Lord Jeremiah Gottwald noticed that someone was running towards him from the direction of his villa, so he turned the engine of his tractor off and waited in silent relaxation. The leather seat squeaked as he allowed himself a huge stretch. The birds sang, and the blue sky was cloudless. And it was a hot day, sunlight burning on the tractor's hood and on the back of his neck. He rolled his white cotton sleeves up. Then he swivelled in his seat and leant an elbow on the backrest, shielding his eyes from the sun so as to discover who was running towards him.

It was Sullivan, one of his butlers. Jeremiah could see the man's violet coattails whipping back and forth as he ran--he was in his formal dress, as he normally was. Jeremiah Gottwald's eyebrow raised a little bit in vague perturbation. He often would jokingly tell Sullivan that the man should join him in his morning jog, or would invite him into his expansive work-out room. But Sullivan had always seemed too pious of rank, and invariably declined. Yet he was working up a considerable sweat now, Jeremiah mused. The sun shone whitely on Sullivan's balding forehead. Jeremiah considered throwing the tractor into reverse so as to lessen Sullivan's journey somewhat, but if the man were indeed running for his health, he might resent the gesture.

So Jeremiah Gottwald waited with a pleasant smile aimed down the dirt path towards the sprinting butler. The wind blew gently, cooling Jeremiah's neck and cheeks, and rustling the oranges that hung, numerous and ripe, in the trees which lined the path. Jeremiah had spent the last three hours with his tractor, his ladder, and his oranges. The wagon which trailed behind his tractor was nearly full, now. Jeremiah resolved that when Sullivan finally arrived, he would offer him an orange. He leaned over the back of his tractor and selected an especially large one, pre-emptively. He pressed at it gingerly with his fingers to ensure that it was of satisfactory ripeness. He then resumed waiting, orange in hand and pleasant smile on face.

Jeremiah had learned that it was impossible, in any situation, for the act of offering someone an orange to be a bad thing. Was Sullivan tired? Jeremiah would offer him the orange. Was he sick? The orange. If Sullivan were to say, upon his arrival, that his entire family had died, Jeremiah would offer condolences and an orange. In any conceivable situation, oranges could do no harm and frequently did good.

Sullivan limped to a halt before him, panting. His trousers were soiled with dust, and he doubled over with his hands on his knees.

"Good afternoon, Sullivan," Jeremiah greeted him, when it looked as though he had at least partially caught his breath.

"...Lord...G-Gottwald..." Sullivan wheezed.

"Yes," said Jeremiah, nodding. He held out the orange he had selected. "Would you like an orange?"

"Milord… Gottwald…" Sullivan addressed him again. His face was very red with exertion.

"Yes. I am he," Jeremiah chuckled. "Orange?"

"In a minute, My Lord," Sullivan sucked in a deep breath, straightened his back, and made a visible effort to look presentable. He whacked dust from his pants and wiped sweat from his brow. And then the expression on his aging face became very serious indeed. Jeremiah Gottwald was suddenly apprehensive.

"My Lord," Sullivan said humbly, "It's…it's Empress Nunnally…"

Jeremiah's expression darkened. "Yes?"

"She… they're saying she's very sick, My Lord. Something came out of nowhere, the doctors only just saved her life."

Jeremiah's teeth, inside his mouth, clicked painfully together. "And?"

"She's being tended at Aries palace, in her own room, My Lord. They say she is in a deep coma. They…they say…" and Sullivan's face fell. "they are saying she may never come out of it."

There came a silence. This was an utterly terrible thing. Jeremiah's contentment crashed down around him. He plumbed the depths of sorrow in a few short seconds, as his eyes fell to the orange in his hand.

"I think, Sullivan," he said sadly, "we may both need an orange." And he again extended his hand. Sullivan took the orange sheepishly, with mumbled thanks. And Jeremiah, without looking, took another for himself and began to peel it. His gaze was in his lap, and so he did not even inspect the quality of his own orange.

Part of him wished for an orange that was black with rot, one suited to his black mood. A foulness in his senses might cleanse him briefly of the foulness in his heart. But it was not so--his orange was ripe and perfect. It burst in his mouth as he bit into it, and, amazingly, he did suddenly feel much better. His faith in oranges was felt anew, and he stared at the fruit in wonder.

He looked to Sullivan. "Do you like it?"

"Yes, My Lord," Sullivan nodded politely in between tiny nibbling bites.

