Disclaimer: Code Geass – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. Nor do I own A Christmas Carol (Charles Dickens) or the carol I based the title off and plucked a couple of stanzas from; it's a very pretty song, and it sort of fits, and I love it to pieces.
Author's Note: This is a Christmas fic that is either five or six days late, depending on where you live. As stated in the summary, it's based loosely on Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, so if you're familiar with that story you'll be seeing quite a number of parallelisms here. If you haven't read it / heard of it, don't worry; besides the 'three ghosts haunting your dreams on Christmas Eve' theme, and the tongue-in-cheek parallelisms I just mentioned, at the end of the day the stories are actually nothing alike.
There are several reasons I decided to write this fic, one of which is the fact that I don't think I write Lelouch as well as I would like; this is 'practice' in a sense. Also, I wanted to experiment on another variation of my writing style: this piece is entirely in present-tense, and this one change afforded an entirely unique set of advantages and problems alike.
Hmmm what else. All I really want to say at this point is that little-little things are key, especially near the end where things start to get crazy, in more ways than one.
Warnings: Not a fluffy-happy Christmas story. Long fic is really ridiculously long, and some language may be inappropriate for the kiddies. Spoilers for big things and also for many little things (mini-challenge: find allusions to Schneizel!; there are two), but you have to know where to look. And on that note, if you haven't watched all the way till the end of R2, the entire 'Ghost of Christmas Future' segment isn't going to make any sense whatsoever, no matter what you do.
Enjoy the fic!
Yet with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong.
And man, at war with man, hears not
The love-song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing.
.
. : It Came Upon the Midnight Clear : .
24 December 2016 a.t.b.
Tokyo Settlement, Area 11
It is Christmas Eve and a boy who has just turned seventeen sits at his sister's bedside, asking her if she is comfortable, if she is warm enough. He asks her if she would like another blanket – he can call the maid back and get her to bring one, right away – but she merely places a soft hand over his; her fingers are delicate, and her skin still so baby-smooth, as she clasps his own with an inner warmth he only wishes he could possess.
"I'm fine, Brother," she says then. "Is it snowing?"
He knows she has seen it before; she was not born blind after all, and they have both seen their fair share of snow showers in Britannia before that fateful day. But that was long ago, and so he describes the scene outside her window anyway. How the flakes are tiny but numerous, dancing in the breeze. How the street lamps and manicured gardens are covered, but barely, in a sheet of white. How one day, he is certain he will no longer have to narrate it like this again.
She giggles. "You'll just have to describe it to me every day until then!"
He shares her humor ("Surely you don't mean every day?") and they laugh.
And at that moment, he can't help but imagine a third voice laughing with them, and think that that is the way it should be. As he dims the lamp on the side table his mind conjures up an image of unruly brown hair and vivid green eyes, and how six years ago the first (the only?) friend from his childhood refused to look at him as they said their goodbyes.
He has always wondered, over these past years, what ever became of that little Japanese 'prince'. The thought is not ever-present in his mind, but it tends to surface at the strangest of times, such as now, and then he usually goes through a cycle of wondering and reminiscing and chiding himself for being sentimental, until he can forget.
"I know it's not midnight yet," her voice seeps into his brooding, and when he turns to her she has a smile on her face. "But I want to be the first to greet you: Merry Christmas, Brother."
The greeting is returned with as much fondness as he can draw from the depths of his heart, and Lelouch remains lost in thought while he holds Nunnally's hand, until she falls asleep.
The first ghost to visit him that night is a very, very familiar one: wavy black hair down to her waist, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes as she gathers up her skirts and twirls playfully around before giving him a curtsy. "How do you do ~ ?"
"M...Mother..." There is little else Lelouch can say after that; he is barely able to force that word out of his throat in the first place, the latter suddenly seeming so tight and dry.
"Now, now, don't look so shocked." She practically floats over to him, and when she touches his cheek her hand is so cold he is unable to stifle a gasp. "Tongue-tied? No son of mine was raised to ever be at a loss for words." And the disapproving pout she gives is half in-jest, playfully mocking.
"But...you..." Lelouch finally decides he needs to control his breathing before anything else; he inhales sharply, carefully arranging the words in his brain and going over them twice, thrice, before voicing them out: "There are so many things I want to ask you – "
"And all of them will be answered in time," she interrupts. Her sing-song tone evokes memories of nursery rhymes at the Aries villa, of spontaneous invitations to picnics at the palace grounds and of bedtime stories he still knows by heart. "But that's not why I was sent here. Not tonight."
"You were sent here," he repeats, mumbling the words to himself over and over again until they make sense. "Who sent you?"
"That's not exactly relevant," she shrugs, and she slides her hand down to clasp his own. "When you wake up from a dream, do you stop to wonder who wrote it, who made it?"
"A dream." And he looks around then, fumbling with his free hand; the sheets are still warm beneath him, the pillows dented and his room is exactly as he would expect it to be. He struggles in vain to find anything out of place, anything absurd (Nunnally walking, perhaps, or a coin falling from his dresser and taking root to sprout into a house) besides his dead mother sitting here, talking to him, holding his hand that could shock him out of this strangeness. "I know this is a dream," he says. "Then I should be waking up right now. Why...?"
Marianne giggles at him, actually giggles. "No, that's not how this dream is going to work." She tugs gently on his arm until the blankets phase through his legs, until he is on his feet and half-stumbling, half-running before he even realizes it. "Come on!"
They run out of his chambers and into the hallway. Past the study, past Nunnally's room, down the spiral staircase. Through the great room and out the front doors. It is strange how their footfalls make no sound against the ground, how the snow and the breeze do not even touch him but simply seem to go through him, but before he has time to even ponder this absurdity their surroundings begin to shift.
