Chapter 1 : Beware the Ides of March

15th March 2016 a.t.b.

The day of

He sat alone in his favourite corner of Grey's nursing the cognac in his hand. The low din of noise made by the club's gambling patrons just beyond the elaborately carved panel screen that afforded him privacy offered him a meagre solace from his glum thoughts.

His Royal Guard covertly keeping vigil in strategic positions notwithstanding, it was the first time he had visited Grey's unaccompanied by either fanfare or guest—whether of the female persuasion or otherwise. So here he was, left only to the company of his alcohol and his sorrows.

A month gone by already, and the King Puzzle still eludes me.

Perhaps he should just swallow his pride. Laugh sheepishly, twiddle his thumbs and beg the only other person still living who he was pretty certain knew the answer. Anything would be better at least than all this scurrying around that amounted to nothing in the end.

Then perhaps he could return to his projects without feeling like he owed something to the dead.

And then it would also be back to the ordinary business of the day, Clovis mused, where he'd be swarmed by them again. By the war-hawks, by the penny-pinchers, by the pencil-pushers. Swamped by all the matters that 'the Viceroy just must oversee'.

Oh joy.

He sighed despondently.

All these 'duties' were just so boring. And unnecessary besides.

Give him the grander, more meaningful projects any day! Opening museums enshrining their glorious culture and art! Bringing excitement to the no-doubt dreary lives of his dear subjects (and generating income at the same time!) with a new amusement park! Let the peons handle the other petty details by all means.

But could he avoid those irksome duties? Apparently not.

Though he was apparently absolute ruler of this miserable island province, he had come to realise with dismay that he could not send away with impunity those who were by all rights his servants (public 'servants', military 'service', palace 'help', he saw no real difference; mere semantics!) Nor could he shirk away from at least appearing to listen to them.

Well, technically he could if he so chose.

But alas, reality was a harsh mistress as experience had shown. Exercising his sovereign rights in that manner had only earned him a long-distance long-suffering 'heart-to-heart' with his dear, esteemed brother Prince Prime Minister himself—an ordeal that Clovis, as a man of great dignity, would rather not inflict upon himself again.

He called me in the wee hours too, he recalled as he swirled his half-empty glass grumpily. No doubt thoroughly enjoying that line about his 'sincere regrets that we lived in different timezones'.

And that was the same man he would have to go crawling to, begging for absolution, if he wished an end to this misery.

Clovis set his glass down hard in annoyance.

The indistinct formless noise from beyond the screen swelled somewhat, hushed murmurs tinged with surprise and speculation. Something, or someone, had managed to pique the interest of the crowd. He peered through the screen with mild curiosity, hoping for an entertaining diversion from his thoughts.

A little semi-circle of spectators clustered around a nearby table, observing a chess match between the most unlikely pair. He recognised one of the players on sight; red hair, blotchy freckled skin and obnoxious loud-mouth, it was hard to miss the Viscount Echlin, Hamish Mackenzie.

The Mackenzies were an old titled family from before the Humiliation at Edinburgh and subsequent flight of their forefathers to the New World. Being one of the few Exiles wise or lucky enough to have previously made investments in what was to be their new home, their modern-day brood now presided over a formidable shipping empire that freight cargo from across the globe. Prodigal son and heir to the family fortunes, Lord Hamish resided here in Area 11 as representative of Mackenzie interests, particularly in the transport of Area 11's Sakuradite to the far-flung regions of the Britannian empire.

His opponent, on the other hand, was a slight young man Clovis must admit he could not identify, other than a nagging sense of familiarity. The lad was of slightly below average Britannian height, though he cut a fine figure with his sleek dark hair and elegant bearing.

He cannot be older than high school age. Intrigued, he wondered which family the lad hailed from. After all, he must have fairly good connections to be in establishments that normally permit only those who were of age. And besides, Grey's did not let just anyone waltz through their doors.

"You there." He called out to the man waiting in attendance just beyond the screen. "Summon the owner."

It did not take long for Grey to arrive. After all, it did not do to keep royalty waiting.

The slender, sharp-featured man bowed smoothly. "How may I be of service, your highness?"

"My compliments first, Grey. This is a splendid drink." He gestured to the bottle of cognac.

The man smiled. "Ah yes, the Louis XIII Black Pearl." He glided a single gloved finger lightly over the dark crystal surface of the bottle.

"Cognac, as your highness is surely aware, is a rather precious commodity in the Empire, no thanks to European trade sanctions." Grey said reflectively. "But the Black Pearls… now those are exceedingly rare, even in the EU. Very very exclusive; only ten decanters are available here in Area 11, four of which call Grey's home. Our establishment's pride and joy."

"And now you have only three." And how it must gall you.

"Ahahaha, yes of course, your highness." Grey laughed, though Clovis noticed with the experience of one raised in the nest of intrigue called the Imperial Court that the man's polite mirth did not quite extend to his sharp, cold grey-green eyes.

"I take it then that exclusivity still remains a creed here at your establishment?"

"But of course. Only the finest men and women are allowed through our doors. Riffraff have no place here at Grey's, you can rest assured of that, my prince."

"And what of children?" Clovis asked mildly.

"I beg your pardon, highness?"

"What of children? Do children have a place here… at Grey's? Like that boy over there?" He motioned at the lad.

Grey smiled genially, remaining annoyingly unperturbed. He clasped his hands fluidly behind his back and began speaking with aplomb.

"The rules say he doesn't, that is true. The rules have their place and technically they apply to all men equally. But, it is also true that we of Britannia have always held that men are not created equal. Exceptions to the rules exist that transcend the rules that govern lesser beings. Exceptions like your royal self, highness or even… those who by birth, skill or charm rise up and out from the faceless multitude. Young Lelouch, I have found, is one such a person; and so despite his youth, I have always personally welcomed his presence here at Grey's."

Clovis must admit he could find no real fault with the man's eloquent, if rather elaborate words. He turned his gaze to the lad that commanded such esteem from the owner. That was a commendation he could not ignore, if he ever heard one.

The angle from which he could observe the lad's table afforded him little details on how the match was proceeding. Though, from how Lord Hamish was loudly braying in derision, the advantage evidently belonged to him. The lad however remained serene and placid. He could not entirely make out the young man's features due to the dim lighting of the club. But what little he could observe—the chiseled high cheekbones, the cool dignified poise and the lustrous black hair—he found appealing. Clovis was, of course, a man for the ladies, but he saw no harm nor shame in appreciating beauty when it appeared before him.

"Lelouch, you said his name was." He inquired distractedly, his eyes still fixed on the other table. "Lelouch…?"

