A rather hurried and unkempt story of some of my musings with regards to Fate and Death. Some details are deliberately left vague, for I want to focus on C.C.'s own thoughts and not on anything else. Also, pardon if some details are wrong-I've not watched Code Geass in a long-ass while
C.C. was dying.
And she was well aware of it, as the painful but familiar shock of having a blade pierce through her heart came with a foreign and unexplainable feeling of her own Code vanishing away. It was a moment of…lightness, as if a heavy burden was being lifted off from her shoulders—the heavy burden called immortality.
A searing pain then pulsated through the wound, and her hands instinctively reached out for the blade still lodged through her heart. For a moment, it fascinated C.C. how much a human body will fight to live, and hers was no exception. Even with her countless "deaths", self-preservation was always an instinct her own body abided to.
The person holding the blade then plunged it deeper into her chest, making C.C.'s body jerk from the tear and eliciting a small gasp from her. The contender for her immortality this time was not some fallen Emperor nor some teenager set out on a quixotic quest to change the world; rather, it was a simple girl of some obscure background—almost the same stature and age as C.C. when she herself acquired the Code.
Unlike the past contenders, however, this girl was going to succeed in acquiring it.
A strange thought, C.C. mused. For the longest time, she had been dreaming of this moment. Not that she actually believed it would come true, of course—but still, she dreamed. Especially on those times when her body strained under suffering, her mind would scream and rage for death. Yes, during those times, she would dream—until the acute pain of healing wounds and a broken body would surface her back into reality.
A split-second later—which felt like a hundred years to C.C.—the girl withdrew her dagger, and immediately, C.C. became aware of the gaping hole in her chest, the heavy red that was pouring out of it and was soaking through her clothes, the rasping breath of her mouth as her lungs try to make up for her failing body, and that echoing, hard sound of a body unceremoniously dropping to the floor. Her mind reeled from the pain that came seconds later—an intense, surging hurt that rippled down to her toes and made her body tremble. Breathing now incited a sharp pain from her chest, and exhaling made the blood soak even more through her clothes. Slowly, she shifted her hazy gaze to see the blood—her blood—color the tiles around her.
And then, she remembered.
She would always scoff at those who would tell her that dying entailed a sort-of flashback through one's entire life. She had been "killed" countless of times before, but not once did it include a journey of memory through her life. What she only had was a sick familiarity to it-to the feeling of being fatally wounded, mutilated or whatnot.
But this time, however, she remembered. It was as if an ocean of memories flowed through her soul.
She remembered the piece of bread offered to her by the Nun as she lay dying by that Chapel side. It was the first meal she had in days, and she remembered it to be the tastiest bread she had ever eaten.
She remembered the elderly couple by the vineyard who adopted her in their care for several years. Every sunset, the two would sit by the porch and reminisce, "Eagerly waiting for death" as they would say. Yes, "because death's a gift."
She remembered the affair she had with a Count, and on how he patiently tutored her on some of the court's dances and graces. "Don't you see, my dear," he remarked as he held her waist delicately, ready for the next step. "We are all dancing to some grand, mysterious tune." She had never met a better dancer than him.
She remembered those dark underground tunnels their refugee group had to pass through in the midst of that terrible World War. Some soldiers from the opposing camp found out about it and decided to burn off their exit, trapping and suffocating the whole lot of them inside. She had never felt despair like it as the smell of heavy smoke and burning flesh consumed her whole being.
She remembered a friend turned revolutionary in the French Revolution. He had the keenest eyes, she recalled-eyes that were wide-open as he succumbed to his wounds and embraced death. He was not afraid, he said.
C.C.'s own breath became shallower and shallower by the moment. There was no pain now, only creeping coldness and sifting memories.
She remembered the flower wreath that a little boy—Mao—weaved for her. Golden flowers, like her eyes.
She remembered the sunrise at the Ganges River.
…And the sunset by the Himalayas.
And a boy—no, man. Striking eyes that always calculated, physique fairly normal but strong enough to carry the burden of the world. She has never met a man like him.
She has stopped trembling now, only a comforting calmness that she has never before felt in her entire life. At the same time, she wondered: immortality had allowed her to see the ripples of actions through time. It was the accretion of those little things, like what to wear or where to go to, that eventually cascaded into waves rebounding throughout the world.
She had always viewed it in a distant way though, as if she was seeing a story unfold in front of her but was never a part of it. She saw the rise and fall of landscapes, empires and civilizations, but she never belonged to any of its fate. It was a quaint existence, observing people rinse through that repeated pattern of rising and falling.
But now, in that ocean of memories, she was able to see it—see the echoing of her own path rebound with the destiny of others. If she had not decided to stop and rest by that vineyard, she would not have met the elderly couple. If she had dressed only differently during the festivity held by the Countess, she would not have caught the eye of the Count. If she had decided to continue travelling and had not decided to stop by and rest by that orphanage, she would not have met that unloved, little Mao. If she had not decided to leave the Directorate, or left it a little sooner or later, she would never have given the Geass to…
Ah.
That grand, mysterious tune.
Tears prickled her eyes as she felt an overwashing sense of gratitude for all the things that have passed, and for the fate that was hers and not hers at the same time. She felt the last vestiges of her senses dwindle away—drowned by the floodgates of tranquillity…and light.
"Hey,"
His amused voice ringed in her ears—the man with calculating, but gentle eyes.
"You're going to die, and that would be your expression?"
A thin, paper-like hand stretched out before her. Yes, she has never met a man like him.
C.C. smiled and took his hand.
Inspired by the movie American Beauty, which is one of the most beautiful and moving movies I've ever watched. Also inspired by the Divine Revelation of Julian of Norwich:
"All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well."
(The theme "Sunrise by the Lake Pontchartrain" also helped in the creation of this fic.)