A/N: Hi everyone… So a few things I should point out before you go on to read this.
I got this idea for a story, and I considered making it its own thing but… With The Crazy Coup and If Only… Maybe not just yet. That being said, some background information.
This is AU. It's WWII, and Lelouch Lamperouge and Suzaku Kururugi are junior officers underneath the commander of a concentration camp somewhere in Europe (IDK, it's kind of vague). C2 is, was, a nun in France, but then she got dragged to one of the camps after some soldiers found out the Jewish people who were hiding at her convent. Fortunately, she was chosen to play the piano at the commander's villa. All she does all day is just play the piano, because the commander just loves piano music so much (that part is kinda vague and nonsensical too). Ah, and an important fact… Being from France, C2 can only speak/understand French (she can communicate using English too, but it's not her forte), and the only officer that can speak/understand French is our lovely Lamperouge (his last name literally means red lamp in French).
Okay, I am completely and totally underqualified to write this because of two very important factors. One, I will never be able to understand or come even close to grasping the horror and pain the concentration camps brought. So… If things seem weird or out of place or not just right… I would like to formally apologize for my shortcomings… More so, for touching on such a delicate wound on humanity.
Also… As you read this, you're going to notice that not all of it is in English… If you're a fluent speaker in regard to French or German, and you read it, and go: WTF that is not how you conjugate that or that is not proper grammar, I would also like to formally apologize for sabatoging your language. I give you my word, it was not intentional. I know that the best and only translator out there are native speakers but uh… I'm a little short on native German and French speakers. So I had to make do with what I had. But I'm sorry for butchering your beautiful language!
Disclaimer: Code Geass is not my property… But this story is.
"Dumme mädchen! All of you scum are completely incompetent! All you do is waste resources! Why, even the very air you breath is wasted on you! Little bitch! I have had enough! Kururugi! Where is my whip?!"
"S'il vous plaît, Monsieur, s'il vous plaît! Please, I beg of you, please have mercy on-"
"Shut up, whore! Kururugi! My whip!"
"Sir." the brunette handed it to his superior, who snatched it away. Grabbing the French woman by the hair, he was about to drag her out, when the officer, who had been silent the entire time, said, "Sir, allow me to execute the punishment."
"What?"
"Surely, you must not be seriously considering doing it yourself. She is far beneath you. Allow me to do so."
"… Very well, Lamperouge. 50 lashes on the back. After all, we still need her alive."
"Yes sir."
. . .
Outside, it was pouring. The muddy ground squished under Lelouch's boots as he marched the crying woman to the stage. In front stood the hundreds and hundreds of women who had been unfairly persecuted, all deathly silent, not even daring to bat an eye.
Stripped of her thin dress, she was roughly tied to the thick wooden post, her back facing her audience. Drenched, she kept silent and merely closed her eyes, waiting for the first lash.
Lelouch unrolled the whip and shook it out, the nine leather strips rustling against each other. Tightening his grip on the handle, he fixated a blank expression on his face. Apologizing to her in the privacy of his mind, he pulled his arm back to begin her punishment.
She shuddered as she let out a scream, pressing herself to the post. Squeezing her eyes shut, she whimpered as searing hot pain bled into her. Before the agony had faded away completely, the tails fell upon her bare back again leaving red marks, excruciating pain, and blood. She gasped as tears sprung into her eyes, as she desperately tried to hide herself from her torturer.
Stoic, Lelouch was the perfect picture of a composed SS officer, mercilessly whipping the inferior slave who had no right to live.
But unbeknownst to the observers, tears fell from his eyes, mingling among the raindrops, as the heavens wept for the injustice of not only C2, but also the millions of men, women, and children in the vast lands of Europe who had all become wretches with the birth of the red swatstika.
. . .
5 times the sun rose since that day, and 5 times C2 woke up, her back throbbing. The scars were held closed by thin tissue and she ached when she moved her arms extensively. Through some luck though, she managed to keep her role as pianist to the lagerkommandanten.
And so, although they healed slowly and painfully, the wounds brought upon her by the whip weren't disturbed in any major way.
Everyday, as she went to the commander's villa to perform for hours on end, she would see the tall, slim officer who had dirtied his hands with her torture. His violet eyes would flicker to her for a moment before moving away, his expression unreadable.
She averted her gaze from him as much as possible; it wasn't that she blamed him. No; he had simply acted on orders… Right?
Regardless, she couldn't bring herself to hate him… How could she? As forbidden and disgusting as it seemed, she had grown attached to those moody and brooding amethyst orbs, the lean and proud figure as he stood at attention, his crisp voice, the subtlety and deliberation in his words and actions.
She loved him.
So how could she blame him? Hate him? Curse him?
But it was still a surprise, when, at the end of the day, she ordered not to join go to her barrack after the final roll call and dinner, but to the quarters of the high-ranking SS officers. There, she was to wait until someone came to take her away. If she were to escape, she was warned, she would suffer through the most horrendous type of punishment available which included days of no food, little water, little rest, and plenty of hard, manual labor, along with the inclusion of pleasuring the guards in the most primitive way possible.
She didn't try to run or hide. Obediently, she made her way to the large brick buildings, until she realized she didn't know where she was to wait and how and for what length of time… What was she to do? If she did the wrong thing, it could bring another 50 lashes on her already delicate back… The very thought made her wince.
