In Human Skin

by Akemi Homura-san

In January, a.t.b. 2010, Empress Marianne vi Britannia, Knight of Two and His Majesty's favoured consort, was assassinated at her residence in the Imperial Villa at Aries. But for Justine and Juliette vi Britannia, her daughters, this proves to be a blessing in disguise... Surrounded by old foes and sheltered by new and unexpected allies, their tale heralds the dawn of a new era.

11. Thus Always To Tyrants

Occupied Area of Japan, August, a.t.b. 2010

She expected victory to be a relief, a sudden moment of rest as peace settled in, and defter hands than hers took over the task of sculpting the new territory into an image befitting a new Britannian Area—always a tremendous undertaking, and something for which Cornelia did not envy, and had never envied, those so charged. Instead, what seized her as she returned from the field, victorious but not triumphant, that girl's words ringing in her ears, first in Japanese and then in perfect English, was a profound sense of hollowness, her head a cavity filled with racing thoughts that buzzed about with an agitation not unlike a kicked nest of hornets. The rank and file made the return to the unit drunk off of their victory, the heady rush of having narrowly avoided cataclysm a profound intoxication; and yet, among her most trusted—Guilford and Darlton—there was only a sense of grim silence, in clear response to her speechless delirium.

She felt oddly dazed as she rode the stirrup of her Glasgow to the ground, making her way towards the massive purple mobile base with no clear intent, but an inexorable purpose. One of her siblings, she knew, had to have been responsible for that sudden and disturbingly timely bit of intervention, and though she struggled to articulate, even to herself, what the point would be in knowing which one was to blame, the rising tide of dismay in her chest demanded she seek answers. She had the presence of mind to be glad that both Guilford and Darlton knew her moods well enough to grant her a wide berth and not to make an attempt to follow her, but little more than that; she could not even spare the thought of relief at entering the land cruiser's cool, climate-controlled interior.

She let instinct guide her footfalls as she tore through the blank, sterile white panels of the corridors within, and though if she had been thinking, or indeed could allow herself to think without being caught in a terrible feeling of teetering on the very cusp of a swirling, dark abyss, from which neither light nor hope could escape, she would have thought to consult her older sister the Prime Minister first, she found that she could not honestly claim surprise when the doors those strides of hers led her to slid open. The chamber in question was designated as an office space, and Justine had seen fit to commandeer such quarters for her own use, employing it for the purpose of seeing after whatever clerical pursuits eleven-year-old prodigies busied themselves with.

The room had a large, yet not lavish, desk that dominated a great deal of the available interior, with Jeremiah, Margrave Gottwald, the former Royal Guardsman under her command whom she had entrusted with looking after the safety of both of the vi Britannia sisters the night Empress Marianne was murdered, taking one corner near the door; while the adjacent corners were filled with the stray common-born petty officer Justine had picked up from the base at Midway Atoll, Villetta Nu, and the strange manservant that had joined her service in the immediate aftermath of Justine's disastrous appearance at court. In the opposite corner, upon a footstool, then, sat the daughter of the former Japanese prime minister and Justine's personal prisoner of war, the defector Kururugi Suzaku, who broke off from whatever conversation between her and Justine Cornelia's arrival had interrupted, and then busied herself performing one-handed tricks with the butterfly knife she held, bared in her other hand.

As recently as this past morning, the flippancy with which Justine approached her personal safety would have been concerning to the elder princess.

Now, she was no longer so certain.

At the desk sat Justine herself, a smile like a razor softening almost immediately into an expression of polite serenity that even now, almost four months after she had first seen it, never failed to make her skin crawl. She never used to make that expression, not while her mother was still alive…

She was dressed all in black, Cornelia noticed, having fully eschewed the sorts of pastels and whites and floral hues of the dresses Empress Marianne always used to have her dressed in, in favour of trousers, boots, a silk blouse with lace cuffs, and black gloves too slender and too strictly-conforming to the exact shape of her elegant fingers to have not been made custom, all of them as black as her tied-back raven hair that threw all the fierce, vicious, forbidding angles of her face into sharp relief. A strong, dark brow cocked as her head tilted to the side in a manner that never looked more human or less avian no matter how many times Cornelia witnessed that gesture, and she swept her hand out to the chair across the desk, opposite the one in which she was perched as if the plain chair was a throne. "Ah, Nelly. Is there aught amiss? You seem troubled, for all that I have been informed you've returned victorious."

Cornelia stared for a moment into eyes entirely different from her own, like glittering amethysts, and for all that they were their father's eyes in shade, she knew then, with a certainty that startled her, that the two pairs could not have been more thoroughly distinct from one another.

And suddenly, the question was slipping from her lips unbidden.

"Are you responsible for the surrender?"

Justine blinked in surprise, and as she tabled her hands, lacing her fingers and tilting her head in the complete opposite direction, her serenity became threaded with something like mirth. "I beg your pardon?"

Confusion flash-fried into furor. She slammed her hands down on the desk, looming over her and glaring, for all that the younger princess seemed both entirely unmoved and distinctly unimpressed. No one else in the room so much as flinched. "Don't you dare play dumb with me, Justine. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

The mirth evaporated so suddenly it was almost startling. Her voice, when she spoke, was both cool and noticeably mild. "Jeremiah. Villetta. Taliesin. Leave us."

The named trio bowed, and without comment, they exited the room, leaving behind only Justine, Cornelia, and Justine's pet defector. Then the glittering gemstone gaze bored into her own. "It's a little late for you to try and fulfil the maternal duties of your late idol, don't you think, Cornelia? And more than that, I do believe it remains customary to express gratitude when someone saves your life, and the lives of every soldier under your command. Tell me, dear sister, am I mistaken?"

And suddenly, all the furor rushed out of her, all the rancour and confusion, the frustration and the daze disappearing like morning mist, in the wake of the dull, numb shock that filled her then. "So it was you, then."

Justine shrugged, entirely insouciant. "I cannot claim full credit. Had Friede been anything less than entirely willing to lend me her authority as prime minister to present terms of unconditional surrender, then I would have been powerless to effect anything of the sort. But I will admit to being the one who presented the idea to her in the first place, and then set in motion most everything else, yes. I'd say that she warrants your gratitude as well, but then, given how you've reacted thus far, you don't seem very inclined to give it. C'est la vie, I suppose."

"How?" Cornelia asked, still shocked into numbness.

"I won't bore you with the sordid details, but if you must know," began Justine, leaning back in the chair and folding her hands into her lap, "I made contact with certain elements, and, using the information that was oh-so-helpfully supplied by Miss Kururugi here, as she is ever a friend to peace in our time…"

The pet defector raised a hand in a jaunty wave, taking her jade eyes off of the butterfly knife even as she continued executing the tricks without sight.

"…I took steps to ensure that any major elements intent on prolonging the prosecution of this war were dealt with appropriately, allowing me then to deal directly with one who would be more willing than her predecessor to usher the conflict to a close—this being the ascendant Heavenly Sovereign, Kaguya of the Sumeragi." Then Justine winced subtly, and sighed heavily. "Of course, there were a few snags in this plan of mine, stemming entirely from my misreading of the situation, and of the players involved. But it yielded results regardless, and I suppose there's no use in bemoaning the past overmuch."

"The Japanese emperor had no children," she pointed out, recalling one of the many briefings she'd had to attend before war was officially declared.

Justine nodded. "Indeed, Emperor Boruhito produced no children. Sumeragi Kaguya, his half-sister, was his heir presumptive as a result."

"You had her elder brother killed…"

"Elder half-brother," Justine corrected sharply. "Not that she seemed to appreciate the difference. But the fault is ultimately mine: if I had known she'd respond so poorly to such a precaution, I'd have had them both killed. I should have had them both killed, truthfully. Not a mistake I'll make again, certainly."

Horror surged through Cornelia's veins. "Justine, why?!"

"Because your inability to account for Tōdō Kyōshirō's little trick with the sakuradite explosives at Itsukushima had begun to reignite the civilian populace's will to resist us, and so it fell to me to break that resurgent hope over my knee, and sunder it utterly, saving countless lives that would otherwise have been spent in futile defiance in the years and decades to come," Justine explained, a slight edge of exasperation entering her tone and building upon itself as she continued to speak. "I traded away the life of one teenage boy, one who would have gleefully prolonged a war he would never have had to suffer the consequences of long past the point of atrocity, and with that trade, I bought the lives of civilians, future Numbers, and Britannian soldiers beyond counting. In one fell stroke, I have prevented a waste of lives that could easily have ruined us if not dealt with promptly. And more than that, I have traded away the very worst day of one girl's life, in exchange for your life, and indeed the lives of every soldier, every brave child of Britannia, who is under your command—all of whom, might I add, would have surely died if the late Acting Prime Minister Sawasaki's directive to commence the self-destruction of the base at Narita's sakuradite reactor had been allowed to proceed unhindered. You're welcome for that, by the way."

