Title: And in blood
AN: Damn it, I'm beginning to lose the obsessive high I run on. (Shoot.) Sorry, holidays and boredom and writer's block. There's also another author's note at the bottom.
The world blurred into focus, a kaleidoscope of soft colors diluted by the black threading across her vision. She was a witness, an outsider as she slid back to reality—saw herself in the infinite C. before enduring a slow fall into a thing of gravity and air and substance that left her struggling for breath. Blood clung to cold skin as night draped itself over the sky, a veil of navy that brought the shadows to life from their secret homes, and she eyed the red that long ago dimmed to a rust-colored silhouette. November chill had curled into the marrow of her bones, and she watched the leaves—a sea of brilliant scarlet and gold broken by pools of fresh green that lingered before winter moved from the southern mountains.
She caught the scent of fresh rain riding on the wind and dusted grim from her skirts while he stirred at her feet. There was silence as his hands gripped at the crag before he lurched forward, little more than a sharp jerk of his muscles, and then went stiff. Perhaps he was going to be sick, and she supposed she could understand that—even for her, whose feeling had long ago died, she could imagine the sensation of another sifting through memories and thoughts.
"You!" The sound was garbled, Suzaku stumbling as the pain surged through his right arm and red seeped through the white of his hakama.
"You're lucky you're not dead," it cleaved through the air, her words a blunt weapon of their own creation.
"Who are you?! You—You're allied with him!"
With a nonchalant shrug, she declared a dry, "And if I am? Will you 'kill me', too."
"I—" He swallowed his retort when she cut him short, turning on her heel as the sun's light was drowned by the horizon.
"It wouldn't do you any good," a person with a death sentence hung over them who couldn't die was worthless. In a sick way, a voice in her murmured that he understood that.
"How did I fall unconscious?! Wherever you—"
"Clearly," she deadpanned while groping for her missing ribbon in the dark, "You are prone to fainting."
"That thing on your forehead," he hissed, dark and cynical as his eyes found it, "It was inside the ruins—"
"He didn't tell you of me?" She was a parody of wounded, "How impolite." Kaminejima was a mistake she would be careful not to recreate; V.V. became a threat she had long ago disregarded, and that was her Achilles heel. Suzaku had been there to bait Lelouch and there was something unnerving, sinister about the implications—the very idea that he hoped to eliminate her contracted from the fray, when it was her business what she did or didn't do with them.
"Lelouch. . . ?" His voice was a beacon, and she abandoned her reverie.
"Are you frightened by it," it was unassuming, and he went still—no answer came as her fingers coiled around the silk and she tugged it through her locks.
"That," the pilot was final when it tumbled from his mouth, "Should never have existed."
"It is despicable, after all," she believed that much; the Geass should never be a welcome gift.
"Were the two of you always—" It was vicious, an accusation borne of nothing but assumptions.
Her answer came slowly, "Are you really in a position to demand answers from me. . ."
Silence permeated as the trees murmured their ancient symphonies, "You could have already done whatever you wanted."
"Perhaps that friend of yours asked me to capture you . . ." Suzaku gave no replies, but there was a teasing whisper that he had no doubts about what Lelouch would have or would have not done. Knees buckling and her body screaming at the shift from non-reality, she forced herself to rise as the white noise buzzed in her brain—listened to a whirr of pitches trapped in dissonance.
"I," she said finally, sweeping easy neon green from her shoulders, "already got what I wanted from you. But it was partially for his sake."
"You have the same mark as the boy who told me about Geass," he was cautious and she plucked at the material of her dress before letting her gaze meet his, unflinching.
"Do you want to know what it is?" No, he had long ago learned of its name, but not of it's shadowy legacy. Nothing in her was willing to compromise her and Lelouch's relationship thus far—Suzaku was something he cared for, and she had honored that for these past few months without complaint. 'But even I have my limits.'
". . ." The pilot breathed a harsh and bitter, "I want to know why he thought using that was worth anything."
"Using the . . . ?" She weighed the allusions, but let them slip away into quiet again, "Irregardless, he did save you."
"He could have chosen another way."
She was darkly frank, "Sometimes there are no other ways."
"Euphemia. . ." His words were the remnants of an angry wound, "She didn't even know why she was dying! What the hell was he thinking! Why play with people's lives?!"
". . ."
"His order," he growled furiously, "I would have rather died!"
". . . I'm sorry," C.C. finished emptily, reminded of the horrors of Geass, "But that order won't leave because you ask it to." She was well aware that it wasn't her place to speak of the SAZ, not to him—that was Lelouch's burden, although she wondered if he would believe anything they told him. There was a treacherous calm while her golden eyes flitted to meet his and she suffered an irritating stab of the caricature of conscious the Code had left behind in her, "Can you get up."
