Oblique

Warning(s): Implicit sex

Disclaimer: Don't own Code Geass

He first saw her in the hall, gazing up at one of Clovis' paintings, holding her elbows in her hands. She looked to be about his age – eighteen, perhaps nineteen. She was dressed in a fine gown. It was scarlet-colored with gold embroidery and lace at the sleeves, and it was an interesting contrast against the girl's pallid skin. When Schneizel moved toward her, she made no sign that she had heard him.

Although he would never show it, it bothered him. Schneizel had made a point of learning the names of all the inhabitants of the palace as well as their close friends and acquaintances. He could probably diagram a family tree of all 108 of his father's consorts and always made sure to address the servants by name (which resulted in many a blushing maid).

He did not, however, know the name of this girl. He did not even recognize her. The strange part was that she carried herself with an air of familiarity. Most who entered the palace seemed overwhelmed, but she seemed at ease, even dispassionate. Could she be a commoner? A foreigner? Schneizel smiled with teeth and walked closer so he was standing side by side with her. She continued to ignore him—no, that was absurd. She couldn't be ignoring him. Perhaps she was lost in thought. However, her expression was pragmatic – not dreamy or faraway. Interesting. Schneizel fixed his eyes upon the painting and cleared his throat.

"My brother has a way with colors, doesn't he?" And it wasn't a lie. Although Schneizel was using the question as an icebreaker, there was no denying that his younger brother was an extremely talented artist. The painting they were currently staring at was one of a mother holding her swaddled babe. The background colors were muted, but the infant's face was vibrant; it almost seemed to shine.

The girl finally looked at him, but she did not admit her folly. She did not bow and ask the Second Prince of Britannia for pardon for not acknowledging his presence as custom demanded. Instead, she regarded him with cool golden eyes.

"I've seen better," she said, voice airy and light.

Schneizel was somewhat taken off guard, but he did not show it. Perhaps she was a foreigner, after all. In that case, her ignorance was more than forgivable. His smile broadened, but her face remained inscrutable.

"Oh? Would you mind telling me who?" Schneizel asked.

"Leonardo. Claude. Hundreds of men." She turned so she was facing him and folded her arms over her chest, her golden eyes narrowed. "Compared to them, your brother is merely an amateur."

Had…had she just referred to da Vinci and Monet by their first names? Schneizel cocked his head to the side, continuing to conceal his befuddlement with a plastic smile. "You're quite the critic," he said, keeping his tone good-natured and amiable. "Are you a connoisseur of the arts?"

"No." She turned back to the painting. "I don't even like artists. None of them are able to capture things in their entirety."

"Well, the argument could be made that isn't the point of art." The girl's gaze shifted back to him, sharp and defiant. Schneizel merely continued. "Instead of the entirety, the artist gives us a slice – a taste so to speak." The girl's eyes narrowed. She was obviously displeased with him, and Schneizel decided to fall back on introductions. If he could get some insight into who she was, then there was a possibility that he could figure out a way to mollify her. "…I'm sorry. I don't think we've met. I'm Schneizel el Britannia."

He bowed. Unsurprisingly, the girl did not return it. For some reason, he did not consider telling her that he was a prince. In a way, it was rather silly. Why should he care about seeming arrogant in front of an undoubtedly haughty girl?

"I know who you are."

Schneizel's eyes widened at that admission, but he quickly schooled his expression. "I'm afraid I cannot say the same. Would you mind telling me your name?"

She smirked. "...Yes."

And, with that, she turned around and walked away. Although one could have argued that it was more of a slink than a walk.

He did not see her for weeks. For some reason, this troubled Schneizel, which was troubling in and of itself. She was a strange person, yes, but he was accustomed to unique and eccentric people. That was one of the reasons he had chosen Kanon as his aid in the first place.

Schneizel could not forget about her. She was an enigma that he wasn't able to solve. His father, his mother, his brothers and sisters – they all had straightforward motivations more or less. Even Lelouch who he considered to be the most brilliant of his siblings at the young age of ten was fairly easy to read, but this girl…

Still, he had enough to worry about. Currently, Areas 9 and 10 were being secured, and his father had apparently shifted his interests toward Japan. Considering it held seventy percent of the world's sakuradite, it was only natural. Negotiations with the prime minister of Japan had gone sour, and Schneizel hoped that a military conflict could be avoided with negotiations.

(But, if there was a military conflict, complete and utter domination was a necessity because the fallen cannot rise without hope).

The second time he saw her was after a meeting with Odysseus, Guinevere, and Cornelia. Odysseus and Guinevere were both fairly useless, and Schneizel tended to use them for decorative purposes rather than to seek their actual counsel. Cornelia gave good enough input, but what Schneizel longed for was to invite Lelouch to these meetings. Unfortunately, Lady Marianne forbid it, and the boy was not yet ten so few people regarded him seriously.