I'm not getting through to her… the older princess realised. Cornelia, her distress mounting, quickly elected to attempt a different tactic. "Justine. What would Juliette think of this?"

She wasn't entirely certain how she was expecting Justine to react to that appeal, exactly—possibly with enmity, probably by getting defensive—but she certainly didn't expect Justine to chortle at the idea, however fondly she might have done so. "What would Juliette, my younger sister, think of this? She'd call me a moron and fuss at me for not fully exterminating the entire family line, root and stem. She'd be even more incensed that I hadn't even considered such an option, content as I would have been to settle upon neutralising only two members. Juliette is fond of brutality, you see, and would consider my act of mercy in letting even one of them live to have come from a place of bleeding-heart naiveté that's certain to come back to bite us some time down the line. I, on the other hand, am of the mind that such a measure would be an egregious misuse of resources, and cost us a substantial portion of goodwill—goodwill we are going to have to build up as we consolidate, from the moment the viceroyalty is officially proclaimed and extending onward, possibly indefinitely, lest Area Eleven become known as the most unruly and rebellious territory Britannia has ever annexed. Does that answer satisfy you?"

"…You're lying," Cornelia realised. That was, after all, the only way any of this continued to make some semblance of sense.

She had seen her fair share of falsified or performative outrage in her time. The Britannian ton, as many of the peerage liked to style themselves, were masters of the art, amoral creatures with pretensions of decency and civility that they were. However, instead of playfully feigning scandal and reproach while hiding mirth beneath an entirely too-expensive whalebone fan, this was perhaps the first time she had seen a highborn Britannian actually and genuinely take offence to her accusations. Justine's face went even colder, and there was something just at the edge of her perception, and it suggested anger.

"Even after the rude and abrupt manner in which you gained entry, I have taken very great care to avoid giving insult, Cornelia," Justine said, her tone once again very mild, for all that gooseflesh began to prick along the older princess's arms, as though the temperature of the room had dropped precipitously. "I would thank you to extend unto me that same courtesy. Lies are an amateur's means of deception, and I have told you nothing here that I do not have ample reason to believe to be entirely true. Neophyte though I may be in the many and varied nuances of courtly games and plots, as this entire near-debacle has cast into sharp relief, I am not so unlearned that I would believe acting in a manner that gives others leave to expect falsehood from my words to be a course of action that is at all wise or beneficial."

"…Do you have any idea how absolutely mad that sounds?" Cornelia asked, genuinely derailed.

Justine shrugged. "It's the truth. And the truth itself flouts accepted sanity so wondrously often that it needs no aid from me. A skilled deceiver will not use a mere fabrication to manipulate you into serving their ends. They need do nothing of the sort, not when observable reality absolutely can be made to do that sort of work on their behalf."

"Even so," Cornelia insisted, and she was losing her composure in spite of her best efforts—she felt the impulse on the tip of her tongue, knew for a fact that she would regret giving into it, but was powerless in that moment to do aught but succumb. "Even if, by some chance of misfortune, you're not lying. This… Justine, this was wrong."

The younger girl's demeanour calmed, and there once again was the mirth from earlier, only now it was more…bemused? She cocked her head, steepling her gloved fingers in her lap, and raised one arched, dark brow. "Truly?"

"However could it not be?!" she exclaimed, incredulous.

"I just find it exceedingly odd that you of all people should argue such a point," Justine began, her lips pursing pensively. "After all, from where I'm sitting, the manner by which Sumeragi Kaguya ascended to the throne she now holds is little different from the sorts of conflicts that decide succession in Britannia, albeit in miniature. In which case, perhaps you would be best served in seriously considering surrendering your claim sometime in the coming years. You clearly lack the nerve to do what would be necessary to win the throne, and forcing yourself into such an arena would only bring you misery. Our recent differences aside, Nelly, of all of our elder siblings, only you, Clovis, and Friede were ever kind to us, and I would be loath to see such despair grip you for the sake of something you don't truly seem to even want."

That statement, articulated with such genuine, heartfelt concern, brought her up short.

And suddenly, she could sense it.

It was frost and flame, shadow and darkness, and it swallowed the room whole. It was a suffocating pall, heavy and pervasive, that seemed to shift and writhe around currents like a thing alive, formless and amorphous and hungry. It would snuff out the sun, swallow the seas, devour even the last motes of light in the world, and in the centre of it all was Justine. Justine, around whom it seemed to coalesce in a manner that seemed almost affectionate, her sister whom she felt as though she was seeing for the first time. It was an odd sensation, like finally noticing that which otherwise lay hidden in plain sight, but with the revelation laid bare to her at last, she felt she could see the true nature of her sister—a colourless void, a cold and inhuman creature, a fathomless abyss…

A fathomless abyss that was already staring back into her.

Everything began to fall into place.

"I'm going to make the recommendation that Ad Victoriam strike you from its examination rolls," she said. "And I will have them bar you from entering entirely. I'll do that with every military academy in the empire, if that's what it takes."

"Oh?" Justine challenged, and the concern and affection bled from her tone swiftly, leaving in its wake only frost that bit, the silent serenity of a corpse frozen in eternal repose, and the deathly glint of naked steel in pale sunlight. "And what of our initial agreement, hmm? I have not breached my end of our impromptu contract, after all. I do, as a point of fact, still wish to attend."

Cornelia shook her head vehemently, her resolve firming itself in the face of the unimaginably dark presence that surrounded her even now. "It doesn't matter. You're a monster, Justine. A loathsome fiend hidden in human skin. And I will not suffer you to gain even a scrap of power."

"So that is how this shall be, is it?" said the monster, with a rueful smile, and even her pet defector put an end to the background noise of her knife tricks, perhaps sensing what was coming to pass. "Then it may be of some help to you, since you have elected to spit in my face and declare yourself an obstacle in my path, to know that Friede and I had a very interesting discussion on this very topic, in the event that this might come to pass. I did not wish to believe our sister when she warned me so, but it seems I have given you entirely too much credit in this matter. You see, Cornelia, I no longer need you, and nor is my presence on those rolls yours to forbid. After all, what is the account of a single brigadier-general, however royal or accomplished, in the face of a personal recommendation from the Prime Minister herself?"

Cornelia stilled, her face growing ashen as her blood ran cold.

As she stood from her chair to come face-to-face with Cornelia, indifferent and dismissive amethyst eyes locking with paralysed indigo, the fiend wearing the skin of a girl she had once called a sister smiled, and the expression was sharp enough to draw blood. "You may consider this something of a reminder, Cornelia, in honour of the kindness you have shown both Juliette and I in the past, and in observance of the love we both once bore you. You may indeed have a stronger claim to the throne than either of us, you may have your legion of loyal subordinates who view you as the second coming of the Azure Comet, Marianne the Flash—you might even go so far as to consider yourself important, or significant!"

Her pupils were narrowed to slits, her teeth sharp as blades.

"But you are not chief general of the Imperial Army yet."

---

"I wanted to thank you, you know."

Suzaku looked up from her half-inhaled meal consisting of a hamburger and chips, and blinked owlishly at Justine. "What for?"

Justine smiled at the Japanese girl fondly. She hadn't had much experience with making friends in her short life, and while the sheer speed with which Suzaku was growing on her was a trifle frightening, perhaps as a result of her relative inexperience, the candour they afforded one another was refreshing, in a way that made her less than motivated to seek out precautionary measures to stem this amiable tide. "Back during the…incident with Cornelia. You didn't laugh when I introduced you to her as being 'ever a friend to peace in our time,' and I appreciated your restraint there."

Suzaku shrugged, tearing another corner off the sandwich with all of the impromptu practicality of stripping meat from a haunch. She chewed and swallowed before speaking again. "Eh. I thought about it, but then you'd have had to explain the joke, and it wouldn't be funny anymore."

"I suppose that's true enough," she chuckled, propping her elbow onto the arm of her chair and leaning her head into a loose fist. "So, how do you find travelling in the lap of Britannian luxury so far?"