And all of a sudden, he is no longer running through the powder-coated streets of the Tokyo settlement, but up a shallow, snowy hill he could have sworn was much steeper and more difficult to climb the last time he tried it – six long years ago.
"Is this...?" He knows exactly where they are, but he feels the need to have it confirmed anyway. "Are we – ?"
"It's really convenient that you're a sharp one," his mother turns to him with a smile as they stop running. "I'm here to offer you a vision of a Christmas past – how it used to be."
Lelouch wants to tell her then that he couldn't care less about any Christmases past, that he just wants to make the most of their time together to talk to her, unload the countless questions that had been burdening him since her death, but...the words never make it past his lips. Instead, his gaze is drawn to the familiar trio of youngsters at the foot of the hill, just now appearing from the end of a shortcut through the woods.
And...
He sucks in his breath and feels a shiver, though it is not because of the breeze or the falling snow.
"Hurry up, Lelouch!" The brown-haired boy is running backwards now, and makes it look so effortless despite the packages laced through his arms and the girl he is carrying on his back. "At the rate you're going, the toshigami will curse you for sure!"
And then he sees the other boy, with darker hair and lighter skin, and almost feels his exhaustion as he struggles to catch up with his enthusiastic friend, carrying his own bundle. "Wait for me, you...you idiot!"
Suzaku laughs at him, loudly and openly, but yields and slows down a bit. "I can't believe you're out of breath from just carrying the kagamimochi. How will you carry Nunnally if I'm not around?"
"Idiot," he hears his younger self say again. "It's not that. You just run too fast!"
"Well it's a good thing I'm carrying all this sake then, otherwise I'd be running even faster," the brunette declares. And he jiggles his arms ever so slightly, careful not to let Nunnally go, just to produce the merry sound of bottles clinking together. "And then you'd never catch up to us!"
Despite himself, Lelouch can't help but smile as he watches the playful banter that ensues.
"Look at how happy you were." He hears the smile in his mother's voice as she comes to stand beside him on their perch where they witness this scene, unnoticed. "And to think you expected that you would be nothing but miserable in Area 11 too."
He does not think to ask how she knows this; this dream has already been strange enough so far, so this isn't exactly surprising anymore. "I was miserable."
"Oho! Lies." Marianne wags her finger at him. "I would hardly call that being miserable."
And just as she says those words little Lelouch finally catches up with his friend, out of breath and doing his best to put on a glare.
"Suzaku," Nunnally's voice is softer, only higher in pitch and just as innocent as he remembers it to be. "Are we going to be eating these for the festival?"
"Oh no!" he shakes his head insistently at that, and brown curls dance merrily then, catching the light. "We don't eat them. We're going to offer them to the toshigami for the new year."
"Wait, for the new year?" The black-haired boy stops glaring long enough to blink in confusion. "But that's still a week away!"
"It's a very important festival," Suzaku frowns.
Lelouch – the child – shakes his head. "Does that mean you don't celebrate Christmas here?"
"...Christmas?" (Ku-ri-su-ma-su, he pronounces). "What's that?"
The young Britannian siblings end up taking turns telling the stories then, of the child born in a manger, and the three kings who followed a star to offer him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.
"That's just confusing." Suzaku tilts his head and wrinkles his nose. "If he's the king of kings, why was he born in a manger?"
Both incarnations of Lelouch react to this by rolling their eyes – the older, because he remembers this conversation all too well. "I could explain it to you, but you wouldn't be able to wrap your head around it," his younger self proclaims, and at this the Japanese boy sticks out his tongue while Nunnally giggles softly, hiding a smile behind her hand.
"Well we don't have any of that. We don't celebrate Britannian holidays here. But don't worry. The year-end festival is a huge thing in Japan. We'll have lots of fun!" Green eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the corners as their owner flashes a broad grin. "And we're going to have a great year, I can feel it!"
"We'd better," the former prince mutters, "after we had to do all this labor! Don't you have servants for this, Suzaku?"
"They're all busy cleaning and decorating the house. Besides," he pauses with an impish smile and dancing eyebrows, "Tohdoh-sensei made me do this as punishment for breaking one of the panels at the dojo this morning."
"Then why are we doing it too?" the young Lelouch all but screeches indignantly. But Nunnally only laughs and in response Suzaku promptly spins around, turning her amusement into an exhilarated squeal.
"Because you're my friends," he declares then, and joins in the girl's laughter.
"More like you're cheating."
"Whatever." And then he brightens up in an instant, securing his hold around Nunnally's legs and inclining his head toward the main Kururugi house, visible in the distance. "Come on! I'll race you!"
This evokes a fit of horrified sputtering. "You can't be serious!"
"Hang on tight, Nunnally!"
"Suzaku!!"
And Lelouch watches as a pair of young boys run as fast as their legs can allow – the older, not as fast as he would like – and a blind girl in pigtails laughs with the breeze in her face and her heart lighter than air. The snow is still falling by this time, and the flakes dance around the trio merrily, framing their little (stolen) moment of joy.
"Why did you show me this?" he asks, a quiet whisper drowned in the sound of merry laughter, wind and the continuous clinking of sake bottles from far away.
"So that you would remember. And learn." His mother glides slowly along the snow-covered hill until she is standing in front of him. She reaches up an ivory hand (delicate wrists and pale, paler even than he) and touches his cheek, a gesture that is at once affectionate, reassuring, and so many things he cannot even identify anymore. "My time is almost up, but my gift of wisdom to you shall be this: sometimes happiness is a choice. As is sorrow. Or anger." And at this she places her other hand over his heart, gently. "There will always be things beyond your control, but how you choose to look at whatever cards you have been dealt is entirely up to you."