". . ." Silence and wind babbling in the womb of evening was his reply.
"Do you think I have a gun," this time it was amused, "What prudence."
Watching intently while he struggled upright, disorientated from blood loss and the jumbled physics of C., she noticed a hesitation in his stare—as though he were drawing her against some idea, some woman who had died before they pulled her from her capsule and casket, "That outfit. I like eastern attire myself," he said nothing when she turned on her heel, "Formal wear in particular, but it's not much for practical use . . ."
Suzaku caught her by her wrists and spun her against his chest with a solemn, "You are in direct violation of the law—"
"The law," she spoke, her voice devoid of emotion, "But that's not your first concern . . ."
". . ." He studied her, tense and expecting a familiar surge of light, but none flared to life. She had no delusions of his retaliation, and realized that he had been slower to capture her than she'd expected.
"I'm not anything vital. What did that fool say," the pitiful one with the low talent score, but astounding mouth, "A slut, but does Lelouch need things like that, too . . ."
"No," she smirked at the faith below his affirmation, "He wouldn't do that."
"So you think he'll come after me," she muttered, the sound faint in the grays and black, "You can turn me to the Emperor, if you want—"
"Lelouch isn't the only reason I want to investigate you," it was ominous and stoic, a wild card she had hoped he would avoid, "Why would they involve you in a project of the Empire. They lied to their soldiers—"
"Are you assuming I'm a prisoner of Britannia," it was flat, and he worked to string together his response.
"But to be treated like that . . ." No regulation. Yes, she noted cynically, that was true.
"How sharp of you," he glared, eyes burning while she let herself find the sliver of a moon cut into the haze of navy and indigo, "There is scientific study of the Geass, but it's occultism."
"And you?!"
"I don't know anything," it was simple, "I was an experiment, not a person."
". . ." His grip loosened and he made to undo the ribbon, a red strip cascading down her spine before she waved him away.
"I won't run," he arched an eyebrow, the cloth slipping through his fingers, "I don't know where I am, besides . . . if we are accomplices then I can't go very far, can I."
". . . So you won't show me where he is," she managed a shrug of her shoulders before he pried it apart and laced it past her wrists, binding her hands. They walked, carefully maneuvering past rock and cliff while he led, and she cursed her shaky footing and the mud clawing at her heels. A creek, bubbling and murmuring as water tore through its insides, craved a path through a cradle of trees and underbrush. Jerking to test the strength of the silk, she went still when he sparked a fire with a plastic bottle—abandoned in the forest by a rogue construction worker, she imagined—at his side. There was quiet, the beating of bird's wings and the croaking of frogs a backdrop before she slipped atop a boulder jutting from the dirt.
"What did you—" His mouth snapped closed as she ignored him, leaning back against the jagged stone.
"Women don't play in the mud, I'm afraid," hands tucked underneath a sharp incline, she searched for a hold to slice through the cloth. She could easily escape, then or now—in the confusion she had thrown his gun into the mud and, given the time of his 'recovery', both his arm and leg were injured. Their silence was brief when he clutched at his hakama and ripped a strip from his clean arm,"What would you do with him if you had succeeded."
"He isn't above the law," it was a growl, low and cold as death while he boiled water in the forgotten Pepsi bottle, "His actions would be punished accordingly—"
"But that man, the Emperor," she mused dreamily, tugging her legs to her chest, "Such a harsh method . . ."
"It's deserved—"
"But unusual, to choose him over everything else . . ." He doused it with warm water before running it down the gash, raw and red from the fall, "What a secondary motive . . ."
Pouring was what left over the flame, he grinded the black carcasses of wood into ash and turned to force her to stand. His look was serious, and she wondered offhandedly if Lelouch had fled the shrine to meet her or returned to Nunally. The roofs of compact houses began to ripple past leaves, patches of black and white that were shadows in the gray until a wall of concrete reached up to greet them.
"You could turn me in just as easily," it was unnerving, but she had a mind to scold V.V. for his idiocy, "I only joined the Black Knights as a passing amusement."
"Your movement resulted in a massacre," he answered darkly, "I don't . . ."
"But," she stepped lightly, landing on the sidewalk with the lithe grace of a cat, "Am I not 'the terrorist' Lelouch is."
"That may be the truth," she heard the frustration playing below his scowl, "But I don't want to help them with their research. Not in any way!"
"Ha. So then," the ribbon, a tattered shell of its former glory, fell to the roadside, "What will you do with me."