The lad did something peculiar then. Picking up one of his black pieces, he then held it aloft in an apparent taunt. An action that left Lord Hamish stunned for a moment, before he started bursting out in great guffaws of laughter.

It was the black King the lad held in his hand, a coldly confident smirk on his young pretty face.

"Lamperouge, your highness. His name is Lelouch Lamperouge,"

Clovis' heart meanwhile was beating a rapid tattoo of stunned excitement.

Could it be? he thought wonderingly. Could it be that the answer to his puzzle had finally appeared? Unasked and unsought for, here; in such a place, in such a serendipitous moment, when he had all but given up?

He turned a resolute gaze to the quizzical owner and declared commandingly.

"I should like to meet with this Lelouch Lamperouge. In person."

February 2016 a.t.b.

One month before

"Bartley, why must the King lead?"

The portly General blinked, taken aback by his prince's tense interjection into their previously one-sided conversation.

The branches of the garden's trees hung low with the weight of accumulated snow, the grounds stark and barren. It was a clear if somewhat nippy mid-February winter afternoon. Despite the chilly air, the Viceroy of Area 11 and Third Prince of the Holy Empire of Britannia had deemed it fit to ensconce himself in his gardens; dressed warmly and fashionably as a matter of course.

Seated upon a wooden stool and brandishing a rapidly drying brush, Clovis tapped a foot restlessly awaiting his answer.

"Well?" He pressed impatiently.

The General however still remained bewildered by the Viceroy's sudden participation, having grown used to his prince's usual reticence.

Perhaps Bartley may not have been the right person to ask, he realised in dismay.

Though he supposed he could not really blame the General for being slow on the uptake. After all, he himself had been so utterly engrossed in his current project—a bold acrylic panorama of the Tokyo Settlement—that he had studiously ignored the odious reports the General had insisted on giving. Some frivolous trouble in the South to do with the JAF (JRF?) as he vaguely recalled.

But then a most singular realisation had struck him just then, and left him reeling with a confounding puzzle and the burning need to solve it. He could not help but ask the General for his professional opinion, despite his unprepossessing appearance.

Clovis gave the man's attire a sidelong glance, feeling somewhat repulsed. Now that he thought of it, the man's frightfully tacky outfit did not exactly inspire him with much confidence.

"Forgive me my foolish inattention, my prince. I was much distracted by the beauty of your highness' magnificent painting. Could you kindly repeat your words, er— if it is not too much trouble, your highness?" Bartley finally spoke, a genteel, if much flustered reply.

The man -does- have an appreciation for art, and proper manners at least, he belatedly revised.

In acknowledgment of the General's rare quality, he graciously decided on a show of magnanimity, obliging the rotund man's nervous request. He reiterated his 'King Puzzle'— as he had decided to dub it—to the now-attentively listening officer, word for word.

Oddly enough, the General paled in response and grew increasingly distraught.

Bemused, he wondered if the man thought it to be a trick question. Honestly, his was a rather simple, straightforward question, really. Well, it was a somewhat technical problem, he will concede. But weren't all those military higher-ups supposed to be master strategists? He wasn't exactly asking for the world on a silver platter.

Unless…

A sneaking suspicion filled him. Clovis felt he just might have an inkling as to Bartley's dilemma. But now he was more than ever before interested in learning the General's reply.

If only to ascertain the man's quality, of course, he told himself.

"Come now, Bartley. Whatever your answer may be, I promise I shan't bite." Clovis assured the nervously fidgeting officer cheerfully. Well, not literally that is, he thought snidely.

After much quaking, Bartley finally stammered out his reply.

"I-I believe, er—that is, i-it is my most er— h-humble belief that it is His Majesty's ordained r-right to lead, yo-your highness. His sa-sacred right by superior blood and all that is pr-proper and just in this good world. Tha-that is why he leads, my prince, er—I mean—that is to say… that is why he must."

Bless me, he really did think I was questioning his loyalties!

Clovis laughed airily, pleased at having been right. "Indeed so, my good man! Indeed so!"

"But no one said anything about my imperial Father, His Majesty the Emperor, Bartley. I did say King and not Emperor now, did I not?" He grinned, waving off Bartley's horrified apologies easily.

I really should phrase the question better next time, he thought ruefully. Not that he would ask Bartley again, of course. He would not hold out hope that the plodding fool could give him a favourable answer even if asked properly.

But the man did show some potential in aiding him in say… other 'endeavours', he mused as he critically appraised the fidgeting officer.

A final test then.

"Still, that is a very fine answer," Clovis pronounced while carefully observing the General's mien. "Indeed 'tis the greatness of the Britannian imperial bloodline that has thus far led Britannia to her lofty heights, and so it shall ever be! So long as His Majesty, who is Britannia incarnate, and his royal children after him, descended of that same superior stock, command the unswerving love and fidelity of their subjects, so shall our Holy Empire prosper and endure."

He felt glee surge within him as Bartley feverishly nodded in agreement. The violent, nearly fanatical gleam in the General's eyes in response to his carefully stressed suggestions had pointed to the man's fervent loyalty to the Imperial bloodline.

And in time, to him.

Clovis' mind whirled with all kinds of interesting possibilities; his little King Puzzle momentarily swept aside in the wake of this new potential acquisition.

A fool.

But a loyal, pliant fool it would seem. I could have a use for a man like Bartley Asprius.

Early March 2016 a.t.b.

One week before

The accursed King Puzzle would continue to remain unsolved despite his best efforts. His beloved projects laid neglected and incomplete as his obsession consumed the better part of his energies.

Three full weeks had passed and still he found himself no closer to an ideal answer despite asking what must have been more than two-thirds of the intelligentsia residing in Area 11 and then some. Dejected, he decided on a last-ditch attempt of Bartley's assessment again, fool the man may be. If words of wisdom could come out of the mouths of babes, he had reasoned, why should his ever-elusive answer not come from the mouth of a simpleton?

And so, here they were again. In the reincarnation of his favourite garden atop his palace.

Clovis turned his gaze from the Settlement below and faced the waiting officer.

"I require your opinion, my friend."

Bartley bowed reverently. "I live but to serve, your highness."

"Quite." He smiled. "I asked this of you once actually, but three weeks past. About the King leading?"

The General nodded in recognition.

"In truth, Bartley, I had meant to ask that in chess, why must the King lead? It was a strange strategy I had once heard in passing, one that I could not entirely grasp. And so I asked you." He explained. "As a military officer of your standing and vast experience, you must be well-versed in the intricacies of strategy and tactics much more than I, a prince of peace, could ever be."