He feels a dull ache in his chest as she brushes a thumb over a cheekbone with a fond smile. He isn't quite sure what to do with the emotion when he actually sees himself mirrored in her eyes; after seeing her like this, ageless and beautiful, and having witnessed a glimpse of a precious memory from his childhood, he suddenly feels so much older than seventeen.
And for a brief second, all the doubts and suspicions surrounding this dream, and all the questions still hovering like a cloud over his psyche regarding her death, melt away into something far simpler: "I've missed you," he blurts out then, without thinking; his voice is thick and he places his hand over hers, clenching it tightly. Terrified because he knows this will end, and sooner or later he has to let go.
Marianne keeps that smile on her face, even as she and the surroundings inexplicably begin to fade. "I've missed you too, Lelouch. And Nunnally as well. But don't worry; I'm certain we will all see each other again someday."
The smile is warm and comforting even as it slowly vanishes, but the unreadable twinkle in her eye is the very last to disappear.
Lelouch awakens slowly.
His eyelids flutter open with much more effort than he would have been willing to expend, had it not been for the moonlight seeping through his window. He sits up and rubs his eyes, rubs them hard until spots cloud his vision and he has to wait for them to go away.
The clock reads just after one in the morning, and it takes all the time until the minute changes for his mental faculties to recover. And only then does he remember: remember that this was a dream, remember that he is no longer ten years old, remember that Marianne is dead and Suzaku is gone.
He reaches over to the side-table and clicks on the lamp. He reaches for the phone and lets his hand hover briefly over the handset there; he considers ringing the maid, but then he realizes he has no idea what he would ask for in the first place. Tea? Hot chocolate? Eggnog?
But it is only a dream, he assures himself. A memory. It means nothing, changes nothing.
Satisfied with this reasoning Lelouch takes a staggered breath and reverses everything: he switches off the lamp, buries himself into the covers. Then he rubs his eyes again and all but forces them shut, as though he can will himself to sleep simply by wanting it enough.
He finally drifts off while vaguely wondering if he will get a chance to see either his mother or his best friend again tonight; a part of him is perfectly willing to accept such a rendezvous even if it is only an illusion destined to be shattered.
He next finds himself standing in a small clearing he does not recognize. In front of him is a line of trees, leafless and decorated with patches of white (the boundary to a forest, perhaps?) and impossible to see beyond. And so he turns around swiftly, intending to go the other way, only to collide with a solid wall of torso, jacket and necktie.
Like Marianne, Prime Minister Kururugi looks exactly the same as when he last saw him: he remembers the stocky frame, the faint lines on his face and the severe look in his eyes. They are brown, unlike his son's, not quite as bright, and nowhere near as lively.
"Come."
Genbu does not bother with introductions or petty small talk, and Lelouch takes the hint immediately.
As they walk in silence along what seems to be a trail, he begins to strongly suspect that they are no longer in Area 11: his leg sinks to the knee in snow with every step (although he does not feel it at all, nor do either of them leave any footprints behind), and instead of the gentle flakes dancing merrily as he recalls in the Tokyo Settlement, he sees almost a wall of white speckles and darkness. Fortunately the moon is out, but it only highlights the way bare branches sway in a raging wind that merely slices through him.
"We are on the outskirts of the Russian capital," the older man informs him gruffly, and as they walk he is soon able to make out what seems to be a military camp in the distance. He wonders then why on Earth they would be caught dead here, but he holds his tongue and walks dutifully. The fact that he feels nothing despite the roar of the wind and the blinding snow is an awkward sensation; he has no idea what to do with his arms.
"That's a Britannian camp?"
He is rewarded with a curt nod. "Britannia has long been in conflict with the EU." Genbu's tone is neutral here, he notes, perhaps because he has been reduced to a mere spectator to everything that has unfolded ever since... "This past fall the military decided to try a roundabout invasion through Scandinavia, hoping to capture the capital without having to deal with as much resistance as they would have had they gone through the Mediterranean, or the Atlantic."
The pregnant pause at the end signals to Lelouch that the older man is somehow waiting for him to respond. He doesn't quite know what to say for a moment, but eventually decides that factual observation would probably be his safest bet: "But from what I know, the current-generation Knightmares aren't equipped for this kind of climate and terrain." He has read articles, after all, about landspinners skidding and stalling in barely six inches of snow, but from the reports it seems as though the eccentric, elusive director of the Special Corps always dismisses those complaints by claiming to be working on something 'far more magnificent.' And so...
"They sent ground troops." Genbu motions towards one of the tents and then proceeds to stride purposefully in that direction; Lelouch almost has to break into a sprint in order to catch up. "You are a sharp one. It's a pity, your circumstances; perhaps with the right training and passion, you could have rivaled even Cornelia."
"I highly doubt that," he says quietly, but not for the reasons the older man probably meant; he just cannot imagine himself leading battalions of Britannian soldiers in ruthless conquests, ambushes, and siege warfare on foreign battlegrounds that aren't even on Britannian soil (yet). "Besides, I have no plans of leaving Area 11, and it has been rather peaceful ever...since..." Ah, shit.
But the man (imposing, intimidating, even from beyond the grave) does not turn to acknowledge him, does not even change his pace. "Do you think it was wise?" he calls back.
"It was...the lesser of two evils," he replies carefully, gaining confidence as he continues. "Otherwise, both the EU and the Chinese Federation would have gotten involved, and Japan would still be caught in the crossfire even today. I think, given all the circumstances...you did the right thing."
