Chapter 5: To See More Violence, To See More Failure, To See More Vengeance, Semore Wellesley

Time had passed since the confrontation, that much, at least, Richilieu knew. Exactly how much was vague, but a safe wager, made with the guidance of his calendar, pinned it at one week. Certainly things had calmed down since then, comparatively with what had been happening, at least, allowing the startled youth to collect himself and to think about events passed. Of course the obvious occurred to him: how megalomaniacal it had been of him to declare divinity, exaggerated as it had been intended, how, as a result, infeasible his goal truly was, and of course how his new relationship with Lelouch Lamperouge, with Zero, was to unfold.

To put it bluntly, it wasn't.

We'll be at odds, I'm certain. His approach is far more confrontational than I'd have it be. He's a military strategist at heart, whereas I'm a negotiator. We're polar opposites even working toward the same objective.

They, of course, weren't working toward the same objective at all. Not exactly, anyway. Regardless, menial affairs were taken care of during this period of duress. Milly's "generous" offer to join the student council was politely refused, the post of mandatory organization being kept by Richilieu's tentative membership in Ashford Academy's psychology club. Though distracted, he kept his studies up, pushing the lower-than-expected C on his oral report in history to a far more respectable A minus via extracurricular written reports and maintaining above average scores in the rest of his courses. The setting would have appeared to have returned to normal had it not been for the increasing oddities in the people around him. Of course the snowy haired woman occupying the couch in his dorm, offering nothing useful and certainly doing nothing to attempt it, was a given indicator of the absurdity of his situation, but others, as well, seemed to be behaving strangely.

Lelouch, despite the masked nervousness of his actions, appeared relatively unchanged due to their encounter, though an occasional glance, or, perhaps a glare, was made in Richilieu's direction, certainly at a higher frequency than prior to their meeting. It was to be expected, however unnerving it unconsciously made the Frenchman feel.

Charles began expressing more and more discontent, both in his verbiage and in his actions. The cause was hardly difficult to pinpoint, however, due to the candid nature of the boy, the fiercely crown-loyal youth expressing discontent with the new Viceroy and the newly appointed Sub Viceroy, Princesses Cornelia and Euphemia respectively. Richilieu paid his political concerns little mind, though was silently thankful for the tether of such normal concerns that kept him tied to reality.

Semore, however, was of slightly more concern. The boy had obviously never liked him, but it appeared that, recently, he was paying more and more attention to Richilieu, an odd if not unremarkable development that LeDieu had hardly given the effort to notice. The Britannian boy, with ironically sunny hair haphazardly strewn across his scalp, had begun stalking him after classes, following behind Richilieu and observing with black eyes every necessary detail of his daily routines. Having only caught him in this act once or twice, Richilieu thought little of it, and provided no guards to the boy's endeavors.

… Well, damn, maybe I should have.

These words were thought with the point of a blade jabbing Richilieu in the back, the weapon artfully pointed at precisely the location of one of his kidneys; an instantly killing blow if it were to pierce the organ, as the pain would seize his throat and force a silent suffocation on him. A black jacket would offer little protection to such a weapon.

He'd been caught flat-footed. A mere trip to a grocer had become a near-death experience, the perpetrator of the incident having snuck behind him and directing the duo into a dark alley in the ghetto, one a passing witness would have trouble thinking of a reason to look into, much less enter.

"… So might I have the honor of knowing who's threatening my life?"

"Shut the fuck up you frog."

The fact that he'd responded at all, let alone so quickly, was enough. Though his voice was forcibly made raspy and deep, his inflection, enunciation, pronunciation were all enough to narrow down the options in his mind to a mere four options, and only one, in his mind, had the observed motivation to use such a racial slur against him.

"Nice of you to visit, Semore."

The assailant paused, the tensing of muscles pushing the very tip of the blade just past the skin of Richilieu's back. His identity had been confirmed. As to why he was currently threatening his life, though… Richilieu still didn't know.

"Frog, huh? You should know my family's been in Britannia for over ten generations."

The nonchalance with which he spoke skillfully masked the genuine fear he felt at this moment, the reality of a blade pushing into his back initiating a struggle against his rationale and his instinct for survival. It was all he could do to talk to his captor.

