2013-11-15
Finally changing Lieselotte's name (I used to spell it Liselotte) to the correct spelling and enjoying the brief moment of happiness in Season 2. I'm looking to write this in three parts now with ten works between the seasons, ten works during S2, and two works after. Also, I spoiler L-elf's old name (though I only retconned one chapter for it) so watch out for that.
2013-07-06
So I finished marathoning Valvrave only to conclude that there was a dire lack of Lieselotte and tragedy foreshadowing like woah for, um, everyone. This smattering of disjointed oneshots seeks to address the former problem. Unfortunately, angst has its ways of seeping in. Please watch out for spoilers, speculation, alternative interpretations, alternative timelines/universes, smut, violence, underage, and (knowing my kinks) probably incest and noncon. Planning to update daily and not going to bother giving L11 a real name because it'll probably be revealed (along with everyone else's death) in Season 2.
Hope you enjoy nonetheless!
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And Had I Made You Queen
30themes featuring L11 (L-Elf) and Lieselotte
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This is not the first time he's been shot. The pain is a sharp and constant stab to the back of his head and with each step, a niggling little voice sing-songs: 'You're going to die, you're going to die, you pathetic little boy, you're going to die'. He'd laugh it off like usual if the entirety of his strength wasn't being spent on standing upright - and if it wasn't right.
Because for once, that nagging voice foretells the truth. While it's not an immediately fatal wound, he's come too far out to go back.
Let this be a nightmare, he begs, Let me wake up and try again.
It's instinct; it's second-nature; it's the most unnecessary series of motions and still, he gingerly pulls out that lone photograph. His handwriting has smudged and her expression is blurred and it's been ten years since he's last seen her and -
Like a lifeline, he clutches onto the bloodstained picture, taking one step after another in the right direction.
He is so close, he knows. So so so close.
The thing is, like that voice, the rest of his brain is functioning perfectly well. He's already deduced where the plan went awry and how much time he has until passing out from blood loss. He knows exactly which arteries were hit and how long it would take for even the most amateur of field surgeons to patch him back together. This knowledge offers no aid and little comfort and he wastes some more time leaning against the palace wall trying to catch his breath.
He has not seen her in a decade, but it does not mean he has not kept tabs on her whereabouts. The ever-paranoid palace guards - usurpers, the lot of them - enjoy keeping her confined to one place. As far as the records show, she's been in the same room for five years.
Security is lax, as he had predicted. Most of the guards were searching the nearby grounds for intruders. The bloodloss is causing him to feel nimble, to feel happy, and he missteps the first ledge as a result. He tumbles to the ground and barely remembers to keep from screaming. Years of militant conditioning have made their mark and he lands on his feet, a soundless mistake save for the dripping of blood.
The second try is met with more success: he manages to vault onto the first ledge and scrabble (well, hobble) his way to the second. A bloody trail is left in his wake and he fights back the urge to laugh. This time after all, the blood is his own.
It turns out the floorplans of the palace weren't entirely accurate as there is a good meter of space between the walls of the second floor and the third.
He makes the leap of faith, grabbing onto the criss-crossed bars of the window and - just - for a moment - hangs.
Deep breaths in, deep breaths out, he urges himself.
This will be their first meeting in ten years. He's run through dozens - no, hundreds - of possible conversations and still doesn't know what he wants to hear most. The light-hearted buzzing overwhelms him for a second and his right hand slips. He bites the inside of his cheek yet again, concentrating on that laughable amount of pain, before grabbing on with his right hand.
Between his fingers the bars are sturdy. He is confident that they can hold his weight.
It's too late for him however, he realizes when he cannot pull himself up.
There's the rattle of doors, the stomping of feet, and the click of loaded chambers.
Work, work, work, he chants, hysteria being overwhelmed by numbness.
"There he is!" someone shouts. For a split second, he's blinded by a flash of light, and an unknown strength surges back into his arms. Desperately, triumphantly, he pulls himself up to look through her window.
This is what ten years of separation culminate in: point-blank shots through his skull and a long-abandoned room.
The truth doesn't even hurt, he realizes, as he had been expecting this all along.
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/01. fingers don't fail me now