a/n: so apparently i never posted this? anyway. this is about a year and a half or two years old, so. i hope you enjoy it!
disclaimer: not mine.
COLORS.
do not cry for me; I have not sinned, I have not died.
marianne
beloved favor
In church, the queen—a peasant, but no one would ever tell if she did not state it at first meeting, with her high cheekbones and bell-like laughter and fleet feet—pulls C.C. into the back of the pews and whispers to her. She tells her of grandeur. Dreams of silk and honey, and happiness, and a world where no one cries and no one is ever lonely. Her hand is warm within C.C.'s own. The queen smiles at her when the priest calls for confession, and giggles.
They make their own prayers, she says.
C.C. follows her out the back door. It is a beautiful day, and why should she waste it praying to gods she doesn't believe in, gods that don't exist? The world will only be open to her for a little while longer. Just until their plan plays out.
It is not as if the gods would listen to a sinner like her anyway.
mao
real, true
He doesn't speak when she finds him. He is cold—it's obvious; his cheeks and nose are burnt pink from the chill, and his lips are blue, and his hands shake. And hungry. His ribs stick out of his skin and his hair is already falling out. He is so different from Marianne, with his tan skin and snow hair and short stature, that it doesn't hurt to be around him, like it did to remain in Britannia.
She leads him through the streets. Merchants hawk their wares, displaying them; tiny trinkets flash and sparkle in the sunlight, and gold twinkles. Silver winks. Beads clatter, clack, as they roll down into the gutters, like bones bouncing against each other; miniature flags snap in the wind. The market is a place of wonders, of beauty. It is also a place where whores bare their legs, white and creamy and creeping red the farther up you look, their knees scabbed and scarred, thin fingers clutching at cigarettes they suck on for warmth. Dirty men bite down on coins. The smell of cooked dog wafts into the air and a children's wail rises with it.
It's hell for him. She ruffles his hair and promises him sweets to suck on, rice cakes and clean water. It is not a test. She is not that cruel; nor is she kind, and if they need to go through this place of loud thoughts and louder voices to reach their destination, they must.
His hand is small and warm in her own—like Marianne's, a woman's hand, slender of bone and large of knuckle. An artist's hands. She feels the bile rise bitter in her throat, and knows she must leave.
lelouch
undefined
He is like his mother. Much more like her than his father, with his violet eyes (both of his parents' eyes were blue) and his dark hair and his milk skin, his long lashes. His cruel mouth is all his father's.
Lelouch has the same flair for the dramatic. He drapes himself in red and gold and purple, colors of royalty, and gesticulates wildly. His voice rings throughout the nation. She feels small next to him, sometimes; the childish urge to grab onto the edge of his showy cloak and beg him never to leave her overtakes her, and she brushes it away as quickly as possible. She is no longer a slave. A servant to no man but a slave to her immortality, a side character in this play. She will wear her mask. It suits her, she thinks; she has grown used to it, and perhaps it had melded itself to her face.
It suits her even more, because no one will remember her when she's gone.