He does not quite know what to make of the painfully long silence that follows.
So he looks around as they make their way through the camp. It truly is a pitiful sight: a mere two dozen or so brush-colored tents are scattered haphazardly against a larger one in the center, identical save for a glaring red cross stitched on the side. Shells and garbage litter the grounds, some half-buried in snow. There are a couple of pillboxes at the entrance; the perimeter of the camp is lined with sandbags and rubble and old tires. Only a handful of soldiers brave the cold, wearing night-vision goggles and passing around a pair of binoculars – each can only last so long before he succumbs to the need to shove his hands in his pockets, swearing in Britannian.
"What happened here?"
"A mix of arrogance and recklessness. Britannia underestimated the EU's Northern forces, who launched a synchronized counterattack right at the start of winter. The divisions that were still in Norway and Sweden were able to withdraw, but those that had made it as far as Finland had their path of escape cut off."
He nods. "So they ended up being driven further and further into EU territory." Serves them right, he thinks then, but does not say it aloud.
"This camp houses the division stranded in Moscow. They have been slowly evacuating for the past weeks, but the weather and the need to be discreet slowed everything down. This," Genbu pauses right outside their destination to gesture vaguely towards the entire camp, "is all that is left."
They make their way inside the tent by simply walking through the flimsy walls. He notices it is meant to house two: a pair of sleeping bags takes up most of the cramped space, and the one to the right is unoccupied. The other one, however, has what he can only assume to be a soldier currently lying on top of it (strange) and huddled completely in several filthy, mismatched blankets in an attempt to keep warm.
Lelouch doesn't try to hide his confusion as Genbu makes his way to the head of the vacant sleeping bag and sits down, folding his legs beneath him. So when the man glances meaningfully his way, he is dumbfounded as he follows suit, settling down awkwardly beside him and glancing around.
...There isn't really much to take in. Various belongings are stashed every which way – a shirt here, a book there – and the tent is lit miserably by a smoky lantern with blackened oil. Next to this is a small battery-operated radio; the volume is set to the notch just above 'mute,' and every so often static garbles what should have been the merry sound of Christmas carols.
"What's wrong with him?" he finally quips, nodding his head towards the bundle of blankets across them. He isn't going to be surprised if the man turns out to be dead, given the dismal state of the entire camp, but upon squinting he is able to make out shivering, and every so often a cough or a sniffle proves him wrong.
"He's not accustomed to bitter Russian winters," Genbu replies promptly. "None of the soldiers who remain here really are."
"I suppose that makes sense," he muses, suddenly grateful that he is blissfully immune to the cold. He considers asking then how the other man knows this about the nameless soldier with such certainty, but the thought proves too much trouble to put into words. Instead, he asks, "Why is he still here then?"
"Because he happens to be at the very bottom of the Britannian military's heirarchy. And so he will be one of the last to evacuate – if he will even get that chance at all."
"Is this all you wanted to show me?" he asks after a pause. "That Britannia's attempted blitzkrieg failed? Because the EU put up a stronger fight than they'd thought?" He snorts. "I have no sympathy for careless commanders with poor tactics and no foresight."
He gets a low chuckle for his efforts. "Britannia was unable to break the EU in a swift strike, and come the new year she will have to prepare for a long, drawn-out struggle instead."
"Either way," he mutters darkly, "when the next wave of Britannian forces comes in, they can use the intelligence from this campaign to launch a more effective one. Even if all these men die – and it wouldn't matter, since they're 'at the bottom of the heirarchy' as you said – their job will be easier the next time around." His thoughts turn sour for a moment, before he adds: "This is exactly how he fights. Disgusting."
Genbu nods with a kind of sinister amusement coloring his otherwise hardened features. "Yes, well...it seems as though he and you are on a more similar wavelength than you'd first think to admit, no?"
Lelouch scowls.
It is then that he notices the sudden commotion outside, and it is not long before he hears crunching footsteps coming closer. Before he can respond the flap of the tent is yanked open violently to reveal another man: he is wearing the unremarkable gray uniform of Britannian foot soldiers, but his helmet is missing the standard electronic visor. He enters the tent swearing violently in a dialect he belatedly associates with sandy beaches and volcanoes and tides, and what used to be the paradise that was Area 7.
"Hey," he grabs another helmet from where it sits idly in the corner of the tent and tosses it towards his companion. "Wake up!"
Lelouch is surprised to see an arm shoot out from underneath the blankets to catch the item just a split second before it rams its owner in the gut. But that is nothing compared to the shock that hits him like a deluge when the first soldier finally sits up; the blankets pool around his waist as he forces himself upright, and within seconds the blood in his veins slowly turns into ice.
It doesn't matter that his hair, tousled from sleep, is slightly darker now. So is his skin, despite the modest pallor afforded by his illness, but this doesn't matter either. And it matters even less that his eyes are bloodshot and lined with bags, for they are still almost alarmingly green.
He doesn't dare speak his name.
"The Russians finally found us," the Seven continues, now crouched in front of a rather large rucksack and rummaging through its contents with a feverish kind of anxiety. "There's a whole squadron heading this way. Soldiers, tanks, launchers, everything. It's overkill!"
"How long do we have?" Suzaku asks his helmet softly.
"Ten minutes, maybe, fifteen if we're lucky. Visibility's shot so we didn't see them till they were right in our faces. Fuck." He finally pulls out two ammunition clips and kicks the rucksack violently off to the side; the cloth of the tent strains from this. "They'll have the remaining Britannians evacuate first, so the rest of us have to stay here and cover their escape as long as we can."