"I don't give a damn how long you've been in Britannia. You're descended from Clovis of Lyons, right? The God?"

This time Richilieu paused. How had Semore come across that knowledge? While it was true that his most celebrated ancestor had been a national hero in France due to his stunning victory over Britannian forces in the Hundred Years' War, his line, Richilieu's line, had been cast out of France by the time of the French Revolution, and had been refugees in both Britannian homelands, first the Isles, then the Americas, since the time of the Napoleonic Wars. Certainly Richilieu had the right to refer to himself as a Britannian after that much time.

"… Yes…" He answered tentatively, uncertain if lying would help him in this situation.

"Then you're a frog. There's no repent; you've sullied the blood of Britannia."

Jesus, was Semore really this blatantly racist? It was one thing to be a Britannian elitist, nearly everyone was, in fact, but to go to the point of threatening one's life due to his heritage… It seemed too much.

"… What's your angle?"

"Learn to listen, Frenchie; you're not Brit-"

"Yeah, yeah, I got that. Why threaten my life, though?

Yet more silence. The sound of Knightmares sounded in the distance, likely one of the many patrols Viceroy Cornelia had ordered in order to capture Zero. After a good many seconds, Semore again spoke, the façade of raspiness gone and replaced with a far less angry voice, one merely filled with a deep hatred.

"You will be my resolve. You, Richilieu LeDieu, will serve as my symbol. You will be my catalyst, the ignition that begins my quest and the fuel that continues to run it."

The knife jabbed further into his back, blood beginning to trickle down Richilieu's back and staining his shirt. He winced, slightly, but not noticeably, as both this and the trickle went unnoticed in the concealing night. His response had simply been insult to injury, as Semore's verbiage, though prosaic, answered little his question. The very least Richilieu could infer was that he wasn't nearly as steadfast in his beliefs as he'd have him believe. The knife in his back, though certainly threatening and capable of killing him in an instant, was shaky and uncertain, and his speech was far too confident, as if he was attempting to convince himself as much as Richilieu himself.

He thinks he needs me dead, as if killing me forces him into some kind of commitment to whatever fucked up cause he has going.

"You can't be thinking of going to war with France. They're part of the Euro Universe now, a member of one of the most powerful alliances in the world."

"Thank you, I'm aware of what faction your backwards people are members of."

Well. Touchy. He was making little headway by defying him and questioning his actions; perhaps a different approach was necessary. At the least, Richilieu had to continue speaking with him, lest the boy collect his nerves for a long enough period to go through with the deed.

"Then what? What could possibly be driving you to take my life?"

"I don't have to answer to you, frog."

He felt Semore's hand tighten on the handle. Was this the final moment? Was he just reaffirming his grip? Richilieu couldn't say, though the suspense involuntarily brought a bead of sweat to his brow. He would have to act quickly if he were to survive this encounter.

"You're certainly not as committed as you'd like me to believe. You've had this bit of metal to my back for quite a few minutes now."

No reply. Richilieu took that as a cue to continue.

"You're attempting to force yourself into a certain cause, aren't you? Some crusade against the French for denying Britannia the throne during the Hundred Years' War, or maybe for the Napoleonic Wars. Stop me if I'm wrong."

More silence, though the blade shuddered ever more violently, a minor tremor now, though visible to the eye, should one have been watching.

"I have no doubt you have a strong sense of morality. You wouldn't be hesitating on something of such importance to you otherwise. You're conflicted between the socially ingrained taboo against murder and your own firm convictions on what should be right or wrong. You believe that I deserve death, being the descendent of Clovis de Lyons le Dieu, a central figure in French history and one pivotal to its success, therefore indirectly responsible for Britannia's eventual fall from power in Europe. You truly believe I deserve this, but you can't. You lack the necessary conviction that I'd expect from one who likely follows the philosophy of the übermensch."

