Pendragon Imperial Opera House, March, a.t.b. 2012
When the Pendragon Imperial Opera House had been conceived of, after the capital of Britannia had been moved to the area south of the Mojave and the city's construction had been commissioned (Pendragon's founding had been the project that defined the reign of Walter nu Britannia, the Sixty-Fourth Holy Britannian Emperor and last to hold the throne before Reinhard the Kinslayer's ascension began the Emblem of Blood), the Palais Garnier was considered the finest and most prestigious establishment of its kind in the world. Walter, refusing vehemently to come up second to the French, had approved the proposal to erect the theatre with but a single caveat, a directive: to ensure that this one would outstrip not only the Paris Opera Company, but to be of such surpassing and august grandeur that no Frenchman would ever think of rising to match it as anything less than hubris. And so the emperor's will was done, the architects and engineers John and Alan Turing constructing a structure of such stately and exacting specifications that, even as much of Pendragon burned during the subsequent succession crisis, it and it alone remained untouched, a sort of neutral ground where it was agreed that none would profane it by spilling blood. Its native Imperial Opera Company, accordingly, had since its inception climbed in acclaim, to the point where it was now considered the finest performing arts troupe in the world, if only after much grumbling; and the establishment counted amongst its regular patrons not only the heads of several influential noble houses, but also two princesses of the realm, one of them being none other than Her Royal Excellency the Prime Minister herself.
There were many routes into and out of the opera house, but those that were chief among them were but three in number: the Common Entrance, for wealthy merchants and affluent lowborn businessmen; the Way of the Beautiful World, which was intended for use by landed gentlefolk and aristocrats of all stripes; and last but not least, the Ascent of Serpent and Lion, which was reserved for the Emperor's private use, as well as that of the Britannian Imperial Family. And it was this final entrance, seldom-travelled and yet the most lavish of them all (though it was also the most discreet) before which a black Rolls-Royce luxury car, a Phantom model, drew up.
Out of the driver's seat, then, stepped a tall, slender man, in an impeccably-tailored black chauffeur uniform—a double-breasted tunic with bronze buttons, immaculate leather gloves, slim-fitting trousers, a pair of sturdy dress boots, and a beaked cap, having left his polarised goggles at home—with his long black hair tied back higher than usual, the nape of his neck instead of the small of his back. Dutifully and swiftly, then, Taliesin Blackwood circled around the back of the vehicle, one of many he had driven ever since the old valet, Simon, was given leave to return to his home and family in Ashfordshire, to smoothly pull open the car's rear door.
Jeremiah, Margrave Gottwald was the first out of the vehicle, as expected; with Dame Villetta on leave to see her own family before beginning her first term at the officer's school of Ad Victoriam Military Academy, Princess Euphemia and Baron Mycroft visiting with Prince Clovis at Warwick Palace for the night, and the security of Princess Juliette and Dowager Duke-Consort Elend being ensured by the silent vigil of a few of the Shinozaki Clan's most capable shinobi, it fell to Jeremiah to ensure that both members of the young couple returned unharmed from this outing, in many ways their last hurrah. Smartly attired in military dress as he was, he cut a dignified figure, his back straight as a ramrod with his soldier's bearing, teal hair and gold-hazel eyes as distinctive as they were sharp. Far from merely standing as an Atlesian statue of flesh, though, he leaned in and extended the courtesy of aiding Duchess Carmilla from the limousine, who took it as a point of ceremony, but her garb did not require that she rely upon it.
Polished black Hessian boots and charcoal grey silk pantaloons both fit closely to her legs and kept them from sight, and she wore a midnight blue tailcoat over a waistcoat made of black Marcella and a shirt of white muslin, the muted shades broken by the vivid scarlet cravat around her neck. A lightweight black cape was slung about her shoulders, her golden hair left to cascade in ringlets down her shoulders and back, yet she did not wear gloves, reaching back into the car to offer her hand to her fiancée.
Justine vi Britannia, for all that she had gained in height and form over the past nineteen months, remained a slender figure, failing to fill out the way Milly or a teenage Cornelia had. As Jeremiah had once predicted, she had inherited the late Empress Marianne's slim build, and far from attempting to hide it, the floor-length black dress she wore, with its long cape sleeves, its flowing skirts, its understated corset that supported a chest nearing the fullness of its bloom, its short, decorative mantle, high-necked and adorned with the feathers of a raven, and its elbow-length gloves creating a fluid motion to the fine fabrics that only accentuated the natural elegance of her body, as well as the grace and poise of her stride. Her hair was tied back into a tail secured with a violet ribbon, though not nearly as high as usual, but even then, her silky raven locks cascaded down the back of her more voluminous cape to end just below her waist, and what was not tied back was styled in such a way that it framed her face and softened the striking harshness of her features ever so slightly. In her free hand, she held a long, folded fan of burnished obsidian (in defiance of the fashion, which had since moved from whalebone to copper, silver, and bronze), and she unfurled it with a deft twitch of her wrist to conceal the flush on her pale cheeks as Milly helped her out of the car.
"This is slightly mortifying," Justine confessed. "To tell the truth, I'm not entirely sure how Juliette manages this on such a regular basis…"
"A great deal of practice, I'd wager," Milly opined off-handedly. "I can't imagine skirts don't get easier to navigate in, if you wear them often enough.
"And besides, no one else is here," she soothed her bride-to-be, letting her mask drop for just a little while. "Or do you think I'd somehow let anyone else gaze upon the lovely sight of you so flustered?"
Justine coloured more deeply, her eyes clouding as desire burned in the pit of her abdomen. Far from frustrating her, Milly's shows of possession never failed to make her heart beat out of time: that she was needed, that she was desired, that Milly desired her so, all of these things stoked the warm, blooming feeling in her chest that made her slightly nauseous and fed into the white-hot coal in her core. She shook her head in answer to her fiancée's semi-rhetorical question.
"Good girl," Milly said as she grinned, the expression sharp, flippant, and eminently Cheshire, her diamond-blue eyes glittering with raw want. "See? It's beautiful."
"You're being…rather more forward than usual," Justine managed to say, her thoughts growing more difficult to keep a grasp on. As she spoke, Milly began to guide her away from the car and to the entrance, and Taliesin discreetly closed the door behind them, making his way back around to the driver's seat to perform his duties for the evening and look after the car; Jeremiah, for his part, folded himself into silent steps in their shadow—guarding them, but taking care not to intrude. "N-not that I'm complaining, of course, it's just…"
"Well, this is something of a special occasion," Milly said, shrugging. "Come tomorrow morning, you're going with Suzaku and Dame Villetta to get settled and attend orientation at school, and tomorrow afternoon, I'm flying out to the Tokyo Settlement so that Grandfather can start the process of transitioning the viceroyalty over to me. This will be our last night together for some time to come, my love, and I very much intend to make the most of it."
There was a promise in the husky undertone of Milly's voice there, and Justine forced herself to try and calm down, lest she spend the entire performance as little more than a babbling mess. The ease with which her fiancée continued to unravel her composure, even now, almost two years since they pledged their troth to one another, was in turn both incredibly invigorating and intensely aggravating, with the largest saving grace being that such an ability was restricted to her in particular, and her alone.
Crossing the threshold into the building itself immediately dispelled the evening chill (it had been a cold winter even in Pendragon), mild though it was, and when the attendant, a kindly old man and arthritic ex-violinist named Claude, stepped forth from the long shadows cast by the lavish opulence of the interior, Justine smiled at him and nodded in greeting. Milly followed suit, and without hesitation, both of them removed their capes and handed them to the stately-looking bespectacled man.
"How was your granddaughter's wedding, Claude?" Justine asked warmly. "I hope you managed to take time off to go. It was just this past weekend, was it not?"