"You can leave," it was begrudging and he looked at the towering torii of the Kururugi Shrine, the steps climbing into the heart of night, "But Lelouch . . . he was no right to run free."
"Well," she turned sharply on her heel, "You can think that if you want."
- - -
Two weeks passed in silence at the Ashford's manor since the enigmatic "C.C." disappeared like an autumn breeze, its walls hidden behind the safety of rolling hills—no phone call, no visits to the Black Knights, nothing. The house was lonely without her to prowl its webs of halls, and paper birds yearned for delicate hands to finish their half-bodies as Nunally sat in an wheelchair nestled in the front room, sunlight streaming past the window glass.
"It's been very cold . . . Will it snow?" The knob turned with a hiss before it was pulled ajar and footsteps echoed on marble, "Miss C.C.! You're back!" Lelouch lingered in the drawing room, wary of visitors since Mao had swept her from him, and strained to hear the response when it came. Abandoning Ashford Academy was an irksome prospect, but he appreciated this villa's desolation—the empty countryside and the old village that stood far at its outskirts offered a solace from the settlement, where predators could masquerade as sheep in the crowd. There was a teasing paranoia that stalked him like a shadow after the second kidnapping, and he found himself often leaving Sayoko to watch the gates.
"Oh," to his shock, the voice was familiar—stoic and breezy, with a touch of disinterest, "Of course. We're bound." Stubbornly, he kept his steps slow and calculated while he rushed to the parlor—that she had the audacity to leave him in the dark about her whereabouts, her well-being!
When he objectively threw the door open, taking in the sight of green hair and pale skin, there was a cheerful murmur of, "Brother, look!"
"Nunally," Lelouch said through gritted teeth, motioning for her to follow, "If you would excuse us?"
"Oh, yes! I should let Miss Shinozaki know—I'm sure she'd be happy!"
"I'm grateful," they disappeared behind the protection of the frame and slipped down the hallway, C.C. trailing him before he fell still.
"You were gone for weeks," he chose his words carefully, and she arched a thin eyebrow, "Nunally was worried in regards to your . . . absence."
She waved it away with a flick of the wrist and an indifferent, "I do what I like."
"Were you captured?" It was tentative when it spilled free, although Lelouch struggled to keep his words dutifully somber.
"No," she managed easily, eyes finding a painting of a young Veronica Ashford hung above a stuffed armchair, "I just needed a change of scenery."
"And," his voice was steady, "Suzaku?"
"He was an interesting companion."
Silence thundered through the corridors, C.C. fingering the curtain's gold tassels as they brushed royal blue velvet, "Contact me if this situation repeats itself."
". . . I suppose," was her reply, and she let her hands drop to her hips.
"If you would speak with Nunally," he swiveled on his heels, a quick pivot before heading to his personal room; a sanctuary where Nunally, being as polite as she was, tended to avoid unless provoked. Although he was a creature of habit, Lelouch had resigned to sleeping in the study for the sake of keeping her company—there were no automatic doors, nor did the staircases have mechanical adaptations to meet her needs, and he felt anxious when she was at the other side of the house.
He stepped lightly into the threshold and breathed in the must of old books, some texts having long since been burned when his father took power in the ninety's. Political rivals and social deviants had been detained as prisoners of the state, and compared to the true disease of humanity; the nature of Social Darwinism, he mused sardonically, was a convenience that encompassed more than genes. Lelouch, alone in the silence, let his fingers dangle over the keyboard and felt a tug of guilt weighing on his conscious.
- - -
Their maid—a stick of a Japanese woman with flaming brown eyes and black hair cut at her jaw—angled herself in a low curtsey as she placed a tray on the dining table, porcelain tea cups colored a rich cream rested by their knuckles.
"Thank you, Miss Sayoko," coiling her fingers around a paper bird, she listened to the girl coo a quiet, "All the pretty little horses . . ."
"A lullaby from the Americas," she said simply, examining the sharp folds and edges before pushing it away, "'Blacks and bays, dapples and grays.'"
"Yes," her smile was warm when she shifted against the plush of her wheelchair, "My mother was very fond of this lullaby."
"You remember that," it was distant as Marianne whispered, too loud in her skull, and she forced her eyes closed before prying them open again.
"Well," her voice was soft as she groped for another sheet of stationary, "I didn't used to, but Brother would sing to me, too . . ."
"Did he," she examined her own—a bright orange with cherry blossoms blooming across the face—and pressed the corners down gently, "When was this."
"Um," she cocked her head, hands coming to a slow stop, "At first, when we came to the shrine, I was unfamiliar with the language, and I didn't understand what was being asked of me. I . . . liked it when he would sing in English."