"I see."
"Yeah. To think I was actually looking forward to this new year too. I finally got her letter; she said yes, you know? We were gonna..." He tries to give a (short, humorless) laugh; it fails miserably, and ends up sounding like a cross between a bark and a sob. And then he turns to the other boy and fixes him with a critical eye. "You should tell them you're sick. Go with the rest of the soldiers who were injured."
"No, it's okay." Suzaku shakes his head and squirms out of the blankets. It turns out he is already in combat gear – boots and all – from the waist down, and after a bit of searching is able to shrug on the gray uniform top with haste to compensate. "I'll go."
The Seven pauses in his current task of arming himself to the teeth in order to throw him a bewildered gaze. "You realize we're probably not going to survive this, right?"
It is disturbing how the brunette actually smiles (it is barely there, but it's there) as he dons his body armor. "I know that."
And it is at this point where Lelouch begins to suspect that his subconscious has finally gone off the deep end. Because Suzaku was always brash and arrogant and loud, and the soldier he sees now pulling on his gloves is none of those. Because Suzaku loved Japan with a passion and was too proud to take orders from anyone, so this sight before him is preposterous. He dimly recalls that his friend had indeed been forced to serve in the military once Britannia finally conquered Japan, but they were young and he had no choice, that was so long ago, and all of these just really beg the question even more: "Why did he stay?"
He feels Genbu's eyes on him once the whisper leaves his lips, but he does not care, only continuing in rambling, disjointed bursts: "This can't be Suzaku, he...Suzaku would have left the first chance he got, this is...this makes no sense. This is impossible."
The two soldiers remain completely unaware of his distress; they continue making forced conversation while hastily preparing for a last-ditch defense that is most likely going to be their final stand.
"When did this take place?" he demands.
He gets only a low, throaty chuckle from the elder Kururugi. "I suppose I forgot to tell you. This is happening as we speak."
"What?" And then he hears, clear against the whistling of the wind and the voices of the soldiers, the faraway sound of motors coming closer. He panics. "Suzaku!"
Genbu's quiet chuckle turns into a full-blown laugh. "He cannot hear you, boy."
"Shut up!" His uncharacteristic outburst does not faze him, nor does the odd fact that Genbu does not seem to care about his son's welfare; he struggles to his feet, dashes forward and tries to grab his friend by the shoulders from behind – anything to stop this inevitable suicide, tragic and completely meaningless.
He feels an unearthly shiver as he phases through the other boy, and all too soon he is falling forward, then on his hands and knees on the ground, in front of Suzaku.
And for a moment, their eyes lock – or rather, he thinks they do; Suzaku can be staring at the ground underneath him for all he knows, but as far as he is concerned he finds himself gazing into emerald orbs that seem to have dimmed, in more ways than one.
"What the hell. They already know we're here anyway," the Seven grins as he jacks up the volume on the radio: God rest ye merry gentlemen, they are admonished then.
Suzaku smiles at his companion wryly; he looks exhausted, unwell. "Merry Christmas. Is it past midnight yet?"
"Nope. We're still a few hours short. But I'll take it." The Seven swipes a bipod and yet another ammunition clip from the other side of the tent, before pausing at the flap. "Ready?"
"Hold on." By this point Suzaku has pulled on his helmet, and Lelouch can no longer see his face. But he stops and fumbles among the blankets for a few seconds, until he finds what he is looking for.
"That's a nice watch."
"If I don't make it out of this, it's yours." And his movements are slow and deliberate as he places the old timepiece in one of the pockets of his fatigues. "There. You know where to find it."
"That's morbid, Kururugi. But in that case..." The other soldier glances around the tent for a moment, before pointing a gloved finger at a pair of sunglasses sticking halfway out of the rucksack. "If I don't make it and you do, I want you to have my shades. Okay?" When he receives a nod, he adds, in an afterthought: "But I hope we both get to keep our stuff. Right?"
As the song on the radio changes into yet another Christmas melody, and the sound of whirring engines comes dangerously closer, Suzaku only smiles and doesn't say a word.
Lelouch remains rooted to that spot – unable to move, still with his hands braced against the ground – when the two Numbers exit the tent and leave their unseen witnesses inside.
"Suzaku...why are you...you can't be here, you have to..." And then he finally gathers his fractured wits, staring desperately at his friend's father as the latter stands up and now towers over him. "Why...why did he stay? Why is he still fighting for them?"
Genbu returns his stare, and his eyes are now cold and unfeeling. "You still have much to learn, boy."
"What...?"
"You wanted to see him again, did you not?" The elder Kururugi's voice raises in anger, and he remembers now how he used to be so afraid of this man (but that was six years ago, and he had been alive then; things changed). "Is that not what you wished for, just now? I've completed my task; I showed you Suzaku! And yet you dare to repay me with this ungrateful – "
"Not like this!!" And then his fear is forgotten in a heartbeat; he surges to his feet, grabs the man by the lapels at the front of his suit. Finally his fingers grasp around something corporeal – after all, this is his dream, and so Genbu must be just as real as he is. "Why, damn it?! And why don't you care?!"
Lelouch is not strong enough or fierce enough to intimidate anyone, much less Prime Minister Kururugi; he knows this, they both know this. And so the larger man merely stares him down, darkened brown eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He speaks softly, but because of their proximity (and perhaps, because this is a dream), Lelouch hears him quite clearly: "Know this, boy. The decisions you make today will affect you and the people around you for years and years to come. Even the most innocent of choices, the best of intentions, the simplest of acts may end up changing the course of history for an entire nation, and perhaps even more."
