Milly often wonders how he deals with this new life of his, so far removed from that of opulence and luxury he once knew.
She asks him about it on his first day in Ashford Academy; they are little more than children, gap-toothed and knobbly-kneed, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the school hall long after the other students have gone home.
At least they have homes to go back to, Lelouch murmurs to the floor, as he idly draws patterns on the ground, sketching out a dozen, a hundred, a thousand different possibilities. His voice is a flat, carefully-controlled monotone, tinged with the barest hint of wistfulness and sorrow, and she is struck by how old he sounds, so very old and sad and tired.
Even though she does not fully understand, her heart goes out to him. The whole world was his oyster, once, and he could have had anything—he only had to say it.
He's had to trade in his gold and rubies and emeralds for a simple, starched schoolboy's uniform. He's given up his brocaded vests and silk suits for a plain white shirt and black slacks, ill-fitting on his fragile young body, bent in upon itself like the spindly frame of a fledgling bird.
He never asked for any of this.
Do you miss being a prince? she asks him, tilting her head to the side as she surveys the fine contours of his chiselled features. Is there anything you would change?
He gazes implacably at her, with eyes as dull and distant as river-pebbles. No, he murmurs, and she believes him.
- - x x x x x - -
Lelouch knows that she cannot help but feel curious, though he also knows that she holds her tongue and stays silent, for fear of offending him.
She's so much like a lady, unlike the so-called noblewomen of his father's court, who whisper to one another behind their ornate paper fans when his mother's coffin is borne out of the chapel. He hates it, hates every last little facet of this sham of a life in the lap of luxury, in the seat of royalty.
They play a game of deceit and trickery, hide their true natures behind fawning masks of cultured, genteel grace. He can taste the falseness of their words hanging in the air, toxic and choking, despite the plastic smiles which are pasted broadly upon their faces.
He never asked for any of this.
When he and Nunnally are banished, he finds that he does not have it in him to care. He has long been sick of the petty trivialities of the upper-class society, of the backstabbing and treachery. His siblings all squabble amongst themselves like quarrelsome vultures, vying for his father's attention, all with their sights set on the throne.
There is nothing he would change about his life. Nothing at all.
If he can, though, maybe, just maybe, he will try and change the world, bit by bit.
- - x x x x x - -
epilogue. Usual disclaimers apply. Written for cgdrabble on LiveJournal.