His narrow eyes lit up with wonder around his prominent nose, and he ran half a hand through his coiffed iron-grey hair as he folded their capes over his other arm. He was not a tall man—Justine had just recently managed to catch up to him in stature, and Milly was taller and still growing—but the fact that a princess of the realm had seen fit to look into his personal life never seemed to fail to get him to stand taller than he was, alight with surprise and awe. "Ah, yes, your highness, it was. They chose to get married in a forest, and well, begging your pardon, but it was a wonderful ceremony."
"That sounds delightful," said Justine, her smile growing. "But I shan't keep you. Give my regards to the newly-wedded couple, if you please—Christine and Peter, I believe?"
"I'll be sure to do so, your highness. I'm sure they'll be overjoyed you remembered their names," the man said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He bowed quickly, the two capes in his arms making it a smaller one than would be proper by necessity. "Have a lovely evening, your highness, your grace."
"You as well, Claude," Justine bade. She turned away from him, then, to where Milly held out her arm, and the princess threaded her own arm through the crook of her fiancée's elbow as they went. Holding onto Milly's arm brought them almost flush against one another, and the folded fan sat limply in her grasp as they continued further along the plush carpet, intimate lighting, and cream-coloured walls, adorned with busts and massive oil portraits in gilded frames of former royals known for their patronage of the arts.
"What are we watching? I forgot to check before we left," Milly asked, her voice low as she bent to speak into Justine's ear.
Justine rolled her eyes fondly. It had been over a year since Friede had given her, and by extension them, the automatically renewing season tickets that reserved Box Five on the grand tier for their personal use, yet for as long as they had had them, Justine could have sworn Milly never once bothered to check what they were going to see before they left. "One wonders why you continue to agree to come to these if you never check what the season's production is…"
Milly laughed, as bemused as it was bright. "Isn't it obvious?"
Justine glanced at her sideways. "If it was, would I have asked the question?"
"I don't think you want the answer to that," Milly replied glibly. "And besides. I keep agreeing to come here because you love the opera, and you always look so gleeful when we watch the production."
Far from being heartened, Justine's face fell in dismay. "I wish you had told me. I would have tried to find something else for us to do, something we can both enjoy…"
"But we are both enjoying it, Justine," Milly assured her. "You get to watch the performance, and I get to watch your passion for it on your face. I love seeing you smile like that…"
The flush returned to Justine's cheeks with a vengeance, together with that feeling of oddly pleasant nausea, but her face remained stubbornly fallen. "Still, I don't want to ask you to come out to see or to do anything that doesn't fit your interests. I…"
Milly stopped in the middle of the corridor, and with the grip Justine had on her elbow, she swept the princess around unceremoniously and unexpectedly, to stand before her so that they were face-to-face with each other. Her expression was deathly serious, her gaze so intense that Justine couldn't avoid it by looking at her nose as she always did. It burned holes into her cheeks, and so she cast her eyes down to the side, but her fiancée was having none of that. She grabbed Justine's chin firmly and tilted it up to meet her eyes. "Justine, look at me, not away from me. Look at me, and listen to me."
Justine obeyed, meeting Milly's eyes and holding her diamond gaze even as it seared into her, the full weight of her attention a heady and intoxicating thing.
"I am not here to humour you, or for any of that nonsense you're no doubt telling yourself. This fits my interest because you are here, do you understand me?" spoke Milly, and she said as much now, without so much as a hint of her usual sarcasm or flippancy. "Because you are my interest. You, and only you. There is no place I would rather be than somewhere that makes you happy. Okay?"
Justine opened her mouth, but Milly let go of her chin to put a finger upon her lips. "Don't speak. Don't try to justify or to prevaricate—just nod your head if you understand."
Justine closed her mouth, and nodded obediently.
Milly grinned broadly, and leaned in to kiss her. Their lips met and moved, and it was like the beginning and the end of all things was bound up in that euphoric moment. When they parted for breath, Justine felt her chest heaving, her heart hammering in her ears, her lips swollen in a way that promised later soreness. But Milly was radiant and beautiful, the sun in summer, and as they parted, in a voice that felt like a caress, she said, "Good girl."
Justine felt that she might melt if the moment lingered for much longer, and so she looked away to escape it, to be able to breathe and to grasp for calm—and mercifully, Milly allowed it. Her entire face felt as though it was fit to burst into flames. "You're impossible…"
Milly chuckled fondly. "And you are mine."
Justine did not contradict her, could not contradict her. The older girl offered her arm once again. "Come. We shouldn't dally. And I would still like to know what we're watching."
Justine sighed. "This season, the production is von Weber's Der Freischütz."
"That's a bit of a big switch, isn't it?" Milly opined.
Justine looked over at her. "How so?"
"Well, last season's production was La Traviata, wasn't it?" she explained. "I just think it's a bit of a leap to go from a courtesan dying of tuberculosis to a deal with the Devil over a shooting contest."
Justine felt her lips splitting into a grin, but she couldn't help it. "Wait, you were actually paying attention?!"
"Well, of course," said Milly. "What kind of fiancée would I be if I didn't at least try to learn about the interests of my bride-to-be?"
Justine's grin widened, and she shook her head, moving past the rhetorical question to the point that Milly had just recently made. "Well, there is an argument to be made for that, of course. If they wanted a German opera, they could have easily used Strauss's Die Fledermaus. But I hear that, starting next season, the current intent is to stage a production of Wagner's Der Ring des Nibelungen, and so perhaps the thought process was…"
Their conversation continued all the way into Box Five, where three bottles of mineral water sat in a bucket of ice, together with a set of two stemmed glass cups laid out for them next to a platter, featuring a spread of slices of raw fish in bowls of sticky rice. The sight of it stopped the pair of them both at the threshold to the box, and Justine thought for a moment, I didn't order this…
Then she looked at Milly, and the same thought flashed through their minds.
"Friede/Friederike," they said in unison.
"She'll have left a note," said Justine, stepping swiftly and gracefully around her normal chair, the one that, of the two chairs in the box, was closer to the stage—and, sure enough, sitting there, primly, on a lavish, embroidered throw pillow, was a note written on thick ivory card stock in her elder sister's small, neat, yet cramped handwriting: I plan to visit you both during the intermission. Please expect me. Friede.
Looking up from the note in her hand, she gazed across the great semicircle of the grand tier, to the complete opposite side of the amphitheatre. And there, in her private box, numbered Twenty-Two, sat her sister and her sister's partner, engaged in quiet conversation behind the cover of Friede's white-gold fan, its pale panels obscuring the movement of the Prime Minister's lips. In her other hand, just a little bit apart from her eyes, she held a pair of bronze Galilean binoculars, well-loved but in good repair, and when she leaned back from her lover, their conversation concluded, it was through those that she noticed Justine.
Friede flashed her a quick smile, and Justine did the same; then, Milly settled into her chair, and a deft flick of Justine's wrist snapped the black lace panels of her own fan open as she passed the note over to Milly and sank into her own seat, the two sisters content to pretend the other was not present until the appointed time of meeting.
The conductor ascended to his podium to a chorus of thundering applause, turning to bow, first to the general audience, then to Boxes Five and Twenty-Two in turn; and finally, he pivoted back to the pit, where his orchestra sat, primed and ready. Tense silence settled as he took hold of his baton, and then, with his command, the hall erupted into the overture.
Later, when the curtains fell for the intermission, Friede proved to be punctual as always, knocking lightly on the door frame to announce her presence. Her willowy frame was clad in an opera gown of rich white satin, with long sleeves and subtly puffed shoulders, and a neckline that scooped at the front, hinting at but not revealing cleavage. Her pale blonde hair was styled upwards in a bun, pinned in place for the most part with an enamelled silver comb, and about her arms, she wore a richer velvet shawl, maroon and gold thread in swirling, elaborate patterns, which terminated in golden gossamer-down trimming. Countess Priscilla moved in silently behind her, and Justine and Milly rose from their chairs to properly greet the Second Princess. Justine spoke for both of them. "Sister. We had expected you to still be busy in Paris, meeting with the Hemicycle…"
"The summit was cancelled," replied Friede. "Their new president, a Mr. Herman Richtofen, was elected on a platform of strong anti-Britannian sentiment, and as a result of that, the estimable, august members of his cabinet considered it to be 'poor optics' to be seen consorting with the Holy Britannian Empire's 'most notorious diplomat', in the form of yours truly."
