He stared at Clovis triumphantly with his bright purple eyes. "You've lost this game again, Clovis. In two more moves I will checkmate. You should stick more to your painting."

The third prince didn't even try to hide his scowl as he squirmed in his seat and bluffed as he moved a bishop diagonally upwards. At that moment as Lelouch moved a pawn nearer to queen, he saw it. That bishop. He had forgotten all about it. That rook had been blocking the bishop's way to a king with a pawn on his left, and a knight on his side. In front of him, the queen.

His eyes lit up and a victorious grin crossed his face. Lelouch must have noticed it too; his eyes flickered as his gaze hardened in sudden realization that Clovis' bishop would soon topple his king, in his next move. Just as Clovis was about to place his fingers on his bishop, one of the servants entered the door. "Your Highness Prince Clovis," she said, bowing. "The Emperor sends for you."

"And therefore the game is paused. Since you never laid a finger on your chess piece, there is no move, and so this game will resume when you return, Clovis," Lelouch taunted, a smirk on his face.

Clovis shot him a look. "You know, even if this game is paused, the victory is mine, little Lelouch vi Britannia," he replied haughtily, before turning around and walking out with that servant out the doors of the room. He placed a hand on his chin. Why would the Emperor be bothering with him anyway? The la Britannia branch, third in line, was always said around the other branches not to be worthy of the Emperor anyhow. The Emperor never even paid much attention to his mother. What was the point?

He heard one of the subjects announce that he, Lord Clovis la Britannia, Third Prince of the Britannian Empire, had arrived. He walked through the doors of the Emperor's throne hall, down the velvet red carpet, past the gossiping nobles, and looked up to see the man that was supposed to be his father. "Your Highness," Clovis said, placing a fist over his shoulder and bowing down on his right knee. He looked up. "You sent for me?"

The large man didn't even flinch at the indignant look in his son's eyes. "I did," he replied. When Clovis stood up but never answered back, he spoke up again. "They say that you are a talented painter."

That got his attention as Clovis whipped his head up, trying to ignore the whispers around the room. Exactly where was he going with this? The son of la Britannia wondered. Cautious now, he nodded as he looked back up at the emperor. "I do paint," he responded, almost uneasily. "Why is it you ask?"

It hit him again, right before the Emperor could respond. It made his blood turn cold at the thought of it. "There have been many painters out there with talent as close to your own, who have captured the integrity and strength of the Britannian Empire," the Emperor had rambled. "And now, I'd like to see how you fare."

It irked Clovis. He knew even before the Emperor finished, what he had to do. If there were a few things he would simply not paint, it was this man. Ever since he had learned how to paint emotion, he had purposely, ignorantly, avoided painting Emperor di Britannia.

"Your Highness, I am very busy at the moment," Clovis replied politely. He had better things to do, such as accomplish his victory with brother vi Britannia. "If you would allow me the time to finish all my tasks and deeds, I could paint your portrait later – "

"Are you trying to go against the order of the Emperor?" the man had interrupted, his tone stone cold. "I am sure that whatever folly things that you are doing, that they are not as important as an order from the highest power."

It was as Clovis had feared. He opened his mouth to protest, but as the guards stepped forward warningly, he took one step back. It was the time, then. He could not avoid it any longer. He would have to use his gift for something he did not want to use it on.

And so, several minutes later, he found himself alongside six other painters with brushes to their canvas, willing to gratify that man for pride and honour. Clovis knew his mother would have wanted this, in hopes of him achieving a closer rank to becoming the successor of the throne. But like many of his brothers and sisters, he despised this man.

And as he dipped the brush into a pool of blue liquid, he felt his pride being stabbed as he began to paint. There was nothing he wanted to put that resembled the slightest touch of emotion in this painting. He knew there were qualities of the Emperor that would work well in this portrait; integrity and strength, as he said. What Clovis saw was arrogance, ignorance, and cruelty, and what Clovis felt was anger.

After some time, he dipped his brush, intentionally, into red, and streaked it across the Emperor's face. He faked a gasp and looked up. "I seem to have made a mistake, your Highness," he quipped. "I can't work with this!"

"Start another one then. I do not allow mistakes."

Clovis' eyebrows furrowed. "But, father – " he protested.

The Emperor glared at him. "It must be perfect, because they say you can make the most perfect, most amazing paintings, and that is what I expect of you."