He was forcefully spun around by suddenly steadfast palms, only momentarily meeting his captor with a gaze before being slugged in the face by Semore's free hand, the French boy tumbling back and just barely bracing himself against a wall. Semore followed up by dashing forward and placing the knife at his throat, a look of tearful mania in his eyes. "You're fucking right. You know that, you fucking frog? You're right." Hatred sounded in his voice, filling Richilieu with a genuine fear that he might have overestimated the stability of this enemy. "I hate you. I hate you with every fiber of my being for taking what was mine away from me, for taking away what was Britannia's away from it. Your death would've sparked a controversy, the first of the ethnic cleansing of so many of your brothers. Eventually Britannia and the Euro Universe would pick up on it. Others would follow my cause as I left notes at the crimes explaining my motivations, and we would become a global force. France would be forced to enter negotiations with Britannia and provide them with the British Isles again. I would secretly reveal myself as the killer to Britannian officials, and my family would return to nobility after my line's terrible disgrace at Waterloo."

Not the brightest of plans. Megalomaniacal, at best. Richilieu thought, the analytical aspect of his psyche unable to refuse looking at the boy's goal objectively. Far too vague. Though I guess it was me that said well organized plans tended to fail. He's very clearly psychologically ill, and I don't really care to compete with that right now, especially considering the pointy bit of steel at my neck. More interestingly, however, he mentioned Waterloo. What was his last name? William? Wesley?

"Waterloo? That happened well over a hundred years ago. How the fuck could I have affected something that far back?"

"You're not listening! Your ancestor allowed for that to happen, whether he meant to or not, and you're the closest way I'm getting back at him, to give him the proper punishment for what he did!"

So it's projection. Would've guessed from the start, but confirmation is always nice. He couldn't help but chuckle at his own thoughts, the irony of his nonchalant musings coupled with his genuine terror not lost on him.

Regardless, this has gone on long enough. He's face to face with me now, which'll let me use my Geass. I can buy myself half an hour with that, at least; that's more than enough time to think of an effective strategy.

And so he did. His eye turned to Semore's and captured his body with the power of kings, giving the youth full control while leaving his own vessel empty and slumped. He stood, making certain to quickly flip the knife closed and place it within a pocket on his own body. A sigh, and he slumped against the wall, forcing his new corpse to relax, Semore's limbs tense to the point of snapping from the boy's nervousness.

I was correct in assuming he couldn't separate himself from his ingrained morality. He's a failed Raskolnikov. His eyes wandered to the flexing fingers of Semore's hand, philosophically musing about the power held behind such a thing.

For instance, how they're so integral to the process of one's identity.

An idle hand reached into a coat pocket, feeling around for a wallet before eventually finding its target, an Ashford Academy identity card sliding out as soon as encouraged.

Semore Wellesley. Age Seventeen. Year Junior. Sex Male. Hair Blonde. Eyes Black.

And a mug shot. It had to have been a Britannian behind the camera; the boy was actually smiling in the image.

Wellesley… Waterloo… He couldn't be referring to the 1st Duke of Wellington, could he? His line was discarded and forgotten after his loss to Napoleon, dooming the British Isles to French control. Who'd have thought that his descendent would have come to Area Eleven, let alone seek me out. Figured his beef would be with Napoleon I…

He replaced the bit of plastic and leather and returned to his pondering, keeping a mental count of the minutes passed after his possession. A sigh, and an observation that a metal staircase lead up the side of the building he was currently leaned against.

I could easily kill him with no repercussions.

The revelation was liberating, though it left an awful taste in his mouth about the whole affair.

Just a jump off a building. An easy suicide, a method I wouldn't be held accountable for in the slightest.

But that would be cheap, wouldn't it… I do like a good opponent, though chess is more my game.

He gazed longingly at the staircase. It would be such an easy way out of this dilemma; his potential murderer would be out of the picture permanently and he would pay virtually no price. Truly an enviable position.

… But how long had he held my life in his hands tonight?

A final glance at the stair case. He rose, hands in pockets, resolute.

---

Semore awoke roughly twenty minutes later. His prey had suddenly vanished and his knife was suddenly gone, he himself somehow teleported twenty feet down the alley on a completely different wall from where LeDieu had been pinned. The skin across his neck had been sliced, though just at the skin, and a piece of paper was pinned to his coat, blood, his blood, he presumed, spread across the edges.

"We're even."