And as he continued to devour his orange, Jeremiah ruminated. He said to Sullivan, in a moment, "What is the reaction? Who is taking the Regency? Prince Schniezel?" As Sullivan considered an answer, Jeremiah continued to think. If Schniezel were to be Regent, then Zero was as good as Emperor. Jeremiah wondered if that were to be desired. But Jeremiah knew Zero. That man had no desire for power.

"Actually," Sullivan frowned, "that's the odd thing. Prince Schniezel proposed not twenty minutes ago that the House of Lords select a Regent from the nobility."

"The nobility?" Jeremiah frowned. "What of the royal family? If not Schniezel, then what of Princess Cornelia?"

Sullivan shrugged. "She hasn't been heard from. Schniezel just went on the news and indicated that the Empire might be headed towards a more representational form of government. The end of direct monarchy." Sullivan shrugged, and bit his orange. Jeremiah noted with satisfaction that the other man was looking somewhat revitalized. "Everyone's scratching their heads over that one, My Lord Jeremiah."

"The nobles," Jeremiah said distastefully. What was Zero thinking? Cornelia, even Schniezel, would make an excellent ruler. Why had Zero commanded Schniezel to make his statements about abolishing the monarchy? The nobles were elitists, expansionists, nationalists, warmongers. Zero longed for a just society above all, Jeremiah knew, and perhaps to him this seemed like justice. But to throw Britannia to the nobles? Jeremiah scoffed.

Jeremiah came to a conclusion. "I must go and see this for myself. Jump aboard the cart, Sullivan."

"Milord?" Sullivan inquired meekly.

"Unless you'd rather jog back home again, you'd better climb on. We're going to Pendragon."

Sullivan managed a smile. "In a tractor?" But he clambered aboard.

Jeremiah just laughed and turned the key. The tractor coughed and roared to life, and he spun the steering wheel and stepped on the gas. They veered about, bouncing over the ruts that had been dug by frequent use. The villa prettily dominated the distance. As Jeremiah directed them home, he mused that he would have to call young miss Anya Alstreim to cancel the visit she was supposed to make tomorrow. Jeremiah sorely regretted this necessity, for her love of his villa and the beautiful grounds which surrounded it rivalled his own, and when he watched her sitting in the shade beneath one of his orange trees, or climbing a ladder to pick fruit from the branches, he thought he saw something precious unfold in her, something which she had lost, something of life. If she were not a Knight, he would surely have offered to take her in as a ward by now. As it stood, her frequent visits were more than welcome, and, in fact, she was one of his only remaining friends. Few thought highly of Empress Nunnally's decision to allow Jeremiah to remain a peer of the Empire, a Britannian Lord. Most scorned him for his role in Emperor Lelouch's rise to power. But Jeremiah would have gladly taken all their scorn upon himself, had it been possible. It wounded him bitterly to see the sum of all their rage and hate piled upon Lelouch, who in truth deserved only their reverence.

No one would ever understand his sacrifice.

No one except Jeremiah, and Zero.

"Your Requiem, Lelouch," he mumbled bitterly. "We must make it last."

Sullivan leaned towards him and called over the sound of the engine. "You said something, My Lord?"

"Nothing," Jeremiah said.

In all honesty, Jeremiah would have loved nothing better than to ride his tractor, dragging a cart of oranges, into the Imperial Capitol. Yet he was short on time, perhaps. They sidled up next to the villa, disembarked their peculiar conveyance, and mounted the wide steps. Jeremiah hauled open his heavy cedar doors, went inside where the air-conditioned chill soothed him, and clattered up the slowly spiralling wooden staircase to his chambers. In his lavatory he showered for a minute and a half under lukewarm water while scrubbing himself vigorously, then emerged and dried himself on a plush beige towel. Naked, he looked into the mirror and combed his hair. He raised a corner of the towel to dab droplets of water from the metal implant in his face, then used his remaining eye to wink at himself in the mirror. The iris was the color of fire.

He dressed finely and left the house through the front door, which a servant closed behind him. Sullivan, always quick, was waiting in the driveway with a car. Jeremiah opened the back door himself and sat straight backed on the black leather, while Sullivan got them under way. They drove out past the lines of closely trimmed fir, which Jeremiah often felt were too cultivated, and too unnatural. He preferred his back yard, where the orange trees grew wildly.

