The Imperial Palace, January, a.t.b. 2010
The first and most critical error one might make upon entering the Imperial Court of Pendragon would be to think it a forum of people, of those born to higher means, but ultimately as human as any other outside of its imposing futuristic walls.
It was not.
What the Imperial Court of Pendragon was, in truth, was a pit; a pit filled with some of the most pernicious, vicious, savage, and loathsome predators one might find. Vipers shared the room with scorpions astride lions with their heads hollowed out with cordyceps. To spill blood or show any sort of weakness within it was to have signed one's own death warrant, for as soon as the master of the pit had his share, the rest would descend, and all distinctions would melt away in favour of the feral glee of a jackal's feeding frenzy.
But I am not like them, thought Justine, drawing herself up in preparation, adjusting the fine, elegant lace of the beautiful black dress in which Juliette had attired her. Her sister had also given her heeled shoes to go with it—and though part of her railed against the impracticality of it, another part of her contested that the impracticality was due solely to her inexperience, and her lack of awareness of her own body. Those would be rectified with time, and in the interim, the effect they presented to her bearing and stature would be invaluable. Not for the first time, she adjusted the gloves she chose to complete the look, her raven hair set in a way that was elegant and elaborate without being overdone, like the ridiculous beehive hairstyle Guinevere favoured at social events. No, I am not like them. I go now clad in their flesh, but I may never forget who I am, and what I am, for all that they shall seek to make me.
I am Justine vi Britannia. I am a demon.
I am a dragon.
"When you go before him, it would be a good idea not to meet his eyes."
Justine turned into the antechamber that surrounded her, searching for the source of the unfamiliar curt yet feminine voice that had just advised her. Lo and behold, from a furtive alcove came a beautiful young woman, clad in a decidedly un-Britannian interpretation of courtly garb, with eyes of honeyed gold, and bearing a head of long, strangely lime-green hair. Her features reminded Justine of Marianne, of Juliette, and of herself, leading the princess to deem the woman to be of French lineage, and yet that could not be, for no dignitary of the E.U. would ever be suffered to so much as step foot in even the lowest slum of Pendragon. Yet more evidence to Justine's conclusion was the mask of utter boredom that sat upon the young woman's face as if wholly moulded to it; there were very few who could adopt such an affect at all, and none that she knew of that could remain as such when in a place they should very much not be. "I beg pardon?"
"Would that we had the time. I'm sure it would be very amusing to hear you beg," jested the woman, though her countenance did not so much as twitch into a different emotion. She cocked her head, and it changed her boredom into what appeared to be idle curiosity, as if caught in appraising a potential diversion. "It is no matter. This will not be the last time our paths cross, Justine vi Britannia, for I believe I could be of use to you, and you to me. But of course, all of that is contingent upon you having the good sense and general wherewithal to not meet your father's eyes. For reasons I cannot yet reveal, they will surely be your undoing."
Justine nodded; something within her simultaneously seethed in suspicion of this woman, and yet knew her to speak the truth. There were questions she might pose, very few of them of any significant import, and many more displaying a petulance or idiocy that she could ill afford. Instead, she replied, "I thank you for your counsel. Yet I'm afraid you have me at something of a significant disadvantage."
"Somehow, I think you'll manage," the green-haired woman quipped wryly.
"As a token of goodwill, then?" Justine countered.
This caused the woman's full lips to quirk upwards into a smirk, though it did little to thaw the ice of her demeanour. "I suppose that's only fair. Alright, then. Should you need a name to attach to my face, you may know me as C.C."
The grand doors before Justine flew open, drawing her attention for a moment, and in the space between the chamber opening to her and the herald's bellowing announcement, she saw that the woman, C.C., had vanished without a trace. "Your Imperial Majesty, my lords and ladies of the court! Presenting Her Royal Highness, Fourth Princess Justine vi Britannia!"
By the time Justine stepped into view of the high nobility of the empire, she was herself, wholly and immaculately. The whispers and macabre gossip of the courtiers flowed around her and off of her; she was above concern for their petty strife and juvenile games. They were all of them mongrels, squabbling and snapping at each other over the barest scraps of power flung from their master's table. What use was power that could be taken away at a moment's notice? It was a fool's errand to rush to collect such a fickle and transitory thing for its own sake; if there was one thing that Justine had to commend, it was that an errant whim of the emperor's could damn a line in perpetuity, unmaking even their most ardent ambitions and furtive schemes.
Juliette could deal with pitting the vipers against one another, as that was not Justine's domain, but rather that of her sister; Justine's sole purpose here was to be the icon to cast the long shadow beneath which she would smother them all.
Justine's strides were not forceful or aggressive; they were measured and august, and above all else, inimitably composed. Before long, she stood before her sire, and in heeding the woman's advice, she did not meet his eyes. Instead, she looked elsewhere—his stony cheeks, his broad forehead across which were writ fresh lines of worry, and his nose—as she prepared to make her case to him. "Your Majesty, my mother, the empress, is dead."
His brow furrowed slightly, giving the lie to his impassive boredom. His mask was not nearly so well-crafted as C.C.'s had been. "Old news. What of it?"
"Indeed, that is the matter. What of it?" Justine began, her voice calm and level, in that same tone that did not raise itself to be heard, but compelled others to lower their voices to listen. "My sister the Sixth Princess and I shall, of course, handle the funeral arrangements in their entirety, as is custom. You will know of the date, I do not doubt. I wish only that her legacy be accorded to me and my sister. Her assets, her estates, her vassals. She had no will, and yet as her children, thus her next-of-kin, they are our inheritance. I should like to claim it."
Charles zi Britannia's graven jaw worked, a tendon twitching despite himself. Something she said had upset him, obviously, but what could it have been? Still, her request was quite far from unreasonable. It was custom, in fact, in situations such as this, though, for obvious reasons, much less commonly invoked since the end of the Emblem of Blood. An audience like this was little more than a formality, as far as such things went, a request that was practically guaranteed to be assented to.
"No."
Justine's composure froze.
"You will not be claiming Marianne's assets, nor her estates, nor her vassals," the man continued, beginning to pick up steam as he sat up in his throne. "Nor shall you be allowed to arrange the funeral in her honour. Insolent child, to have the audacity, the temerity, to come here and demand such a thing of me!"
Not even her greatest application of fortitude could keep her from a shocked blink, as a hush swept through the throne room.
"I decree this: that Marianne's affairs shall remain closed to you, her estates and assets in trust, and her vassals without a master," the emperor commanded with utmost gravity, gesturing theatrically as though giving an address. "Until I deem otherwise, you are entitled only to the sweat on your brow, and no more. And even that much is a charity I extend only because of your mother. Now begone from my sight!"