After his siblings departed, Schneizel spotted her: this time the girl wore an outfit reminiscent of Cornelia's: trousers, an ornate shirt, and rather tall white boots that added a few inches to her petite form. The outfit was the same color as her dress, but there was something…harsher about it.

Schneizel smiled, bowed, and said, "It's been awhile, Lady…?"

"I'm not telling you my name," the girl said, tone brusque, "and there's no need to bother with formalities. After lifetimes of royalty, I've grown weary of them."

Lifetimes of royalty? Schneizel wondered what she meant by that. It certainly contributed to the theory that she was a member of some foreign royal family. But why would she bother to shroud herself in such mystery?

"Forgive me for asking," Schneizel said, keeping his tone pleasant, "but what brings you to this area of the palace? Meetings and conferences primarily meet here. Would it be presumptuous of me to assume that you are part of some committee?"

"Yes, it would," the girl said, a smirk crawling up her lips yet her voice devoid of emotion. "I only came here to listen in."

Schneizel raised an eyebrow. She couldn't mean…"Listen in? Do you mean the meeting I held?"

"Of course," the girl stated as if he had just asked her the most asinine of questions. "I must say that Odysseus eu Britannia is an irksome man."

Schneizel frowned at that. While Odysseus lacked intelligence and foresight, he was not unkind. "…Did he displease you in some way?"

"No," the girl said, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. " He's just a bore." Her smirk broadened into a smile, but it wasn't kind. "It must pain you to know that the first-in-line to the throne is such a mediocre man."

Schneizel's lips thinned into a line. "My brother is a fine man," he said. The girl did not look convinced. "When he succeeds our father, I will support him in any way I can."

The girl's eyes brightened. "So," she said, taking a step forward and extending her hand, "you plan to be the puppet master then?"

She reached up, standing on her tiptoes, and stroked Schneizel's cheek with her small pale hand. Schneizel froze, and the girl used this to her advantage, raising her chin so her lips nearly brushed against his ear.

"Well, you wouldn't be the first," she murmured, and Schneizel could feel her breath rush against his jaw line.

And then she left. Again. No good-bye. Not even a wave. Schneizel watched her leave with pursued lips, bringing a gloved hand to his ear.

The third time she wore nothing at all.

Schneizel was not as surprised as he should have been. Even after only two meetings, this sort of spontaneity seemed commonplace for this girl. Her head rested on a pillow, and her green hair fell over her breasts like a verdant cascade. Her spread legs laid against his silken sheets, thin and so pale they almost seemed luminescent.

If he wanted, Schneizel could have easily had her removed. If he merely raised his voice, several guards would burst into his chambers and detain this girl. However, Schneizel was curious, and he knew from experience that intimacy was one of the best ways to learn about a person.

"Are you ever lonely, Schneizel?" she asked tonelessly, and it occurred to Schneizel that this was the first time she had addressed him directly.

Schneizel reflected on the question. He had the respect of his father and most of his siblings. He had men and women that would answer to his beck and call. He had a personal assistant that was utterly devoted to him. If he desired carnal pleasure, he need only snap his fingers and any woman—maid or noble—would throw herself at his feet and call out his name as he fucked her on the bed or against a wall or wherever her chose.

"Yes."

The girl smiled, her golden eyes narrowing, and Schneizel crawled onto the bed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him lightly, airily. But Schneizel was a man of passion – not wispy kisses. He deepened the kiss and ran his gloved hands down her abdomen and thighs, reveling in the way she trembled beneath him. Schneizel smirked against her lips. So this girl succumbed to pleasure after all.

When Schneizel pulled back, her wan lips had colored and a slight blush had spread across her cheeks. She was still smiling, and Schneizel allowed his eyes to trail down her body…

…and his eyes widened in alarm.

Her hair had hidden it before, but now he could see it clearly: a scar just below her left breast. The unnerving part was that it seemed to be some sort of symbol. As if the scar wasn't an accident. As if it marred her skin on purpose.

Schneizel looked up at the girl to gauge her reaction, but she did not seem ashamed or saddened or even annoyed. Her expression was nonchalant. Her golden eyes were cool and perceptive.

Schneizel cleared his throat and raised his hand. "May I…?"

The girl nodded, and Schneizel removed his gloves. He carefully placed a hand on the scar and studied her expression once more. This did not seem like a new experience for her. If anything, she seemed used to it as if many people had laid their hands on this scar, and Schneizel was just one more person to add to the count.

"Why?" Schneizel asked, the question escaping his lips before he could think better of it.

"We all have our secrets," the girl said, gazing into his eyes.

"Have you ever considered that you may be keeping too many?"

"Even if I was," the girl replied, voice dry and deadpan, "what would be the point in telling you of all people?"

Schneizel did not have a chance to answer because she kissed him again – harder this time. He moved his hands past her scar, and her skin was cool to the touch. Even the hands that caressed his face felt icy, and her eyes were like the arctic.

Somehow this made her beautiful.

For the first time in many years, Schneizel had a horrible nightmare.