"So there'll be war, then," Justine sighed.
"Oh, most certainly," agreed Friede. "With those rudimentary Knightmares of theirs that they think we don't know about—my thanks once again to your indispensable intelligence, Carmilla—I imagine they've become quite emboldened about their chances of taking back Gibraltar and forcing us into the sea. They're in for quite the surprise, with the Sutherland model Knightmare's rollout so close on the horizon…
"But enough about that," said the elder sister with a growing smile. "My most heartfelt and sincere congratulations for making it into the program, Justine—you and your friend Suzaku both. I know it's been some time since you both found out, but…"
"Thank you, sister," Justine replied warmly. "And I understand, truly. Juliette has kept me abreast of how your plate grows ever-fuller, after all. I only hope you've been getting enough sleep."
Friede sighed, with a rueful smile and a resigned gesture of her fan. "It's been a trial, certainly. His Majesty continues to recede further and further from administrative duties. Exactly what enterprise of his so occupies his attention that matters of state are reduced to mere trivialities in his mind, I cannot begin to fathom, but it is an ill feeling all the same. I confess, I would be dead on my feet as we speak, if not for Priscilla's ever-invaluable assistance. She has all but become the primary steward of my health."
"You've been content to work yourself into an early grave since before we even met, Friede. In the Diplomatic Corps, you almost never ate," added Priscilla, the teasing edge to her tone something that she would never brandish in any company less intimate. "Someone must keep you alive and healthy, especially since you've proven so unskilled at the task in the past. And I'm not ready to let you die on me just yet."
"And lo, for the heavens have damned me for my hubris, that my work might never end," Friede proclaimed in an impromptu bit of theatre, complete with a melodramatic swoon. They all shared a polite chuckle at her antics, even Friede herself, but then she sobered. "But I'm here, Justine, because I wanted to give you a going-away present, actually. It made sense to do so now, while I still have the chance."
"There's no need for that, Friede," Justine protested. "You've done so much for me already—for us already."
Friede held up a hand. "Those were favours, Justine. And when I give favours, I expect for them to be returned in kind, as you know—and worry not, I would never ask anything too onerous of my favourite sister. I expect no repayment for a gift. You've been…pleasant to have around, these past few years, and I will be forever glad for your company. In this city of dullards, I fear I'd go mad otherwise. So please, I ask that you accept it. It is rare that I am so inclined to give, absent the recipient's incurring of debt."
"Then you have my thanks, dear sister," relented Justine with a soft sigh.
Her elder sister smiled, and there was some weight to it. "All I ask is that you protect yourself, little sister. I've arranged for Andrew to leave the gift with your man Taliesin—it isn't the sort of gift one gives in polite company, after all.
"And with that, I shall take my leave of you both," Friede said suddenly, nodding to Justine and Milly in turn. "Justine. Carmilla. Have a lovely rest of the evening."
With that, she swept out of the box, her slippers silent against the carpet, Priscilla in tow.
Alone in the box, there were a few moments of silence, before Milly finally spoke into the quiet. "Intermission is nearly over, my love. Come."
Justine turned in a flutter of black fabrics, eyes searching quizzically, but they settled upon Milly as she perched herself at the rim of the box, a railing between her and the danger of falling into the shifting mass of groundlings returning to their seats below. Milly didn't need to speak further—she knew what was expected of her, and though the thought made her flustered as that same coal of desire flared at the thought of their bodies positioned flush against one another, this intimacy was known, and comfortable.
She stepped over to her fiancée, then, and though the mood of it felt different this time, she was not afraid, the anticipation drawing tight the knot in her stomach. She slipped herself into the open space Milly left her in the older girl's lap, and without pause, her strong arms, corded with lean muscle, slipped around her slimmer body, holding her close enough that she could feel Milly's galloping heartbeat against her own, a promise to one another.
"No matter how far you are from me, my love," Milly vowed, "I won't ever let you go…"
"Looks like you two had an eventful night…"
Justine snapped out of her considerations, turning to look at her best friend. Suzaku's eyes had gone wide as they gazed upon the expanse of her nudity, her hands paused roughly halfway through the process of similarly divesting herself of clothing, and it took the princess a moment to figure out what might have so captured the Japanese girl's attention. Thankfully, the locker rooms in which they were changing out of their civilian clothes (which would be laundered and taken to their dormitories for them) into the uniforms the registrar had issued to them were mercifully quite empty apart from the two, so there were none nearby who might otherwise overhear.
"Hmm? Oh, these?" Justine prompted, shifting her posture to better bring the patchwork of bruises adorning her otherwise immaculate pale flesh into full view. Her hips, her waist, her breasts, and her inner thighs all featured purpling patches in the shape of grasping hands or desperate fingers, and far from being annoyed by their presence, Justine found the dull ache of them soothing. She shrugged, the new weight of Milly's own 'going-away' gift shifting against the skin of her slender neck, as she favoured her friend with a bemused smirk. "Come now, Suzaku. You don't honestly expect me to believe that Lady Izanami let you leave without marking you with souvenirs of a similar nature."
"Oh, you're damn right about that," Suzaku bragged, grinning, as she turned away and shucked her shirt off of her body, pulling aside her tousled mane of violently curly chestnut-brown hair to reveal a long, livid scar that stretched across her back from shoulder to hip. "Gave me a proper kiss good-bye, 'to remind me who I belong to'."
Justine chortled. "Well, there you go."
"Two differences, though," Suzaku continued, lifting her leg to start slipping on her uniform black pleated miniskirt as she spoke. "The first, of course, is that this wasn't the first time Izanami-sensei and I challenged each other to a duel—and you know damn fuckin' well this wasn't the first kiss of hers I've received from those duels. And second…Izanami-sensei sure as fuck didn't give me a gift like that…"
Suzaku pointed at Justine's neck, around which rested a subtle but distinct presence, the chill of the delicate and elegant silver latticework against her flesh a constant reminder of the choker that resided there. Justine turned to the open door of the locker next to her, her eyes locking on the small mirror secured to it, and took in the flourishing design of it, strands of silver figured into vines and thorns; the most noticeable detail, however, sat front and centre—a rich, vivid ruby mounted onto the silver, flanked on either side by serpentine creatures with chiropteran wings and chips of ruby, perhaps even the same ruby, for eyes.
It's called a day collar, she remembered Milly had said, explaining the gift as she slipped it onto her neck earlier that morning as they both stood before a full-length mirror, her fiancée's chin resting on her slim shoulder as her arms encircled Justine's waist from behind. I'd considered a ring, but thought better of it—and besides, seeing it now, I think this is much lovelier. Now, anyone who looks upon you will know that I've staked my claim. You're mine, my love, now and forever…
Justine snapped back to the present moment, wiping the dazed smile from her face and struggling to suppress the rising flush in her cheeks. She turned to her friend, Suzaku's muscled arms folded beneath her growing chest, a singularly insolent grin on her face, and she raised a finger in command. "You will speak of this to no one."
Suzaku leaned her head back and let out a boisterous laugh from deep in her belly, which continued for several long, breathless moments.
Distinctly less than amused herself, for all that her friend's mirth was, as always, rather annoyingly infectious, Justine made swift work of dressing herself anew, slipping on the alternative to Suzaku's skirt, a pair of (very short) black shorts with gold trim at the vertical seams, a starched white button-down shirt, and knee-high black boots that made up part of the academy's presenting female service uniform. She slipped on her gloves, then, and picked up her corset for everyday wear, and wrapped it around her abdomen so that it properly supported her breasts, her practised fingers easily finding the metal hooks on the back and securing the supportive garment together. Only when she could no longer reliably reach further did she interrupt her friend's cackling, calling out to her over her shoulder, "If you're quite finished, Suzaku, I could use some help back here."