Glacial ice formed within Justine's heart, a fury that burned colder than the darkest, most barren tundra. She nodded curtly, remembering her courtesies, and then turned to exit the room. The shock had mostly abated, and the room was all a-stir, but now in cruel joy and sadistic glee, the nobles chattering amongst themselves and rejoicing at the 'half-breed getting her just due.' Fools, the lot of them, to believe themselves for a moment any more insulated simply because their family trees were more bramble than arbour. Her fury churned and writhed and seethed like a living thing, a mass of antediluvian darkness that surged within to burn her veins with a sickly green flame that sapped the heat and light from her being, and from the room around her; as she passed, each blue blood's expression faltered in unease, a moment of pure animal terror flashing through their eyes as she swept by them, and out of the throne room.
How dare he…!
The window-panes still lay bare and jagged when she returned to Aries Villa that day, though both the body and the blood were gone, thankfully. As a parting act of malice, their sire had forbidden Friede from granting them shelter at her estate, forcing them to return to the place where their mother had been murdered, virtually all but destitute. To account for the danger, the sisters had had something of a security detail arranged for them at all times—Jeremiah Gottwald was Justine's constant shadow, and Milly had entreated her grandfather to send one of their maid staff to guard Juliette—Shinozaki Sayoko, a pretty enough Japanese woman who was, according to Milly, in possession of 'a very particular set of skills.' But even the most skilled guards did not defend against the midwinter draft that was sure to chill the ruined estate at night, nor the long shadows in which lurked phantasms and apparitions of Marianne—at nineteen, an empress, and nothing but a corpse a scant twelve years later, a spectre of the woman she perhaps had believed herself to be in life, left in the suddenness of her wake in death.
Juliette was sure to be in the solar, taking tea with Milly, who had elected to keep her company while both awaited Justine's return; thus, upon stepping out of the car that Jeremiah drove to get them back to the villa, she made for the shortest route between the entrance and that chamber. It was not long before she finally reached the room, sweeping in unchallenged—since Milly had vouched for Sayoko's skills, Justine knew that the Japanese maid had known of both her entrance and identity long before she reached her destination—and immediately Milly was out of her chair, rounding the intimate wooden table between them and the threshold, to wrap her arms around the older of the two princesses in a fierce embrace. Justine stiffened a bit before relaxing into it, still unused to sudden shows of affection, or indeed to most if not all varieties of positive physical contact, and Milly had been very physically affectionate of late, at least when it was just their little circle.
"I take it from your bearing that it didn't go well?" asked Juliette, her head tilting ever so slightly into a quizzical posture—a tell the two of them shared.
Justine nodded, and when her voice came out, it was sharper and colder than she would have liked—closer to her normal tones these days, the private ones with which only Milly and Jeremiah had any extensive familiarity. "Not only has he denied us the inheritance, but he has also expressly forbidden us from arranging our mother's funeral. He deprived us of all of it, and called what little we're left with 'charity.'"
"Then we'll extend him the same kindness, when the time comes," Juliette replied. "I, for one, will not hesitate."
Justine stilled, but Jeremiah gave no indication that he disapproved, and Juliette raised a covert brow at her, as though asking, Did you honestly think I would say such a thing within his hearing if I thought he had any loyalty to the emperor over us? For all that Justine was grateful for it, it remained sometimes jarring to be once again reminded that Juliette was fully capable of pulling her own weight in their impromptu partnership.
"Hesitation is defeat, and I refuse to lose to the likes of him," Justine hissed instead. "It would be beneath me."
Juliette nodded in sage approval—or at least, the closest approximation she could manage, which was still quite convincing for a ten-year-old. "Then our course is clear. Though I must confess, I feel somewhat ill at ease being the only one seated. Come, sit. Carmilla, you may seat my sister in your lap if you wish. I shan't mind."
Justine's ire ground itself to a screeching halt. "Juliette—!"
But Milly's expression shifted into something almost frightening, and though she ended the embrace, she shifted her grip to Justine's arm, seeming an iron manacle for all that it was the fleshly grip of another girl. She nodded into the corner, and Sayoko slunk silently from furtive shadow to draw out a chair for her mistress. Alighting upon the chair, then, Milly yanked Justine down onto her with an undignified squawk of surprise—yet even the most milquetoast of protests and the gentlest of chiding admonitions shrivelled on her tongue, her body and mind relaxing into Milly's possessive aggression despite herself.
When Justine returned to herself a few moments later, pulling her sense of self from her enforced repose, she could see Juliette watching the two of them as a shrike might a prospective meal. Whatever she saw in Justine's slightly awkward posture, her rear planted firmly in Milly's lap and the older girl's arms wrapped like creeping ivy around her smaller frame, seemed to satisfy her; she nodded, and then spoke. "Carmilla, would I be correct in assuming you have no issue with actually being engaged to my sister?"
"Is that a trick question?" Milly countered, not bothering to divert her attention from the act of revelling in the current arrangement.
"Not at all. I simply wish to ascertain what you'd be willing to sacrifice in order to make that happen," Juliette assured.
"Not her," said the noble heiress, her tone suddenly piercing and harsh as she grasped Justine's arm quite firmly, almost to the point of pain for the slender princess. Juliette had her full and undivided attention.
"And the rest?"
Milly's grip completed the journey to painfully firm, her knuckles quickly turning white. "What else is there?"
Juliette smirked, taking a long draught of her tea. "Excellent. Then I believe all of our problems have a single solution. It's elegant, in a way. Leave it to me. Justine, have you given any thought as to where you want to apply?"
"Ad Victoriam Military Academy," Justine answered without hesitation. This question, at least, she had been expecting for some time now.
Her younger sister's eyebrow lifted. "Ad Victoriam? And not Imperial Colchester?"
Justine nodded; this, too, was not unexpected, and she was grateful to once more be stood upon more familiar ground. "Imperial Colchester is a fine institution—one need look no further than our man Jeremiah to see that it produces only the finest men and officers—but the benefit of its prestige is outweighed by the weight of its orthodoxy. We are at a crossroads, and orthodoxy is by its nature quite slow to adapt to new methods. The one who adapts first, fastest, and best to the changing face of the nature of war is the one who prevails, and I have concluded that Ad Victoriam is the best place for that."
Juliette nodded. "I will trust your assessment on that. And it is unexpectedly fortuitous besides, given that the campus is in San Francisco. Yes, it's quite advantageous indeed… Milly, I will need you to ask your grandfather to draw up a marriage contract with my sister. As we have been denied inheritance, we are also denied regents by default. We have become the guardians of our own estates, such as they are, for what appears to be the foreseeable future, so my sister's agreement alone will be sufficient."