Suzaku considered for a moment, wolfed down the rest of the sandwich, and looked around at the spacious cabin. It was decked out in rich fabrics, the seats were genuine leather, and music played over the speakers from one of Friede's many situational playlists. The Second Princess and Prime Minister's shuttle had been custom-built for her use, Justine recalled, with the aircraft's ability to keep up with the strain of her hectic and sometimes erratic work schedule as much of a concern as the comfort of the travellers within it. "It's…a lot, if I'm gonna be completely honest. This thing must've cost a fuckin' fortune…"

"Then I suppose it's a good thing my dear sister had a fortune to spare," Justine replied. "And while I share your sentiments as to the lavish nature of the accommodations, I can't fault her for that, especially given the amount of time she must spend in this thing, zipping to and fro across the globe, putting out or starting fires as her duties necessitate."

Suzaku shrugged, swallowing the last few wedges of fried and salted potato before settling back into her own seat. She took the napkin Justine offered with a roll of her eyes, but she made sure to wipe her hands thoroughly with it before putting her fingers onto the leather all the same.

Justine found that she appreciated that gesture, small and innocuous though it might have been. Especially in light of recent events, Suzaku's willingness to simply follow her lead, trusting that Justine had her new friend's best interests at heart, was…heartening.

"I fuckin' guess," Suzaku sighed, looking around once again, and pointedly shifting her head to the hidden speakers, each in turn.

This time, it was Justine's turn to shrug. "Friede has ever been something of an audiophile. Her first love was the opera, after all, and I can't say I don't see why. It's more than just the place where she found that she preferred women to her."

"No shit?" Suzaku chuckled, leaning forward with a grin, her jade eyes glittering with mischief. "Friederike el Britannia, probably the most feared woman in the world, discovered she liked munchin' carpet in an opera house?"

"I would not put it in quite those terms, but that's the sum of it," Justine said delicately. "And in all fairness, Marguerite d'Arcy was—and still is, in fact, though I believe she's currently retired—a living legend of the stage. I sincerely doubt Friede was the only young lady who was by her wiles so awakened."

"Marga-who?" Suzaku asked, her face scrunched in confusion.

Justine tilted her head, reaching for the tea cup and saucer laid out before her and drinking. "My apologies. It is sometimes easy to forget that others are not so privy to the affairs of the arts in Britannia. Marguerite d'Arcy—perhaps better known by her stage name, Lady Casagranda—was the prima donna of the Pendragon Metropolitan Opera House during the later parts of the Emblem of Blood into the early days of His Imperial Majesty's reign, from 1986 to 2004. At one point, she was hailed as 'the most beautiful voice in the world,' and she is quite renowned for her audacity and the sheer volume of scandal in which she was involved."

"Scandal?" Suzaku asked, sounding at once curious and incredulous.

Justine nodded, holding the cup in her gloved hands as she recalled the salient points. "She bested no fewer than six peers of the realm in duels, perhaps as many as eighteen, some of whom she challenged, but the majority of whom challenged her."

"Why'd they go do that?" Suzaku asked, genuinely confused. "You'd think after the first three guys, they'd get the message that they're not gonna be the guy. What, she had a punchable face or somethin'?"

"Hardly. She was widely considered one of the most beautiful women in Britannia," Justine replied, and she found herself smiling faintly. How very curious… "No, the causes more likely had something to do with the rumour that she'd bedded anywhere from half to two-thirds of the married noblewomen in the Empire."

"No shit?" Suzaku gawked.

Justine nodded. "She was allegedly a notorious flirt, after all, and though her dalliances were brief, none of the noblewomen who were confirmed to have slept with her had anything less than complimentary to say about her carnal talents. It gained her a reputation for being something of a womaniser."

"How the fuck do you keep all this straight?"

"I pay attention when people tell me things," Justine replied, setting down the now-empty tea cup and saucer onto the table. "That accounts for some of it. The rest I obtained by reading books."

"…And do you remember everythin' ya read?" asked the other girl, her gawking having shifted into a slightly mocking smile.

Justine felt her brow furrow. What an inane question… "Doesn't everybody?"

For some reason that was utterly beyond her, that question caused Suzaku's composure to break out into breathless, boisterous, and above all, genuine laughter.

"I fail to see what's so funny," Justine protested.

This caused Suzaku to laugh even harder, until she was doubled over in her chair, wheezing for air, and coughing harshly.

"Are you quite finished?" she asked her mirthful friend primly.

Suzaku nodded, coughing even as chuckles shook her shoulders like aftershocks. "Sorry, sorry, it's just…you really are somethin' else, ya know that?"

"I've been informed somewhat to that effect in the past," Justine remarked, quirking an eyebrow as she gave a chuckle of her own.

A brief ding sounded as the doors to their part of the cabin slid open, with Taliesin sweeping in to clear away the places he'd set out for them to take their luncheon, followed by Jeremiah, Villetta, Izanami, Priscilla and Friede in quick succession. Jeremiah and Villetta took up positions in seats that provided them with a full view of the interior of the cabin, while Izanami plopped herself down into a chair, her natural lethal grace making the unceremonious motion seem smooth and fluid, Taliesin bussed the dining-ware back to where it could be washed, Priscilla took up a seat near the window on the opposite side, and Friede chose to sit beside her partner, but in such a way that she could speak with the two of them unhindered. "I see that everyone's in good spirits, then?"

Justine nodded. "We are well, sister, thank you. I am, of course, thankful that you had the foresight to arrange all of this in advance. I confess, I had hoped that Cornelia would see reason."

Friede nodded soberly. "Cornelia has always struggled to come to terms with the more unsavoury things that must be done in the name of peace. I fear she always shall."

"Then the burden of the throne shall ever remain beyond her," Justine sighed, leaning her head back against the cool leather. "It's a shame, really. Such a waste…"

"Speaking of the li Britannias," Friede began, "there's been something of a development."

Justine lifted her head from the cool leather to lock eyes with her elder sister. "How so?"

"Euphy has come to abide in Belial Palace, as it happens," Friede supplied, bemused.

"Euphy? Our Euphy?" Justine repeated, shocked.

"The very same," said Friede.

"Fascinating," Justine remarked. "And they haven't killed each other yet?"

Friede snorted. "Far from it. When last I saw her, she seemed quite hale in Juliette's company."

"Sorry, I'm a bit outta the loop here," Suzaku interjected. "Mind fillin' me in?"

Justine looked back at her friend, slightly surprised. "Oh! Of course! My apologies. 'Euphy' is our nickname for Euphemia li Britannia, the Seventh Princess. You've met her elder sister, Cornelia."

"The one who tried to threaten you?" asked Suzaku.

"The very same," Justine replied, nodding. "And Belial Palace is where you'll be living, along with myself, Juliette, who is my younger sister and my partner-in-crime, and my fiancée, Carmilla, the Duchess of Ashfordshire. Though she prefers we call her 'Milly,' for short. You'll meet them all once we land. I'm sure they'll be delighted to meet you."

Suzaku nodded, digesting this. "So, do they not get along?"

"Nothing quite so simple as all that, I'm afraid. Juliette and Milly both are more than capable of being perfect hosts to our Euphy," Justine explained, flourishing with a single hand. "But Euphemia is of a kindly disposition, you see, and Cornelia has always fought bitterly to maintain her innocence—I suppose she sees it as an act of penance—and so I was merely anticipating that spending a prolonged period in close quarters with one another would breed animosity between her, and my sister and betrothed, as neither of them nor I are of a particularly innocent worldview ourselves."

"I wouldn't be so certain that the status quo will have remained as you expect it, Justine," Friede remarked. "The Euphemia I saw at court seemed eagerly beginning a sort of transitional state. She may no longer be the girl who was once so infatuated with you."

"How so?" Justine asked, tilting her head curiously.

"I imagine she seeks to grow, just as she's seen you have," Friede mused.

"Ah," Justine nodded. "Then I look forward to witnessing the woman she will become."

"I imagine her attempt at growth will thrust a wedge between her and Cornelia," her elder sister warned gently. "It is good that you seem willing to support her. I imagine she will need much of it in the days to come."

"Of course," Justine nodded. "I may not love her as she imagined I might, but I do still love her. I imagine the same could be said of Juliette and Milly as well. I don't doubt that she'll find ample soil in which she might come to flourish amongst us."

Friede smiled at her, and then turned her attention to Suzaku. "And you, Miss Kururugi—I hope you'll forgive my rudeness. I was simply eager to catch up with my favourite sister. How has this trip been treating you?"

Suzaku shrugged. "Eh. I've had worse. And your sister isn't half-bad when it comes to company."

"I'm very glad to hear it," said Friede. "Any friend of Justine's is a friend of mine, and I daresay it's about time she's made some."