". . ."
"I would spend a lot of time listening to him. I was very anxious about his safety, and my family," Nunally dwindled to quiet, biting down her words, "I hadn't been outside the villa before that."
"Hmm," it was a murmur while her eyes drifted to Nunally's face and then fell to the paper, rough in her palms.
"I couldn't go anywhere or do anything, and sometimes he would come home furious, but then he would apologize for yelling," there was hesitation below her pleasant mask, "He wouldn't tell me anything."
"It seems lonely," she said, thinking of misery, and Mao and her contracted—all such lonesome things, attracted to her when she would one day ask that they murder her in cold blood.
"Maybe," she answered finally, her tone neutral, "But he did everything for me, and was always so considerate . . ."
"You must be very grateful," she replied smoothly, the bird half-finished in her palms.
"Yes," Nunally broke into a tender smile, limpid and brimming with energy, "I can't imagine a life without him."
"I had a brother once," her statement was dry when she dropped the crane down, frustrated with the product, "He was nothing like yours, I suppose."
"Most people don't have the relationship we do," she shuffled as the chair spun, a metallic hum screaming from its moving wheels, "Ah, but I don't mean any offense! Um . . . what did you two do together?"
"For a long time," it was blank, "he was the only person I knew."
"—?"
She leaned back, the wood nipping at her back, "He was somewhat insufferable as a result of that."
"Oh . . ." her voice died to nothing before she managed a sunny, "I have many siblings!"
"Do you like all of them?"
"Well," she mused, nervous as she pieced the words together, "Some are nicer than others."
"Hmm."
"Are you curious," Nunally's crane was complete and she carefully arranged it next to its fellows, "Miss C.C.?"
"Perhaps," the sound was muffled as she tapped a nail to the tabletop, "Who were your favorites?"
"Oh! Brother, Clovis, Euphie," a heavy weight crept in from the halls, suffocating while dead faces swam behind the sea of black that was the girl's vision, "Cornelia, too . . ."
"It's familial," she said to the stale air, abandoning the subject, "Why do you fold cranes?"
"Cranes?" It was her echo as it bounded from corner to crevice, Nunally glancing at the paper twisted by her fingers, "I'm not . . ."
"It's an old art," she was collected as she remembered the streets when they were alive in the Edo period, bristling with the thrill that came with new technology and open trade.
"Don't you like folding them? You do it so often . . ."
"Not particularly," she tasted the words on her tongue, and fumbled through a mass of rationalizations, "However, I think that this is . . . fine for now."
"Fine?" Nunally parroted, running her fingers across its stiff wings.
"Yes," it was final and bled honesty, "There's a quaint feeling to it, and that's . . . comforting."
"Is that what you think of it?"
"It seems to suit someone like you. I like it well enough, I suppose," she fell to silence, managing a bored wave of the hand, "As for you, it's impolite to stand in the doorway and listen to a woman's conversation."
"Brother?" He was a dark shadow leaning against the door frame, his pale skin bright below the light streaking the plush carpet.
"I'm deciding," it was stoic, and she gave no answer as Nunally went quiet, straining to understand the mystery of their banter.
"Does it take you that long . . ."
Clearing his throat, he choked out a lukewarm, "I'd like to cook tonight, Nunally. Is that an issue?"
"Oh!" Nunally clasped her hands together before exclaiming a jovial, "Brother is a very good cook, Miss C.C.! Have you tried it?"
"No," her eyes stalked him as he disappeared into the safety of Ashford's labyrinth of halls, and she swirled back to reality—the crane was a horrible thing, bent in awkward places, and part of her wondered if she should toss it away and begin again.
"Is something wrong . . .?" It was barely above a whisper, caution playing below her serene smile.
"Nothing," she could not create anything but superficial emotions, after all.
"But the two of you . . ."
"Don't be overly concerned," she breathed in scents wafting through the drawing room—herbs and spices, a familiar tease of tomato that lingered as Sayoko breezed past with a polite nod of her head.
"I wonder what he's doing," she added flatly, restless while she brushed the cotton of her blouse and slipped off her heels.
"He may have stopped," Nunally's hands had returned to their home in her lap, fingers laced patiently, "Since it's in the oven."
"You can tell that," it was neither a comment nor a question, her voice emptied of emotion.
"Yes!"
"You have finely tuned senses," the groan of air ducts roared to life as heat barreled through the vents, and she added a simple, "You like flowers as well as folding cranes."
"So do you," it was a reminder of the greenhouse, sweltering beneath the sun hanging in a pale brush of sky, "Miss C.C."