"And if my parents oppose it? They're still technically my guardians, and since I'm the sole heir, they have the leverage to make it fail," Milly remarked, her tone light, though rather transparently an affect.
"They won't. I plan to take steps to guarantee it," Juliette replied, refulgent, mischievous stars dancing in her eyes. "You simply have to trust me."
"…I don't," Milly confessed, almost immediately, with a slight, brief frown. "I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. But Justine clearly does, and, well, I trust her."
Juliette nodded. "Fair enough, and more than sufficient besides."
The Sixth Princess might have had more to say, but Justine did not have the wherewithal to hear her; Milly's lips upon her own, as unexpected as most of her more aggressive overtures—that is to say, the majority of her overtures, period—bewitched her mind, caught in a labyrinth of sound and touch and her that Justine understood the nature of in only the most abstract of terms. When Milly spoke to her again, Juliette was gone, and Jeremiah, silent and stoic, the only other living being in their orbit. "This might be your last chance to back out. Any second thoughts?"
There were times with Milly where Justine felt as though she were grasping in the dark, a blind woman led by the hand through an incomprehensible, unending starless night. This was one of them, and yet, as before, she was not afraid. Perhaps she knew not the gravity of their undertaking, but she knew her own mind. In light of that, Justine's answer was as easy as it was obvious. "Not a one."
Milly's smirk was in every way a promise. "Good girl."
"Much like the mediaeval mounted knight's equestrian jousting, the process of piloting a Knightmare Frame is a challenge of the body as much as it is of the mind or the machine; and moreover, Ad Victoriam's examination criteria for admittance into its Youthful Conquerors Prodigy Program are quite strict, for a weak body makes for a poor soldier at every level of command—from the lowest of grunts to the highest and most decorated of generals," said Jeremiah, his teal hair freshly shorn and his gold-hazel eyes in every respect as grave as his expression. The late Empress Marianne's gymnasium had proven to be well-stocked, and with his trim frame clad in the white attire of a fencer, he looked every inch the capable bodyguard Justine hoped he'd be, the pristine épée glinting silver alongside the rigid black mesh of the mask in the crook of his sword arm. "As your de facto knight, it is my duty to aid your ambitions in any way I can. And so I swear that over the next two and a half years, I will help you by honing your body as you hone your mind, so that you may enter those examinations as the finest student they have ever had the honour to teach. It is only proper."
Justine nodded, acknowledging his vow with all the gravitas that respecting it warranted. The discovery of the fact that her royal mother, the former Knight of Six, had thought to commission a set of fencing gear for Justine before she died was as unexpectedly moving as it was rather incredibly unsettling, even more so since it was an exact replica of the Empress's own, but as she stood swathed in it, she was grateful for it all the same; it would see a great deal of use in the coming days, no doubt. Especially the sword, an épée like Jeremiah's, its oddly fine quality juxtaposed against its lack of an outlet for electronic scoring giving away its origins as a custom piece. Justine's own hair was drawn back into the exact sort of high ponytail her mother would have never allowed, as it threw the subtle differences between her and a younger version of Marianne into sharp relief. Those features she had inherited, perhaps not from Charles like the hue of her eyes, but from the lineage of the Britannian kings of old; a face at once both delicate and cruel, the sort of beauty that would never be committed to paint—a wintry beauty, avian in a way, like the features of a particularly vicious raptor, the planes of her cheeks and brow and forehead like a sculpture carved from ice, the material's forbidding nature shining through no matter how many gentle sloping curves or elegant organic details were chiselled into its surface. She rejoiced in the idea that she would never replicate her mother's cherubic kindliness, that her features, those features her mother made her wear her hair down to conceal, highlighted a subtle but unmistakable fiendishness to the budding beauty of her countenance. It was these features she proceeded to then hide behind the stiff wire mesh of the fencing mask, before intoning, "I could not agree more. Come, then. You shall find I am an apt student."
She could hear the mirthless, perhaps rueful smirk in his voice. "We shall see. Now, take the engarde position. I would assess how competently you can handle yourself before we begin."
Justine nodded, and snapped into as close an approximation of the proper posture as she could manage. She had only ever seen it, whether in diagram, or, much more rarely, before her very eyes, and never made the attempt; and with Jeremiah's mask on, she could not read in his face whether or not her approximation was even acceptable.
"Defend yourself," was his only command, and then he was upon her, his sword leaping for her centre of gravity. It was solely on reflex that she managed to lean out of the way in time, bringing her smaller sword to his to guide it out of the way; but faster than she could react, her instructor disengaged, and swiped at her legs with the sword—and while the swipe was not at all gentle, it was still light enough that she had a moment of mortification as she felt her balance careen, as she fell flat onto her ass. "I shall speak plainly. Given the relative fragility I expected from you, your highness, that performance was many leagues less dismal than I had feared. We shall have much time to discover together how quickly you may make up the difference between this and any degree of true skill.
"Lesson one, then. It is an amateur mistake to believe a bout is decided with the arms. That is purely deception; a fencing bout is decided below the waist. When you lunge, you are wasting energy by placing force into your arms. The force of your lunge comes from your legs. When you move into the lunge, you extend your arm, yes, but the impact of the lunge comes entirely from your lower body. This makes your balance especially important—a lunge you cannot immediately recover from is one that can be punished, leading to a very painful death," Jeremiah explained, stepping back and bringing his sword to the side across his body, the tip pointed away from her. "Your core, your hamstrings, your calves—those are the secret to holding your own in a fencing match. And mind your footing. No amount of strength will win you the day if your balance is off, and improper footing is one of the fastest ways to lose any certainty of that. Now, tell me, your highness, do you dance?"
Justine winced as she regained her feet, then grimaced, nodding. "Mother insisted I learn the rudiments of ballet, at the very least."
Jeremiah nodded. "Wise. Though I would recommend going beyond the rudiments."
Justine digested that for a moment. "May I ask why?"
"Cross-training. I think you will find that many physical endeavours have some degree of interdisciplinary value," Jeremiah began, and then sighed. "And more importantly, your mother was never a particularly large or brawny woman, and I would wager that despite your sire, that is a frame you will never achieve, either. It is always best to play to one's strengths in a fight, which, for someone of your frame, will largely revolve around quickness, grace, and precision. Ballet, and indeed, other similar forms of exercise, will not only reinforce your constitution, but also develop these qualities in you, forge out of your body a tool worthy of your adroit mind."