Nodding even as her shoulders still shook with silent laughter, Suzaku stepped forth and took over, securing the corset the rest of the way. "There ya go. All done."
"Thank you," said Justine, reaching for the uniform black-and-gold jacket that would complete the ensemble. She jerked her head in the direction of the rest of Suzaku's uniform, laid out on a nearby wooden bench. "You'd best get moving. I won't have us wind up tardy for the matriculation ceremony simply because you find my wish for discretion so very humorous."
"Yeah, yeah," Suzaku drawled, waving dismissively. Justine drew her jacket closed, manoeuvring around the curtain of her hair she'd split around the nape of her neck to fall forward, and finally tossed it all back to draw it up high on her head. The tail secured in place with one hand, she picked up a ribbon, and threaded it around her hair at the base of it, tying it into a secure bow.
By the time she was done with that, Suzaku had her boots on and her shirt buttoned, and was just in the process of shrugging on her own jacket, and not for the first time, Justine offered, "Suzaku, if you want to tie your hair back, I have extras."
She expected a friendly but unmistakable refusal, just as she had received every time she'd offered before, but to her surprise, her friend considered it for a moment before shrugging. "Eh, sure. I guess it's a good time to try out a new style anyways."
Justine smiled, chuckling. She plucked a spare ribbon out of her bag of necessaries, and swirled a finger in the air. "Very well. Turn around so I can put it up for you."
Barely two minutes later, the pair left the locker room behind them, making their way through the corridors of the main building of the academy to the coliseum-style amphitheatre where all the one hundred students of the Youthful Conquerors Program were expected to assemble, and to attend the headmaster's speech. It was fortunate, then, that they didn't have to travel very far or indeed for very long at all before they began to hear the rising clamour of one hundred adolescents meeting each other in this new locale, or perhaps breaking off into cliques of those who already knew one another to discuss recent happenings.
The coliseum was clearly meant for larger events than this, Justine supposed upon entering, taking in the way the stands rose higher than would ever be necessary to seat a class of one hundred. As it stood, it seemed that the pit itself was more than sufficient, especially seeing as they were, given the total absence of chairs, expected to stand. Calmly, carefully, with Lady Izanami's lessons beaten into their bones, both girls manoeuvred and picked their way through the tumultuous crowd, and it wasn't long before they stood perhaps a rank or two behind the very front, positioned side-by-side.
"So, whadda we know about this 'headmaster' guy?" Suzaku asked idly.
Justine folded her arms beneath her bust, looking up at the stage set up before them—it was plain enough to be a gallows, if not for the podium and the handful of chairs set up behind it—as she considered and pulled together all the information she thought might be pertinent before speaking. "James Rochefort is his name. Of gentle birth—the Rocheforts were baronets until relatively recently—he rose to prominence as a decorated general and talented field commander during the early days of His Majesty's reign. He was under consideration for the position of chief general, in fact, but elected to retire, and Reginald Hargreeves, Marquess of Greater Virginia, was chosen instead. Rochefort, now Duke of Middle Pacifica, founded Ad Victoriam in an effort to occupy himself in his retirement as his children by his wife, Duchess Susannah—Marquess Edmund and Lady Odette—grew, some say, but Ad Victoriam has since secured the reputation it now holds, and though most noble houses send their martially-inclined sons and daughters to Imperial Colchester, this institution's rise in relevance has been nothing short of meteoric."
"Why is that other school preferred, if this one's so good?" Suzaku asked.
"Perhaps Headmaster Rochefort will do us the honour of informing us," Justine replied as a wave of silence began to sweep through the ranks of students. "Right now, in fact."
Four seats were arranged behind the podium, and in silence, they began to fill.
First came a young man, tall and darkly handsome, with chin-length jet-black hair and sun-kissed skin, his dark brow, elegant nose, and angular jaw doing nothing to detract the focus from his blue-grey eyes. He was lean in build and attired in a subtly stylish dress uniform, black and blue and gold filigree giving the outfit a sense of gravitas that aided the maintenance of his air of self-discipline and youthful austerity. He looks as though he walked off of the cover of a bodice-ripper… Is he faculty, perhaps?
Next came a man whose appearance was as a Renaissance-era statue come alive, his features fine in a way that projected both boyish charm and cold command. His narrow blue eyes might as well have been flecks of ice set into his skull, and upon his head sat a tousled mop of gold, but his dress uniform was much more specific than the former person. This one, Justine knew by sight. Fleet Admiral Reinhard, Marquess Lohengram. A guest, and definitely not faculty—I sincerely doubt the Minister of War would have the time to spare, if Friede's schedule is any indication of how hard the ministers are being worked…
The next to ascend was a surprise, and one that was perhaps not entirely pleasant; the eye-catching white uniform and voluminous high-collared blue cape decorated with a golden crest was a dead giveaway for any child of Britannia, after all. Not to mention, the women who made it into the Knights of the Round, that illustrious order of the twelve most talented and deadly murderers in the Empire, were all sufficiently prominent public figures that with her dark skin—darker than Villetta's—black hair and green eyes, Dame Dorothea Ernst, Knight of Four, was immediately recognisable. I suppose Ser Bismarck must have had his hands full with the task of protecting His Majesty… Still, this seems more than a little heavy-handed; the relationship between the Knight of Four and the Knight of One is, after all, one of the worst-kept secrets in the Empire… The question becomes, who are they here for…?
Then the fourth figure stepped forth, a man with purple eyes, a face like a grinning, leering skull, and eye-wateringly garish hair arranged in as abrasive a fashion as possible, a brilliant auburn and livid magenta mullet. He was dressed in the same uniform as the Knight of Four, his cape violently orange, his gloved fingers twitching like the thrashing of a dying fish, and unfortunately the scoundrel was just as recognisable as his compatriot. Ser Luciano Bradley, the Knight of Ten. This is official business, then; they must be hoping to gain at least one new member out of these students… Obedient, grovelling hound that he might be, even Bismarck Waldstein is usually wiser than to let that wretched creature off of its leash…
And finally, a man who could only be James, Duke Rochefort, ascended to the stage.
He must have been a marvel of a man, once—Justine could easily see that much—and even now, he cut a formidable figure. Far from the gigantic proportions of the Knight of One, James Rochefort shared a build with Jeremiah, his shoulders broad and his stature stubbornly erect. In one hand, he held a cane with a silver head and a body of ebony, and the tap-tap-tapping of its impact against the wooden platform betrayed its necessity. He was a handsome man even now, distinguished, with a small, well-groomed beard, the lines of age around his grey eyes only bringing their keenly aquiline qualities into sharp relief. His long face was framed by inky chin-length black hair, in a similar vein to the man who, it was now clear, was none other than his son, Marquess Edmund, and his brow was similarly dark, for all that on his paling and age-lined face, the effect was more melancholic than brooding. He dressed sensibly, in the finery expected of a peer of the realm, but rather below the means of his station—the old school of military utilitarianism on display, written into every thread of fabric upon his body—but when he reached the podium, clearing his throat, he seemed to take on an air of ostentation and vigour that belied his garb and his age.
"This program is not conducted annually. This, you all know. It is thorough, rigorous, and intensive, both to undergo and to run, and so a new class is admitted only when the previous one has graduated," he began, his voice low and careful. "Each application cycle is as a hurricane: hundreds, thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands of prospective entrants, children your age, competing for the chance to secure for themselves one of a mere one hundred slots. One hundred slots, which are now yours. You were successful. You passed. And so I welcome you, as I welcome our honoured and august guests—for of those untold tens of thousands, you one hundred were the elect. And though I would advise you all not to take this fact as a licence for complacency, you may be proud of that much, if nothing else.
"Rejoice, for your trials have only just begun."
The pit was entirely silent, but the air of it had changed from expectant to anxious over the course of the headmaster's speech thus far, and it was most palpable as he paused to gather himself. But he was far from finished, Justine knew, and so she paid no mind to the suddenly tense atmosphere.