He takes hold of Lelouch's wrists and wrenches them away without any effort at all. "Our time is up," he says sternly. "Remember what you have learned here, Britannian prince."
And that is when he hears the first spray of bullets. The grinding of metal against snow. The flares. The rebel yells from a defiant Britannian camp, and he knows that one of those voices belongs to a Japanese boy of sixteen, with barely an assault rifle and his father's pocketwatch to his name. "No! Suzaku!!"
He stumbles desperately for the exit; he sees the flashes of light and fire through the slit in the flap of the tent, but he is already fading away.
This time Lelouch awakens with a jolt, lunging to a sitting position and hearing the very end of a gunshot even as he snaps to alertness. The sheets and pillowcases are damp with his sweat, and so is he.
But he feels, inexplicably, so cold.
The lamp is switched on again, but the weak yellow glow does little to calm the mad pounding of his heart. And so he swings his legs over the mattress, stuffing his feet into the waiting slippers on the floor. He then proceeds to walk around the room and switch on every light he can – the main fluorescent bulbs, his white desk lamp, the lights in his bathroom.
His frantic heartbeat has at least done some good: he no longer feels like he is freezing, although goosebumps still pepper his arms. But he can practically hear every thud-thud-thud, and there are no more lights to turn on. When he feels the wall against his back, he slides down to the floor that way; his buttocks and feet sink into the carpet as he hugs his knees and stares at the clock. 2:45.
He finds he cannot think clearly; his mind – usually in exceptional condition and rarely ever failing him – refuses to work properly. So he pushes himself to his feet and makes his way to the great room, again switching on every light he passes along the way. As he settles into the warm leather of the chair opposite the fireplace, he resolves not to sleep anymore that night (morning); after all, strange dreams cannot bother him if he stays awake.
Lelouch's heartbeat calms a bit, now that he has a plan and has regained at least some control over this peculiar situation. He glances once more at the grandfather clock in the corner; it is now 2:57.
He soon finds his gaze lost in the crackling flames dancing merrily in front of him. For a moment he thinks the tongues of fire might be painting him a picture, but he cannot imagine what it would possibly be.
Eyes smarting, he buries his face in his hands. Welcomes the self-imposed darkness and tries to clear his mind, so that he can use it to deconstruct and maybe make sense of all of this recent strangeness. He recalls the pitiful camp and thinks to himself that surely Britannia would treat its soldiers better, even if they were ground troops, even if they were Honorary Britannians. Also, Genbu Kururugi being completely apathetic towards his son's well-being seemed off as well, and even if there were some logical reason behind it, it wouldn't matter because Suzaku would have left by now, and there is no reason for him to have stayed this long in the military, especially since he –
The grandfather clock announces the changing of the hour loudly, filling the room with its report. When Lelouch glances up by reflex, he is startled to see another person suddenly there.
His visitor is standing a few paces away from the clock, clad in a rather peculiar get-up – a bodysuit of dark purple and gold, a garish cape that wraps around him like a cocoon. Gloves and cravat and a mask that seems more like a helmet or a shell, with hard folds at the back and an opaque, bluish-green oval where the face should be.
He takes a moment to school his breathing, remaining motionless on the chair. He will not show him fear, he decides, and is pleased when his voice comes out level and strong: "Who are you?"
There is no reply. Lelouch blinks several times, half-hoping the man will vanish if he does so, but he is out of luck. "You are the third visitor I've had tonight," he continues in an indifferent drawl, hiding his anxiety deliberately and competently. "The first showed me the past, the second showed me the present. The math is pretty straightforward from that, so am I correct in assuming that you will show me the future?"
"That's right." It takes a long time for him to respond, and when he does the sound is synthetic, hollow and muffled and impossibly deep. A voice-changer, he surmises, perhaps hidden somewhere within the mask.
"As I expected. Are you also a ghost as well?"
"...In a way."
"How did you die?"
"I killed someone very dear to me."
This answer makes no logical sense to him since the cause and effect do not seem to add up, but he decides to let this slide for now. "What is your name?" he asks instead. Marianne and Genbu he knew well enough, after all, so it strikes him as odd that this time he has to deal with a complete stranger.
"I don't have one," comes the reply, followed by a softer declaration: "Not anymore."
"Why?" His voice cuts through the air and it is sharp, clear. "What name did you go by before? I must address you somehow."
"I promised a friend that I – " He stops abruptly, shaking his head. "I haven't been allowed to say as much. I'm sorry."
"What?" And then Lelouch's mind flashes back to little, then-meaningless phrases mentioned in passing by both of his previous visitors. Marianne had been 'sent.' Genbu had been 'tasked.' And now... "By whom?" he demands. He is aware that his pulse has begun to accelerate once more. "Who is calling all the shots here?"
"This is your dream."
"That means nothing to me," he bristles with a stony glare. Far from it; he cannot recall when he last felt this helpless, so hopelessly out of control and so far only able to witness things he would rather not be reminded of, be aware of. "So I will ask you again. Who is orchestrating all of this? And why?"
Instead of matching his temper, however, the caped figure merely sighs; the defeated sound seems to echo from within the caverns of the mask. "I can't tell you."
"What?"
"I haven't been allowed..." The man finally moves now, breaking into a slow pace around the great room. His arms, however, remain glued to his sides, the cape forming a curtain from shoulders to elbows. "If I step out of line, this dream will end. And I...don't want that to happen. At least, not yet."
"But I am awake!"
"...No. No, you're not."
Lelouch grits his teeth, glancing around the room. For one very brief moment, he worries about his sanity.