Justine frowned. "And whatever could you possibly mean by that?"

"Nothing much," Friede replied, shrugging her shoulders with a teasing glint in her lilac eyes. "It's just that, in the past, you've had a tendency to brood."

"She still does," said Suzaku, traitor that she was. "I just don't mind it."

Justine sniffed, crossing her arms and pointedly looking away, towards the window. "Heathens, the both of you."

The pair shared a fond chuckle at her expense.

"At any rate," Friede spoke up. "We're approaching Pendragon as we speak, and it won't be all too long before we land. I just came to check on the both of you."

"We appreciate your concern, dear sister," Justine sighed.

Suzaku jerked a thumb in her direction. "What she said. Only, y'know, less fancy."

Friede regarded the both of them with uncharacteristic warmth. "Of course. Justine is, as I said, my favourite sister, and she has something of an eye for talent. I expect great things from both of you."

The two girls nodded, settling back into their seats as Friede turned away to confer with her aide, confidante, and romantic partner.

The music flowing from the speakers—'Lensky's Aria,' Justine recognised, from Eugene Onegin, by Tchaikovsky—faded out, replaced with the youthful voice of Friede's current favoured pilot. "Your highnesses, we are making our final descent to the airfield outside of Edwin Drood Memorial International Airport. Please begin the preparations for our landing."

As the music returned in time for the piece's crescendo, Justine straightened in her seat, smiling at Suzaku. "And so it begins…"

---

One month, three days, four hours, thirty-seven minutes, twenty-nine seconds. According to what she had been able to gather from air traffic control, it would take another two minutes for the aircraft to touch down on the airstrip runway. But that information was accurate twenty-seven seconds ago, and so even now, there remained ninety-three seconds between herself and the sole reason why she had suffered through the arduous process of 'making nice' with her two good-sisters for as long as she had.

You're just on edge because you don't like being separated from her… a treacherous part of Milly's mind whispered. Treacherous, of course, not because she was under any delusion that that was not the case, but because she was trying very hard to maintain her composure, and those kinds of thoughts absolutely were not helping.

This wasn't the first time she'd checked that her appearance remained impeccable, nor was it the second, nor even the third. She imagined that perhaps this was the fifth time since they'd gotten word that Princess Friederike's shuttle had entered Pendragon's airspace, in fact, and just like the previous checks she had conducted, everything was in place. The sleeveless charcoal-grey turtleneck, the black skirt with a hem that ended a little over midway down her thighs, the stockings and the soft calf-length brown leather boots she'd chosen, all of this was exactly how she'd left it. She checked her hair, too, one last time, to ensure it was the same radiant curtain of sunlight that cascaded down her back and her broadening shoulders, and as she did so, she caught Juliette's eyes on her, and the sharp, mocking smirk that pulled at the corner of her lips, as full as her Justine's but without their natural pout. Irritation flashed through her, harsh and sharp, as she glared back at her good-sister, and through gritted teeth, mouthed the warning, 'Four.'

Fear surged in a gratifying rush through Juliette's eyes, and though it subsided quickly into a glare equally as sharp, Milly took pleasure in having wiped the smirk from the girl's face.

It was heartening, really, that she was able to for a moment drop the pretence of tolerating the girl's existence, to no longer have to pretend to like her, and the act of admittedly petty cruelty (because though she knew it to be true, and Juliette had been the one to ask the question in the first place, there was really no actual need to continue rubbing her face in it) did wonders to distract her from the nauseating anxiety and anticipation flipping her stomach and twisting her intestines all up in knots.

She took the time to note the outfit Juliette had selected, having discarded the silks of the dresses she wore in situations where climate control would either be a mainstay or easily within reach—such as the Imperial Palace or Belial Palace—in exchange for a less lavish number, turquoise voile and aquamarine batiste fabrics cut in that same fashion that made her figure appear fuller than it actually was, adorned with sparing accents of cloth-of-gold, and with short short sleeves, a mild puff at the shoulder followed by the hem of it conforming to her upper arm perhaps four or five centimetres past the end of her armpits. Her hair was in that single long braid over her shoulder as always, and over her other shoulder, she held a pastel-blue parasol made of silk blond lace, keeping the Pendragon sun out of her eyes. She'd chosen flats today, and though the footwear was worn like a pair of slippers, it was sensible enough to be able to last her through a walk of moderate distance.

And finally, out of the corner of her eye was Euphemia, who was, perhaps wisely, doing her level best to stay out of the crossfire between them, present, but drawing no particular enmity. Slim tan trousers and slender brown boots fit together with her breathable blouse and striking sash, but the mantle and the bracers she'd worn to court were nowhere to be found, and Mycroft, standing still in his uniform, lingered in her shadow, holding up a much more plain parasol for the benefit of both of them. Euphemia had even seen fit to cut and bind back her hair, the wavy riot of vibrant pink secured with a black ribbon at the nape of her neck, with a few bangs to keep her face framed, and Milly felt she had no choice but to admit that it was a good look for the other princess.

A screech heralded the landing gear making contact with the paved airstrip, and Milly turned her attention back to the shuttle as it finally rolled across the tarmac to a stop, and then began to taxi towards them. Milly was, of course, aware that the three of them were not the only ones assembled there to greet the Prime Minister and her precious cargo upon her return—she'd spied the livery of Warwick Palace on a limousine on their way in, for one—but then the passenger door opened and the gangway extended, and suddenly she could no longer bear to devote attention to such trivial concerns.

Priscilla was the first off the shuttle, followed by Jeremiah, whom she knew, and another woman, whom she didn't. She was beautiful, tall and slender, with silver hair, darker skin, and bright green eyes, no older than her early twenties, and dressed in a uniform that was practically a mirror of Jeremiah's. Sworn to her Justine's service, then. If my Justine chose her, she's capable. She'll be useful. And besides, she's too old for her, really. Jeremiah would have spoken against her if she was going to try and rob the cradle, or to try and separate us, and my Justine listens to Jeremiah's counsel. And besides, my Justine is mine. I know that. My Justine would never betray that…

…Perhaps it's best that I take some precautions all the same, though, Milly considered. Just in case.

Following behind them was the Second Princess herself, in a flowing white and silver dress that, on her tall, willowy frame, evoked the grace and grandeur of a swan, her pale-gold hair immaculate, much like her mein of dignified composure. Bringing up the rear was Taliesin, her Justine's majordomo, as well as a pale woman in white clothes, the faint pink of her skin providing a striking contrast to her inky black hair (and a single look at this woman promptly and fervently informed Milly's instincts that that was a sleeping dragon that was under no circumstances to be disturbed), but between them and the aforementioned older princess, besides a chestnut-haired boy with a gangly frame who was speaking with remarkably energetic animation, was her Justine.

Her slender frame was dressed from head to toe in black: trousers, knee-height boots, lace-adorned blouse, and custom-made gloves. Her raven hair was as long and lustrous as ever, held back in a high tail that brought out the dangerous sharpness of her harshly beautiful features. Her dark brow was cocked in an expression of bemusement, and as her amethyst eyes slid from her male companion to Milly, they sparkled.

A heady rush filled Milly, a surge of euphoria, as if some cosmic error had been put to rights, some wandering star hung anew in its proper place. Tension she hadn't even realised she'd been carrying flew out of her as her mind filled with a glittering twilight fog. Desire formed a hot coal in the depths of her core that threatened to consume her from within, burning through her flesh with the intensity of its ardour (and she made a note of this for the future, that it would not be much longer, now, until she could properly claim what was rightfully hers). The pressure of maintaining a mask, of pretending to be something she wasn't, day in and day out, bled away from her spirit.

Her Justine had returned to her, and finally, all was right with the world once again.

Having caught sight of her, her Justine grabbed her companion's gesturing arm at the wrist, and at a pace that wasn't really a run, but brooked no argument, she dragged the boy behind her (and was that really a boy?) as she made a beeline directly to the quartet waiting to greet her upon her return. Milly had just enough time to realise as they drew closer that the companion was in fact not at all a boy before the distance between them evaporated, and her Justine stepped into the same space as her, consuming every scrap of her attention, her focus—in that moment, Milly's entire existence was bent towards the euphoria of having her love within her grasp once again.

"Juliette, Euphemia. And…Mycroft, Baron Darlton, I presume?" her Justine greeted.

Mycroft nodded his head. "Yes, your highness. An honour to make your acquaintance."

Her Justine smiled at the boy. "The honour is all mine. My condolences to your house."