"There is a saying, and it is a very old saying," he began again, his ironclad gaze sweeping out over the assembly. "'God made some men tall, and some men short. Samuel Colt made all men equal.' It is my most fervent adoption of this philosophy that drove me to found Ad Victoriam, that is foundational, even axiomatic, to the institution: that regardless of your gender, your orientation, your creed, or your country, all men are equally capable of inflicting inhumanity upon their fellow man, provided they have the will to do so."
Justine quietly marvelled at the man, impressed by his command of the crowd. Children, albeit; but the absolute silence he commanded from those same children was not at all facilitated by their youth. There was not a peep out of the entire mass of students, and he hadn't even needed to ask for quiet. It was not fear that commanded their attention, nor envy, as it was whenever His Majesty addressed the court; all of them wished to hear what he had to say, fascinated by his words.
"This will be your ideology while you are here. It will be your faith. Your creed. Your orthodoxy. And I do not take kindly to heretics," he said, his tone ominous, but also darkly promising. "Britannia is strong not because of this fact: Britannia is strong because we acknowledge it. But do not look at your opponent and think him less dangerous. Make no mistake!"
He slammed his fist down on the podium, and there was a collective jump throughout the assembly.
"Push a man far enough, and you will find that they, too, are Britannian at their core. And should ever you forget this truth, it shall unmake you." He seemed to pull away from the microphone, from the podium, that he had been subtly leaning into, and the resumption of his erect posture drew attention in a way that his previous inclining forward had failed to do. "Britannia is not a land. It is not a country. It is not a nation. It is not a people. It is an idea. And to speak of the idea of Britannia is to speak of humanity itself.
"Leave all questions of blood and its purity to the aristocracy, with their stolen valour," he spat. "To His Majesty on the pulpit. To the bureaucrats and penny-pinchers who make the trains run on time, thank Hell. I am your pontiff, and I say here and now that there is no blood beyond the blood that you spill. There is none more immaculate."
He drew back further once more, raising his fist into the air, his eyes aflame with conviction.
"We are about the business of empire here. And there will be no wringing of lily-white hands while I am here. They say that the Romans built their ancient empire upon a foundation of robbery, slaughter, and plunder—that they made a desert and they called it peace! Well, then. It falls to us to make the biggest damn peace this world has ever seen! ALL HAIL BRITANNIA!" he bellowed.
"All hail Britannia!" came the answering chorus.
"And now, I cede the floor to your Dean of Students," said the headmaster, releasing the fist and sweeping out his arm towards the chair in which Lord Edmund was seated. "My son and heir, Edmund."
Edmund stood as he was bidden, and on measured steps, he succeeded his father on the podium, as the old soldier hobbled over to the now-vacant chair. "In just a few moments, you will be led in an orderly fashion out of the coliseum, opposite the way you entered. But before that, allow me to give you all a brief explanation of how it is that we do things here.
"Each of you is split into groups of ten. These groups are known as 'forces,' and each is headed by a force captain, who is in turn assisted by an adjutant. The identities of the force captains are the same as the top ten highest scores on this cycle's entrance examinations; meanwhile, the adjutants will be selected from a pool that is composed of the next ten highest scores, ranks eleven to twenty. The remaining eight are selected from the rest, rank twenty-one onward, and assigned based on several criteria. Further information will be found in your student handbooks, which will be distributed alongside your dormitory assignments.
"Know that each force will be assessed and ranked as a single entity," he said gravely. "If you rise, you rise together; and if you fall, you fall as a unit. And finally, by the end of each assessment period, no force may be greater or smaller than ten members.
"This matriculation ceremony is hereby concluded; the exit is now open. Please proceed as directed by the faculty to receive your placements. May the spirits of fallen soldiers watch over you all, and grant you good fortune in battle."
"What'd I get?" Suzaku asked eagerly. "What's my rank?"
Justine narrowed her gaze, scanning the list of scores nearest to the top in search of any of the more unique graphemes that made up the transliteration of Suzaku's name into the Latin alphabet. Fortunately, it did not take long for her gaze to fall upon it. "Sitting prettily at Rank Fifteen, it seems. I suppose you might just be a decent choice for an adjutant after all…"
Suzaku snorted. "Yeah, right—as if anyone else could put up with your bullshit."
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Justine asked, turning to her friend coolly.
"It means that you're a hardass who'll run any prospective lieutenant as ragged as you do yourself," Suzaku pointed out bluntly. "And that anyone but me would quickly be runnin' away screamin'."
"Lies and slander," Justine deadpanned.
They shared a quiet chuckle. Then Suzaku lifted her eyes back up to the massive bulletin board they were standing in front of, together with a crowd of fellow students out in front of the offices of the registrar proper, where the students were listed, first by rank, then by name, and then by their overall exam score. Justine was about to ask her what she was looking at, precisely, but her best friend proved to be gracious enough to inform her. "Looks like you, on the other hand, made out like a bandit."
"Well, with how hard we've both been working to prepare for today, I'd like to hope I managed to qualify for force captain," Justine scoffed, looking now for her own score, starting at Rank Ten and moving upwards.
"I'd say ya did a little better than that, little miss Rank One," mused Suzaku.
"Oh!" Justine exclaimed, finally catching her own name sitting pretty at the very top-leftmost space on the list. "Well, I'll be…"
Rank 1: Justine vi Britannia. Score: 2400 pts.
"A perfect score, even…"
"As if you'd settle for anything less," Suzaku japed.
"That much, I can't deny," Justine chuckled. "I merely didn't wish to indulge in arrogant thoughts, lest I be taken off-guard in the course of having underestimated our fellows."
"Ah, yes, most wise of you," Suzaku rejoined, stroking at imaginary whiskers as she assumed an exaggerated air of sagacity. "'Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.'"
"Shut up," Justine protested, elbowing her in the side as she struggled not to smile. "You know how much I detest that over-referenced siege manual…"
"As you say, Master Sun," she said with a caricature of a bow.
"If you keep this up, we'll be at war with the Chinese Federation any day now…" Justine sighed.
"Don't threaten a girl with a good time," Suzaku shot back.
"That is my line!" Justine hissed good-naturedly.
"Excuse me!"
Both of them turned away from their bantering to regard the approach of a newcomer. The princess shoved down her immediate surprise at the third student's appearance, however shocking it was, and kept her composure. "You are excused, of course. Prithee, how might we be of assistance?"
The girl that stood before them, then—for indeed, it was a girl of their age, and attired in uniform as well—was taller than Justine, though not quite as tall as Suzaku. Large, circular, full-rimmed glasses were perched on the bridge of a gently sloping nose, but the presence of the spectacles did little and less to dull the sharp, piercing focus of the aquamarine eyes behind their lenses. Her lips were thin, and the downturn to them was as subtle as it was unmistakable, even as the furrowing of her slender brow otherwise made her displeasure plain as day. Hands shod in white gloves seemed to be actively repressing the urge to twitch in irritation, to twist her pleated black-and-gold skirt into fists, but otherwise, she was doing a decent job of remaining composed in the face of…whatever it was that so aggrieved her.
But it was the colouration of her dusky olive skin, and of her long, wavy cascade of silver-pale hair that was, above all other considerations, the source of Justine's momentary flash of surprise.
"Are you the one they call the Commoner Princess?" the girl asked curtly.
Justine felt the cold calm sweep into her once again, her posture straightening from the informality of a conversation with her closest friend, and into the poised, regal carriage that signified the presence of a complete and total mastery of herself. "At court, most are, at the very least, wise enough not to speak that title in my presence. You speak now with Justine vi Britannia, and beyond the bounds of this campus, I am indeed the Fourth Princess of the Realm."
The girl nodded, folding her arms across her boyish chest, looking away from Justine, and directing her gaze up towards the board before speaking again with a hollow chuckle. "I suppose it must be nice, to be able to speak a perfect score into existence…"
"You will forgive me for the misunderstanding," Justine replied mildly. "After all, it seemed as if you were implying that I had somehow leveraged my royal status to produce my results from whole cloth, as it were."