The wrought-iron gate scanned their car and opened for them, and they drove a further couple of minutes to the country highway. From there Pendragon was a two hour drive to the northeast. Jeremiah calmly and silently waited in the back seat as Sullivan drove. From time to time he would raise his sleeve to dab at a droplet of water that had found its way onto his left cheek, which was a normal occurrence after a shower. Water always found its way into the interstices of his cybernetic eye. It was a trifling concern, but several of his peers had tried to embarrass him at a party some weeks ago, pointing out that his metal eye was 'crying'. Jeremiah was no longer fazed by such petty things. He could no longer clearly remember the man he had once been, the man who would have been mortified.

Along the way he decided that it might do to give them some warning of his arrival. So he called them from his car along the way, to inform them that he would be visiting Empress Nunnally at the palace. This created much bewilderment, and then Jeremiah hung up with a smug expression on his face.

They arrived in Pendragon amidst a light rain. The sky was grey. Two kilometres to the north lay the smooth crater where ten millions had died in an instant. The Imperial Villa at Aries lay on the outskirts and thus remained undamaged. This was where Empress Nunnally lived and held court, these days. Within sight of the FLEIJA catastrophe Schniezel had unleashed.

Sullivan drove right up to the gatehouse of Aries, rolled down his window, and spoke to the rain spattered soldiers who stood guard. Word of Lord Jeremiah's arrival had preceded him. The soldiers bent over, peered inside the car, and instantly recognized him. The gate rolled open and they were waved through.

They slid into the courtyard of Marianne's palace.

It would always be Marianne's palace, to him. This was where she had been living at the time of her death. And he. This was where he had protected her, had sworn his loyalty. And he had never failed to protect her in this place. But at Britannia Palace, to the north, she had died. He had failed. And, certain that the cause of her death had been traitors within the Royal Guard, Honorary Britannians who had held their grudge, he had embarked on his campaign of purism.

Jeremiah let out a long sigh and allowed himself to slouch ever so slightly in the back seat. He put his forehead against the cold window and peered out. He had not been here in years and years, yet he remembered every detail. There was the row of pillars, there the flagpoles. Here they drove by the garden with its marble statues, here they neared the cut stone steps. He had failed her, Marianne.

Had he failed her son Lelouch?

And now Nunnally.

But Jeremiah shook his head sharply, accidentally clicking the top ridge of his implant against the window. Sullivan approached the front steps and slowed, and they were halted by armed men in Britannian colors. Jeremiah Gottwald, feeling as old as the Palace itself, opened his door and rose to his feet. Rain bounced off his shoulders as he glanced about. At least the Empress seemed well guarded: a whole squadron of mass-production Vincents stood guard on the front lawn.

Jeremiah frowned. Marianne would throw a fit about the grass.

"My Lord Gottwald," a masked infantryman approached with a curt bow. Rain trickled down his chin. "We will lead you to Empress Nunnally."

Jeremiah's eye scanned back and forth across the villa and its familiar grounds. "I know my way about this place, soldier."

But the man was undeterred, as if he had not heard him. "Follow me, My Lord," and he turned and started towards the villa's main entrance. Jeremiah snorted at the insolence, but made no comment. He leaned before Sullivan's window, tapped it, and bid the man to wait for him. The infantryman and five indistinguishable others awaited Jeremiah on Aries' sprawl of carved steps.

Jeremiah climbed the stairs reverently and slowly, with each step remembering another facet of his stay here. When he reached the top, the soldier he'd spoken to put a hand to his ear and spoke lowly into his microphone. There was a moment's rest, and Jeremiah tilted his head back to welcome the rain which drizzled off of Aries' vaulting roof. The grey cloud cover flowed liquidly past the stark shape of the villa, and the flags snapped in a gust of wind. Jeremiah smiled.

And then the massive carved wooden door was hauled open by another soldier on the inside, who nodded to his comrades and admitted them wordlessly. Jeremiah stepped out of the rain and into the warm interior, where he wiped his boots on the red carpet of the entrance way and shook himself off. He looked this way and that, taking in the new details and the old: the paintings along each wall had been rotated out for newer ones, but the two suits of ancient Celtic armour that guarded the entranceway were the same that had always been there. The glowed dully under the dim light of the chandelier.

"My Lord," the soldier said, regarding him invisibly from behind the facemask. He and his men had not wiped their feet. They stood dripping onto the terrazzo tiled floor. Jeremiah scowled, but followed them. They passed down the wide hallway, past the red pillars and the dark mahogany doors. Jeremiah heard a nearly silent footfall behind him, and turned; a liveried maid had emerged from a side passage and was mopping the floor even as they walked through, her eyes on the floor.

