Whilst I really liked writing and translating this chapter's first part, the second one - although much more relevant for the course of the story - is utter rubbish. Blame Gaddafi (Gathafi?).

BTW, I noticed that one of the major differences of English and German vocabulary is that the latter is superior in all the words describing thoughts, nature, speech, whilst English seems to be superior in the description of movements and action. For example, English has no single word for "schweigen" (to be silent, saying nothing) - while one can not describe the word "gemütlich" (~homely) in less than 500 words. It's truly enthralling. Not as much as a single review, though.

Ninth Chapter – Honour

Paris, French Empire, EU

25th of September 2033 a.t.b.

"Excuse me, monsieur."

The guardsman turned to the young lady. He could barely see her face; the square might have been lightened by ancient gas lamps, but she stood in his sentry box's shadow. "How may I be of assistance, madame?"

It might have been the middle of the night – but Paris never slept and beside the protection of the Emperor, Napoleon V, it was the duty of the Garde Imperiale et Républicaine to serve the citizens of France and Europe.

His first guess at being approached by a young girl long past midnight had been that it had to be a who... a professional, he corrected himself – utter politeness was expected from a guardsman. But this was not one of the red light districts of his home town Florence, this was the Jardin des Tuileries. Directly behind his sentry post was the iron fence dividing the public parts of the park from the palace gardens. On the horizon the Louvre museum was brightly lit. No, there was no prostitute that would find her way to this place in doing her job.

The girl stepped closer, into the gas lamp's pool of light. She could not be older than sixteen years, but her looks were bewitching – long, silky, raven hair and fair pale skin: but her most enthralling feature, the one that captured his gaze and wouldn't let go of it, were her big, unfathomable eyes with their strange golden colour. She wore a black dress that reminded him of that Japanese style his little sister was crazy about, and apparently no make-up.

The guardsman might have been about nine years older than her, being 25 – still he felt his nether regions react strongly.

Suddenly her left eye seemed to light up red – how weird, he though whilst losing himself in her different-coloured eyes. "Monsieur," she sweetly asked, "if you could kindly escort me and my companion into the palace?"

Behind her a gentleman appeared that could barely be older than she, also raven-haired and dressed black, but he barely noticed Him.

He wanted to answer that he was not entitled to, that only official guests were allowed to enter the palace – but he couldn't. He wanted to help this beautiful girl get inside at all costs, no, he desired to. Still – no, he could not. What if she – no, certainly not she, but what if her mysterious escort was after the well-being of the imperial family? The Emperor in particular had made some enemies during both the Britannian Wars, the ensuing Re-establishment of the Union and his tenure as President of the Central Hemicycle.

But the wish to help her, to enable this gorgeous young lady see the rooms of the palace won. What could go wrong, after all?

Smiling and hanging his rifle over his shoulder, the guardsman stepped out of his box. "Of course, madame. Monsieur. Please follow me." – and approached the broad, wrought-iron main gate. Strangely his comrade in the other sentry box did not seem to notice him as he unlocked the gate bearing the imperial eagle and Bonaparte bees and opened one of the wings.

Then he led the girl and her escort into the palace gardens of the Tuileries.

"What … what is your name, madame?," he dared ask after a while as they approached the palace between accurate flower beds, ornamental broderie-style beds, straight lines of trees, carefully pruned shrubbery, lawns and fountains.

She smiled a beautiful smile and caught up with him. "Jeanne," she merely said. "And what's yours?"

Probably his cheeks had the same colour as the ridiculous helm crest and his uniform's cuffs – bright scarlet.

"Sergent François Salviati, madame. Second Regiment of Grenadiers-afoot of the Guard."

"François Salviati …," she repeated. Something about the way the young girl pronounced his name let a pleasant shiver run down his back. "What a marvellous name. Are you from Italy?"

"Indeed, madame. I'm from Florence … and … and what about you? You speak with a slight jurassien accent …"

Fortunately they reached the palace in this moment. While François was just about to open the gate, another guard watching the main entrance hurried to him. "What's going on?," he asked and then "... who's that, François?"

"Well, that's …," he hawed. But then Jeanne put her slender white hand on his arm and it was as if an electric shock had hit him.

Her companion remained silent.

"I'm Jeanne," she sweetly introduced herself. "We absolutely want to visit the palace; will that be alright?"

It seemed his comrade wanted to reply – but then he halted and François noticed some narrow, reddish rings around his eyes for a moment.

And then he said: "Well … it's … it's not exactly allowed. I can't permit that …" But then the guardsman looked at him – it was Louis from his battalion, a friendly man with whom he had worked before.

"On the other hand … François, you'll go with them, won't you? Then … if you keep an eye on them, it should be okay." And thus he opened the grand doors of the Tuileries Palace to them.

Raptly Jeanne danced through the huge, dark ballroom of the palace.

"Come, papa, it's marvellous!"

Her companion had barely left the door sill; an arrogant, aloof smile graced His attractive face. He did not seem particularly impressed. His face somehow felt familiar to François, yet the guardsman could not remember whence.