"Is that so?" the girl asked rhetorically, turning back to Justine with raw fury burning in her eyes. "Then allow me to speak it plain. That you have leveraged the circumstances of your birth as well as your position amongst the Imperial Family to assign to yourself a perfect score means nothing, and it shall continue to mean nothing so long as I remain to transcend you."
"And who are you to speak such falsehoods, hmm?" Justine challenged.
The girl shifted, one arm dropping to her side, while her other hand perched with fingers splayed across her upper chest. "I am Integra, Lady of House Harrowmont. It is a name that you would do well to remember."
And with that declaration, she turned on her heel and marched off into the building.
"Ah! There she is," Suzaku exclaimed. "Rank Two, Integra Harrowmont. Score, 2,397 points."
Justine sighed, doing her best to relax her control and let the cold calm recede from her. This part of it was always a trial, especially at first—she imagined it was rather like being reminded of the fact that she was breathing, and then trying to allow respiration to once more subside into automatic reflex. But steadily, she pried her grip from it, and little by little, it retreated from her. "Let us put it out of our minds at present. We have matters of far greater import than a petty schoolyard rivalry."
"If ya say so," Suzaku shrugged. "Gotta say, never seen anyone get under your skin that easily… I mean, I guess there's your smokeshow of a fiancée, but not in the same way, so she doesn't count."
"Suzaku? I love you dearly, but please, do shut up," Justine sighed.
"Aye-aye, Force Captain!" Suzaku proclaimed with a jaunty salute.
Justine turned on her heel and made for the entrance to the registrar's office, her mind already in the automatic process of taking her feelings of slight and indignation, and packing them into a little box, to be sealed and shunted off into the very back of her head for her to hopefully deal with later—if and when she had the time to learn to de-compartmentalise those emotions, and all the others similarly isolated and stored away. Suzaku followed promptly in her wake as the door slid open for her, and she stepped onto the plush carpet and was surrounded by the tasteful, if understated, décor of what she presumed to be a waiting room, seeing as there were several doors splitting off of the main chambers, presumably leading into the other offices and corridors beyond.
Thankfully, neither were kept waiting for long enough to consider sitting down, as one of the doors opened to emit a small-statured middle-aged man with a kindly face, a receding head of white hair, watery blue eyes, and a three-piece tweed suit. He waved them into his office, and, with a look at each other and a brief shrug, they followed him.
The office was not his—it didn't seem to be anyone's, really. It was furnished, yes, but it lacked any of the kinds of personal effects or disorder that even the least sentimental of people would eventually begin to accumulate about a space where they spent a significant portion of their average day. Still, he seemed to some degree quite comfortable with sitting behind the well-crafted, but not overly lavish, hardwood desk that seemed to dominate the space.
"A pleasure to meet you, students. Sit, please. I insist," said the man with a warm, rolling tenor. "I am called Scrivener McDiarmid, of the registration department at this academy, and I can promise you that I'll do my best to move us through this process with all possible expediency. I'm sure you both are rather anxious to get to your dormitories and get settled and unpacked and all that. Now, of the two of you, which of you would prefer to go first, hmm?"
"She'll go first," Suzaku volunteered, jerking her thumb in Justine's direction as they sat in the two armchairs set up on their side of the desk, made of varnished wood and upholstered in leather.
Justine shrugged. "If I must, I must."
"Excellent," the scrivener said, clasping his hands together before him and flashing them a smile which seemed to dominate the entire lower half of his lined face. "First in order, then, are some congratulations, on behalf of myself and the administration,to Force Captain Justine. Additionally, as holder of the highest rank, you will receive the right of first choice, both in the colour of your cape and the appointment of your adjutant. Ordinarily, I would pull up the list of qualified individuals, but I presume you have already made your selection?"
"Your presumption is correct," Justine nodded. "I appoint Kururugi Suzaku, Rank Fifteen, to fill the role of my adjutant."
"Very good, then," Scrivener McDiarmid assented. "Now, the uniform of a force captain includes, apart from the base uniform, a pair of golden épaulettes and an aiguillette of the same colour. The shoulder cape, however, has several options, listed here."
The man reached into a desk drawer, rustling around for a few moments, and then with a small gasp of 'aha!', he pulled forth a sheet of laminate with ten different colour samples upon it. Justine took it from him when he offered, and scanned it for a few moments. Her decision made, she handed it back to him, along with her reply: "Red, if you please."
"A wonderful choice. It will be delivered to your dormitory before First Bell," he informed her. He returned the sheet to its drawer, and his hand emerged to the surface of the desk with a book that looked like bound ledgers in tow. He sought his bookmark, muttering to himself under his breath, and then opened the book once he'd found it. "Now to select your courses, Force Captain. We'll note your selections down on paper first, and then feed it into the administration's computers. We prefer to have an analogue copy on hand in case of any unforeseen system errors—you understand, of course."
"Of course," Justine agreed, nodding briefly.
"Now then, based on your individual scores, you qualify for a rather large number of course paths," he continued. "As explained in greater detail in our pre-enrollment materials, each path consists of fifteen individual courses, of which you may select no fewer than five, and no greater than ten. Do you have a preference you would like to declare?"
"The Command Path," said Justine. "And, on the matter of courses, my selections are as follows: Logistics, Battle Tactics, Mechanical and Applied Sciences, Marksmanship, Knightmare Combat, Foreign Tongues, Martial History, Combat Medicine and First Aid, Survival, and Fencing."
"The full ten? Ambitious," the scrivener noted with an approving nod.
"I daresay it would be a sorry thing to follow scoring highest with a lack of drive," said Justine.
"Perhaps so. And for you, Miss Kururugi?"
"Special Operations Path," Suzaku recited, leaning back and staring at the ceiling as she searched it for aid in recalling what she'd decided on. "Marksmanship, Survival, Knightmare Combat, of course with Foreign Tongues, too…uhhh… Stealth and Subterfuge, I think it's called, and yeah, Combat Medicine and First Aid sounds pretty useful. I guess I'll sign up for that, too. Oh! Right! Assault Tactics. Make it a good and nice prime, seven."
"I'll be certain to do that, Miss Kururugi," Scrivener McDiarmid assured, marking down Suzaku's selections and putting down his pen. "I notice that neither of you asked for Hand-to-Hand, or Weights?"
"Suzaku and I intend to see to that much on independent study," Justine replied.
"Ah, I see. Right then!" he said, closing his book with a snap and springing from his seat. "You and the rest of your force will be assigned to Dormitory Block Bravo. Here are your keys. Your key is unique to your person, so please take care not to lose them."
Justine and Suzaku reached their hands up and caught the jingling key rings as each was tossed to them in turn, bearing what looked to be a ring that extended into an otherwise featureless rod, with small, easily-missed seams running across its surface. The scrivener clapped his hands together, and favoured them with another broad smile. "Right then! Best of luck to you both! And welcome to Ad Victoriam."
The first half of the dormitory blocks of Ad Victoriam (those being the Dormitory Blocks Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, and Echo) shared space with the other student buildings, oriented around a courtyard like the spokes of a wheel. Beginning with the mess hall, which had been erected due south, the dispensary, which handed out ordinance and daily necessities, sat to the west, while the student centre sat to the north, a common area for recreational use, and the infirmary was directly to the east. Dorm Blocks Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and Delta occupied intercardinal positions, while Echo sat squarely in the centre of said courtyard, the axle from which the spokes were meant to radiate. Bravo was in the south-east intercardinal, and so the sun would hit it first thing in the morning, which suited Justine just fine. She hardly intended to see herself become a layabout while here, and having the extra aid in rising early—especially given that she rose alert more often than not—was something she couldn't help but see as a boon. Suzaku and she drew up upon it then, as early afternoon became mid-to-late afternoon, and each of them had her key handy when they drew up to the door.