As expected, that little scrap of flattery gratified the General sufficiently to set him firmly at the task. I am getting better at this, Clovis thought in idle bemusement.

Bartley ruminated, brows furrowed in deep thought.

"I cannot see how the King ever leads in chess, my prince." He answered at length. "In the first place, the goal of every game of chess is to strategically corner the enemy King into a position of no retreat. Consequently, a player's primary strategy for his King should necessarily be one of defence. For a King to lead, to take an aggressive role in a game of chess, is the height of folly and recklessness."

The General rapidly paled. "B-but of course that is but my humble and flawed opinion, your highness! A man of the military I may be, but at chess I am merely amateur!"

"Be at ease, Bartley." Clovis sighed. "Your opinion is not displeasing. In fact, it coincides entirely with mine own."

And so he finds himself disappointed yet again.

It was a sensible answer. One that cannot be faulted. And one so similar to the answers given by the countless other learned men and women that he had asked previously. It was after all the very first thing any beginner of the game would learn.

But he had thought, perhaps even expected, that there should be more. A layer of the painting he had neglected to uncover. A different angle of light to illuminate the subject. One that when aligned and directed just so, would reveal something rare and brilliant.

There must be something more. Else, why would he have lost to her time and again?

"'Tis a strange notion, this King business. One that I had never comprehended." Clovis gazed pensively at the garden grounds, the bright yellow dandelions pushing through the melting snow suddenly seeming oddly fascinating.

It will be spring soon, he realised with a start, both here in Area 11 and in Pendragon. The flowers in the gardens of the Imperial Villa at Aries would soon be blooming. His throat began feeling unwieldy, as if he had inexplicably tried to swallow a good-sized pebble and got it stuck halfway instead.

"Lelou, she'd… she used to say… something of the sort." He spoke haltingly, lost in thought; not really seeing the General any longer.

It was her he saw instead. His tiny black-haired sister with her purple, purple amethyst eyes. Filled with more passion than the sun, more ferocity than the fiercest tiger, and yet incapable of inflicting physical damage greater than an irate kitten could manage. That absurdity had amused him endlessly.

"We played chess often, in the Capital back in the days before… before. Despite her age and her nonsensical ideas, I could never best her. Still, I was… happy. But those days, they didn't… couldn't—"

Clovis ceased abruptly. He had revealed too much, he realised in consternation. He could not simply laugh it off now. Not convincingly at least.

Bartley in turn was uncooperatively silent. He just stood there, seemingly struck dumb.

Damn fool! Say something! Change the subject! Anything! Speak!

And still nothing.

He closed his eyes and exhaled, massaging his temple in frustration. It was no use raging silently. The fool would stand there gaping 'til world's end. Always finish the painting you've begun and all that rot, he thought resignedly.

And after all, what harm could it cause? He had come to realise that it was not in the General's character to lightly hold his tongue. At least not with regards to royalty. But still…

"You will not speak of this." He warned sharply.

Bartley nodded furiously.

In spite of that, the uneasy feeling that vulnerability created made him hesitant to proceed. He dithered, allowing the silence to stand between them until he could take it no longer.

"She told me that once." Clovis finally said stiffly. "My sister, Lelou. What I just asked of you."

"In a garden very much like this one. One afternoon in spring, we played chess. And she told me that 'the King must lead. Else—'"

He turned away, pained. "Else what, I cannot remember."

"Every person I've asked in the past three weeks could not even guess what it could be. I suspect only two people have ever known the real answer. But I am not going to ask my brother, not about this. And Lelou is not ever going to remind me. Not that she can."

Odd that after so many years Lelou still managed to confound him.

He had awoken that day three weeks ago to the vestigial pangs of a strange half-forgotten dream. At first, he had dismissed it on hand. It was such a shameful dream, after all; his brat sister, seven years his junior, beating him at the ancient and noble game of chess yet again. He would have been quite happy to completely forget that feeling of utter humiliation, thank you!

Except it was not a mere dream, he had realised in a tizzy later that day, but a memory. A precious memory of a place and time he could never return to.

And one he could not completely remember.

He owed it to her. To her memory.

He owed it to his maddening, infuriating, vexatious, adorable dead sister. To remember.

Otherwise, how else would one who endures only as a memory expect to continue existing? If those who loved her could not remember her…remember that she had lived, laughed, cried, triumphed, lost… remember that she had loved, and was loved in turn… If none remember that she was here… then, why would… why should she have existed in the first place?

Why should anyone have bothered to 'be' if their fate was ultimately naught but shadows and dust?

If I should d—

He shuddered, refusing to even entertain the idea. The mere thought of it was unbearable.

No. He won't.

Not me, Clovis resolved.

And he even had in his possession the very thing to achieve just that. The only question that remained was how.

"Your royal sister, my prince?" Bartley finally spoke up, inquiring gently. "Princess Lelou?"

"Oh, it's Lucile really." Clovis laughed weakly, grateful for a distraction from his heavy thoughts. "Lelou was the nickname she came up with. It's actually a pretty amusing tale, that. We thought… that is, those of us who were her siblings of actual import thought it both endearing and fitting, so the name more or less stuck. It became what we ever called her. Those of us who liked her and that she liked enough in turn, that is."

"Third Princess Lucile vi Britannia!" Bartley put the pieces together. "The elder of the Two Lost Princesses. Declared dead after—" The General faltered.

"After the Second Pacific War, and the conquest of Area 11, along with her younger sister the Fifth Princess." Clovis finished quietly.

"This land is Lelou's resting place; hers and Nunnally's. She's the reason I'm here, the reason I chose back then to be Viceroy. After everything that had occurred, she deserves to rest peacefully now. They both deserve that much at least."

Meanwhile, some 30 miles east of the Viceroy's Palace. In Ashford Academy, Area 11's finest educational institution, a certain black-haired girl with purple, purple amethyst eyes would only be too happy to agree whole-heartedly with the Viceroy's sentiment, if she could but hear him.

If Lelou's half-brother were here with her on Ashford's wet green field, and told her even in his most puffed-up, pompous, supercilious manner that he thought she deserved rest, she would have adoringly gushed that it was the most brilliant suggestion she had ever heard him make.

Ever.

And that yes, she absolutely agreed with him. In fact, she deserved it right now. Just listen to her screaming legs crying out 'now!' Peaceful rest and relaxation, that's what she needed. She wouldn't even mind if it was the blissful oblivion of eternal peace on the agenda at this rate.

"P-please. Just… kill me." She begged the pitiless stony-faced woman.