Jeanne calling Him "dad" seemed weird. François eyed Him from the corner of his eye. The man couldn't be older than twenty, could He …?

Suddenly Jeanne came up to him and took his hand. He blushed heavily, grateful for the darkness. "François, come on."

His face had probably looked utterly confused – it was difficult to follow, far easier to just stare at her – for she explained.

"This is a ballroom, thus we shall dance. Papa doesn't want to, so you'll have to do!"

Embarrassedly he managed to divert his gaze from her.

"I … I mustn't. In fact it's not allowed to bring strangers into the palace, I mustn't lose side of you."

It was obvious that he did not mean her, but Him, her mysterious companion. However, He remained silent, did not even look at him.

But Jeanne once again captured his gaze with her gorgeous honey-coloured eyes, once again he lost himself in them, once again one of them – the left one – turned red. This time he thought he saw a bird flying towards him.

"Oh, come on, François. You want it too, don't you?"

He hesitated – yes, he wanted to. He wanted – no, he desired to dance with her – and thus he threw aside his rifle, took her hand and with a bow said:

"Madame, if I may have this dance?"

She giggled, light and pure, drew him with her to the ballroom's centre, and then to an inaudible melody they whirled across the parquet on which kings and emperors, premier-consuls and presidents had danced.

"Madame," he finally dared to ask the beautiful girl, "how … how did you do that? How did you get Louis to let us in?"

Once again she laughed. "Can you keep a secret, François?"

He suddenly noticed that she had addressed him with the intimate tu instead of the previous vous, and his cheeks, the hand and waist her hands touched (and his nether regions, once more) felt like they were on fire. Again her beautiful eyes caught his gaze, and thus he merely nodded without a word.

Jeanne drew him closer, much closer, whispered to his ear. They were so close he could feel the warmth of her body.

"I have been granted the power of kings …"

Then she mischievously pressed her lips on his.

The last sensation François had before He stabbed him from behind with an elegant, but quite sharp 16th century rapier was absolute ecstasy.

"Splendid," spoke He when He finally held His daughter in His arms. "Your Geass is powerful … it seems you can use it on the same person multiple times, on a distance of up to 43 metres. Jeanne …," He paused. "Not bad."

She blissfully smiled.

"Why did you kill him, papa?," she asked with a kiss, still smiling. "Would he have been a threat?"

He sternly looked into her eyes. "He saw us and knew of Geass. To let him live would have been a threat that to ignore would have been … unwise."

She parted from Him, passed by the bloody corpse to one of the ballroom's grand windows and looked out to the roofs of nightly Paris. "So then me kissing him doesn't matter?," she quietly asked.

Her father's face hardened. "That as well. I do not wish to see such behaviour again."

She winced a little, then quietly nodded. "May I ask what your agents in Bogotá and Panama told you?," she asked in order to change topics.

"It seems both sides are preparing a large-scale winter offensive. It's understandable they want to break through the hostile positions and finally get this war to move again." He snorted bitterly. "How cruel. Britannians slay Britannians, and in the end two offensives of the same strength nullify each other. We can only hope that Nunnally's armies march first …"

Now she turned to Him again, her eyes wide with disbelief. "But … how can you just ignore it? If you find it so sickening, can't you just … end this war?"

Silence.

"Come," He then said, "Come, my daughter, enough with the dancing. We still got to take care some of your possessions get to Japan securely."

Carmel-by-the-Sea, Montereyshire, Duchy of California, Holy Britannian Empire

At the same time

The last sunbathers had long since left the beach; the last ones still staring into the breakers were Henry and I. He had invited me here – not only his family possessed another house here, it was his favourite place in all California. And thus Henry had spent the day flirting with the girls and I discreetly restraining from doing so – giggling groups of girls made me nervous; I barely got out a clear sentence speaking to them.

Henry and I sat in the sand, a tiny magnet chessboard between us.

The situation was difficult: albeit my knights controlled the board's centre, he had already taken both of my bishops, one rook and a multitude of pawns following a mistake in the opening, while his army still stood nearly unscathed.

It took me a moment to discover the saving move – then I moved the king one field diagonally. Considering the situation it was no bad move – it not only brought the king to a position in where he (although central) could hardly be attacked but also prepared a forceful attack on his queen's side. No, not a bad move – only a little bit unconventional.

Surprised Henry raised a brow, leant forward.

"The king?," he noted, "That's … unusual."

He frowned, thought about it. Then he laughed. "And it even works."

But redeploying his bishop for security he said: "There you have it again – chess hasn't been a mirror of reality since the 15th century."

"To what extend?," I enquired, slightly taken aback.

Henry pointed at the board. "Why, just look at it! Look at the rules! Who was the last monarch of the Realm to fight and die on the battlefield? Richard III, in 1540 a.t.b., the Battle of Bosworth Field!"

"Sure," I countered, "Of course it's become to dangerous for a monarch to fight on the front lines – but the game's still a faithful mirror of the political stage. The emperor still leads his armies to the battle, still everything is lost once he falls."