"Partially," she was thoughtful as she leaned in her chair, dusting stray locks from her cheeks, "But only so much. The language of flowers is very troublesome for people who aren't lovers . . ."
"I think," Nunally replied, bashful as she clasped her hands together, "that it would be very nice to have someone send flowers with so much meaning . . ." It trailed to nothing and she looked down, Lelouch easing back into the room before seating himself with a novel in his hands.
"How exhausting," was his commentary, the cynicism a sharp contrast to Nunally's sliver of a smile.
"Ah," she murmured easily, "The romantic in him is bewildering."
"The romance in it dies when the roses lose their reds," the response was dry as he buried himself in a world of language and metaphor.
"In other words, romanticism is fleeting."
Her lively murmur fractured his pessimistic front, "What are you making, brother?"
"I'm," his pause was jarring and an abrupt change in demeanor, "Well, pizza, Nunally." Feeling a twitch of curiosity, she worked to stifle Marianne's dissonant laughter as it echoed in her skull.
"Oh?" Nunally brought a finger to her chin, "That isn't like you."
"It doesn't reflect my usual tastes, no," Lelouch admitted, sulky as he tore through the pages, "But this was an exception."
- - -
Milly had propped herself on the tabletop, legs left to dangle over the edge as Lelouch tumbled inside, metal briefcase catching the bulb light as evening chill crept up his spine. Wheat blonde rippling down her shoulders, she grinned when he massaged his aching temples and shrugged away his coat—a thing of black suede that spoke style and a high price tag. A spike in Refrain plagued the southwestern sub-prefecture, and there was muttering about an ugly business deal between one of his own and a representative of Kirihara's that had ran him ragged; an associate of the Black Knights was as good as his own, and the dark history of Japan's plutocracy was stirring doubts about his loyalties. C.C. spun past him before dropping her's leisurely on the seat, the heavy cloth disheveled and coated in a thin layer of grease that was staining spotless dining chairs—and with a sharp, shudder of a breath, Lelouch managed to ignore it.
"Welcome back," was Nunally's low greeting, tempting a delicate smile from him before he whirled on his heel.
It was a sharp contrast, loud and boisterous as it rang against the walls, "Hey, you two!"
"Milly," the playful spark in her eye fading, she bounced to attention, "There's a matter I'd like your opinion on—"
"Decorating? Yeah, your style is a little avant-garde, Lelouch," he shook his head at her mocking grin, "And this place is just too barren, especially with all these lovely women living with you. Honestly, I didn't think he had it in him—"
"He doesn't," C.C. managed smoothly, detached before he cut her short with a flick of the wrist.
"Nunally," it was stoic while he slipped into the halls, Milly at his heels, "If you would excuse us." They moved in comfortable silence, the moonlight painting the marble's speckled blue-grays and whites with a gentle glow, and he wrestled his questions into submission.
"Are the student council members in top condition, president," he said half-jokingly, the seriousness hidden behind a smirk.
"What," she threw her arms out in demonstration, "Do you expect any less of me."
"That would be a fool's argument," there was silence, and he finished with a simple, "How are they."
"Everyone's all right," there was sadness whispering beneath her inbred poise of arrogance and cheer, "Rivalz and Shirley would be thrilled if you came back to the academy. It's funny—he keeps 'lamenting' the loss of a great gambling partner, but he secretly misses you and is too much of a stubborn guy to say so."
"Heh. And Shirley," it was emotionless as he imagined her face, framed in a halo of orange with a brilliant smile, "How has she been doing in my absence."
"She's happy, and reconstruction in the settlement is coming along nicely. As for Nina . . . she's been a little . . ." Her silence was heavy with insinuations, and he let his hand hang above the doorknob.
"Milly," it was low when it slipped free, "I . . . didn't intend to involve any of the students in the assault. I hope you understand this."
"Don't be so pessimistic," she waved a hand, dismissing his concerns with a fickle smirk, "I think that's not your personality."
"Irregardless, I endangered civilians consciously."
"Lelouch . . ." There was something deeply pained, aching in both of them before he pieced his self-crafted mask and listened to the lock click into place.
". . . Any news," although he had no doubts about Diethard's intellect and charisma, the man paled in comparison to Milly; he had disregarded his orders on more than one occasion, but she respected her oaths. Grasping his laptop case, a cynical voice muttered that there was a teasing eccentricity to him, and something furious and hungry in the way he chased after the Black Knight's campaigns. Zero was a symbol, and not a trophy in a display case of history.