Sound enough reasoning, Justine conceded. Then a thought occurred to her. "Speaking of similar forms of exercise, what of gymnastics?"
"One thing at a time, your highness. Though, if I may speculate, I suspect Miss Shinozaki would be by far a more apt tutor in such subjects than I," Jeremiah remarked. "Now, we're going to attempt a bit of learning by doing first. In order to adapt, you need to be able to think on your feet, so when I come at you this time, I want you to both parry me, and remain sure of foot. I will instruct you as we go."
Justine nodded, forming herself back into engarde without need for instruction.
"If I may make a recommendation? I assure you, it won't take more than a moment."
Both Justine and Jeremiah whirled around at the unfamiliar yet unmistakably male voice, Jeremiah rushing to occupy the space between her and the as-of-yet unseen newcomer.
"Oh, come now, no need to have your hackles raised. If I wished harm upon anyone in this house, you all would already be dead," said the man, stepping fully into view. "After all, none of you could have done anything to stop me. It would be a dreadfully dull undertaking, to be sure. At the very least, trust that I mean you no ill will."
The man was quite tall, and very slender of frame. His skin was pale, yet lively, his long hair was jet-black, and his features had about them a sort of dark, dastardly appeal, which was amplified by his dour expression into something only just this side of human. Upon his hawkish nose was perched a set of pince-nez framing a set of startling, striking scarlet eyes, one of which was shrouded in a curtain of hair together with part of his face. Yet, perhaps most perplexingly, he was dressed from head to toe in a butler's garb, with black trousers and dress boots, a black frock coat, a steel grey waistcoat over a starched white shirt, and a deep grey cravat. His hands were clasped at the small of his back, and when he drew them into view to demonstrate his lack of malice, Justine could not find it within herself to be surprised that fine white gloves shielded them from view. Then, he drew one arm across his abdomen, and swept into a bow. "I hope you will forgive my dreadful impertinence. I had intended to wait to introduce myself more properly, but I saw an opportunity to immediately aid the young lady, and I simply could not help but seize it."
Justine studied the man as he straightened, her mind a-whirl in attempting to discern how best to react. His eyes had a certain glint to them, of murder and yet not deceit, and that in itself convinced Justine to take a chance. "Jeremiah."
"Your highness!"
"That was not a request."
Jeremiah flinched at the iron in her tone, the same tone she was growing into, employing it more and more often, before he finally, begrudgingly, nodded and stood aside. "Of course."
Justine scanned her bodyguard for a moment, nodded in satisfaction, and then regarded the man dressed as a butler with a critical eye. There were many questions she had, and each of them was of paramount importance, but she settled first upon the most immediately pertinent. "I would hear your recommendation, if you would be so kind."
"Of course," quoth the man, bowing once again. In rising, he spoke anew. "Well, while fencing is certainly all well and good as a training tool, if the young lady is to become a soldier, it may behove her to first find her nerve."
Justine was taken aback for a moment. "Pardon me, my nerve?"
"The nerve to fight back. To take a life. Your killer instinct, in essence," the man replied. Once again, he clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke. "For most, the first kill is not easy. For many, it breaks them entirely, one way or another. But a select few may take a life without even the slightest hesitation, and sleep soundly thereafter. Of course, the only way to separate the few from the many is to actually take a life. There are few feelings like it, and all assurances that you can do it ring hollow if you do not already know what it is to kill another. After all, the bravado of the ignorant has quite the imagination."
"Hmm…" Justine pondered, crossing her arms and cupping her chin in thought. "Let us say for a moment that everything you are telling me is absolute truth—for certainly your words have the ring of it. Then what? How would you propose that is to be acted upon? Or rather, more specifically, who then must I kill?"
"Your highness, who am I to tell a princess of the realm what she is to do or how she is to do it?" the man challenged softly.
Justine saw this for what it was. "Who you are is a question that must be answered, but to be more specific, who you are to tell me is a simple answer: in this moment, you are acting in a capacity as my de facto advisor. You are recommending from a position of presumably superior knowledge, assuming you are every bit as capable as you profess to be and more, and as such, I would be a fool to not heed your advice. It is the place of royalty to act, not to insist upon having accomplished the impossible task of knowing all that is to be known with stubborn, rancorous pride and frightful hubris."
A subtle upward shift of the man's lips indicated a small smile. "Just so. Permit me to introduce myself. Taliesin Blackwood, at your service."
"And what, pray tell, do you hope to achieve, Taliesin Blackwood? And I must ask, why attire yourself as a butler?" Justine asked.
"The answer to both questions are intertwined, I'm afraid, though perhaps answering the second shall provide clarity to the first: 'when seeking an occupation, one should endeavour to dress in a manner worthy of the position they desire,' I believe is the adage," said Taliesin.
"You're missing the ending. 'Worthy of the position they desire, rather than the one they hold,'" Justine corrected while mulling over the revelation.
Taliesin's smile broadened to one of mirth, as opposed to the pleasured one that preceded it. "Ah. Well, I must profess that I am, for the moment at least, very much unemployed."
"So," Justine began at length. "You wish to volunteer your services as my butler, then?"
"If the lady wishes it," Taliesin confirmed with a short, almost curt nod.
"And what is it that you would bring to the household?"
"Immortality."
Justine's mind screeched to a halt. "I'm sorry, I must have misheard you. Pray repeat it?"
"Ah, I understand the scepticism," Taliesin remarked with a sage nod. "But I can assure you that I am in possession of a rare affliction that renders me unable to age, to be destroyed, to die, and so on. It is, rather uncreatively, referred to as a 'Code.' You may employ any means you see fit to assess the veracity of my claims. I promise you, your incredulity was expected, so I do not mind dispelling it."
A black streak flashed past Justine's head far too swiftly for her to have dodged it had she been its target, before embedding itself squarely into Taliesin's forehead. The force of the impact caused the man's head to jerk backwards, his hair jolting out of position to reveal a livid red mark on his shrouded cheek, small and easily-missed, that seemed like an abstract representation of a bird in flight. Shinozaki Sayoko drew up alongside Justine, her expression cold, her eyes hard and sharp as flint. "Don't mind if I do."
"Well-thrown," said Taliesin, reaching up and pulling the strange black throwing knife from his head, an initial rush of blood staunched immediately thereafter as the head-wound drew itself closed. Then he reached into his frock, pulling out a white handkerchief and using it to wipe the spilt blood from his head. "And with quite a bit of power behind it, too. Impressive. I had often wondered if you shinobi folk were all talk, and I am quite glad to find that the answer is 'no.' The poison was an especially nice touch. Extract from the bulbs of Lycoris radiata, correct? The spider lily? A bit theatrical for my taste, but then you traditionalists tend to be, so it would hardly be fair of me to count that as a point against you."