Sometimes Marianne had used to help the maids, Jeremiah remembered with fondness. She hadn't been born into royalty, had been uncomfortable with the deferential service her ladies in waiting gave her. She'd made all of them her friends. She'd known all of their names. The first time Jeremiah had seen Marianne with a dustpan and broom, he'd only been able to stand there with his eyes bulging from his sockets. And then, stammering, he'd blundered over to her and insisted that he take the peasant instruments from her hands.

She'd only laughed at him. And kept on dusting. It had happened in that room, he realized, the one that they were passing at that moment. He paused in mid stride, gazing at the double doors which were poised half-open. Through them he saw drawn white curtains, a heavy varnished table. He remembered them. Emotion overcame him, and a tear formed at each of his eyes to run down his cheeks. Warm.

"My Lord?" said the soldier, with some impatience, and Jeremiah turned towards the man in order to show him, openly, the depth of his sorrow. But he realized belatedly that his face was already covered in droplets from the rain. So Jeremiah continued to follow, allowing the two warm streams of sadness to remain where they were. It was a good day for sorrow, he thought. He could wallow in it, in this rain and gloom, and soak in the sheer feeling of it. He could spend all day sitting by Nunnally's side, doing nothing but remembering, and nursing his heart. And then the sun would rise again, the next day.

They stood before Lady Marianne's chambers. This would be where Empress Nunnally resided these days. The soldier held the door open for Jeremiah, who nodded his heartfelt thanks and stepped alone into the room.

The lights were out and everything was coloured grey.

The bed seemed lonely in the corner of the room, beside the arched, ceiling-high windows. Zero sat motionlessly in a chair beside the bed, his black form melting into the darkness of the chamber.

"Zero," Jeremiah nodded in acknowledgement and approached the bed.

She lay on her back beneath the covers, her hair tousled about her. Her delicate lips, nose and chin were masked behind a plastic breather. Her eyes were closed again, as they had been for a decade, and the sight of it dealt another blow to Jeremiah's heart. As he listened, he could hear her tiny soft breaths. Beside her, a machine was recording her vital signs, and an IV drip leaked some clear fluid into the vein of her left wrist.

"What happened, Zero?" Jeremiah asked, not taking his eyes from Nunnally. "How did she come to be like this?"

The helmet inclined forwards as Zero's gaze fell regretfully to his lap. He spoke at length, sadly: "A hemorrhage in the brain tissue. Her wheelchair went over the stairs in the north wing, and she struck her head."

But even as Zero was saying this, Jeremiah's grief was overpowered by a sudden feeling that something was not right here. The voice… Zero's voice…

Jeremiah scowled and advanced a step towards Zero.

"Who are you?"

The helmet cocked in surprise. "I am Zero."

"Stand up," Jeremiah commanded. The other did not obey, nor acknowledge that he had heard.

Jeremiah advanced another step, his teeth gritting upon each other. "What is this? Where is he? What have you done with Zero?"

The black caped shoulders tensed, as the impostor minutely shifted his body away from Jeremiah's presence. Suddenly taken by rage, Jeremiah cast his eyes upon the unconscious Nunnally. "I understand now," said Jeremiah grimly. His living eye, the one of fire, turned to blaze at the blank helmet of the other. "Tell me how to wake her. I'm not fooled any longer." Jeremiah balled his hands into fists and stalked across the room towards the black form beside Nunnally. "Tell me how to wake her, or I swear I will rip your throat from your neck, you bastard--"

But the other, as Jeremiah closed upon him, nimbly thrust a hand inside his cloak and produced a silver handgun, and pressed it to the side of sleeping Nunnally's temple.

Jeremiah gasped, "No."

"Don't move," Zero warned. The metal weight of the barrel chafed against her skin. Jeremiah watched, his pulse pounding violently in his ears.

"Please, don't--" Jeremiah began, but then he heard the heavy doors sweep open behind him, and the booted feet of the Britannian infantrymen clatter inside. He did not turn, but he felt a weight lifted from him.

"Be careful," Jeremiah said grimly, "He's armed. That man is not--"

But then he felt a brutal seizing inside his body, an fist of electric pain that tightened around his muscles and organs like a vice. His teeth chattered roughly against each other. And he felt another wet warmth trickling down his face, and tasted the blood on his tongue. His limbs spasming, Jeremiah managed to turn and witness the green-glowing device which was in the soldier's hands.

"Gefjun… disturber…" he grunted, and collapsed onto the floor and went away to a place of memory and darkness.