"Not really," she was breezy before adding an offhand, "But I did get a little more information about the schematics from Suzaku."
"Tch," Lelouch was blunt, resentment crawling to forefront of his mind, "And the project?"
"His Highness seems to have taken an interest in Lloyd in the past five or six years," it was frank when she slid into the chair at his right side, "As for Camelot, it's a recently established division—the Knightmares were only mass-produced about two decades ago, although you know that."
Her words were melodic, hummed as he deadpanned a dry, "Considering my heritage."
"It runs on a new system, but the massive amounts of Sakuradite in its design isn't really functional," there was a brief pause before she forced a breathless, "The liquid stuff is even more volatile than the ore, so there's an advanced cooling system—but, one bad spark or malfunction in that and the entire machine would be . . ."
"Obliterated," his cynicism melted her optimistic facade, and she tore her gaze from him, "However, the speed, precision and directional momentum are substantially more exact. . . and the energy current, it must have longevity. . ."
"Basically," fingers gliding across the keys, a grid of bright white shadowed by blue flashed across the screen. Milly gasped at the Gawain, admiring the 3-dimensional recreation of its metal husk of a body, and fought the urge to compare it to the Ganymede—to christen it a true testament to modern technology, the second coming of a short-lived 'new age.'
"My personal unit," he managed quietly, speaking to the air, "was developed primarily for explosive power and flight, but it's mobility and durability are lacking. And Schneizel, his dismissal of the theft of an experimental Britannia vessel is . . . perturbing."
"Then you assume," C.C. flowed into the room, arms crossed and her stare burning into the back of his skull, "That the prince intends to create a final product using both aspects of those machines."
". . . Milly," it was pensive as he steepled his fingers, "Accompany Nunally for the afternoon."
Managing a sloppy recovery from shock, she sighed a dramatic, "Fine, fine! Nunally's too cute, anyway. But Lelouch, about . . ."
"Yes?"
Lelouch felt a twitch of confusion when she fed him a sly, "Never mind." There was a suffocating weight on his chest and he battled himself to composure, C.C. raising an eyebrow at Milly's friendly wave before she waltzed deep into the heart of the manor.
". . ." Nothing came as the words whizzed in and out of focus, and he realized, horrified, that his eloquence had forsaken him.
"That's a strange face," C.C. declared emptily as he went rigid, staring into the blue light.
"I did not," Lelouch fell to suffocating silence, a painful lull as he moved his fingers across the keys, "understand the weight of immortality."
"Hm," was her empty response, and she examined her nails—sharp as knives dyed crimson with polish, "Do you now."
He wrestled with his pride before finalizing an ambiguous, "To not know death is to not know life."
"Well said," and she forced no emotion, no lies when Lelouch looked away—he felt disheveled and fragile as she looked down at him, with a face pale as ghosts below the moonlight.
"Why exactly did you cry," there was a lingering silence, and she waited gracefully before turning her head away.
"I don't know," there was a terrible apathy behind her eyes, "You had nothing to do with it. I understand the situation."
"I think that," she watched as he searched for the words, "I may have been angry. However, I—"
"—Ha, angry!" It was cynical, a return to her caricature of emotion to kill his curiosity in the womb, "An understatement; any fool would have noticed that. Excusing you, but that's—"
"—I was indulgent of your company, and for that I apologize," he didn't fumble to keep his steady, somber gaze and the sound caught in her throat, "You did not connive against Nunally nor myself."
". . ."
The simplicity was honest when he let his eyes find the gold molding that webbed the walls, "You have been loyal to me, C.C.."
"How can you know that," she answered tiredly, mouth twisted into a frown, "Things like me are never loyal."
"I felt," it was awkward when it tumbled from his throat, nails biting into his hands, "Vulnerable without my Geass, and, in your . . . absence, I considered the weight you hold as a member of the Black Knights. I never . . . said thank you for your assistance, in both the incident proceeding the SAZ nor when you continued to back my campaigns. "
". . . It is human nature to rebel against powerlessness," the words were foreign on her tongue while her amber eyes blazed below the bulb light, "I don't blame you for hating me."
"Ha," his whispers, his remorse echoed against the walls, "How hollow."
"Well," her statement was dry, "I am not necessarily human."
"That's far too cold; you are human if you like, C.C.."
"Comfort is one thing," it was a dangerous warning that tittered on the edge of frustration, "Lying is another."
"Maybe so, but . . . we are partners, so be whatever you want, and I will accept that."
". . . It's fine," and it died in the womb, careful and authoritative, yet cool.
"I have been unnecessarily cruel to you."