Sayoko stared, her face a rictus of shock. Jeremiah was likewise taken aback.
Justine was intrigued.
"So your claim was not without merit. Fascinating," she breathed. "Though, I must point out that a position running a household, particularly a royal household, has a more extensive list of stipulations than an admittedly astonishing display of immortality. Have you any other skills that would make you a good fit?"
His single visible eye went wide, and his brow leapt halfway to his hairline. "Well. I do believe you may well be the first to have taken my condition in stride. As to the question, I am studied and well-versed in arts concerning the culinary, the sanitary, the monetary, and the eminently fatal; though I confess that apart from all of that, my sole hobby is tea, and all aspects related to it. Rest assured, your highness, that I am more than capable of performing the more conventional duties required of the position."
"Well then, on the condition that that turns out to be true, you're hired," Justine decided, nodding sharply. "Welcome aboard the great ship Vi Britannia, Taliesin Blackwood. Pray, let us most sincerely endeavour not to disappoint one another, eh?"
Taliesin's smirk at that was wry, his informal bow good-natured. "Just so, your highness."
Over the next few days, one thing became abundantly clear: Taliesin had vastly undersold his aptitude.
The Aries Villa was used to lodging staff in the dozens, and was equipped for servants in the hundreds in preparation for the manifold and laborious complexities of hosting formal events. For all that its architecture saved on traversal time, it remained a vast complex every bit the equal of Versailles, and handling its upkeep typically required a considerable amount of manpower, and the servants had been scattered to the four winds in the wake of Empress Marianne's murder. Yet, over the course of the days that followed, it became clear that Taliesin was more than the equal of all the servants they had lost, gaining even the capable Sayoko's grudging respect for how deftly he handled each and every aspect of his job.
He had also undersold his murderous prowess, Justine discovered after a few days under his instruction. The man seemed to possess a staggering knowledge of martial arts that bordered on the encyclopaedic, and was all too willing to part with that knowledge for the princess's benefit. He expressly acted to supplement Jeremiah's teaching, and together, Justine's training proved to be a gruelling, physically miserable experience; and yet, though the training became no less onerous, she became gradually more astonished with the feats she was able to accomplish at the cost of that exhaustion. Those results had gained Jeremiah's approval, especially since the undying man, rather than being in any way daunted by his student's meteoric progress, was invigorated—nay, galvanised by it. His enthusiasm for instructing her seemed to increase as quickly as her performance continued to improve, if not more so, and the necessary foundational rote drills began to be supplemented with more critical exercises, to communicate the sorts of logic upon which real strategy was founded.
Perhaps it should have come as no surprise, then, when, on a morning a few months after beginning her joint lessons with Taliesin and Jeremiah, her majordomo's greeting to her was, "I believe we are ready to see where you stand."
The question Justine might have asked regarding his meaning died on her lips, for she knew what he meant, could think back to the first of their conversations and recall what was said. "How shall we accomplish this, then? The only royal currently gearing up to visit an active war zone is Cornelia, and however meteoric her rise through the ranks has been, she still doesn't have the authority to clear us to accompany her and her regiment."
"I intended something far less…haphazard," Taliesin refuted. "Tensions with the Empire of Japan have risen precipitously, and shall continue to do so until war breaks out. This much, I am certain you already know. But this rush to mobilise presents us with a small window in which we may work with relative impunity. To whit: I advise that we sever the head of the snake, as it were. A man by the name of Hadrian Deusericus—who happens to occupy the post of Director of the Office of Secret Intelligence."
Justine expected to feel herself baulk at the absurdity of the proposition, but instead she found herself enticed by it, dazzled by the sheer audacity of such a scheme. When next she spoke on the subject, her tones were measured, her voice calm. "And how do you propose we infiltrate the Office of Secret Intelligence, precisely?"
Taliesin's answering smirk was the picture of malice, and as he swept into a deferential bow, the fiendish atmosphere lingered, giving Justine the faint feeling that she was cutting a sort of Faustian bargain. "I have my ways, my lady. You need only leave such things to me. I will get you a straight shot at the man—you need only prove to me that you have the resolve to finish what you started. Pull the trigger, and slay the serpent."
Justine contemplated it for a moment, but she already knew what her answer would be. "Very well. You give me an opening, and I will kill him. I shan't disappoint you."
Taliesin's smile, then, was equal parts fondness and menace. "For your sake, my lady, I hope so."
Justine nodded, acknowledging Taliesin's point. No matter what she said right now, such words were only wind, and until she actually proved herself, such boasts or assurances as those that she could make would only be bravado, and they both knew it.
"Your highness," called Shinozaki Sayoko's voice, and Justine and Taliesin both turned to face her. The maid, who had proven herself exceedingly capable and reliable just as Taliesin had, though perhaps not to the same preternatural extent, wore an expression of such severity that all of them knew meant that discretion was required. "We have visitors. Your sisters, the Princesses Cornelia and Euphemia li Britannia, to be precise. Her Highness Princess Juliette is receiving them in the solar, and your presence has been requested."
Feeling the aura of ill intent furl itself back into Taliesin was still a strange sensation, but its oddity had become somewhat mundane. In moments, the immortal was well and truly tucked away, and the kindly visage of the good-natured butler remained, pouring out of his posture, his demeanour, and his aura. "If you would be so kind as to escort the young lady up to the solar, Miss Shinozaki, I will prepare the tea. As I recall, both sisters enjoy more dulcet refreshments?"
"Yes, but Cornelia tries to pretend that she doesn't," Justine replied, approaching Sayoko.
"I shall be about it presently, then," said Taliesin, before discreetly fading into the bowels of the villa.
Justine caught Sayoko's conflicted gaze tracking the man, and elected to nip this little bit of possible dissent in the bud. "Shinozaki-san, you distrust Taliesin?"
Sayoko shook her head. "Forgive me, your highness. It isn't his intentions that I mistrust, and it isn't as though he hasn't proven himself capable. I simply don't fully trust anything I can't kill. A result of the earliest lessons of my clan. I have spoken with Taliesin on the subject, and he does not take offence."
"No, I imagine he wouldn't," Justine replied, mollified. "Well, if the two of you have a stable rapport, there is no issue. But I will not tolerate infighting. A house divided against itself cannot stand, after all. And most importantly, we must show a united front to outsiders. We may have our share of fraught relationships internally, but in the face of the world, we are as one."
"As you command," Sayoko affirmed with a bow, the ghost of a smile haunting her lips.