"I just... I have to follow the rules." The hesitation in his words clashes a bit too much with the sonorous tone afforded by the voice-changer. "We all do."
"And why is that?" he shoots back briskly.
"Because it's easier than following our own..." (something he does not quite catch because the man's voice drops off in a murmur).
"Come again?"
"Nothing." The man shakes his head again, as though coming out of a trance. Then he turns around and faces the former prince completely. "That being said, is there anything in particular you would like to see?"
Lelouch nods in his direction. "Will you take off your mask?"
"That's...not what I meant. And I haven't been allowed – "
"Of course." He rubs his temples, forcing back the growing irritation that has slowly been accumulating since this conversation began. "Then leave." But then he remembers blinding snow and Christmas music and gunfire, and decides that perhaps there is something he would like to see: "Wait."
The man hasn't even moved from his spot yet. "Yes?"
"I want to make sure..." (This is ridiculous. He has already used cold, hard logic to disprove his doubts: there is no way that skirmish took place, no way that boy would be involved and no way he could know about it, he doesn't need to – ) "I want to make sure Suzaku survived today." (But irrationality and emotion win tonight, a rare victory.) "I want to see him."
The silence that follows is almost unbelievably long; he barely restrains himself from giving in to the urge to fidget, to grab the ghost by the cravat (it stands out so much, white against purple) and throttle him violently, before he finally gets an answer. "I...don't think that would be wise."
Lelouch takes the trouble to draw in a tense breath before speaking. "I beg your pardon?" he asks tightly.
"Well..." There is something about the sudden uneasiness in the other man's frame that puts him on edge as well. "Wouldn't you much rather see Nunnally? Or..."
"No," he shakes his head firmly. "Maybe later, if you'll allow it, but for now I just want to see my friend."
He counts at least ten more infuriating seconds in which the man just stands there, his unseen gaze averted to the fireplace. "If this is just about tonight, then you don't have to worry. He survives that. So you don't have to waste your chance on – "
He doesn't know what it is that makes him finally snap. Perhaps it is the rapidly-building suspicion within him from having the man dodge his simple request so insistently. Perhaps it is the latter's demeanor – uncertain, tentative, nowhere near the sheer dominating presence Genbu had, or the flippant assurance Marianne exuded, that she knew exactly what she was doing. Or perhaps, it was the man's own words to him just now; that this is his dream, and that no matter how much it seems otherwise, apparently he is in control, somehow. And so... "Lelouch vi Britannia commands you...show me Kururugi Suzaku!"
He isn't sure if the anger that had seeped into his tone was necessary; it probably wasn't, and neither was the way he invoked his father's name. But even so, it seems to have the intended effect, as the ghost slowly turns to him and stares.
He can only imagine the expression behind that mask – amusement, perhaps, or revulsion, despair – when its owner finally relents.
"Very well. Follow me."
They walk in silence for what seems like hours, and the dream never loses its eerie ambience. He feels no exhaustion even as places both familiar and otherwise flow past him in an amorphous blur. But when the ghost abruptly stops walking, so too do the surroundings stop shifting.
He blinks, and the first thing he notices is the cat at his feet; the crosses, tombstones and angel statues surrounding them all follow merely as an afterthought. But in a twisted way, he ends up getting exactly what he wishes for.
Etched clearly in stone before him: 'Suzaku Kururugi, 2000-2018.'
"No. No. No." The denial tastes bitter as the word leaves his lips, repeatedly. He clutches his head and wills the grave in front of him to disappear. But the stone is hard and the engravings are deep, and the nausea begins.
"It's not what – "
"Not what it seems?" he finishes, choking on the bile at the back of his throat. His scalp begins to hurt from where his fingernails dig into it. "Because I think it's exactly what it seems." And then he whirls around, feeling the last of his composure withering away: "He's going to die at eighteen!! Die like a dog for an Empire that's rotten to the core, that doesn't even deserve him! Do you understand?! He's going to die and those bastards aren't even going to care!!"
"Wait, please..."
But he does not wait; furious violet eyes lock onto the line below the damned numbers spelling out friend's destined lifespan, and he hisses out the words as though they physically hurt him. " 'Here lies a consummate and invaluable'...invaluable what??"
The front of the grave marker slopes downward, and the rest of the epitaph under the first line is covered by snow. He drops recklessly to his knees, trying to dig away the obstruction, read the rest of it. But his trembling hands cannot touch anything; just as before, he cannot interact with his surroundings. "Soldier? Grunt? What was he to them?" But he already knows the answer; being an Eleven, it would take a miracle for Suzaku to be promoted beyond Private at all.
(So this is the ugly way it is to end.)
Lelouch forces himself to calm down. And when he does he rakes a hand through his hair and nails his gaze to the ground.
"How does he die?" he asks quietly.
But instead of the answer he wants, he gets this: "Listen. There are always going to be some things that are out of your control. And no matter how hard you try, how well you plan, how much you work to change it...there are some things that just can't be avoided."
"No," he whispers harshly. "No, you're wrong. This..." He glares at the name engraved onto the stone in front of him, as though memorizing every stroke. "I'm going to change this." And then realization hits him full-force and his head snaps up, lips stumbling mutely over the words that have just left them. "I'm going to change this," he repeats. "I'm going to make it so that they can be happy, and safe – Suzaku, Nunnally, everyone I hold dear. I will..."
Lelouch rises to his feet, clenches his hands at his sides. And with the ghost, the cat, and the fixtures of a snow-covered cemetery as his witnesses, he repeats a promise he made long ago.
His anger is now replaced by firm, quiet conviction, and he is so aware of this that he barely notices the hint of sadness in the ghost's voice when he finally breaks the silence. "Is that really the path you've decided to take, then?"