"Bollocks. The Europeans tend to give their command, not only in battle but also in civic life, to elected committees, commissions of experts, and general staffs – and it certainly didn't harm them. Before the Eighth Generation Knightmare Frame, the EU was on par with us – so it does work without a strongman to lead."

Till today I do not know why I insisted on my point of view – why I actually had this point of view. A feeling of duty to my name?

"But … well, Empress Nunnally …"

"Yes, yes, yes. Nunnally is great – but isn't that the problem of hereditary monarchy? Richard the Lion-heart was succeeded by John Lackland. Henry the Good was succeeded first by the weak Richard IV, then Charles III, then Lelouch. Can we permit ourselves to hand the fate of our nation completely to one single person, merely because it is the son or daughter of the one who did the job before? Nunnally's heir apparent – Faramond, the Prince of Wales – has not been seen in public for years, never has he spoken to his people. Who knows what positions he might have? Who know if he is able?" He gave a slight laugh. "Well, I've got an idea, but …"

I was silent, stared into the breakers.

"There is something … something I did not tell you."

Henry curiously looked at me, yet remained silent.

What the hell was I doing?

"My name … I'm not Faramond Lamperouge. But …"

"His Imperial and Royal Highness, Faramond Ichiro Alexander, Prince of Wales and Newfoundland," he interrupted me, slowly pronouncing each and every word. "I know."

I simply stared. He had said it as if it were nothing … But how could it be? How did he know? My face was not at all well-known, and it was not implausible that after my birth children had been named after me (there were a few dozen Lelouchs in Britannia, certainly the butts of many cruel jokes).

"The internet," Henry said, reading my mind.

"Pardon?"

"You reminded me of a picture I once saw online. Of course, it was your photograph … so I googled 'Faramond Lamperouge' and behold – the omniscient online encyclopaedia wisely redirected me to Faramond, Prince of Wales and Newfoundland. Your mother called herself Lamperouge when she was in exile and Japan, didn't she?"

I did not know what to say.

I said: "You … knew all the time?"

"For the last two months … yeah."

"Why didn't you say anything, then?"

The question was not complete, I thought. Henry had always seemed so natural, so informal, so friendly – no-one would have guessed he was talking to a prince.

"Should I have?," he calmly countered. He moved the chess board aside and turned to me, sitting in the sand cross-legged. "Faramond," he began, "you are – excepting your completely crazy style at chess – a normal person. You might be the grandson of Charles III and the nephew of Lelouch – that doesn't change anything about you being great – it doesn't change that we're friends."

My … friend? I thought about it. I had never had something like this (for what is a friend?), but he was right: when I was with Henry I felt indescribable (it was a feeling I would only have for one other person – but then I did not yet know what it meant, nor would I have understood it).

Henry solemnly looked in my eyes. "I don't care what path you will choose, Faramond," he said, "but I know that I shall follow you forever. A Britannia under you is one I will gladly serve, for you are my friend and I am yours."

I hesitated.

"You … you are aware of what that means, aren't you?"

"I am." He rose, I did the same – and then Henry knelt before me.

"Make me your Knight of Honour, my Prince, here and now!"

Involuntarily I backed off.

"Henry, that is … madness! I can't knight you, I'm not entitled to!"

"You are the First Prince of the Realm," he countered. "One day you shall rule over billions of people. In this realm there is nothing you are not entitled to – nothing that is out of your power. And to make me your knight seems to be the only way to me … the only way we can stay together when you eventually return to the Capital."

"There … there got to be another possibility …"

"Like what?"

I silenced. He was right, as usual: there was no other possibility.

"But … no, I can not do that. I can not bind you to me like that! I can't force you to live your life in my chains!"

He solemnly caught my gaze with his beautiful azure eyes.

"I am willing."

– and unsheathed his sword. Offered me the hilt …

I seized it.

"Very well then. Henry Stewart, Earl of Kate, dost thou, upon this day, pledge thy fidelity to the Holy Britannian Empire and wilt thou stand firmly as a …"

I stopped, diverted my gaze.

"No," I spoke once again, "I can't do that. I can't punish you like this!"

Henry, however, smiled calmly. "If it is from your hands, I will gladly take whatever punishment you shall see fit."

I could not look into his eyes. I stared at the ocean. The blade's tip gleamed in the evening sun. I raised the sword. The blade's tip gleamed.

And from then on everything went well.

"Dost thou, upon this day, pledge thy fidelity to the Holy Britannian Empire and wilt thou stand firmly as a Knight of the Crown?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Wilt thou forsake thyself and be sword and shield for the greater good?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

And with the sword's tip I touched his left, then his right shoulder, then his head.

"Then thus I, Faramond Ichiro Alexander, Prince of Wales and Newfoundland, do hereby dub thee Knight of Honour. May your courage and devotion become a shining example to the people of the Empire – rise as a Knight, Sir Henry Stewart."

In the name of the Witch and the Traitor and the Demon.

He rose as a Knight, and before I was able to react his lips were on mine.

I dropped the sword.

I closed my eyes.