Justine made her way to the solar in Sayoko's immediate wake, contemplating to herself the need to change into different clothes, or perhaps the lack thereof. It wasn't as though she was undressed—the form-fitting black compression pants were certainly suggestive, though far from indecent, and the loose black blouse that went with it allowed her to practise moving with drag without the added detriment of constriction—so she concluded that even if what she was wearing was considered improper attire, she'd simply make do. The shinobi's senses scanned every shadow for a hint of treachery as they passed through the lachrymose Rococo stylings of the Aries Villa, and in the course of crossing the threshold of the solar, her face smoothed out to the blank affect that she associated with the role of 'maidservant.' Justine, too, had appearances to maintain, and so she assembled atop her face a pleasantly inscrutable mask of relative insouciance so smoothly that Juliette was, of the assemblage, perhaps the only one to have caught the shift. When Euphemia, Cornelia, and Cornelia's man Gilbert Guilford—the former in a vibrant pink dress that looked like something out of a fairy tale with its whimsical frills and lavish flourishes, while the latter two, in rather stark contrast, garbed themselves in a variation on military dress—turned to face her as she took her seat, folded atop the chair as if it was a throne, the mask was what greeted them, her true self guarded behind it.
"Justine! I'm so sorry we didn't come sooner!" Euphemia cried, her composure the first to shatter, as expected. When Marianne was alive, Euphemia's earnest and kind heart, worn ever upon her sleeve with a very Britannian brand of brazen sanguinity, never failed to move Justine, and whatever mood she was in was quick to dispel; that was no longer the case, and a part of the older princess lamented the loss, for all that it was fortuitous. "We wanted to, but…"
"We were hoping to encounter you at Lady Marianne's funeral, but you weren't there," Cornelia interjected, somewhat more forcefully, and with a note of accusation.
"We weren't invited," Justine replied primly, with a grim twist of a smirk. "In fact, we were not informed of the time, the date, or the location. Further, even had we filched such details from some hapless source, I would not be surprised if the Royal Guard attending the ceremony were given explicit orders from the emperor himself to bar us from attending."
"That's ridiculous," Cornelia refuted. "I have no idea why you would concoct such a…"
"Cornelia," Justine interrupted, using once again the tone of command, the calm, level voice that made others hold their tongues to better hear her. "I take it you were not at court when I claimed an audience with His Majesty?"
"No, I was in a briefing," Cornelia replied, still obviously missing the throughline.
"I thought as much. And what rumours emerged from that session, pray tell?"
"That you had burst in and demanded…"
"There was nothing I demanded that we were not owed, Cornelia—"
"Sister," Juliette interjected, her pleasant tone laced with hidden warning. Justine heeded it and was silent. Then Juliette turned to Cornelia with fond exasperation. "My sister speaks true, though her words could have been more delicate. Her tongue, I fear, is as a razor. Justine entered the court and accorded His Majesty all honours. She comported herself as the very image of a princess of Britannia—better by far than some of our older sisters in that regard—and requested, as a formality, our late mother's trusts, her estates, and her vassals. Assumed, then, was that we had permission to arrange her funeral, as is custom. However, by His Majesty's decree, we were denied all that we had requested and more. We have no trusts, and therefore no regents; we have not seen our mother's body, nor our siblings, for those that would were directly barred from rendering their aid. In fact, according to His Majesty, that we are entitled even to the sweat upon our brows is to be considered a charity. Princesses we may remain, but we are by his command both isolated and destitute."
"My dear sister spared you both the best part: that we are afforded what he has deemed 'charity' only on account of our late mother. I can only conclude that, absent the love he bore her, we would have been disinherited, exiled, perhaps even executed," Justine added with a mirthless chuckle. "Wouldn't that have been a lark, eh?"
Cornelia's jaw was agape. It worked impotently for a few moments, and Euphemia swept in to cover the silence. "You mean to say that you two have been living here alone? It's been months!"
"Not quite," Justine supplied, and right on time, the servant's door swept open, heralding Taliesin and the silver platter with a full tea set and tower of light pastries laden atop it. Sayoko moved to his side swiftly, and the two worked in tandem to unload the refreshments from the tray and onto the table. "We've had considerable aid from a select few beyond the Imperial Family."
"Not for much longer."
Justine's heart skipped a beat, and the shock nearly shattered her mask.
Before Justine had time to even contemplate how vexing it was that Milly could so easily unravel her, even in a delicate situation like this one, she felt the blonde's presence behind her, leaning over the chair to place her mouth just beside the princess's ear. Then Milly whispered into her ear: "Justine…"
Her body was obeying the command in that word even as her mind seized up, and before she returned to her senses, she found that she had stood, that Milly had promptly settled into the newly vacant seat, and that she was now in the process of sitting back down upon the older girl's lap—Milly's arms lashed forth and wrapped themselves around the princess's waist, hauling her into position in an open display of possessive conquest that sent Justine's heart to stuttering. And Milly leaned in again, to whisper into her ear: "Good girl. But next time, don't make me say something. Okay?"
Both of them knew what Justine's answer would be, and Milly punctuated the command by pressing her lips to the younger girl's temple. Justine turned to face the others, seeing that both Euphemia and Cornelia were beyond dumbfounded, Taliesin and Gilbert were composed (though the latter seemed to be having markedly less success at maintaining the affect), Sayoko seemed to radiate fondness, and Juliette was struggling mightily not to burst out laughing at the whole affair.
"Your highnesses, is something the matter?" Milly asked, her tone turning the rhetorical question into a clear yet sufficiently subtle challenge. Doubtless the rather flippant interpretation of highborn corporate garb in which she attired herself magnified the effect of her low undertone of menace, and it pleased a buried part of Justine to see that menace turned outwards towards a perceived threat for her benefit.
The words seemed to break the astonished spell under which the three visitors laboured; Euphemia's surprise turned crestfallen, Cornelia's lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure, and Guilford's eyes hardened behind his slender spectacles. Errantly, Justine considered the chances that the man had practised posture with the aid of an old musket-barrel, while Cornelia's ire could have easily come from the impropriety of their posture, Euphemia's disappointment, or perhaps even both. Euphemia's reaction, however, was genuinely unexpected; Justine was sure her younger half-sister had grown out of the days when she would playfully lay claim to her hand. Perhaps those days were not quite so bygone as she had liked to believe…
"Congratulations on your promotion, Cornelia," Justine began, seeking to redirect the course of the interaction onto a more productive sort of terra firma, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Euphemia's face fall further. For what reason, the black-haired princess could not even begin to guess. With a gesture, she indicated Cornelia's cavalier cape and golden aiguillette. "Most officer candidates never even reach the rank of major, let alone beyond that. You're moving up in the world, Colonel li Britannia."