"Three more rounds around the field, Miss Lamperouge." Ms. Hart, Ashford's P.E. instructor ordered, her voice unyielding iron. "And quickly now. You're holding up the rest of the class."

There was a reason why Hart was called 'Hard-nose' among Ashford students, Lelou reflected bitterly. Though, 'Hart-less' could work just as well in her honest opinion.

"You can do it, Lulu! Just three more to go!" Shirley cheered enthusiastically from one of the sinfully tempting benches at the field's shady corner. She had evidently already completed the requisite 7 laps and stretching exercises for the class' warm-up routine.

Despite the activity, Lelou noticed with black resentment that her friend hardly looked worn out. Shirley's long ginger hair even remained neatly tied up, not a single strand out of place. In comparison, Lelou was half a ghost, a thing of horror; her face taut and drawn with exhaustion, her normally lustrous short black hair drenched and dishevelled.

"Come one, Lulu! You're the last one now!"

Lelou was fond of Shirley. She really was. She appreciated her friend's kindness, her confidence in Lelou, her genuine, unconditional friendship. Above all else, Lelou appreciated her gentle amity with Nunnally, and that she honestly did not subscribe to That Man's eat-or-be-eaten philosophy. But really.

I really -really- don't need this right now Shirley!

She panted with great effort, feeling just a tad bit hysterical. She reckoned her abused limbs could fall off any moment now.

Damn Rivalz for skipping out on her! If he hadn't left on an 'emergency' errand for Milly, Lelou would not have been caught skiving P.E. as she usually did. She would not have been dragged kicking and screaming to her death. They both could have been gleefully profiting off yet another arrogant, over-confident nobleman, if only her 'wingman' had stuck to the plot.

It's over! Lelou groaned despairingly. She could see her end was nigh. Tunnelling vision and all. She could have even sworn she saw Mother, reaching out with a beatific smile to welcome her into the afterlife.

No! Nunnally!

She couldn't die! She refused to! Not until her gentle sister opened her eyes to a kind, peaceful world! And she would make it so! So not yet! Not yet!

Holding on to that fervent dream, Lou 'Lelou' Lamperouge drew herself up with a shuddering gasp and soldiered on. She'd make her famous warrior mother, Marianne 'The Flash', proud of her yet!

She blacked out at the start of the 6th lap.

13th March 2016 a.t.b.

Two days before

"Our wills and fates do so contrary run

That our devices still are overthrown;

Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own."

"Thus spoke the Player King, his words wisdom evergreen, penned from immortal quill of Avon's Eternal Bard." Lelou sighed morosely.

"Would that certain block-headed royal princelings had listened, me including. Nothing alters the course of fate; wishing… planning… it doesn't change a thing. Tragedies stay tragedies."

She sighed again.

Ever since the unfortunate incident of the black-out spell five days past, Lelou was in that stage in life she had taken to calling her 'edification period'.

It had been a revelation. There were still lessons to be learnt, she had discovered, particularly from the works of Shakespeare. Lessons on how one's fate, destiny and muscle mass percentage were unchangeable. Immutable. Intransigent.

Rivalz had laughingly taken to calling it 'Lelou's existential crisis'. She had pointedly chosen to ignore him. She had not forgotten his treachery that landed her into that death-trap Ashford called a field in the first place.

"That's strange, Lelou." Nina suddenly said uncertainly.

"Hmm? What is?"

"You said 'me including'. If only stubborn royals like Hamlet had paid attention to the King Player's message, was what you said, right? But why 'including' you, Lelou?" Nina softly picked apart, puzzled by her normally very precise friend's choice of words.

Lelou inwardly winced. Ugh, careless fool!

She turned a casual, nonchalant gaze to her pigtails-wearing friend and appraised her thoughtfully. Nina's sharp, can't be too careful from now on. It's the quiet ones. Always the quiet ones.

But the situation was still containable.

Taking care to seem completely unruffled, she calmly began. "Well— "

"That's because Lulu's a princess, of course!" Shirley exclaimed.

Impossible! Shirley?! How?!

"Ashford's very own Princess of Cool!"

Ah.

Rivalz snorted. "More like Lelou's a queen. Ashford's very own Queen of Drama." He mimed exaggeratedly, arms gesticulating in mock theatrical agony. "Romeo oh Romeo! Oh cruel fate oh~!" He cried out in squeaky falsetto.

With the exception of an irate Lelou, they all burst into laughter.

Even Nina joined the two giggling idiots in her own timid fashion, Lelou warily observed out of the corner of her eye. The former issue was apparently forgotten in the wake of the jest. She released a quiet sigh of relief.

Still, if things had not slipped away from her control like it had, she could have handled it differently, Lelou thought somewhat crossly. At least in a way that would have been less crushing to her ego.

Lelou wouldn't lie. Well, not to herself, at least. She did feel rather miffed at being made the butt of the joke. And she found it especially irksome that the jest attacked her in such a manner. For goodness sake, she didn't even sound like that!

Also it's a thing called culture? Not -drama-. Philistines.

"Aww, Lelou's mad at us, guys!" Rivalz ribbed mischievously, noticing her black glower and doubtlessly hoping to get a rise out of her.

"We are surrounded by foolishness, but our righteousness shall prevail in the end." She sniffed dismissively, invoking the royal plural. Because she was Queen, apparently. Of Drama.

"Aaannd we're all 'girls' here too, Rivalz." Shirley pointed out severely, arms crossed in indignation. "I see no guys! Er— except you, Rivalz,"

Lelou snickered. "Hopefully except Rivalz."

"Ouch. Jeez, women!"

Laughter ensued again. She hid a fond smile.

As they good-naturedly fell back into completing their tasks (read: unpaid manual labour), Lelou deemed it fit to resume her soliloquy. Not only was budgeting the second term spending for the clubs tedious and boring. She must admit, she rather enjoyed the theatrics of olden-day plays and poetry.

And besides, the coast was clear.

She began reciting in a vaguely mournful air:

"With domineering hand she moves the turning wheel,

Like currents in a treacherous bay swept to and fro:

Her ruthless will has just deposed once fearful kings,

While trustless still, from low she lifts a conquered head;

No cries of misery she hears, no tears she heeds,

But steely hearted laughs at groans her deeds have wrung.

Such is the game she plays—"

"Ohhh?" A deceptively sweet voice sang out from the doorway behind her. "And just who might you be describing, my darling little lamb?"

Lelou felt her hackles rise all of a sudden, the room's temperature having seemingly plummeted. It's the chill of impending doom, she thought with an instinctive shudder. Then her fight-or-flight response kicked in and she chose as she would always choose: fight. She would not be led to slaughter meekly like a sheep.