Milly didn't have to look at Mycroft to imagine how the boy stiffened in surprise. Honestly. How could he have thought himself able to guard anything with how skittish he was? Really, with each moment she was forced to spend in the trembling dullard's presence, she came to appreciate more and more how much of a diamond in the rough Jeremiah actually was. The fact that the boy fancied her father on top of all of that? She was increasingly fond of Lord Elend, truly, but the idea of it was simply laughable. The man's love of flesh swung in both directions, certainly, but he was of a type with her Justine. "Thank you, your highness. It is…appreciated."

Her Justine nodded, and turned her attention to Milly, where her eyes sparkled with excitement and life once again. Her fiancée was of winter wrought, beautiful but cold and remote as the moon itself, and so this spark, which was for her and her alone, she treasured above any and all other things. Gold was as lead when her Justine looked upon her so, and she knew that if she could pay in trade the lives of every other living creature on this planet so that that spark would be hers for ever and ever, she would do so gladly.

"Milly," she said breathlessly, her mouth splitting into a dazzling smile. Then she turned, and gestured to her companion, who was glaring at her fondly, but making no move to pry the hand from about her wrist. "I have someone I'd love for you to meet here with me. Milly, this is my new friend, Kururugi Suzaku. Suzaku, I'd like for you to meet Carmilla, Duchess Ashford. We're engaged to be married."

"As soon as we're both of age," Milly affirmed, and then turned her attention to the newcomer. She could understand how she'd mistaken the Japanese girl for a boy from afar: Suzaku's chestnut hair had been sheared clean by what looked like the blade of a sword or a knife somewhat recently, and her lanky, gangly build spoke of her capacity to pack on musculature, similar to Milly's own was coming to, but it left her with a frame distinctly lacking in feminine features for the moment. She could see it in the girl's gait, and it was clearly written into the planes and curves and angles of her face, the wild, spirited, vivacious beauty she would one day inherit, a beauty already promised by the jadeite hue of her eyes, but such details would have otherwise been obscured by distance. She extended a hand. "Miss Kururugi, then. A pleasure."

Suzaku stared at her for a brief, pregnant moment, before grinning broadly and seizing her offered hand with a surprising amount of strength (though nothing she couldn't match). "I'll say. This is so cool! I've never met someone who's so good at hidin' it!"

"'It'?" she asked, cocking a brow quizzically.

Suzaku's grin got even broader, if that was possible. "How much ya wanna rip my fuckin' throat out! Took me a moment to notice it for what it was, but the killin' intent comin' off'a ya… Whoa!"

Milly felt her composure fragment, a hairline fracture in her mask. "I'm sure I have no idea what you are referring to."

And the girl had the audacity to wink at her, like they were somehow friends now, before turning to her Justine to speak. "I like her! You've got great taste."

"As it happens, it was her who chose me—and I am thankful every day that she did," her Justine replied with fond amusement, her cheeks turning slightly flushed. Then her Justine turned to Milly with an apologetic smile. "Please, forgive Suzaku. She's very…candid. But she's got a certain charm that grows on you quite quickly."

"As much as it pains me to say it, you can calm down, Duchess," said the girl, her smile shifting from feral to adoring. "Justine here and I are just friends. My heart already belongs to another."

"And who might that be?" asked Juliette, interjecting herself into the situation with faux amiability.

Suzaku blinked, her expression of adoration subsiding into one of abject confusion as she turned to Juliette, nonplussed. "Who are you, again?"

Juliette stiffened, her smile growing a bit more transparently forced. "I am Juliette vi Britannia, the Sixth Princess of the Realm."

"Ah, I see, I see," Suzaku nodded, before turning towards her Justine expectantly.

Her Justine sighed with a smile. "She's my sister."

The girl's eyes went wide. "Oh, shit, yeah, you did mention ya had a few of those!"

"You bring home such…interesting strays, Justine," Juliette said through teeth she was struggling not to grind.

"Suzaku will be abiding with us at Belial Palace, as a ward of the line of vi Britannia," her Justine explained; then, she paused, and turned to Milly, and damn it, even if her choice in companions was more than a little abrasive, and even if the aforementioned stray hadn't just endeared herself to Milly with her antics, plucking at the woven threads of Juliette's composure, Milly couldn't get mad at her love, let alone stay mad at her. "If that's alright, of course."

The things I do for love… Milly smiled. "Of course. We'll be happy to have her. But Justine, aren't you going to introduce us to your other acquisitions?"

"Well, Suzaku here is my only acquisition, strictly speaking," her Justine began, and it was clear that she was choosing her words carefully. "My man Taliesin sought out Lady Izanami, not on my behalf, but rather, for my benefit; she has long been Suzaku's tutor, and is soon to be mine. Warrant Officer Villetta Nu, on the other hand, is an old war buddy of Jeremiah's, and has sworn herself to my service on the same grounds that he himself found acceptable."

'Warrant Officer,' eh? Milly mused to herself, pleased to finally have a name to place against the beautiful face of the woman with the dark skin and silver hair. A commoner, then, not highborn. Perhaps a different approach would serve me best here…

The other one, though… She slid her attention over to the pale woman in white clothes she had seen just a few moments earlier, only to discover, much to her chagrin, that the woman in question had vanished. So, too, had her Justine's rather enigmatic manservant. In any event, with that one, I can't risk taking any sorts of precautions without careful consideration, at the very least.

"Where has Taliesin gotten off to?" Juliette asked very abruptly.

"Wherever he believes my interests might be best served," her Justine replied with a slight shrug. "I daresay that, in this case, he determined himself to be most useful in seeing Lady Izanami settled into her new quarters with us. I trust that Jeremiah can handle Villetta's affairs in the meantime."

"Speaking of whom," Milly interjected, watching as the four-way conversation between Countess Maldini, Princess Friederike, Margrave Jeremiah, and Miss Nu tapered off, heralding the two sworn to her love's service making their way over to the site of the reunion.

Her Justine's eyes flashed, their spark changing, and though this too was a lively spark, it was also unmistakably of winter once again, sunlight caught in the refracting ice of a sculpture, the dawn reflecting in blinding glory off of fresh-fallen snow. It was a reassuring sight; the parts of her love that were not of winter wrought remained hers, and hers alone. It sent a little thrill through her abdomen, and the coal leapt as if it sensed kindling. Not yet, though. Not yet. "Ah. Jeremiah, Villetta. Allow me to formally introduce Warrant Officer Villetta Nu, formerly of the Midway Atoll Joint-Branch Garrison under Commodore Ernst, Earl Mecklinger. Villetta, you are in the presence of Euphemia li Britannia, Seventh Princess of the Realm; my sister, Juliette vi Britannia, Sixth Princess of the Realm; and last, but certainly not least, Carmilla, Duchess of Ashfordshire—my fiancée."

"It is an honour, your highness, your highness, your grace," said Miss Nu, bowing to each of them in the order they were introduced. Her voice was smooth, silky, and soothing; Milly trusted in her fiancée, and she trusted in her own judgement, but she invested some extra energy into hoping she was correct, just in case. "As I am sworn to Her Highness Princess Justine's service, I hope to become acquainted with each of you in the coming days."

"Sworn into my sister's service, are you?"

Milly's thoughts stuttered for a moment. She hadn't noticed Princess Friederike's approach at all, her attention focused on gauging what level of precaution would be appropriate to make sure that Miss Nu was…aware of where the score stood (she didn't anticipate having to do much beyond an explicit 'laying down of the law,' really) to the extent that she'd missed it. And yet, it seemed as though her Justine hadn't, along with the Kururugi girl, and seemingly no one else. Miss Nu remembered herself, however, and gave an appropriately deferential bow. "Your Imperial Highness. Yes. It is my honour to join my friend, the faithful and steadfast Margrave Jeremiah, in serving as the Fourth Princess's sword and shield."

Friederike smiled at the woman indulgently, but Milly wasn't fooled; the clicking gears and cold calculus that Juliette boasted was perhaps only a fresh blossom compared to the full bloom that lurked behind the Prime Minister's eyes, but they were undeniably in the same variety of flora. "Yes, well, I do suppose that might be a bit difficult, given the circumstances. After all, the last time a commoner was made a knight to a royal claimant, the situation was considerably more fraught, and even then it was beset with obstruction and controversy.