The block was not nearly as squat or plain as its name might have suggested; indeed, its architecture was more reminiscent of some country gentleman's manor—squalid, perhaps, by the standards of those highborn whose eyes wandered ever-upwards, whose fate and duty as the tallest of the blades of grass was only to be reaped, but Justine had lived for several months in what Clovis had once termed, perhaps aptly, a mausoleum. And given that Suzaku had actually had to survive on her own in the forest for at least several days after the firebombing of her childhood home in the aftermath of her act of patricide, Justine was sure this would not be a problem for either of them.
She brought her featureless key to the handle of the whitewashed wooden door, aiming for the lock that seemed to stare out at her from under the knob, and as the key approached, it shifted at the seams, with the metal rising from it into a unique configuration, before subsiding once more. Then she put the key into the lock, and heard the sound of the key changing its configuration again—albeit muted—which unlatched it without so much as a twist. She wrapped her hand around the knob, then, and turned it, pushing at the door and gaining entrance with minimal fuss.
A curious mechanism, she considered as she withdrew her now-dormant key. Curious, yes, but more than that? Fascinating…
The door swung open, and Justine stepped over the threshold. Suzaku, who was right on her heels, looked around the interior and let out a long, low whistle. "Swanky…"
Justine eyed her friend over her shoulder. "Suzaku, you've spent the better part of two years living at a literal palace. There's no cause for gawking."
"I mean, sure, this place's got nothin' on home," she shrugged. "But like ya said, it's a palace. Not exactly surprising that it's all sorts a' fancy. This place, though? This's a dorm. Dorms're supposed to be shitholes."
"I suppose you've got a point," Justine sighed. She'd been doing a lot of that today—but then, she supposed that orientation day at a new school was rather expected to be an exhausting gauntlet of new and novel experiences. "Also, must you continue to sound like a ruffian?"
"Why not? In case you haven't noticed, Princess, I am a ruffian," replied Suzaku, stretching out her arms and rolling her shoulders as she took in the well-furnished foyer. "And besides, I'm a Kansai gal, born an' raised. I gotta remember my roots, ne~?"
"I was only worried about first impressions, Suzaku," Justine explained. "You're my best friend. I don't want anyone giving you undue trouble."
"So what if they do? Fuck 'em," she declared with a click of her tongue. "Reckon it'll get awful boring around here if I don't get to crack some heads…"
"Okay, now you're doing it on purpose," said Justine. "But have it your way. If you feel good about handling it, I'll leave it in your capable hands."
"That's the spirit," Suzaku crowed, cracking her knuckles.
The foyer was constructed in the typical fashion of Britannian aristocratic residences, with twinned flights of stairs sweeping from the tiled floor and around the perimeter of the room to lead to their point of convergence, in the form of a balcony on the second level. However, while the standard was for walls to be papered, in this building they were painted, in light, mild, off-white colours—a concession, perhaps, to the heat that would come in the summer months and persist throughout autumn—and instead of tiles that were massive slabs of polished marble, buffed to a smooth, gleaming finish, held together by liquid gold more so than mortar, here the floors were tiled in granite, the colour a uniform pale hue instead of the chequerboard pattern that had been in vogue for the past two decades, give or take (sensibilities on the subject of interior design tended to only change with the ascension of a new emperor). The railings were cherry instead of a richer wood, like mahogany or ebony, and the spokes were gleaming copper rods, which Justine knew were easier to maintain, repair, or replace than the hardwood spokes of various species of oak or ash that fashion dictated necessary. Historical photographs of various sights of the Duchy of Middle Pacifica through the ages hung in frames of burnished brass, instead of the more common oil-paint portraits, and in a finishing touch, from the vaulted ceiling hung a pendulous chandelier, glittering like a teardrop or a snowflake.
Justine found she rather liked it.
"It seems as though we may well be the first ones here…" she mused absently.
"Allow me," said Suzaku. Then she stepped forth, cupped her hands over her mouth, and bellowed at a volume that even Emperor Charles rarely managed: "OI! FORCE CAPTAIN ON DECK!"
Justine forced down a laugh. It wouldn't do, after all, to have her first impression in the minds of the other students be her belly-laughing at her friend's uncouth antics.
There was deafening silence for a moment, and then the squealing sound of protesting hinges came to herald a clamour, as doors flew open in the chambers beyond the foyer, and spilled out their occupants.
"Come on, you ass!" yelled an acerbic, feminine voice in an annoyed, waspish tone.
A clatter followed.
"I'm coming, I'm coming! Damn it, at least buy me dinner first!" drawled another girl's voice.
"I swear, Marika—every time with this nonsense…" came an exasperated third.
And yet, for all that clamour, the first few to reach the foyer were not the girls who were causing a ruckus, but instead another group of two girls, seeming very keen on sharing each other's space, a little act of spontaneous intimacy Justine recognised from her own romantic experience. The first of the two girls was tall and lean, her skin tanned, and her hair, which hung to her mid-back despite also forming a sizeable tail bound atop her head, and featuring a fringe which hung over one eye, was a stark snow-white hue, with not even a hint of the silver undertones she'd seen in similar colours to date to be found. Her eyebrows were black, but the hair on her head was her natural colour: her eyelashes were a softer, almost greyish hue. Her eyes, remarkable things that they were, seemed to burn gold in a manner not entirely unlike the colouration of Jeremiah's, and the angular, sharp cast of her face, the inward tilt to her narrow eyes, and the almost incongruous fullness of his lips brought into being a shockingly pretty face that seemed made for brooding and scowling—she was perhaps more handsome than she was truly beautiful, granted, but that in no way detracted from her comeliness.
She was in uniform, but it was dishevelled somewhat, with her jacket hanging open and the collar of her white shirt unbuttoned at the top, and a rumpled mess besides, seeming to suggest that the garment had been hastily yanked into place to hide something unusual upon her neck. The uniform variant she'd chosen was the same as Justine's, she was pleased to note, and the girl's hands were nakedd as she folded them beneath the small swell of her chest, shifting the starched collar just enough to reveal the edge of a livid bruise that the princess could clearly see was ringed in dark lipstick.
The other, shorter girl, in contrast, was immediately and immaculately composed. Though she was smaller of frame than her partner, who was of a height with Suzaku, she was perhaps slightly taller than Justine, with pale skin, full lips painted wine-red, a dark, elegant brow, and large, smoky amber eyes that seemed all the more luminous and prominent with the eyeshadow and eyeliner combination she seemed to have sprung for. Her features were fine and elegant, all allure and temptation, and her hair bore the same rare shade as Justine's own, that peculiar layered black of a raven's plumage, though hers was far wavier and much more glamorous in its texture than the princess's smooth silkiness. Justine noted briefly that she was fully in her uniform, the jacket drawn closed about her modest chest, unlike her companion, and more than that, she seemed to have elected to go the same route Suzaku had chosen in her selection, with a black pleated skirt trimmed with gold.
"So," the black-haired girl began, her voice seemingly unconsciously sultry. "I suppose you are the force captain we've been waiting for?"
"Waiting indeed," Justine mused in reply. "But no longer, it seems. Yes, I am that very same force captain. That aside, I would have your names, should you see fit to grant them."
"Sif," the white-haired girl volunteered.
Justine found herself cocking an eyebrow. "A most unusual name."
"My father maintained a deep and abiding interest in matters of Teutonic folklore," Sif replied. "My twin sister and I are named in that tradition."
"And I take it your sister is not here," Justine asserted.
"No, she is not," Sif sighed, shaking her head. "She qualified for force captain, actually, much like you did. Rank Eight."
"My congratulations on her accomplishment," she noted cordially. "I would also like your dynastic name, then, if you please."
"Blaiddyd, Force Captain," said the girl. "My sister and I are the scions of House Blaiddyd."
