thekingsgambit | IC: Dreampostin~

[Seems a bit surprised himself and then laughs a little.]

Ah? Mother is only going to confuse elder sister more like this. Elder sister Cornelia is much higher than that. She's become a captain.

Captain?

No, no, no Lelouch— you're thinking much too far ahead. Though I suppose it's to be expected. You were such a dear little boy before, and then afterward... well! Let's just say that it's little wonder you made such a careless mistake.

Afterward? Mother, I don't understand what you're saying.

It's neither here nor there, sweetheart.

[Cranes her neck a little to look behind them, and smiles more broadly.]

Cornelia's gift has arrived. I'm sure she'll be more than glad to share it with you.

Mother?

Edited 2010-08-23 05:12 (UTC)

[Grabs Lelouch's arm.]

Come, Lelouch, we must—

[No.

Where once the siblings were draped in flowers, they're now restricted by heavy chains that slowly tighten around their necks. If either would turn, they'd see their elder brother holding one end of each chain in each hand, stepping backward away from them, his expression entirely devoid of emotion, but perhaps neither does, leaving the sight of Marianne's body being riddled with bullets the last they see before slipping into the darkness of unconsciousness.]

[When Lelouch recovers, he will find that the reception hall has been cleared of all its guests and clutter, with the exception of the dead Marianne and a scattering of bullets and shells, the still-unconscious Cornelia now chained to the floor, and the large chandelier that conceded its spotlight and now casts the entire room in an equal white-light glow. In the immeasurable time that passed since the party, the room has filled with a thin, pink and gray ash that further mottles the marble floor and twists with dust into cobwebs that hang like streamers from the ceiling, the thickest of which extend from the chandelier to the grand entrance doors which are held open by an invisible force.]

[The sight of his mother prone on the ground, blood pouring underneath her body forces a horrified scream from the child. Too much in shock to rise to his feet, he scrambles back from the corpse, still on his backside. His eyes search frantically for another soul in the room and when they finally find the unconscious Cornelia, he nearly throws himself at her body, pleading with her to wake up.]

[She doesn't stir; not even the speed of her breathing changes.]

[He shakes her again, several times more, screaming about how Mother needs help, how she's hurt, about the blood. His tears are making it ever harder to see anything. At last, realizing she can't help him either, he pulls away from her, with a miserable hiccuping sound. Taking one last frightened look around the room, he runs out of it as fast as he can, finding the double doors unlocked. Still screaming for help, he spills out in the massive hall.]

[The hallway is empty and dark; somehow, the light from the reception hall doesn't spill past the doorway and the ash is likewise contained.

There is nothing to Lelouch's left but a rudimentary wall; to his right, the hallway seems to extend infinitely and is lined with mismatched doors on either side, each with a small candle-lit torch between them. The first door — a double — is pale stone and sits beneath a carved stone frame that's a little lighter than black. There's an iron knocker on the right side, just high enough for little hands to reach.]

[He continues calling out, as he stretches toward the knocker, rapping it desperately against the door.]

[There is no answer; there is no lock either.]

[Too distraught to notice the oddness of an unlocked door in the palace, he grabs at the door handles, his hands nearly slipping off their cool surface as he struggles to turn them. He's shaking terribly, as he tries to control his fear enough to manage the doors and yank them open.]

FATHER!

[The door opens to Charles's library, except now the maze of bookshelves has been broken to create a clear path to the central reading area. Charles sits there, slumped over his desk with a pile of books beside him. A smaller chair has been placed opposite of him and there's a small serving table nearby, empty but for a pair of saucers and teacups.

This room isn't silent; rather, the intercom beside the door plays this communication on constant repeat:

Here are the volumes you requested, Your Majesty. I was unable to speak with His Imperial Highness Lelouch vi Britannia, but have made arrangements with the Empress Marianne vi Britannia for His Highness to be sent to your private quarters two hours past dinner. Please anticipate his arrival.]

Father! You have to come right away! Mother's --

[His plea cuts short, as he observes the way his father is positioned, so unlike anything Lelouch has ever seen. Fear and shock steal his voice, as he creeps toward the desk. When Charles shows no reaction to his approach, he lifts a trembling hand to grab his arm...]

Father...

[Lelouch might feel his father's body tensing first at the touch, or maybe he'll notice the immediate drop in his temperature, or, perhaps most likely, he'll not have the chance to consider either at all as Charles's body begins to emit a sickening wheezing noise as it contracts and shrivels away.

This happens in the span of ten seconds.

Then the wheezing stops. The body, unrecognizable now, snaps backward — too far backward, and perhaps Lelouch will pick up on the significance of the cracking sound made, or perhaps again, he won't have the chance as his father's body combusts beneath his hand.]

[Shrieking this time, he runs from the now empty chair, tripping over himself and falling to the floor, the recording still echoing in the open room. He picks himself up again with difficulty -- his sobs are making it impossible to hold steady -- and races toward the doors. His scream rising in pitch, he slams his small body against them, desperate to get out now, to prove none of this is really happening.]

[Moves in silently from behind one of the bookshelves, and begins collecting what little he can of their father's remains.]

[The door is — was — made of stained glass, so instead of opening from the force of Lelouch's body, it shatters. The resulting spray of glass simply disappears as Lelouch tumbles into the room.

Three walls are lined roof-to-floor with family portraits; the fourth is full-windowed and opens onto the central gardens. Though the sun is at its mid-day brightest outside, the room itself is dimly lit by a lone floorlamp in the corner. An easel is set up in that same corner; its canvas might seem empty at first glance, but there is a faint sketch penciled onto it of a little boy and a smaller girl. Strewn across the entire floor are photographs of those children, some including their mother, some including their father, others including their half-sisters and half-brothers, but most featuring Lelouch and Nunnally alone together in a wide array of candid scenes.

A human figure lays buried beneath them.]

[A bit shaken by the sound of shattering glass that is apparently nowhere around him, he looks up, taking in the whole of the new room. But his wide-eyed gaze instantly focuses when it reaches his older brother Clovis, lying as still as the others had been. He hesitates to run up to him, remembering what happened to his father. What if this is all a horrible dream? But what if his father was fake and Clovis is real right now? He has to know.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he moves cautiously toward the body -- his gaze sometimes going absently toward the surrounding pictures -- and kneels down. He reaches out to touch the side of the other boy's head, pushing away some golden hair...]

[Lelouch won't feel the drop in Clovis's temperature; as soon as his fingertips brush against the other boy's forehead, a heavy stream of thick, warm blood begins to pour from the the point of impact, spilling over Lelouch's hand.

Clovis's colour isn't all that fades with the blood. He appears to age one year, two year, three years, too fast, too much for it to be the result of pallor and death-sagged skin or even an overactive imagination.

It has been but ten seconds again. And Clovis is no longer a lively boy of fourteen, but a twenty-three-year-old's corpse, whose face is frozen in a look of pure terror.

Not one of the photos has been spared from his spilt blood.]

[He yanks back his hand, with a strangled cry. The smell of blood is thick throughout the room, giving him a dizzying nausea, as he backs away from the body in painstakingly slow steps. Nothing makes sense anymore, not the gore around him or the suddenly aged form of his murdered brother.

The next thought that hits him nearly thrusts the air from his chest.]

Nunnally!

[He spins around, looking for any other way out of this room.]

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