She gamely donned her best nonchalant demeanour, and turned a dispassionate gaze to the Devil smiling back innocently at her. Sprezzatura, Lelou!

"Hmm? Oh, it's Boethius' Lady Fortune." Lelou replied with a practiced lazy smile. "Not quite Britannian, true, but a seminal work nonetheless. Whoever did you think it was?" She asked guilelessly.

No sooner than she had delivered her rejoinder, Lelou found her personal space summarily invaded.

"Are you still not done sulking, Lelou?" Milly leered down at her. "Brooding darkly about fate and destiny and your underwhelming physical prowess was cute the first day. But you've been neglecting all your Very Important Student Council Business since!"

Milly wagged a finger at her errant Vice President cum unpaid minion. "You've got a do-or-die mission to complete, Lelou! If you falter and fail, the entire budget until July will come crashing down! Who else but you can save us all? Rivalz?!" She cried out her rhetorical question in full melodrama.

Pfft, and they crowned -me- Ashford's Drama Queen?

"Oi!" The sole male member of the Student Council objected indignantly.

"Perhaps you should give him a chance, Milly. Rivalz has always wanted to be a White Knight. Right, buddy?" Lelou replied smoothly. Sorry Rivalz.

Her buddy in question gulped with trepidation.

"And I have always wanted to be a witch!" Milly declared. "A White Witch, of course, like the fairy godmothers in the tales, doing good and making wishes come true. But I can make an exception for you, my wayward underling! Just you wait and see. The big game I know you and Rivalz are planning this Wednesday will fall through! You'll lose soooo badly your pockets will burn from the speed that your money's leaving you!"

Her manic friend struck up a dramatic pose. "This is my magic curse, Lelou! Listen and tremble in despair!" She cleared her throat deliberately and whispered sinisterly. "Beware! Beware the eyes of March! Bewaaaare~!"

"'She is a dreamer. Let us leave her. Pass!'" Lelou quoted glibly. "And it's the 'ides' of March, Milly. Not eyes." She smirked at her peeved friend.

"That's it, Lelou!" Milly growled and pointed imperiously at her mutinous subordinate. "President's Orders! No more snarking! No more brooding! And no more Shakespearating!"

Lelou raised an eyebrow archly. "Shakespearating?" She questioned disdainfully.

Milly grinned evilly and deployed her trump card. "If you can't stop because of your rebellious teenage hormones, Lelou, I'll be happy to assist! I've just perfected my Ultimate Cheering Magic Spell Mark II. You know, that one. Maybe I should give it a trial-run~"

She promptly folded in the face of Milly Ashford's terrifying ace.

With no small amount of fear, Lelou shakily held up her hands in surrender. "Er— no need for that, Madam President!" Hastily rearranging her face into a strained grin, she assured her wickedly grinning triumphant friend. "See, I'm smiling! I'm done brooding! I repent my snarking! Shakespeare can go shake a spear! It's not the hormones! Truly!"

"Too late~!" Milly laughed and pounced twitching fingers first. "Milly's Miraculourous Divinivent-tack!"

Lelou would in the future forever maintain that she went through her second Existential Crisis during those hellish four minutes.

14th March 2016 a.t.b.

One day before

"…a video of the terrorist bombing on the South Gate port of the Nagasaki Settlement. While no lives were lost in this horrible incident, 5 Britannian citizens have been hospitalised for third-degree burns with 20 others sustaining minor injuries. Further, it is also estimated that the attack destroyed £21.4 million worth in port infrastructure and equipment. The inflammatory video released a month ago by the terrorist organisation calling itself the 'Japan Liberation Front' inciting the Elevens to—"

Lelou shut off the TV and returned to the bank records piled carelessly on the lounge table. The accounts she had opened under an assortment of false names were flourishing. Still not quite there yet though, she judged critically, perusing through each and calculating the numbers mentally.

"Did you find the news unpleasant, sister?" A sweet voice called out from the corridor. Her dearest sister Nunnally smiled as Sayoko wheeled her into the lounge they used as a living room.

"The news? No, it's just a bit distracting is all." She smiled at their ever-pleasant maid. "Thank you, Sayoko. You can call it a day, I'll take it from here."

Sayoko bowed deeply in the Japanese fashion, a normally indiscreet action in Britannian society. That their maid would even dare commit such a faux pas stemmed from an incident where Lelou (with Nunnally's whole-hearted agreement) had insisted that she never be ashamed to honour the culture of her people before them. Sayoko, needless to say, had eagerly complied.

"Thank you, Miss Lou, Miss Nunnally. A pleasant evening to you both."

"And to you, Sayoko." Nunnally chimed.

After Sayoko's departure, she knelt by Nunnally's wheelchair and took her hands warmly into her own. Lelou wore a tender smile upon her face that her sister may not be able see but could, in her adamant belief, nonetheless feel.

"How was your day, Nunnally? I'm sorry for not making it to dinner. I had to finish the last of the second term budgeting just now. President's orders."

Her sister laughed, the sound of her laughter like daintily chiming silver bells. "Milly's still bossing you around, sister?" She teased playfully.

Lelou made a sour face at that, and then hoped against hope that Nunnally hadn't managed to feel it.

"Milly Ashford will be Milly Ashford." She said finally in as neutral a tone as she could manage.

Lelou's and Milly's friendship was as complex as it was long-standing. They had first met when she and Nunnally were still princesses in Pendragon and their mother, Marianne, still lived.

The Ashfords were the vi Britannia's oldest and most steadfast allies. But Lelou had been wary of even them after her mother's death. Mother's assassination had ruined them after all, she had reasoned then. It took Reuben's unfaltering kindness and Milly's unabashed honesty over the years to straighten her out in that regard.

"Well, my day wasn't the best, honestly." Nunnally confessed. "I took an afternoon nap and woke up crying. It was such a horrid dream."

She patted her sister's hand sympathetically. "It was just a nightmare, Nunnally, it's not real. It can't hurt you here, I won't let it." Lelou said comfortingly.

But rather than respond, Nunnally remained oddly quiet. The dream must have really shook her, Lelou thought with concerned alarm.

"Shirley told me. That you were going gambling with Rivalz tomorrow." She said finally.

Shirley!

Biting down her extreme annoyance, she responded lightly. "There is nothing to be worried about, Nunnally. I wager with chess, and you know that no one can beat your big sister at that game."

"It's not about that! What if you get caught? Underaged gambling is illegal!"