Nervously, she stood by the front doors, straight as a board. She could see the rest of her fellow prisoners being ushered into the barracks. What would happen if a guard saw her? Would they shoot her? What was she to tell them if they interrogated her, demanding to know why she had broken rank? What if she were to die, or worse, what if they tried to-
"A-7630. Inside. Now."
"Y-yes sir."
Afraid that he would resort to violence if she didn't act fast enough, she hurried past the soldier and dashed into the warm building. She was pushed towards a long staircase, in which she stumbled on the first step. Clambering up, she rushed upwards, fearful of the heavy boots she heard behind her. On the second floor were rows and rows of beds.
The barracks.
"Not that way, stupid girl." he shoved her down a hallway to the left, in which there were only two doors on opposite sides. Opening the door on the left, he gestured impatiently for her to enter. Frightened, she obeyed, only to stop short.
Inside was a richly furnished bedroom. On the bed were soft duvets. The polished floor dully reflected the light from the lamps on the bedside table and bureau. The dresser seemed to be carved from mahogany, and the windows had curtains of smooth material. Her sore feet sunk into the thick rug as she looked about with amazement.
Why had she been brought here, to this haven of luxury?
"Remove your dress." he ordered, speaking in her native tongue. She looked up at him with wide eyes, finally understanding why she had been called away.
"Maintenant."
Now.
"… Ou-oui, Monsieur."
Taking a shaky breath, she slowly reached for the hem of her thin garment. Turning her back on him, she pulled it over her head and let it fall to the floor. Behind her, she could hear him open a drawer. She stood frozen, mortified by how exposed and vulnerable she was.
The sounds of his crisp uniform jacket's buttons snapping apart filled the room as he undressed. Trembling, she waited silently, not even daring to breath heavily.
She felt his bare hands touch her shoulders, gently pushing her towards the bed. Stumbling forward, she lay down, sinking into the thick, comfortable mattress. Her body involuntarily relaxed from contact; how long had it been since she had seen a proper bed, much less lay down on one? Maybe it wouldn't be so bad... At the very least, it would give her some reprieve from the hard and crammed wooden board that served as her bed.
"Be still." he ordered. Closing her eyes, she waited for him to begin, when instead, she felt something cool and moist being spread all over her back. She sighed involuntarily, when she remembered whose room she was in. She was about to get up, when she heard, "Sh… Ne bougez pas."
Don't move.
"Oui, Monsieur."
It wasn't until some time had passed when he said, "I put a poultice on your wounds. It will help with the pain and accelerate the healing process."
"…. Pourquoi êtes-vous m'aidez?"
Why are you helping me?
"Parce que je suis désolé."
Because I'm sorry.
"Pour ce?"
For what?
He remained silent and unrolled the roll of cloth bandages. Murmuring, "Excusez-moi," he reached underneath her as he began to dress her wounds.
"Pour ce, Monsieur?"
For what, sir?
"Parce que je vous puni."
Because I punished you.
Getting up from the bed, he handed her her dress, which she slipped back into.
"… Why do you care so much-"
"You will stay here for the remainder of the evening. You may sleep in the bed. I give you my word, I will not try to do, nor cause anything harmful to you."
"Monsieur."
He didn't look at her and merely went to his dresser.
"… Why have you, a high-ranking, respected Nazi SS officer called me, someone who has been spit on and whipped and worked to near death for my beliefs, to your very bedroom, only to tend to my wounds? What would motivate you to do something so dangerous?"
He merely poured himself a glass of brandy. Taking a small sip, he felt the burning sensation the alcohol left in his mouth and throat, before the sweetness settled in.
"It's funny, isn't it? Why would I concern myself with a trivial nun from France who has been branded as scum and trash? One who has been marked for death? Why would I?"
She stared at him.
"It could be because of pity. Pity for a young woman who was to die unjustly. Pity for someone who has always placed others before her. Pity for one whose eyes looked as if they were on fire, rebellious with the determination to survive."
"Pity…" he hung the stiff jacket of his military uniform.
"Yes… It began as pity… At first."
She remained silent, not wanting to do anything to anger him.
"… Do you forgive me? For what I've done to you?"
"… I was never angry at you."
"Why? I hurt you. I made you bleed. I tortured you."
She said nothing and only looked at him, her eyes giving him her reply.
'Parce que je t'adore.'
'Because I love you.'
He set down the glass slowly as he read the message in her eyes. After some time had passed, in which the only sound was the clock ticking, the raven-haired man said, "… Forgive me for what I'm about to do."
"Wha-"
He strode towards her, making her shy away. Kneeling in front of her, he moved her face so that she was looking at him.
"Ich liebe dich."he said gently.
He kissed her forehead.
"Je t'adore."
He kissed her cheek.
"… I love you."
He seemed to hesitate, before deciding that he had already waded in far enough and might as well just dive in.
Rising to his feet, he enveloped her hands with his as he bent down and captured her lips with his own, and in that single moment, his uniform, her persecution, their differences, and the burning swatstika vanished…
A/N: Honestly, I seriously doubt the legitimate-ness of this all, but hey. We can all dream.
Ah, and also... My cold... I only have this horrible, hacking cough! But I'm back for the most part (mentally), so... Construction at The Crazy Coup will be taken up again! Hooray! And on a completely different note... I know that this chapter sucks, especially with the idea, and I did take it down, but you know what? If you hate it, then go on hating it.