"Thank you, Justine," Cornelia replied with what seemed to be mounting unease, her lips still pressed into that thin line. "Though all that means at the moment is that I have quite a bit more paperwork to do…"
Justine read the deception in Cornelia's demeanour clear as day. She knew, then, that her promotion had come as part of Britannia's preparations for war, but sought to keep that much a secret. Justine strategy was set, then: expose and exploit. "Paperwork that is doubtless collecting dust on your desk as we speak. Cornelia, I would appreciate your candour here: what exactly did you come here to accomplish? It certainly isn't a social call."
Cornelia drew herself up, visibly becoming more guarded. "I received word through the rumour mill that a certain name has entered circulation in the pool of applicants for 2012's admittance assessments at Ad Victoriam Military Academy. The 'Youthful Conquerors Prodigy Program,' to be specific. I of course assumed it was simply someone pretending to be someone they are not, but I'm required to confirm that with you before the name can be purged from the rolls."
Justine's mask became that much icier. "No need, Cornelia. I can absolutely confirm that said applicant is precisely who they say they are—that is, of course, assuming that the name in question belongs to one Justine vi Britannia?"
Cornelia's palms slammed flat on the table, jolting all upon it. "Damn it, Justine, this isn't a game!"
"And whyever would you assume that I have judged it to be one?" Justine replied, cool as ever, and growing cooler by the moment. "I can assure you, Cornelia, that I am treating this with every bit of the gravity and severity it deserves."
"Bullshit!"
"Language, Cornelia," Juliette chided with a warning tone.
Cornelia whirled on Juliette, thunder on her brow, and cold flame licked its way through Justine's arteries. "You. You must have put her up to this…this…tomfoolery! It was no secret that you used to hate your sister, but we all thought you had grown out of it! I swear, if you…"
"Cornelia li Britannia," Justine interrupted with level tones, in the process casting aside the mask to shatter upon the ground. This had been allowed to go too far already, and the demon was here to put it to rights. "I will not suffer you to threaten my sister any more than you would suffer me to threaten yours."
"You—!"
"You will sit down, and you will be silent," said Justine, the full force of her command in her tone. Cornelia found herself sitting before she could help it, and while she would not remain silent indefinitely, the fact that she elected to hold her tongue at that moment was enough of a victory. "You come here, to our home, to threaten and make demands of us? No. No, I think not. I understand your concern for my safety, but this vulgarity is unacceptable for the lowest of commoners, let alone a princess of the realm."
Guilford stepped forth with a menacing gait, drawing himself up to a great height so as to better intimidate, but Justine locked eyes with him, and he hesitated. Whatever he saw there was enough to make him baulk.
"We shall forget this churlishness that you have perpetuated here, and we shall move on. It was my choice to apply to Ad Victoriam, and it will be my choice to enrol when the time comes. We are not your charges as Euphemia is, Cornelia, and if you truly believe Juliette to be capable of beguiling me into doing anything at all, I fear you may well have never known us," said Justine. "Having said that, if you can articulate your misgivings in a manner befitting your station, I will hear them, and I will be only too happy to field them. Ultimately, Cornelia, the core truth here is that I don't want to be your enemy, and I don't think you want to be mine, either; so if you can express your concerns in the manner in which they are meant, I am and shall remain only too happy to address them."
Her composure seemingly nearing its end, Juliette began to guffaw quite loudly, and in so doing, the tension that had draped itself about the room began to dissipate. "I'm sorry, sister, just the fact that you're doing all of this, situated as you are—the juxtaposition is hilarious!"
Justine stilled, heat rushing to her face as she remembered once more where she was, and what the others were likely seeing—and then Milly's grasp on her tightened, which sent Justine's stomach flip-flopping in her abdomen, and also narrowed the world to just the two of them for a moment, which brought with it a sudden clarity. Why should she be mortified? Why should she, for even a moment, show even the barest hint of shame regarding whatever this was that Milly and her shared? So instead, she favoured Juliette with an indulgent smile, and understood the purpose of the interjection, regardless of how genuine it was.
Fortunately, it seemed that Cornelia either understood that Milly was off-limits, or did not have the clarity of opinion to articulate the form or matter of her disapproval—either way, she held her tongue on that subject. "Justine, you're eleven. You don't have to rush into this, and you can't possibly know what it is to do what I do."
"Alexander of Macedon was only two years my senior when he resolved to conquer the known world," Justine countered smoothly. "And I believe you vastly overestimate the amount of time we have. Without any significant protection—for, due to the Emperor's edicts, we are denied the luxury of an aegis—we are most assuredly open and vulnerable targets for any number of our opportunistic younger siblings. Carine, for instance. By having us killed, or by having her family arrange our deaths on her behalf, she advances her own standing by two steps. Time, dear sister, is the one thing we do not have.
"As for not being able to possibly know what it is to do what you do, you are correct; if I were to protest otherwise, it would be naught but the bravado of youth, which is possessed of considerable powers of imagination. I cannot know what it is to bring death to another until I have them at my mercy, their life entirely within my hands, to spare or to snuff out—this much, I concede. Yet, the bloody craft is mine to learn, and you shall find necessity makes of me an adept pupil. It is of little consequence."
"And what of what might befall Juliette if you fail? If you die?" Cornelia challenged.
"Juliette must trust in me to do my job as I trust in her to do hers," Justine replied. "It is true that if either of us fails, the other shall suffer the consequences. However, we have not the luxury of indolence, and hesitation is defeat. We have but one way, and it is forward. It is a risk we shall simply have to accept for ourselves—I have made my peace with that, and so has she."
Cornelia slumped in her chair with a huff. "At least tell me, why Ad Victoriam?"
This question brought a wry twist to Justine's lips. "Because war is changing, Cornelia. Surely you of all people could not fail to notice. The invention and mass production of the Knightmare Frame cannot help but to revolutionise and fundamentally reshape all that we know about armed conflict and military doctrine, to a degree we have not seen since industrialisation last turned our fundamental understanding of war upon its head one hundred years ago. We must therefore prepare to change with it. Orthodoxy is soon to become a shackle, one I do not intend to suffer. Therefore, Ad Victoriam's stances appealed to me. That is why."
Cornelia was silent for a long, pregnant moment. In the span of that moment, Euphemia seemed to be struggling not to squirm, her posture communicating a profound sense of disquiet. At last, it seemed she could hold herself in no longer. "Sister, relent. I beg of you. If you act to hinder Justine in this, you have slain her just as surely as Lady Marianne was. And Justine. If this course of yours ends in your death, know that I shall never forgive you."