"I won't." Lelou said firmly. "I have an understanding with the owner. He keeps things quiet for me. And as for the people I beat, they aren't in a hurry to admit that a child bested them." She asked tightly. "Now, did you have your dream before or after Shirley saw fit to inform you of that?"

Ever since Milly had opened her big mouth yesterday, Shirley had been on her case pleading with her to 'clean up her act'. She had eventually ended by begging her not to go tomorrow. Lelou was unmoved, and had flatly told her to not get involved in her business.

If Shirley thinks she can upset Nunnally just so that things go -her- way, she'd best think again!

"I know what you're thinking, sister, and no, it's not Shirley's fault." Nunnally said severely. "I had the dream before she told me what you were planning. What she said just made it all the more real…"

She squeezed her sister's hand to let her know she was still listening.

"I dreamt you had gone away. You were walking away from me. I tried to run after you… I could always run and see in my dreams… but when you walked away from me, I suddenly couldn't feel my legs. And the further you walked from me, the more it started getting darker and darker."

Nunnally trembled at the memory. "I was so scared. I still am so very scared." She whispered. "Please. Please don't go tomorrow. For me?"

Lelou fell into a conflicted silence. She did have a good amount of money squirrelled away in her accounts but it wasn't enough; not even close to enough. She couldn't yet afford to antagonise Peter Grey at this point by backing out. Not on a mere whim, not because her sister had a scary dream.

"Why… why aren't you saying anything?" Her sister's voice quavered. "Why do you even need to go? Is it about the money? Do we not have enough money?"

"It's not about the money, Nunnally. I just…I have things that I need to do." She ended with a tone of finality.

She stood up, pulling away from her sister. Nunnally sightlessly made to grab her hand but Lelou would have none of that. She didn't trust herself not to blab her secrets if her sister, the one person she would not deceive, still clung to her.

"You're being selfish," her sister said quietly.

"Nunnally?"

"You heard me! You're being selfish and reckless a-and… and stupid!" She shouted defiantly, her slight body shaking with suppressed fury.

Lelou's mouth twisted. Selfish?! she furiously repeated the accusation. Me, selfish?! When everything… everything I've done was for—

She hissed in anger. "If you think just for one moment that I'm doing this for myself, then you are very very mistaken."

"Then tell me! For whom are you doing this… whatever you're even doing?" Nunnally challenged hotly.

For you. Everything I do, I do for you.

But Lelou didn't say it. She couldn't.

It would not do after all to tell one's sister that you were planning rebellion, war and patricide on her behalf. Not if that sister was as gentle and peaceful as Nunnally.

Instead she grasped the handles of her sister's wheelchair and briskly made for her sister's bedroom. "Where are we going?" Nunnally demanded in alarm.

"We are going to your room, you are going to bed, and we shall not be speaking of this again." She replied in a tone that would brook no opposition. She didn't dare look at Nunnally's face then for fear it may break her.

"You're a tyrant."

"Guilty."

Nunnally held her tongue obstinately throughout the whole routine. As Lelou brushed her sullen sister's long light brown curls, she mirrored Nunnally's pointed silence, unwilling to be the first to give way. Two can play at the cold shoulder treatment game, little sister, she mulishly thought.

Still, the continuing tenseness that was usually so foreign to their nighttime routine gradually filled her with unease. A quick glance at the mirror revealed that Nunnally remained surly, to her dismay. Do not given in! she howled at her weak-willed self. She reminded herself sternly that she did not raise a spoiled brat nor will she encourage such wilful behaviour in her sister. However by the end of it, her limbs had gone stiff as a board as she mechanically helped a stubbornly reticent Nunnally change into her nightgown and tuck her into her linen coverlets.

Still pouting, her sister grasped the covers and sulkily buried herself beneath them.

I give up.

She sighed. "Nunnally."

"Go away." Her recalcitrant sister mumbled from under the covers. "That's what you 'need to do' after all."

Lelou sat at the edge of the bed and exhaled tiredly. "Nunnally, I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you. Really, I'm not. It might be a bit of a shock to hear this, but I've actually been to over a dozen games already. It's reckless, yes, but I know what I'm doing. I've come back from them each and every time, haven't I?"

"This time's different. I know it is!"

"And even if it is different, would it change anything?" She placed her hand tenderly over her sister's blanketed form. "Nunnally, even if all of Britannia and all its armies stood between us; even if we be separated by mountains, seas and valleys; even then, I'll still come back to you, always. I promise."

Nunnally was silent at first. Then, her sister's hand slowly peeked out from the covers, little finger held out aloft. "Promise me properly," the muffled demand came from underneath the coverlets.

With a wordless grin at that cute little display, Lelou entwined their fingers together. Her sister emerged then from her makeshift linen fortress, her normally sweet-natured face impassive and inscrutable.

"I promise that I'll always come back to you, Nunnally." She echoed her vow solemnly.

Nunnally nodded slowly and then tightened her finger's hold. "Yubikiri genman, uso tsuitara hari senbon nomasu." She sang in Japanese, singing the old promise song Suzaku had taught them all those years back.

"There!" She crowed triumphantly. "You can't take back those words now, sister. You've got to keep your promise, or—"

"Or I'll have to swallow a thousand needles. Now that's a scary prospect!" Lelou laughed fondly.

Nunnally tossed her hair loftily. "Well, were you lying, sister?"

"To you?" She smiled a gentle, adoring smile. "Never."

It was later, after Nunnally had fallen asleep, that saw Lelou make her way back down to the lounge. She flounced over to the messy lounge table with a foolish grin, the afterglow of sisterly affection still gladdening her heart. Looking askance at her pile of bank records, she lazily decided that she'd had enough of crunching numbers for the night.

Plopping herself on the sofa instead in a decidedly inelegant move, she nearly ripped her carelessly discarded woebegone copy of Hamlet in two.

Her light mood abruptly plummeted as she held the book up appraisingly, flipping it open to the one line that had resonated with her since the day Britannia destroyed the peace she and Nunnally had gained in Japan.

'The time is out of joint. O cursèd spite, That ever I was born to set it right!'

Her thoughts turned bleaker, darker.

She thought of Hamlet and herself. Thought of the burden they both bore, the things they had to do; whatever it took, whatever the price. She thought of the injustice life had dealt her sister and herself. And how back then as a child of ten she had wished.

Wished for justice; wished for answers; wished for kind eyes, kind words and a safe place; wished for a saviour; wished for her mother to return from the dead, for her sister to walk and to see and to smile freely.

Wished for Britannia's (That Man's) absolute and utter destruction.

But no matter how I wished; no matter my grand plans and grand dreams; the world just didn't change.