He nods. "I don't know how or when, but...I'll make it happen."
"I see." The ghost bows his head, and he almost swears he sees the slightest hunch in his shoulders. "Then I guess there's nothing left for me here. I wish..."
The end of that sentence is lost, because his mind screens it out when he notices the surroundings begin to dissolve. He suddenly remembers that he is in a dream; for a few moments, this has all seemed painfully real, almost as if...
"It was good to see you, Lelouch." He barely hears the masked man's final words before he is engulfed by a sickening kind of darkness.
At this point it begins to get confusing, because the images flash in his head, one after another – blood and reddish-pink hair, a Sutherland key and a gun, white robes and a hat with eyes painted on them, and then a pair of golden irises, a kiss, a strange insignia on a forehead framed by strands of green – too quickly, far too quickly for his already tired mind to retain even a single one.
And when he finally opens his eyes once more he sees the very first rays of sunlight seeping through the windows. He is curled up in a rather awkward position on the chair, and hisses as he stretches out his limbs.
He doesn't notice the blanket draped over him until it drops to the floor.
Sayoko notices he is awake and asks if he would like anything in particular for breakfast. He mumbles something he immediately forgets before stumbling up the stairs, disoriented. His mind is foggy, and it is an unfamiliar, unpleasant feeling.
Lelouch spends Christmas Day with his sister and his classmates – laughing over breakfast, opening presents, baking cookies with Milly when she unexpectedly drops by, refusing then hedging then relenting on a mock sleigh ride with the Student Council that night. And all the while, the dreams from the night before keep surfacing in his mind, at which he either occupies himself with something else, or invokes the same logic he clings to, like a lifeline: Suzaku would not have stayed with the military longer than he absolutely had to; Suzaku would have been long gone by now.
This is why he is utterly shell-shocked when, months later, a lowly Private removes his helmet to reveal familiar brown hair and smiling green eyes.
And when the gunshot rings and the soldier crumples to the ground, Lelouch suddenly feels the crushing weight of the end – that he is to die this way, unable to keep his promise, without changing anything, without saving anyone.
So when C.C. offers him that chance, that single sliver of hope, he accepts quickly. But he misunderstands her at first; when she offers it to him, he thinks it is something so much simpler, like the chance to bring Suzaku back to life. He never dreams it would, literally, be the power to change the world and bring it to its knees.
But, just like before, he eventually ends up getting exactly what he wished for.
.
For lo!, the days are hastening on,
By prophet bards foretold,
When with the ever-circling years
Comes round the age of gold
When peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendors fling,
And all the world give back the song
Which now the angels sing.
.
.: fin :.
More Author's Notes:
First of all, trivia and technical things:
- I didn't include an analog to Jacob Marley from Dickens' Carol because (a) that would have made this story even longer and (b) I couldn't think of anyone to play the part. C.C. was not an option. Neither was Naoto. The best fit would probably have been Marianne, but I needed her for something far more important.
- Preparation-for-the-Japanese-New-Year-Festival terms: toshigami is the new year deity, kagamimochi refers to a pair of flat, round rice cakes, and sake (just in case) is rice wine. Everything I know about this festival, I just learned from the internet, sadly, so I apologize in advance if I misinterpreted something in that segment.
- Fun fact: apparently, Area 7 is Hawaii. Thank you Code-Geass-wiki, for this tidbit of info. I did not know this before I planned Suzaku's tent-mate to be a Seven (yes, there's a reason I made him a Seven; any guesses as to why?) so I just ended up rolling with it.
- And speaking of Suzaku, the whole issue of him being deployed in the EU was a liberty I risked taking. I did take care to search for any material that would state canonically that Suzaku remained in Area 11 between 2010 and 2017, but I didn't find any; hence, I took the plunge. Note that my search was nowhere near exhaustive though, and so if such material does exist, the entire 'Ghost of Christmas Present' segment becomes worthless. So...yeah, I just cross my fingers and hope.
- On a side-note to the point above, I chose Moscow not only because of the strategy-FAIL Genbu points out, but also because it's notorious for its winters. If I recall correctly, in World War II – specifically the Battle of Moscow – cold ended up killing more German soldiers than Russian bullets. History is fun. As reference, Moscow is generally 6 hours behind Tokyo, but I have no idea whether or not they practice Daylight Savings Time over there.
- I ignored the 'Knight the Zero' (seriously: what??) on Suzaku's gravemarker. From R2-25, the epitaph reads, line by line: "Here lies a consummate and invaluable / Knight to His Highness Lelouch vi Britannia, / 99th Emperor of the Holy Britannian Empire." Just in case anyone is interested.
Again, apologies for not being able to get this out on time. It could have been worse (I decided yesterday that if I couldn't finish this by the new year, I'd scrap it entirely or save it till December 2010), but I still feel as though this would have had more impact if it were up on Christmas Eve.
So I guess that only leaves the question, regarding the 'Ghost of Christmas Future' segment: was causality violated? The only straight answer I can give is 'maybe.' I've thought of several possible ways of interpreting that segment and the events/implications that follow, and among those ways it's more or less an even split between 'yes' and 'no.' Personally I would lean more towards the non-causality-violating readings, but only because I'm a physicist by day and this is always a non-negotiable for us. However I think it's better to leave it an open question, so let's say whatever interpretation you get immediately from your first reading, assume it to be correct. (Because anything with a causality paradox is annoying in the sense that the more you think about it, the more confusing it usually gets.)
As always, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews would be very much appreciated. Happy holidays everyone!