"You aren't the only one," Milly replied with crisp clarity, her posture enveloping Justine further in an even more stark display of possession.
Euphemia seemed to wilt, but she nodded, her gaze resolute, however lachrymose in that resolve she was.
Cornelia scowled, but at a sharp look from Euphemia, she did as she was bidden, and her posture fell in a visible surrender, a nonverbal white peace. "Hostilities with the Empire of Japan are expected to begin by as early as mid-July. Early August at the latest. Justine, I will have you at my side when we invade."
Euphemia whirled around, shocked, an appalled "Sister!" slipping past her lips; not that Justine could blame her, given how astonished she herself was at the declaration.
But Cornelia, it seemed, would not be moved. "You have made your points, Justine, and though it pains me to admit, they have merit. But this much I will not be denied. Do this, see for yourself the face of what it is you are choosing to do, and if you remain assured of your course in its wake, then I will be satisfied, and you will have my blessing. I shall welcome you as a sister in arms as well as blood, and you will have my solemn word that I shall not hinder your career."
A compromise, then. Justine nodded. "I accept."
Cornelia nodded, her face set into a reluctant grimace, and then stood. "Guilford, we're to return. Euphy, you may stay here for the day if you wish. I know it's been quite some time since you've seen everyone. I will send Darlton to retrieve you when you're ready. You know how to reach me."
Euphemia's smile was sad and wrought of glass. "Thank you, Nelly. It will be good to catch up with them."
Cornelia nodded stiffly, and in a flutter of fabric, she departed, Guilford, like a loyal hound, on her heels.
Lurking in the shadows was hardly a novel experience for the immortal witch C.C.; but to lurk in the vicinity of the home of her last failed contractor? She could safely say that was a first. It was rare, in her experience, for suitable contractors to appear in consecutive generations of the same bloodline, but this one seemed primed and ready to break every rule the verdette had once learned to take for granted.
Internally, she knew that what she was doing was foolhardy to the extreme; one did not simply resign from the Geass Directorate, after all. She knew that better than most, having in the recent past arranged unfortunate 'accidents' for any and all members who had had a crisis of conscience and elected to vacate their posts. It was bad practice to leave loose ends, a concept with which even V.V. was familiar, and so she knew, logically, that he must be expending every resource in his new arsenal in an attempt to find and retrieve her. After all, the plan required two Code Bearers, and though it required voluntary participation, V.V., to his credit, was a creative, unimaginably vicious, malicious little shit, so she had no doubts that, given time, V.V. could manufacture her consent. Yet, she couldn't help it; there was something alluring about Justine vi Britannia, something undeniably magnetic. Her goal had been solely to assess the quality of Marianne's spawn, to see her for the first time as a prospective contractor, and yet she had found herself drawn in, caught in the event horizon of the singularity that was Marianne's firstborn.
Princess Cornelia, Marianne's former pet project, conversed furtively with her knight, a straight-laced sort who probably thought his ponytail counted as an expression of youth in revolt, before stepping into their car and leaving; in the house, then, were two servants, Marianne's daughters, Reuben Ashford's granddaughter, and Princess Euphemia—Jeremiah Gottwald was away at the moment, returning to his estate to assume control of the family assets from his ailing, now late, father, so that was potentially one less headache to worry about.
The coast clear for the moment, the immortal verdette began to make her way through the carefully cultivated labyrinthine gardens—which was an oddity, given how long the villa had gone without any sort of proper staff, let alone the usual team of dedicated groundskeepers—towards the palatial compound within which resided her quarry. More than once, the hem of her pants snagged on an errant thorny vine, which suggested a greater deal of upkeep than merely maintaining the state of the existing foliage, but she was used to outliving her clothes, to put it lightly, so it was merely an annoyance and no great loss.
It took her several minutes, but she finally pulled herself up out of the plant-life, only to come face to face with someone—a man, garbed as if for field work and armed with a veritable horticulturist's arsenal in a nearby wheelbarrow, with his arms folded over his slim chest and a bemused smirk twisting his lips. The man was beautiful in a way few men were, with long, inky black hair, a face that seemed at once genteel and menacing with one concealed scarlet eye, and a pair of pince-nez perched expertly upon his face. She had never met him before, and Marianne had taken the time to introduce her to everyone who ought to be on the premises—yet, he did not seem at all at odds with his surroundings, completely at ease with being spotted or identified, which suggested that he was known to the current occupants.
"Do the vi Britannia siblings still live here?" she asked him, point blank.
His smirk became indulgent, yet no less menacing. To her shock, she was actually taken aback by it. "The ladies of the house are, at the moment, quite occupied, I'm afraid. Socialising with their half-sister lest she become estranged, I believe. You have chosen a poor time to come interloping, C.C., though I cannot say your presence was unexpected."
C.C. stilled. "You know me?"
"But of course. Or rather, I was acquainted with your precursor. Unpleasant woman that she was, I cannot say I was compelled to shed so much as a tear upon notification of her passing," the man explained, unfolding his hands only so as to talk with them. "But I make a point of at the very least knowing of everyone who bears the brand of Geass. Their whereabouts, their endeavours, et cetera, ad nauseum."
C.C. stepped back, instantly on guard, but the man chuckled. "Attempting to escape will hardly do you any good; after all, I am hardly interested in the matter of your capture. But allow me to be brief. My name is Taliesin, and I serve Princess Justine vi Britannia as her majordomo. In the ordinary course, I aid Miss Shinozaki in matters of the household, though I am also solely responsible for the restoration of the grounds. You have nothing to fear from me, so long as the young lady has nothing to fear from you. You may have my word on that, from one immortal to another—for however much that's worth these days."
"You're not a member of the Geass Directorate…?"
"Oh, heavens no. Whyever would I concern myself with such unequivocal folly?" refuted Taliesin, seemingly considering the statement too absurd to be offensive.
"V.V. was meant to handle the elimination of any immortals who refused to join," C.C. remarked.
"Oh, he tried," Taliesin replied, his indulgent smile twisting into a grin like shards of shattered glass. "But I daresay I'm rather more difficult to kill than the vast preponderance of our ilk.
"Regardless, I have my duties to attend to, and the lady of the house is rather too young yet to make full use of the gift you wish to bestow upon her. Certainly, there is more of the fairy godmother than the witch about you," Taliesin continued. "But I will keep in touch. Her highness may well have need of you before the end, and the gifts you carry. Good day, Miss Corabelle. Do take care not to get captured in the meantime, yes?"