Instead of his usual vacant sleep, his thoughts were filled with death and decapitation. Blood and screams. Murder and despair.

He remembered hearing of the so-called "imperial massacre" during his father's childhood, but he had never been able to envision it. But now he could in all its stark horror and anguish. His mind was awash with macabre images, but he could not wake himself up. He realized it was a dream, but he could not awake no matter no matter—

He awoke gasping and covered in sweat. He blinked and turned his head to the side, and there was the girl, wide-awake, eyes filled with mirth, lips curled into a smirk.

Her hand was threaded through his, and it was as white as a skeleton. Schneizel stared at their joined hands with wide eyes.

"…Have a nice sleep?"

Once again, he did not see her for weeks. In a way, it was somewhat obnoxious. It was as if she thought her lengthy disappearances added to some sort of enigmatic allure. There was a difference between being mysterious and irritating, and this girl tread a fine line.

Negotiations with Japan had reached a stalemate, and an invasion seemed to be looming in the near future. There just needed to be a spark of some sort. A straw to break the camel's back.

Schneizel was certain Lelouch knew this as well as he did, but, unfortunately, his little brother seemed more intent on beating him in chess than discussing the state of affairs.

And Schneizel did not mind too much. He was just glad Lelouch was willing to spend time with him.

At the moment, they sat across from one another, a glass chessboard and marble table between them. Lelouch's little face was scrunched up in concentration as he studied the board. Schneizel had already captured most of his pieces.

In the end, Lelouch moved his king back a space – a defensive rather than offensive tactic. Schneizel smiled benignly. When would his dear brother ever learn?

Schneizel allowed his eyes to wander, and a mixture of exasperation and affection washed over him. Peeking out from the doorway was the girl, and she gazed at Schneizel with imperturbable golden eyes. She wore a simple white frock that almost made her look…angelic.

(Although the angels in Clovis' paintings possessed golden hair and sky-blue eyes. Their cheeks were flushed and ruddy. Their smiles were reverential. Their flesh was probably warm).

"Why are you smiling?" Lelouch demanded.

Schneizel hadn't realized he had been. He reluctantly broke eye contact with the girl to see that Lelouch's eyebrows were furrowed, and he was gripping the table with his little hands.

"Because," Schneizel said smoothly, placing his queen in a position that would slay the king, "I know I've won." Lelouch's eyes widened in horror? Anger? Shame? An amalgamation of all these emotions? "Checkmate. Good game, little brother." And he plucked the black king from the chessboard.

For a moment, Lelouch just sat there, dumbstruck. His little brother always seemed astonished when he beat him, and Schneizel couldn't help but find it somewhat adorable the way his eyes and mouth would widen in disbelief.

But it never lasted, of course. Lelouch's eyes narrowed, and his mouth thinned into a line. He let go of the table, his hands clenching into fists. Then, he snarled and stormed out of the room. Schneizel expected the girl to look amused when he locked eyes with her once more.

Instead, she looked sad.

"What do you think of Lelouch?"

Schneizel turned over in bed to look at the girl. Although it was dark, he could still see her eyes: gold, wide, unblinking.

"He's brilliant," Schneizel answered with a smile and threading his (ungloved) fingers through her hair. "Although he's young, I admire his drive."

Her expression did not change. "Do you love him?"

"Of course," Schneizel said without missing a beat. "He's my brother."

But that was a lie. Schneizel did not love Lelouch just because he was his brother. He had many brothers just as he had many sisters. A familial bond did not necessarily equate to affection; Schenizel was just good at faking it. With Lelouch, however, he never had to pretend.

"I thought you would say that," the girl said, turning her face away from him. A small and almost imperceptible smile formed on her lips. "It's nice to know this family is so predictable after all."

Obviously an insult. A backhanded compliment. But Schneizel smiled anyway and continued to run his fingers through her silky hair. "So is that what you look for in people?" he asked. "Banality?"

The girl shook her head, still not meeting his gaze. "No, I was just being nostalgic," she said. "I'll be leaving soon anyway."

Schneizel raised an eyebrow. "…Forever?"

"Awhile."

For a few minutes, it was silent. Schneizel continued to play with the girl's hair while she stared at nothing.

Then, "…How do you know?"

"A hunch," she answered automatically as if she had been expecting that very question.

"You know," Schneizel said, his smile widening, "hunches don't always play out."

And this time she looked at him, her eyes cold and narrowed. Her head jerked back, and her hair slipped from his fingers like water. Her body twisted away from him, and her scar momentarily stained his vision before she pulled the covers back up.

That wasn't the last Schneizel saw of her, but that was the memory that always replayed itself in his mind.

A few weeks later, Lady Marianne was pronounced dead, and the trauma caused her only daughter to become crippled and blind. Her only son cried and screamed and—Schneizel knew—would eventually swear his vengeance.

Schneizel never saw the girl after that event, and he refused to suspect her for the murder of Marianne vi Britannia. It simply did not seem in her nature.

(At least that was what he attempted to reassure himself).