Justine searched back—she conceived of such a search as consulting a mental roll-a-dex consisting of every bit of information she'd ever read or heard—through her catalogues of the peers of the realm, and nodded once she'd found it. "Blaiddyd. Once high nobility, even having provided a consort to Alexander su Britannia, the Eightieth Holy Britannian Emperor, but having fallen from grace, and now an impoverished minor noble family, sitting squarely in the middle of the landed gentry as far as means go."
"…I was unaware that our house was still so well-known," Sif noted hesitantly.
"Oh, it isn't," Justine agreed easily. "But it was rare even in the days of Emperor Alexander for a major noble house to have such an identifiably Briton name, and I confess, my curiosity was piqued."
An amused smirk lifted the corner of the raven-haired girl's mouth as her brawnier companion, for some reason, looked significantly less comfortable than she had a scant few moments prior. "And I am Yennefer Desrosiers. I was a ward of House Blaiddyd—that is, until Lord Duncan perished. I hope we can get along, miss…?"
"Justine," she said. "Justine vi Britannia."
Yennefer's eyes went wide. "I'm sorry, I must have misheard you. Vi Britannia?"
Justine sighed once again. "Her Royal Highness Justine vi Britannia, Fourth Princess of the Realm, and so on. Yes. And for the record, Sif, your fidgeting has only continued to exacerbate the sorry state of your efforts at discretion. Honestly."
"Please forgive her, your highness," said Yennefer. "Despite her appearance, she's rather shy."
"I can see that," Justine stated plainly. "And none of that, please. You may address me as 'Force Captain,' if you absolutely must have some level of formality for the sake of comfort, but I for one would very much thank you to leave my title at court very far out of this. 'Justine' would be preferred."
The stiffness that had crept into both of their frames as they stood before her seemed to flee all at once. Sif was the next to speak. "Well, at the very least, we can rest assured that we've been guaranteed a competent leader. Rank One in the exams…"
"And may I introduce…" Justine said, drawing herself smoothly aside and gesturing to Suzaku with a slight flourish. "…my dear friend, bosom companion, and chosen adjutant, Miss Kururugi Suzaku."
"'Sup," Suzaku added with a jaunty wave.
Then from the top of the stairs emerged a trio of girls—presumably the very same three girls who had raised such a din just moments ago. Justine looked up, then, and saw that in the lead stood a tall blonde girl, with fair skin, green eyes, hair in ringlets with a reddish-orange pin holding part of it firmly in place, and an apologetic expression upon her heart-shaped face. She directed a sharp look towards the other two before descending the staircase, speaking as she did. "Our apologies for the delay…"
"Think nothing of it," replied Justine. "The summons was rather impromptu. It just seemed a good idea that we might all introduce ourselves to one another, that's all."
"You're our force captain, then," the blonde girl concluded with a sharp nod (and Justine had braced herself to be outnumbered by skirt-wearers, so it was a pleasant surprise to find that she had not truly been the only girl to select shorts). "My name is Liliana Vergamon. My friends here are, in order, Marika Soresi, and Odette Rochefort."
Soresi? Justine thought to herself, looking up at the second girl in the line. She was shorter than her blonde friend, her auburn hair styled in a bob cut, with almost tomboyish features, and bright, sky-blue eyes hemmed in by heavy eyebrows. There was a lackadaisical, devil-may-care attitude to the twist of her lips, like she was observing some grand joke unfolding at someone else's expense, and Justine thought on what snippets she'd heard about Villetta and Jeremiah's (though more Jeremiah's than Villetta's, to be entirely honest) straight-laced war buddy with poor marksmanship skills, and considered how far one sibling might drift from another, in nature, in temperament, and in outlook. How very curious…
And then her eyes slipped to Odette's blue-black hair, tied up in a messy bun with locks of it strewn almost haphazardly across her face. Her narrow eyes flashed in irritation, their colour a deeper amber than Jeremiah's or Yennefer's, and the tone of her flesh was as thoroughly kissed by the sun as her father's and brother's. The sulky, sullen cast of her otherwise sharp, lupine features, with the combination of her slim brow, elegant nose and high cheekbones, made her seem standoffish and aggressive, or at least, as though she was attempting to appear so. Interesting that the headmaster's daughter would end up here…
"We… Well, we've known each other since childhood, almost," Liliana continued, her eyes shifting with slight unease.
"Well met," Justine said with a cool smile. "I'm sure we'll all get along famously. Prithee, do any of you happen to know if our remaining three will be joining us?"
"One of them's sleeping like the dead, and she seems like she got here before the rest of us and then promptly fell asleep," Marika began, listing them off on the fingers of one of her bare hands. "Another had to depart to make sure a pet of hers is properly taken care of—I think it was some sort of bird? Anyway, she said her name was Hecate, of House Gaunt, and that she'd meet up with us at the mess hall for dinner. And the last one…"
The front door opened once more, and a superfluous knock upon the wooden door frame announced the arrival of the fresh coterie's newest member. "Sorry I'm late. The people at the dispensary asked me to bring this over—since I was headed this way already—and deliver it to the force captain. I'm assuming that means one of you is our force captain?"
Justine turned, as Suzaku continued lounging where she was, leaned up against the wall, resolved to be no help whatsoever, and met the last arrival to the dormitory.
The newcomer was shorter than her, Justine noted—a girl with a build that seemed even slimmer than her own, if only just, and leggy, with naturally violet hair that, to Justine's eye, seemed to have once been shorn into a pixie cut and having subsequently grown out, and her large eyes were maroon in hue. Her features were mousy, more cute than beautiful, but she wore it with a silent inner confidence that showed itself in the stillness of her small mouth, and the half-lidded cast of her gaze. She'd chosen a skirt, Justine noted, but her attention was drawn to her hands more than her choice in uniform or indeed the package that was held in those same hands.
They were utterly still.
She'd have put money on this girl having the makings of a sharpshooter, but unfortunately for the state of her hypothetical coin-purse, she'd long since learned that Suzaku didn't take sucker's bets (and considered betting against her on the subject of the shape of another's aptitudes to be ontologically so).
"That would be me," Justine said, looking from the girl's hands to stare at her nose. "Might I know your name?"
The girl's attention snapped to her in particular, and some part of her registered that the girl's eyes, far from trying to make eye contact, were likewise employing the very same nose-staring trick. "I'm Bernadotte. Elizabeth Bernadotte. And this is for you."
Justine took the package from Elizabeth, which provoked Suzaku to kick away from her wall and begin to saunter over, reaching her hands out to signal that the parcel be passed to her. Justine did so, and as her friend worked on opening the nondescript white package, she turned back and waved Elizabeth in. "Well then, it's a pleasure to meet you, Elizabeth Bernadotte. Please, come in. We're missing two, but I daresay we'll meet both of them come the dinner bell."
With a small nod, Elizabeth complied, walking into the foyer and standing near Liliana, who had just set recently alighted upon the first floor. Good. While I have their attention…
"Now, allow me to introduce the two of us once again," said Justine, as Suzaku managed to pull the bag open and retrieve the contents. She motioned for Justine to doff her uniform jacket, which she did, and as she shrugged it off, Suzaku held up a new one for her to slip her arms into, with golden épaulettes and an aiguillette. Once the old jacket was off, Suzaku took it from her, and allowed her to secure the front of her new jacket, while her friend unfurled another length of cloth in the background. "Seeing to my uniform as we speak is my appointed adjutant, Kururugi Suzaku. She is a dear friend of mine, and in the event that, for whatever reason, you are uncomfortable approaching me with an issue you are having, I encourage you to seek her out instead.
"And I, as you all should be made aware…" Justine continued, her voice clear and resolute even as Suzaku draped a rich red shoulder-cape over the right side of her form, fastening it to itself and also to her new uniform jacket's aiguillette. "...am Force Captain Justine vi Britannia. And while we are here together, I must stress that that is all that name should mean to you.
"Now, let's all do our best to rise together, shall we?"
Author's Note: Welcome to the beginning of Arc 3!
And to the reviewer Lethana: I appreciate you giving this a chance, and I'm glad you're enjoying it! Eagerly awaiting Youjo Senki Season 2 here.