". . . "
"You were willing to die for me then, and I never understood the profundity of that, continued irregardless of your pain," in a thoughtful lapse, he considered that she had lied, been willingly evasive, and deemed it a crime no worse than his own, "Know that, once Nunally's world is created, I will bring about your wish."
"Lelouch, I was the one who suggested suicide missions; they are of assistance to your Order. This was my choice," death was becoming such a common thing that he couldn't see it laughing in front of his door, and he wondered what in him was Lelouch vi Britannia, Lamperouge, Zero, and still his mother's son. Yet he found that there was something, buried deep inside his mind, more frightened by what was not.
"Well, then I . . . cannot accept that, or place you on a value that's lesser than that of my subordinates. I have been unjust," it came sharply, shadowed by a low mutter of, "I trust you, and am willing to sacrifice as you have done for me. We're one in the same, and that will remain true with or without Geass. I . . . ignored that in favor of my own egotism."
- - -
"Come at me as though you intend to kill, Kururugi!" Cornelia sneered, fingers curled around a golden hilt while the blade glistened below the sunlight, "Hesitation will win you death on the field!"
"Your Highness," Gilbert said uneasily, watching from the steel overhang as frames glided below his feet—blurs of color and sparks, a brilliant magenta Gloucester abandoned by its pilot with the gaping mouth of the cockpit left open, "I don't think this is appropriate. . . ."
"You have no right to question my authority," it was a snarl, fierce as she slid it back into its home inside the sheathe.
"Yes, but . . ."
"He has lost his position in everything but name alone. That is unacceptable."
Suzaku looked between the two of them and said nothing as the Lancelot, a metal monster made of sharp angles and white paint, towered from its hold, ". . ."
"The Empress," she growled, swiveling to meet him before signaling for her Knightmare to be removed, "gave me no sympathy as a girl. I will do the same!"
"But using a Knightmare frame in demonstration is . . ."
"The Lancelot is Schneizel's undertaking," her words were painfully cynical, the automatic door hissing open, "I have his permission, Guilford."
"Even so . . ."
"A Knight without a charge is a failure," the bleak implications screamed in silence as Suzaku was left to drown in Euphemia's memory, "The terrorists are breeding in the eastern and western sectors. It's not long before Zero will retake his stage. He will speak, think, and do as I see fit—now, am I clear. "
"But is Zero the most pertinent issue—"
"Zero is not dead," Cornelia turned on her heel, and the guards bowed their heads in respect as she threw back a vicious, "Those men survive even when they are corpses; don't be a fool."
"Your Highness . . ." her Knight swallowed his counter, taciturn as he stepped lightly to ground level until managing an uncertain , "It is unfortunate."
". . ." Suzaku had no urge to ask why while he forced himself to ignore his thoughts, all suddenly clamoring at news of the resurrection of Zero's legacy.
"Her Highness was shocked by news of Prince Clovis' death, and now Princess Euphemia and Sir Darlton," there was a injured paused, and he didn't move when Guilford offered up a grave, "I grieve for your loss. You have my condolences."
". . . You don't," the words were choked as he fought to soothe away screeches in a stadium drowned with blood, "Fault her for what she did?"
"I don't believe that the Princess could possibly be so brutal. She was not in her right mind," his answer was silence as he turned the key in his fingers, "More so, her death was the failure of the entire Britannian military. I, too, can understand Her Highness's desperation to capture him in the name of the Princess's memory, if nothing else."
"Would she kill Zero," it felt odd on his tongue, heavy as he thought of weight of the gun when he had the opportunity—was moments from firing the shot—but did nothing. Suzaku was disgusted; with himself, with Lelouch and the idea that his hands went rigid in refusal when it should have been justified. There was such disregard for human life as he let the highways of the prefecture fall on the homes under it, in his slaughter at Narita. It was the murder of a brigade that never had to die that day, and he could recall the broken bodies as they tugged them free from upturned earth while the sun carved streams of light through the trees.
Shirley's father could be breathing now, a friend's family united and whole instead of fractured with cracks left by false memories, had Lelouch never assumed that one Devil represented the entire populace of a nation. And Euphemia—Euphie's faith in a peaceable world, her glowing smile, and character may never have been compromised, stained with lies had he understood the nature of his own denial!
Suzaku lamented that he had failed to pull that trigger for far too long, both when there was a teasing sense that he might, could be Zero, and now. There was no time for sympathy and elegies to old friendships when he had already deemed them dead and gone; apathy was criminal in a life where Lelouch had an birthed his own insane vision to rival his father's.
'I'll find out where Nunally is,' it was dark as he clutched the pin, hooked angles nipping at his skin, 'And why she—she was Geassed. And then . . . but, that girl, what did she want with me . . .'