Fate shrugged and destiny didn't give a shit. Not for a screaming, whining, powerless child.

But she wouldn't stay a child forever. Nor will she be content to remain powerless. There were no fairy godmothers to make her wishes come true, no magic spells to grant her absolution, no Devil to sell her soul to. She was not a skilled warrior like her mother or Cornelia or even her childhood friend Suzaku. She was not a man. Not like her brothers, not like That Man. She did not have the privileges a man had; not their agency, not the unconscious respect people afforded them, heck! not even the additional muscle mass they had.

But she was Lucile vi Britannia, and she had her own gifts. Children grew, and children learn. And this one lesson above all had made itself self-evident throughout the years.

It was not her that was wrong; it was the world.

So she will change it. Change all that was wrong with this unjust, indifferent world. Obliterate Britannia.

To do that, the power she will need and the means to see it through… she'll obtain it.

Lelou shut the book sharply, smiling a cold savage smile.

One successful game at a time.

15th March 2016 a.t.b.

The day of

Beware the Ides of March, the soothsayer had warned.

Do not go to the Senate, Calpurnia had pleaded.

Letters came. Dire omens foreboded disaster.

But still Caesar went forth. Because he was Caesar.

Because he was fucking Caesar, Lelou thought furiously.

"Would you like a glass, Lelouch? There is no finer drink in the entire Area I've been told." Her half-brother smiled charmingly at her. "And as loath as I am to agree with an up-jumped trader like Grey, I must alas most grudgingly concur."

She forcefully stilled her subtly trembling hands by gripping the side of her trousers. Breathing, she found was a struggle, her wrung-out nerves exacerbating the constrictive suffocating feeling around her chest caused by her breast binds. Nonetheless, she maintained the portrayal of her facade to a T.

Commoner boy Lelouch Lamperouge, talented at chess and charming as any gentleman. But young and inexperienced, and oh-so-dazzled by the Viceroy's sudden and unexpected interest in him. She could play the role of commoner boy Lelouch. She must.

"Thank you, your highness, but I must decline." She said politely, carefully averting her eyes from her still-oblivious brother sitting but two feet away from her.

Let him believe I am a shy young schoolboy. Let him believe that being in the presence of royalty overwhelms me. Let him believe that I am who I say I am and no more.

She smiled bashfully and continued spewing the revolting flattery expected of her role. "I am unworthy of such an honour, my prince." Ugh.

Clovis laughed merrily. "You have very pleasing manners, young man. Modest as becomes a subject in the presence of his betters, but a man must needs be bold to prosper! Fortuna Audaces Iuvat, as the old saying goes. Now…" There was a sound of clicking fingers, and a glass swiftly appeared before her, the attendant filling it with a dark golden liquid.

"Have a drink. Your prince insists."

She looked at her glass of liquid inebriation apprehensively. This is bad, she panicked, really bad. I need all my wits about me if I am to fool my brother.

She smiled faintly, her eyes still downcast. "Well, if my prince insists, then how can I refuse? But I must confess the truth, your highness." She looked at her brother then almost embarrassedly.

Don't look into his eyes, Lelou! Look at his mouth! Or his nose!

"In truth I haven't cultivated much of a stomach for drinking yet, and I fear that I would surely shame myself before you. I should quite simply die of embarrassment if I did."

"Is that so now?" Clovis laughed in amusement. "Ah, too be young and still unaccustomed to the ways of the world." He smiled kindly. "I shan't be too harsh on you then, lad."

He held up a finger. "One glass."

"Yes, your highness." I can do one glass.

She raised the glass first in a silent salute to her host, and brought it close to her face. Aromas of delicate flowers, rich fruits and intense spices assailed her nostrils. The dark amber liquid swirled almost lazily in her glass, sultrily beckoning her to abandon all sense. A single sip left flavours of lychee, Cuban cigars, cinnamon and ginger lingering on her tongue and a delicious warmth radiating from her gullet.

"Well?"

"It is magnificent, your highness." She answered honestly.

He chuckled mirthfully. "It is, is it not?"

He folded his hands gracefully on top of the table and leaned forward, his blue eyes examining her searchingly. Lelou bit back the instinctive urge to shrink into her chair. She could swear she felt the intensity of his gaze as his eyes sweepingly appraised her.

"You have purple eyes." He said finally, leaning back into his chair.

She blinked.

I have purple eyes? Lelou thought incredulously. That is what he took away from that exceptional inspection? Purple eyes?

Perhaps she still had a chance. A snowball's chance in hell, true. But, hell can be cold and frigid once in awhile after all. Why not now? Especially since… Purple eyes? she thought disgustedly. You couldn't have done better than that, brother?

"My best feature, my mother always tells me." She smiled disarmingly. "It is a typically Britannian trait though, I believe."

He laughed. "You make it sound so common! It is not, I assure you. True, only Britannians seem to carry that gene, but it is still rare even among us." Her brother smile at her. "A rare beauty."

She recoiled inwardly. Is he hitting on me?!

"I am honoured that you think so, my prince." Her reply came meekly, her cheeks flushing in embarrassed pleasure (indignation).

"Now, does your mother know of your…activities, young man?" Clovis asked faintly reproving.

No, your highness. My mother would not know because she is dead, your highness. Vermin like you and our poisonous, treacherous 'family' had her murdered, your highness. The same way I will deal with the lot of you one day, your highness. Just you wait for it.

Lelou brought her hand to her head, and ran it through her hair in a nervous gesture.

"She is blissfully ignorant of her only son's dissolute lifestyle actually." She confessed with just the teensiest amount of shame, and then launched straight into commoner boy Lelouch Lamperouge's commoner backstory.

"Mum raised me single-handedly after my dad passed away five years ago. She works two jobs now to keep us both fed and clothed. I try to do what I can to chip in, but you only brings in so much working as a waiter or bartender." Not that you could even comprehend that, my princely brother. "When I heard that people win money at chess, I thought to myself, 'why not?'" She shrugged in self-deprecation. "I am pretty good at the game. Since Mum lets me be independent as long as I'm back before curfew, which is…" She glanced at her wristwatch and paled. "…um, it's actually in half an hour's time."

She turned pleading eyes to her brother. "I am dreadfully sorry, your highness. I've completely lost track of the time!" Her eyes darted nervously. "I am completely honoured, of course, that you would take your time to talk to me—of all the fine people here! But I really…really need to…" She trailed off, looking chagrined.

Check.

"I completely understand, young Lelouch." Clovis told her sympathetically. "I will only keep you here for but a moment longer. In truth, there is something pressing I need to speak to you about."

Oh?