"Luckily for you, however, there is an easy solution to all of this," she continued. "Justine asked me to see to it that you were accorded all the proper honours for your years of service to our homeland, and it is well that she did; my secretaries managed to unearth a motion to have you ennobled into the ranks of the gentry in the wake of the Battle of Bombay, submitted some two years ago by the late Empress Marianne. It was a trivial matter to fast-track that proposal—the attempt to obstruct it was amateurish at best—and as His Imperial Majesty, in his great wisdom, has seen fit to pass off the duties of overseeing such things to the office of the Prime Minister, well…let us say I'm fond of your chances, Dame Villetta."

With that possibly life-changing revelation, Princess Friederike looked like she was about to make her graceful exit; but it seemed it was not to be.

"Justine! Friederike! Oh, thank the heavens!" cried an unfortunately familiar male voice, a tepid set of tenor tones seemingly tailor-made for whining and simpering and petulance. "I was absolutely terrified that we'd managed to miss you!"

Milly knew she wouldn't succeed at suppressing her exasperated sigh, and so she didn't bother; she had never been particularly fond of the Second Prince of the Realm, Clovis la Britannia, and ever since she had discovered that Justine had been meant to be hers, and that their own mothers had conspired to steal her wife-to-be from her, she had grown a sense of compounding animosity over the adolescent's seemingly pathological need to be the centre of attention at all times. Even now, dressed in lilac and lavender and gold and black, his garments seemingly selected for the sole and express purpose of making him seem like a charming prince plucked from the pages of a fairy tale, he was such a riot of lavish fabrics, fashionable tailoring and fine accoutrements that she struggled to put a word to his appearance that wasn't 'gaudy.'

And of course, in a crowning moment of gauche ostentation, the vapid prince had brought along with him his gaggle of fairweather friends, opportunistic hangers-on, and giggling sycophants.

"Clovis, dear brother. What a pleasant surprise," her Justine greeted first, the serene smile she used so often, that calm expression crafted of the treacherous ice on the surface of a glacial lake, surrounding her with an aura of amiability that was superficially flawless. "Why, I've seen neither hide nor hair of you since my birthday celebration last winter."

"Would that I could have visited sooner," Clovis professed, so sickeningly genuine that it came to the point of gormlessness. "Alas, circumstances conspired to keep me occupied. I had hoped to catch you at your mother's funeral, but that was not to be; and then you finally moved out of that mausoleum of a villa, and got engaged, of all things! Oh, you simply must visit Mother and me at Warwick Palace, I have to hear all about it."

"The details of such a recollection I fear might prove a bit lurid for your enlightened sensibilities, dear brother," her Justine gently rebuffed. "Though I will, of course, visit every now and again. I'm sure you've found no shortage of subjects to paint in the time since last we parted."

"As touching and pleasant as this reunion has been," Princess Friederike intervened smoothly. "I am quite certain that there is much work to be done, piling up upon my desk; and more than that, I daresay our sister Justine has had something of a trying journey, Clovis."

The Second Prince flushed instantly. "Oh! Oh, of course! Pray, forgive my lack of consideration! I shall call on you all anon."

"Come then, brother," prompted Friederike. "I think it best we leave them be for now."

And with that, Princess Friederike, Prince Clovis, Prince Clovis's entourage, and Countess Priscilla retreated into the distance and out of earshot. Her Justine's calm relaxed ever so slightly, and Milly reached out to place a hand on her fiancée's shoulder. "Simon's got the car ready for us, Justine. Let's go home."

"Home," sighed her Justine, "sounds like a very welcoming concept at the moment."

"I'll admit, I've missed having Taliesin around," Juliette volunteered. "None of the wait staff know how to make tea quite like him."

"Welcome home, Justine," Euphemia spoke up finally, having worked up the nerve to do so at long last. Milly had wondered when she'd manage to work up the temerity, to display for the first time that she was worth something other than vague contempt.

To prove to Milly that she hadn't been wrong when she'd first seen in Euphemia the potential to become something…remarkable.

My little pet project, she chuckled internally.

"It is good to be back," her Justine replied with a genuine, fond smile, the breeze coasting down a sledding hill laden with fresh-fallen snow. "And by the by? I like the outfit, Euphy. It suits you."

Euphemia beamed, suddenly and quietly incandescent at the praise. "Thank you. I think so, too."

---

When Sumeragi Kaguya stared the demon in the face and signed away her soul, broadcasting her voice and her message to all the radios and televisions in her homeland, urging they lay down their arms and surrender the fight, she'd expected to never see Boruhito's corpse again, to fill the family shrine with more than a vacant urn, devoid of ashes or bone; she'd expected it would be fed to one of those great charnel pits the fiend had spoken of, upon which would be piled high the corpses of her countrymen—her subjects, her people. And so when an oblong wooden box arrived at the Sumeragi Clan's compound, unadorned but of impeccable make, according to the artisanal assessment of the clan's resident carpenter, containing the corpse she thought they'd never get—properly cleaned and dressed in preparation for Shinto funeral rites, no less—she didn't know how to feel.

She knew that the members of the other five Houses of Kyoto thought the worst of her, detested her more than they hated the Britannians, even; how could they not, when she was the only clan head to return from Britannian captivity, while the rest languished still in their imprisonment? Oh, the Britannians were wretched invaders, certainly, but she was a traitor. Collaborator, they called her behind her back, and even, at times, to her face. Quietly, some of the younger, rowdier scions of the other clans named her Kisetsu no Uragirimono, the August Criminal—and how brief their memories proved to be indeed, as they claimed that she had stolen the war from them while the Japanese military was only one more miracle from victory. Fools, all of them, to think they could prevail against the sort of evil she sat across from that day, and took upon herself the lesser evil, that her people might rebuild.

Even now, there was no doubt in her young mind that whatever miracle Tōdō Kyōshirō could have concocted, Justine vi Britannia would have seen turned to corpse-ash in their mouths.

The other clans were gathered here, those surviving members who remained free with their heads in chains, their clans paralysed against action as a result, to see the body of the last true Heavenly Sovereign fed into the flames—the closest they could manage to a state funeral, and the least he deserved. Her cousin, Suzaku, was nowhere to be found, and while perhaps that was for the best, she could not help but resent the girl for her absence; for if there was any more scorned by the clans of Kyoto than she, it was the defector who had given up the information that allowed the Britannians to finally crush them, once and for all…and the patricide who had murdered one of the finest prime ministers in the long history of the once-proud, now humbled, Land of the Rising Sun. In her absence, however, Kaguya was subjected to scorn enough for both of them, though they still paid her deference for the present moment. And yet, in her heart, she knew that her cousin would not have suffered the contempt as she did; the disapproval of those you detest, as she knew Suzaku detested almost all of them, did not tend to fill one with anything resembling shame, after all.

For what it was worth, Kaguya's sacrifice received its bill of goods in full. Any scattered pockets of resistance that would have brought the full weight of Britannian cruelty down upon the necks of civilians surrendered immediately, or were exposed by the very civilians whose liberation they professed to seek. Entire swaths of civilian infrastructures remained intact, as they worked to cooperate with their conquerors, and accommodate their own subjugation. They did as she had bidden them, and nothing had ever tasted more bitter in her mouth.

Her nation was alive, yes. The fiend was, astonishingly, telling the truth on that much, at least. But its spirit was shattered, its soul lost. A beaten people, allowed to keep their traditions as the benefit of their surrender, that they could die a slow, withering death instead of an immediate execution; the title of Eleven was accepted without complaint, for who amongst them felt themselves worthy of the name of Japan?

Certainly not her.

The other guests stayed and watched the pyre consume whole the embodiment of their pride, hopes and dreams, for several minutes longer than would have been expected of them, but eventually, they began to file out, taking their leave. Not Kaguya, though, who stayed and stared into the flames as they consumed themselves and were reduced to embers, her elder brother's body only so much ash and bone anymore. She might have cried. She'd expected to cry.

Yet where she'd expected tears, there was only turmoil, and a yawning pit of hollow despair.

A presence drew up beside her, one other guest maintaining her same vigil, and she did not know it. She braced herself and turned to face the final guest, only to feel surprise seize her. She was of the same blood as Kaguya herself, the blood of Yoshitsune and Raiko, of Nobunaga and Ieyasu, of Japan, with her brown hair and brown eyes, her pretty face and her elegant frame. And yet…

Kaguya did not recognise this woman.

"Have you come to kill me, then?" Kaguya asked hollowly. "I'd imagine the other clans have begun reaching out to the shinobi already, after all."

"They have," said the woman, calmly. "And yet their advances have been firmly rebuffed."

…What? Kaguya thought, no longer resigned to her death, but rather confused. "Why would they… How could that be?"