"—She has mentioned it, however that doesn't appear to be her desired outcome."
His breath hitched in his throat when he was tossed back to the claws of reality, "What, sir?"
"Her Highness is more concerned with taking him hostage as a demonstration, and thus annihilating the resistance growing in the Areas. I imagine he would be executed shortly thereafter."
"Sir Guilford," Suzaku asked uneasily, considering Schneizel's reputation as a warlord who had ripped through Europe, "Does His Highness have any intention to return to the mainland?"
"It's his hope that he can better represent Britannia's interests in area Eleven, as well as calm the citizen's paranoia. But, from what Her Highness has told me, no."
". . ."
It fell to thundering silence before he finished with a stiff and awkward, "He believes that problems of one's own country demand the royalty's immediate attention."
"Oh, who cares what he's doing," the voice was flamboyant, high-pitched as it barreled from the bowels of the armory, "Our only interest is the Lancelot, and it's been getting a due share of media attention. Really, how can I accomplish anything with these idiots' orders?"
"It's a beautiful afternoon, Sir Guilford," Cécile's smile was blank, a veil of paper-thin navy straddling her back and pale cheeks, as she forced the words through gritted teeth. Waving an arm in dismissal, Lloyd dodged her burning glare and took his side at the Lancelot, lovingly running long fingers over the newly installed parts.
"Haha, it is," Guilford was good-humored when he bolted away from them, muttering of his accomplishments, "If I may, the Engineering Corps do seem to be living up to their name. The capability of a seventh generation Frame will be something to fear."
"Yes, well," she said unevenly, "It was supposed to be a military secret, but . . ."
"And it was," Lloyd announced boldly with a shrug of his shoulders, spinning to face them, "But humans take the good with the bad, hmm?"
"You're too cheerful," she heaved a sigh, dusting hair from her jawline with a flick of the wrist.
"Strange, I thought I was very well-behaved, and really, they were at fault—ah, Suzaku, I have good news for you!"
Suzaku jolted to attention, feeling sluggish at his slow reaction time, "Yes, sir?"
"I," it was singsong, drifting into the veins of metal piping climbing towards the ceiling, "adddded an ejection seat—"
"Shhh!" Cécile tugged at his labcoat before jerking him backwards, Lloyd stumbling in a lanky jumble of limbs, "Don't say that in front of Gilbert, let alone Suzaku!"
"You were stationed without a standard unit?" Guilford muttered in surprise, but he kept silent when she leaped to answer for him.
"It's not really that," shooing Lloyd from her death grip, Cécile pieced together her nervous grin, "The Lancelot was never equipped for regular deployment and—"
"Naturally, we couldn't get anyone to pilot it. In any normal circumstances, the expl—"
Suzaku got to his feet in a shaky caricature of solemn, threading the metal through the front of his uniform and letting the emblem gleam gold and white below light escaping through the window glass, "If you would excuse me, Miss Cécile, Lloyd, and Sir Guilford."
AN: Oh, Suzaku and your screaming metal deathtrap. (I'll get back on the ball, really! D: Er. . . Next week, after finals. On that note, I'm busting out many, many subplots and minor/major characters next chapter. Since it's been over four months since the massacre itself, I can finally begin to work with Schneizel, Cornelia, and others. Also: KALLEN. :3
. . . Shamefully, I like writing Kallen much more than watching her. D: On a completely unrelated note, I guess I'll just start responding to reviews. It probably would have happened eventually anyway. )
To Varanus: Like I said, thank you for your review. I wanted to add this quick little tidbit that I forgot in the PM—please remember that the C.C. I'm writing also has to fit to the structure of And in blood as a narrative. If I change her character now, I have to remove a major aspect of the plot, and then rework it to accommodate. D: (Plus, I do find her subplot to be one of the most interesting I've come up with thus far, so I hope that will help spark some interest.) That being said, give me a break, if you can! This isn't how I would write her, say, if this was strictly canon. However, as that is not the case, I feel I have creative license, but I will try to make her a bit more sympathetic to Lelouch's plight.
To Tenohikari: Haha, well . . . a little bit of both. (Also, that's an impressive double-edged sword Lelouch is wielding . . . Honestly, I don't know how he would have gotten out of that one without seeming just a tad off. I mean, ordering a massacre by accident would sound contradictory to most people even if it is the truth . . .)
To Blackrose: I'm glad to see I managed to make it less awkward, considering I intend to do it more than once . . . (I never meant to confuse anyone, after all! D: ) Anyway, thanks, as usual!