"I am at your disposal, my prince."

He rested his chin on his hand, smiling indulgently. "I noticed that game just now. With the Viscount Echlin? It was a stunning victory for you, lad." He congratulated lightly.

His eyes shone then with an almost anticipatory gleam. "But I noticed something rather peculiar. That move you made, with your king piece, what exactly was that?"

And what exactly is this, brother? Chess club strategy meeting?

"A mere feint, your highness." She responded sheepishly. "I didn't exactly mean anything with it."

The sheer disappointment on Clovis' face at her words took her completely by surprise. "But there must be something to it, right? Some real value in that move? Right?" He nearly begged her, his eyes wild and dilated.

She hesitated to answer. On one hand, she could tell him and he would use that knowledge in whatever nefarious affair he was up to; or she could withhold her answer, feign ignorance and risk his wrath.

The former then, she chose resignedly, after all, what harm can Clovis cause with a little chess knowledge? Surely no more than he and Britannia had already done to Japan and the Japanese.

"There is no real value in leading with the king piece in chess." She began carefully. "No chess value, that is. First, it goes against the principle priority of ensuring the king's safety that is in turn the opponent's primary objective to jeopardise. And second, the king piece is nothing more than a glorified pawn; it isn't powerful like the queen, it isn't versatile like the bishop or the rook, and it isn't unpredictable like the knight."

Lelou drew a breath and continued, her raptly listening brother hanging on to her every word. "But chess is more than simply a game on the board. It's a game between two people." And two armies one day, if I get my way. "In the first half of the game, I allowed Lord Hamish to believe that he had the upper hand even as I began setting up his downfall. I made a few seemingly illogical moves here and there, and he ate up the whole charade from the palm of my hand."

She smiled coolly and held a palm outstretched. "And when I taunted him with my king, that only cemented the victory in his mind. Still, Lord Hamish is a person. And there would always be a nagging sense of doubt at the back of his mind asking 'why'. Why move in such a suicidal manner? the voice would ask uncertainly. A voice at the back of his mind that would grow louder and louder as his pieces and plans started falling apart. At which point he would become utterly convinced." She abruptly curled her fingers into a fist. "That moving the king must have been some mysterious ultimate move."

She let that sink into him.

Eventually her brother smiled wonderingly. "So you did tell me true. It really was a feint, after all."

"Exactly."

Clovis leaned into his chair and burst into peals of genuine laughter, the kind where the eyes crinkled up at the edges and too much teeth were shown. Lelou stared, amazed that her image-conscious brother would show such an inelegant sight to a relative stranger.

He sobered after a while, as if realising something. His loss of dignity perhaps, she sniped uncharitably.

Oddly enough, her brother started staring blankly into space. "But that doesn't answer anything in the end." He muttered morosely to himself.

Lelou was in turn beginning to feel a little out of her depth with her brother's strange mood-swings. Not to mention… if I really were under curfew, Clovis, mother would have been boxing my ears by now, she thought snippily.

Honestly, what part of 'at the stroke of midnight' do you not get from my little Cinderella story?

She decided to act decisively now while his guard was down. "My prince…forgive me. Truly. But well…it's just that, the time…" She trailed off looking decidedly forlorn.

Her brother finally looked her way, his expression inexplicably worn and tired. "Yes… yes, indeed. Forgive me, Lelouch. You answered my question perfectly, 'tis true. You told me why you led with the king, and it truly was a most fascinating insight. But…" He sighed.

But…?!

If she could, Lelou would have leapt from her seat and throttled her wishy-washy brother.

Out with it! she wanted to scream.

"Yes?" She inquired evenly instead.

Clovis looked at her plaintively. "Why must the King lead?"

Scratch the former idea. She wanted to leap from her seat, throttle him, and then have him hung, quartered and drawn.

"Perhaps, my prince, that is a question for the philosophers?" She said pleasantly. "That sounded very much like a discussion of the social contract theory."

Her brother disagreed vehemently. "No, no! In chess! Why must the King lead in chess?"

"And what is wrong with interpreting chess along the lines of real-world philosophies?" She countered coolly. "Chess is after all the struggle of life writ small. Why should not all the ingredients of life—whether they be human nature like with Lord Hamish or ideas like 'why the king must lead'—be present when one plays a game of life's struggle?"

She remarked wryly. "Even makes chess a more lively affair, in my opinion. Now…" She stood up and bowed reverently "I'm afraid I really must go, your highness. I hope I was of service to you."

She turned to leave, a grin fighting to break free from her control.

"Wait!" Clovis called out, his voice oddly panicked.

Wait? WAIT?!

"You haven't told me yet! Why must the King lead?"

Lelou turned and faced him, her strained half-smile almost sardonic as she told him. "Well, if he doesn't lead then how can his subordinates follow?"

She nodded perfunctorily at her stunned brother and beat a brisk, hasty retreat.

April 2010 a.t.b.

Six years before

He remained sceptical. "And that little stunt with the king piece?"

Her eyes brightened. Purple, purple amethyst eyes. "It's something big brother Schneizel said the other day that inspired that move." She confided to her suddenly unamused brother.

Clovis grimaced inwardly. It was always like this. It always came down to 'oooh-big-brother-Schneizel-said-this' and 'big-brother-Schneizel-said-that'. He seethed resentfully. Why couldn't she be impressed with him for a change?

"He said…" The child continued, blithely oblivious to his unspoken bitterness. "That the king must always lead, else how can he expect his subordinates to follow?"

Lelou grinned. "But then I told him, it should really be 'else how can she expect her subordinates to follow, right?'" She laughed gaily at her own ten-year-old cleverness. "Tell me that isn't the wittiest thing you've heard all day!"

15th March 2016 a.t.b

The day of

Clovis sat rooted to his seat in bewilderment, his eyes staring holes into the marble flooring of the club in disbelief.

That time… she said… -he- said… but that boy…that 'Lelouch Lamperouge'… could it be? But then…that would mean she's…

He looked up wildly, realising something with a start. He's gone! -She's- gone!

His breaths came in short, shallow gasps of agitation as he approached an emotion close to hysteria.

He cannot lose her again. He just cannot.

"G-guards…" He whispered breathlessly. "Guards." He tried again, ineffectually wheezing out his call.

Calm yourself, Clovis!

He drew deep breaths in an effort to steady his wildly pounding heart.

"Guards!" He finally screamed, his Royal Guard swarming in at their master's call.

"That boy. Lelouch Lamperouge. I want him brought to me." He stood up trembling as he feverishly commanded his loyal men.

"Alive and unharmed."

To be continued...