The woman shrugged, and there was a glint of something unmistakably lethal in the hardness of her eyes, and in the effortless grace of her bearing. "Short-lived indeed would be the clan who believed it could defy the will of she who bested Shinozaki Okiku. I'd imagine that has aught to do with it."

Kaguya froze. Even she knew the name of Shinozaki Okiku, her tutors not so disdainful of her that they would consider leaving her, a member of the main family of one of the Six Houses of Kyoto, ignorant to the unofficial shōgun of the obscured, murky world in which the shinobi dwelled. Shinozaki Okiku, who was hailed as the greatest shinobi of all time, the Mistress of Butterflies whose clan carved its way to the very top through her mettle and skill alone…and this woman pronounced her dead?

"Who are you?" she hissed.

"Something new. Something…different," the woman, the shinobi, replied with an insolent smile on her face. "Grandmother Okiku was not the sort of woman who would suffer her legacy to succeed her, after all. Her expectations of the nature of her heir were rather more…lofty than that."

Granddaughter of the Mistress of Butterflies… Kaguya shook her head, distracting herself from the unpleasant shiver racing down her spine. "Why reveal yourself to me, then? As you might easily have guessed, I'm something of a pariah at the moment, and at the very least set to remain persona non grata for the foreseeable future."

"I come bearing a message, from the bride of the young lady to whom I owe my fealty, meant for your ears only, Sumeragi Kaguya," said the shinobi, her insolent smile now nowhere to be seen.

The demon… Kaguya thought suddenly. She burst out laughing, hollowed-out as she was, and thus lacking the energy to weep. "And what message has her highness deigned to give me?"

"She bade me say this on her behalf: I am sorry that this was necessary," said the shinobi. Then, she bowed at the waist. "The young mistress, on the other hand, bade me extend her regards to you personally. As the soon-to-be viceroy, in practice though not in name, of Area Eleven, she looks forward to finally meeting and working with you, and hopes that your fellow heads will prove as cooperative as you, for their own sakes. I've been tasked with acting as your liaison with her, and seeing her will done in her absence."

"In practice?" Kaguya prompted.

"Her grandfather will be granted the title of viceroy, and she will fill the office of sub-viceroy," said the shinobi. "But she fully expects that arrangement to be little more than a polite formality, and indeed, His Grace is more than willing to let her build and run Area Eleven as she sees fit."

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Kaguya half-asked, half-protested. "And why now, at my dead brother's funeral, of all times?"

The shinobi did not respond, and instead stood patiently, looking utterly at home in her traditional garb in a way that Kaguya could never truly manage.

And then it snapped into place.

"…Did you have something to do with this?" she asked. "With Boruhito's assassination?"

The shinobi's neutral, blank expression didn't so much as twitch. "Her highness's orders that he be killed without pain were quite explicit. Given that, I could hardly trust hands other than mine to prune the chrysanthemum so."

So this is meant to be one final cruelty, then… Kaguya sighed, and she was suddenly so very tired.

"I think it best that you and your family be allowed to conclude the rites," the woman said suddenly. "And so I will take my leave. I'll be in contact soon enough."

With that, the new head of the Shinozaki bowed fully, and turned to depart the estate.

Kaguya didn't know what possessed her in that next moment—perhaps some morbid curiosity of hers, or some twisted sense of obligation to her broken people. "Wait! Please… please answer this one last question of mine."

The shinobi drew up short, turning her head to signal she was listening.

The younger girl swallowed harshly, and then asked: "Is your 'young mistress' anything like her… Is she anything like Princess Justine?"

The Shinozaki turned her body, facing her profile to the grieving girl before she gave her reply.

"Well," she said, a deep and abiding fondness softening her features with a profound sense of caring and affection. "I suppose you'll find out soon enough, now won't you?"

The woman turned away from her once more, and again made to leave the estate.

This time, Kaguya did not stop her.

---

Charles zi Britannia was not the sort of man who was easily moved to hatred. Irritation, frustration, anger, all of these he was deeply, one could even say intimately, familiar with; but his temperament was, by its nature, a mercurial one, and prolonged emotions like love or hatred—emotions that were, for all intents and purposes, indistinguishable from convictions—were much, much more rare. And yet, there were some trespasses even he believed to be unforgivable, worthy only of deep and abiding enmity that was all but assured to end with one more corpse upon the ground, the life wrung out of it by his own hands. Yes, there were some treacheries that even he found worthy of hatred.

And so it was with neither exaggeration, nor hyperbole, that he came to the abrupt realisation that, ever since that fateful winter night, now half a year past, he had come to hate his elder brother.

Vespasian zi Britannia—who now went by the sobriquet 'V.V.,' derived from the fact that he would have been the fifth Holy Britannian Emperor to bear the name had he ascended to the throne in his little brother Charles's stead—sat in an armchair that was entirely too big for him, one of the uncomfortable ones for unwelcome guests, visibly stewing in his displeasure. Charles could no longer bring himself to care.

That his own brother, with whom he had thought he shared the dream of a world free of deception, where masks and lies would trouble mankind no longer, had not only attempted to murder Marianne, the light of his life and the only woman Charles had or would ever truly love, but then possessed the sheer, unmitigated gall to then lie about the deed to his face, without even a hint of shame or guilt, had poisoned any affection he might have once had for his one true sibling, his kin in both seed and womb. The fact that with his ankle-length hair and princely regalia tailored to his size, he more closely resembled a tantruming, ill-tempered albino child receiving discipline than an immortal, eternally-young would-be emperor, gave Charles a momentary thrill of spiteful glee, none of which made it onto his expressionless features.

He turned his gaze to the other side of the room, where, upon the most comfortable settee that could be found in the entire palace, two women sat—for all that one of them was diminished to the point where her body was a ruin of its former self.

The first woman, Boleyn, had been Marianne's choice. For his one hundred seven consorts, he recalled, he had either chosen their body doubles himself, or delegated the duty to others when he could not find it in himself to care as much as he maybe ought to have. For Marianne, though, the only one of his consorts he considered a wife, he had left the choice to her discretion. She'd selected Boleyn out of a litany of dossiers because she'd found humour in the woman's name, the fourth daughter of a family of merchants with rather substantial means and no noble title of their own—he had given them that honour in exchange for their spare child, who, being the fourth daughter of merchants, even well-to-do merchants, possessed little and less in the way of marriage prospects. Yet, the woman, who was of an age with Marianne, and was such a dead ringer for his wife that any who didn't know otherwise would have assumed they were identical twins, had taken to her duty with commendable rigour and remarkable aplomb once she was selected: Boleyn studied how she moved, how she gestured, how she dressed, and how she spoke, down to the most minute detail, all for the sole purpose of recreating herself into a perfect facsimile of Marianne. It was a credit to her craft, in Charles's mind, that even amongst those who had known well and worked very closely with Marianne, while also being aware of Boleyn's existence, often mistook one for the other.

Charles, of course, could never mistake them. He adored Marianne, and he knew her body as well as he knew his own, if not better; Boleyn's family was well-off, and she had never wanted for a meal, nor for most creature comforts, in her entire life. She lacked the subtle but unmistakable signs of starvation, the scars of past malnutrition, and though she could replicate the spark in Marianne's eyes, he couldn't help but notice the absence of the haunted hollowness that made Marianne's brightness and vigour stand out in such sharp contrast.

He remembered how C.C. had once spoken of when she and Marianne first met—how the immortal had discovered Marianne as a child, abandoned, mute, starving, squalid, squatting near a Thought Elevator nestled away in the labyrinthine depths of the infamous Catacombs. They'd made their contract, then, the immortal witch spiriting Marianne away to be discovered by a younger Grand Duke Reuben Ashford, who saw her trained and educated and brought into Charles's service; and though she had long since left her days as an orphan seeking shelter in Paris's subterranean necropolis behind her, he knew as well as she did that the Catacombs had never quite left her.

He remembered the day their eldest child, Justine, had been born. He remembered his gratitude to her, that she hadn't thrust the child into his face, hadn't tried to provoke a response from him by pointing out some imagined resemblance, the way every other woman he had bedded and bred did. She had just sat there, in her birthing bed, and favoured him with that same knowing smirk that never once failed to make his stomach turn itself inside out. She'd shown him the child when he asked to see it, and not a moment before. Marianne had never asked him for anything he could not give her, and that was more of a comfort than he imagined he would ever find the words to articulate.