His blue eyes icy, Clovis glared back before dipping his brush in water, and running the wet tip against the stained area of the Emperor's face. He used a small cloth to remove the water before it removed the rest of the colours, and reluctantly, began repainting the details.

The painting was beginning to grow in detail. Clovis had tried to brush away his personal feelings to finish this thing as soon as possible. He decided he would not allow his painting to be lacking. Emotion, yes. Quality, no. The painter next to him soon finished, and turned his canvas over for the Emperor to see. The Emperor's eyes shifted, and he nodded faintly in approval. "I wonder why my own son, a prince to the Imperial Family, cannot finish as swiftly but yet stunningly as this noble here," he said bluntly.

His anger flared. Here was a buffoon who did not know a thing about art, trying to talk as though he knew about the subject! He would finish when he would finish! His pride shifting to a challenge, Clovis dipped his brush into his palette, and began to make swift strokes. Mistakes were not allowed; this time, he would show that nasty old king. He ignored the amount of lighting in the room; dark shades were added as though there was a focal point to where the light was coming from. Duller shades were either kept or replaced with brighter, fiercer colours.

But just before Clovis could finish applying the final touches, there were multiple gunshots heard out, followed by petrified screams. The nobles fled from the rooms, their ears following the direction of whatever incident had occurred. Clovis stepped forward as well, his heart pumping in both fear and anxiety, and curiosity longing to see what was going on.

"You will stay here and finish the portrait, Clovis," the Emperor snapped, brushing past him.

That did not stop him from pushing and ducking past the crowd until he arrived at the scene, only to have the horrid sight of Empress vi Britannia fallen over her terrified daughter, her raven black locks covering her frozen face as she lay in a pool of her own blood, which overwhelmingly seemed to grow bigger as it trailed down the steps of the stone stairs.

Lelouch screamed for an eternity, Cornelia soon joined him as she trembled on her knees, and Clovis could not hold himself back as he retched and began to cry in horror in the comforting embrace of his older brother Schneizel.

In that following time, Empress Vi Britannia's children had also died in what was now Area 11. Clovis seemed to see Schneizel and Cornelia more together, and they had always seemed to talk about Empress Vi Britannia, almost secretly. He had always asked them if they knew something, but they never shared it with him. It upset him greatly, since even Schneizel, one of his favourite brothers, shared secret ideas of finding a mythological power one day. If a brother he wasn't even full blood with was willing to tell him that, then he deserved to know about the fate of Lelouch.

Not only would he lose his victory now, but a good brother.

And so it was one day when Clovis, reminiscing, was painting a memory of Lelouch, with his beloved mother and sister, out in a sunset-lit courtyard, he glanced back at the portrait he had been forced to finish.

The Emperor had personally dragged Clovis back to the throne room after they had taken away Marianne and Nunnally's bodies, just so that Clovis would finish that painting of him.

Instead of caring for his wife and daughter, and giving comfort to his son, he chose a painting of himself.

It was abuse in many ways; in Clovis', a way to simply humiliate him as the lower power. A way to explain that the Emperor ruled over every little piece of freedom that he had, including his gift. And all the nobles and rich men who had walked down the halls of this personal museum, marvelled in awe and appreciation at the greatness of the Empire captured in the painting made by the best painter in the family, even going as far to telling Clovis straight in his face that must have loved his father ever so dearly.

Enraged over the thought, Clovis jerked his hand. His cup of red paint was knocked over in the sudden movement, causing him to spill all over his favourite gold-trimmed, fine purple robes. The cup fell, the paint spilling out and oozing along the grass. It brought back the memory, which made Clovis bite his thumb in apprehension.

He then turned his attention back to the painting of the Emperor. Was it truly finished? An artist was never done until he was, not when somebody else was done. It was a simple, almost childish little prank, but as he knew, defacing a replica of his Royal Highness was like a slap to the face. But this was not just vandalism. This was making sure that this painting was complete.

This painting required emotion.

Stabbing the brush into the paint that he had spilt on his garments and the ground, Clovis stormed over to the painting of that man, and angrily flicked his brush at it.

Red splattered against the Emperor sitting high and mighty in his throne, and began to drip against his clothes.

Satisfied, the third prince turned his back to it. "Now it is complete," Clovis la Britannia said as he walked back over to finish his painting.

- Fin -