He remembered, after Juliette was born, trying to console Marianne, as she seemed to tear herself apart over a perceived inability of hers to produce a son for him—he hadn't understood the issue then, and if he was entirely truthful, even now he still didn't; one hundred eight women shared his bed, and of that number, he had sired more sons than he cared to count, let alone remember the names of, all from a harem of women he could barely even stomach to acknowledge. He needed no more sons, especially not from his wife, who had given him more than enough merely by virtue of being her. But it had been important to Marianne that she had birthed two daughters nevertheless, and because he loved Marianne more than life itself, he'd comforted her as best he could. He was not a man well-suited to providing comfort, but he'd done his best, and he'd done it for her.

Seeing the state she was in now broke his heart.

V.V., his vicious, recalcitrant child of a brother, had been thorough: the bullets had maimed her even though she retained most of her limbs, damage to the nerves that controlled her legs and arms that even the best medical professionals in the Geass Order had considered a lost cause (and several of them had died for that, his hands wringing their necks, before he could finally be made to accept that). There were very few, in fact only one, of her vital organs that hadn't sustained some kind of damage—her lungs in particular had been so thoroughly perforated with bullet holes that a risky, experimental emergency operation to replace them with synthetic duplicates had been necessary to restore oxygen to her otherwise-undamaged brain. Her heart had required a pacemaker, and even now was so weak that there was a supplemental blood pump that took up space on the wheelchair that allowed her to get around. A mask over her face, her skin sallow, ashen, haggard, and wan, nearly translucent, supplied sterile air consistently—because even this long after the surgery, with the highest chance of organ rejection behind them, infection remained a lingering shadow casting a phantasmal pall upon all of them. Nutrients were supplied intravenously, and never again would he be able to laugh with her over a glass of one of many awful, over-aged, priceless spirits that were now gathering dust in the wine cellar that he had inherited from past emperors; but she looked at him, that same haunted hollowness broken by the radiant spark in the violet eyes he loved so dearly, and he found himself once again nearly overflowing with relief and gratitude that he hadn't lost her, that V.V. had failed to take her away from him.

And on the table in between them, in his private study known only to two others who were not here, in the form of the absent C.C., and ever-loyal Ser Bismarck, his Knight of One, upon a lush, lavish velvet cushion decorated with gold thread, lay the matter of their convention.

The Emperor's birthday was a national holiday for Britannia, and for the peerage, it was a chance to curry favour, to make an attempt to ingratiate themselves with him with the hope of winning his favour in whatever petty concern or ambition they believed of such grandiose import that he should care. And so every year, on the anniversary of his birth, his children, or their mothers if the children themselves were too young, made a point of showering him in gifts, in some vague, vain, doomed hope of being chosen as the favoured heir to the throne. And every year before this one, he had spent the day with Marianne as best he could, renewing his devotion to her as a husband to his wife.

This year, however, the gift bearing the name 'vi Britannia' was of a very different nature.

Upon that pillow, then, rested the two pieces of a gunsabre, the blade cloven perfectly in twain.

Oh, the blade's craft was fine enough—exquisite, masterful, even, enough that it most certainly would have made an appropriate gift for the occasion all on its own; yet, the fact that the blade was broken lent its symbolism a significance it would have lacked otherwise. His gut told him that the intent behind it was by no means malicious, as the gesture felt almost dismissive in how impersonal it was. He didn't quite know what to make of it, something he felt safe in freely admitting to Marianne, and where once he would have felt the same in regards to confiding in Vespasian, now he only felt a spiteful sort of righteousness in his elder brother's assured knowledge that he had fallen out of favour quite severely, and in so doing, been omitted from Charles's confidence.

Charles hoped that the fact that he had been brought into this as a courtesy was not lost on V.V.

He hoped it rankled as it should.

Marianne gazed upon the broken blade, frozen, as her eyes glazed in contemplation. Then, suddenly Boleyn convulsed very slightly, and Charles noted that the relative subtlety of the reaction indicated to him that Marianne's mastery over the nuances of her Geass was sharpening. Good. He needed her counsel, now more than ever. When the woman, Boleyn, opened her mouth and began to speak, she did so with the voice native to the body, but with all of Marianne's particular diction, influenced by her mother tongue in a way that had made her no friends at court, back when things like that had some semblance of gravity. "Did it come with a note, at the very least?"

Charles nodded, reaching into the breast pocket of his overcoat and pulling forth a card, a message printed upon stiff, expensive stationery. He brought it into view, and began, then, to read from it: "'To His Imperial Majesty Charles zi Britannia, Ninety-eighth Emperor of the Realm. A congratulations upon the event of his fifty-fifth birthday, and a gift to commemorate a war duly won. Signed, Justine vi Britannia, Fourth Princess of the Realm.'"

Marianne could not move her head, bound up in life support mechanisms as she was, and so it fell to the body of Boleyn to make the gesture in her stead, nodding in thought. "Our eldest has ever been a difficult child, and she has become increasingly difficult to read. But I don't believe she means this to serve as some kind of challenge or threat. But of course, that could easily be my maternal side blinding me to what would otherwise be obvious. What does that mad scoundrel Deusericus have to say on the matter?"

Vespasian had the audacity to look churlish at that. But, perhaps at last possessing some inkling of how swiftly the ice was thinning beneath his feet, he bit back the visible impulse to insult her. The vitriol on display was plain to see, and he was ashamed to think of how many similar instances he had ignored for the sake of the bond they had once shared, until it was entirely too late. How could I have been so blind?"I don't suppose you've heard, what with the business with the coma and all, but Deusericus is dead."

Boleyn stilled. "Dead?"

Charles grumbled in displeasure. "His body was discovered in his office by a few of the Geass Directorate's personnel after he was late with his monthly report sometime in early June. He had been dead for a little over two weeks, his records ransacked, his back-ups destroyed. Every feeler we've sent out to make contact with the other cells, operatives, or informants has turned up with a dead end. The OSI has been exterminated to a man."

"Did the man have no back-ups? No fail-safes?" demanded Marianne, and it was strange beyond words to see his wife's agitation expressed through the body of another woman.

Charles shook his head. "I allowed Earl Deusericus to run it as his personal fiefdom. He trusted no one to even be aware of all the cells save for himself. It seems the paranoia that served us so well in the past has now proven to be our undoing."

"A mistake we shall not make twice," Vespasian muttered ruefully.

"No, you certainly won't," Boleyn's body said gravely.

His elder brother bristled visibly, but Charles paid him no mind; more important things were at stake here than giving his immortal sibling the space to continue digging his own grave. He leaned forward in his armchair. This was what he had been missing most of all: his wife's keen insights, which allowed him to make some sense out of a chaotic, senseless world. "What have you noticed?"

"With the OSI decapitated, we've already been dramatically undermined, and your reign has been directly challenged," said Marianne, using Boleyn's body to express all her peculiar gestures and minute, nonverbal cues. Charles felt his brow furrowing, then, as Marianne's indirect body language betrayed that she considered this a matter of some urgency. "We also have no idea where C.C.'s gone and scarpered off to after her resignation from the Directorate and subsequent impromptu disappearing act, even now, seven months after the fact. And without knowledge of her whereabouts, the Thought Elevators, the Sword of Akasha, the Ragnarök Connection, our entire enterprise that's been decades in the making, all of it—all of it is in jeopardy."

"And just what do you intend to do about that?!" V.V. spat.

Without comment, without expression, and in dead silence, Marianne slipped her service sidearm, a Desert Eagle, from Boleyn's skirts, calmly took aim, and blew his brains out, all in one smooth motion.

As the percussive sound of the gas-powered discharge echoed through the room, the elder brother's blood and tissue splattered against the far wall, as his body dropped dead before beginning to regenerate itself, Marianne spoke once more. "What do I intend to do about it? Well, that's quite simple, really. I'm going to do what I always do, you malevolent little cockroach. I'm going to clean up your mess.

"And you're going to help me do it."

Despite it all, Charles found it within himself to smile; he really had missed his wife.

---

Author's Note: And so concludes the second arc of this tale.

I appreciate greatly that you guys seem to have been enjoying this so far. It means a lot.

Two things to address: 1) No, Coment9, this story does not have a TV Tropes page to the best of my knowledge, but I'm flattered that you thought it might have nonetheless. And 2) slightly different versions of all previously-posted chapters are going up today. I've edited in small tweaks for the sake of continuity—standardising modes of address, adjusting the order succession because I finally just sat down and worked out all the relevant birthdays... Nothing too impactful, but I feel like it's often the smallest details that do the most heavy lifting in terms of immersion, so I worked that out. It was admittedly all tedium and no effort, but it would have bothered me to leave it as-is, so...yeah. Until next week, and have a good one.