Work Text:
Twelve days before Lelouch's life ended, the king was reading a storybook to a little girl.
Jeremiah's daughter was four years old and full of energy, shielded from the ugliness of the world around her by a child's imagination and an unquestioned certainty that her parents would love her endlessly and ward off all harm. Lady Gottwald had divorced her husband after his disgrace in order to keep her own reputation, but she would not deprive him of time with his child after so many days spent apart. And she doubtlessly believed that retaining the favor of the eccentric and cruel Emperor would protect them all. They had arrived at the new palace in the night, escorted through the tunnels and bomb shelters nestled underneath the homeland's second-largest city.
And so Annette Gottwald was here, reveling in the presence of the most reviled man on earth, entirely oblivious to his reputation. Or maybe she'd simply decided that his reputation didn't matter, as long as he was kind to her. Children had their own moral codes, growing muddled and cloudy only with time.
Charlotte's Web was the story of the day, as it had been yesterday and the day before, and Suzaku knew that Lelouch must love the girl because he'd balked at the book as a child. The princeling had been terrified of spiders, despite his loud insistence otherwise; he would inform Nunnally of the beneficial properties of arachnids while flinching at the sight of a centimeter-wide crawling thing. Suzaku had watched Lelouch pale as a bug on the wall scattered off to places unseen—perhaps under a table, or under his pillow. Witnessing the sad spectacle, Suzaku had taken on the role of the storage shack's official spider-killer so that Lelouch could get some sleep at night. He had never been asked to take the job, nor was he ever thanked for completing it. It was, in his mind, just something he was meant to do.
Lelouch was probably holding the girl in his lap, letting her look at the book's pictures, trace the lines of the web with her tiny hands. He would act out the story with his body, jutting up his knees when a character jumped in surprise, tapping his fingers as the spider moved, a vestige of the days he'd spent helping Nunnally see without her eyes. His contacts were in, his hair probably messy from removing his hat, his immaculately-pressed robes wrinkled. There may have been a cup of tea and a plate of cornbread beside them, both gone cold; he would not risk the pages of the book becoming stained or crumb-filled. Faint crackling sounds suggested that the fireplace was lit but dimming. Suzaku was not sure; he could not see the room. He was standing in silence outside the solar, his breathing quiet. If Lelouch heard him, the story would have to end, and the work would have to resume. These breaks in the play, these rare and gentle interludes, existed only as long as the reaper stayed away from them. It was his role to end things.
There was no pressing need for Suzaku's presence. Jeremiah had wanted to speak with his former wife, but Suzaku could have demanded he remain in place and guard his king and child; he would have happily accepted the order. Instead Suzaku let him go, insisting that he could watch over the solar in his absence. It had been self-serving generosity. He wanted these memories—these quiet moments, these traces of the boy he had loved. Even if the memories could only be muffled voices, the sound of pages turning, a child's questions, it would be enough to keep the chill from settling into his bones.
Softness was not an emotion that Lelouch was meant to allow himself to indulge in these days. He was to play his role as the iron-hearted ruler until the end, purging himself of hesitation and gentleness. But there were some things that were too deeply ingrained in him to tear out, things that would remain until the blood ran from his corpse. To the end of his life, Lelouch would find solace in caring for someone else. And to the end of his name, Suzaku would find solace in that distant warmth.
If he did not prod Lelouch forward, they would remain frozen in place forever. There was so much work to be done, so much to be broken apart and remade, so many plans to finalize and bodies to burn. Suzaku could not allow them to stop halfway on the road to a new beginning. But it was hard to resist the urge to look behind him, to remember what they were giving up. Lelouch cuddled beside Nunnally, a weak bulb their only light, reading the book she'd half-finished before her sight had vanished. The three of them, dressed in old rags and his aunt's clothes, playing Alice in Wonderland. Suzaku on the grass, just before the planes arrived, falling asleep as he listened to Lelouch tell the story of Frodo sailing away from home and leaving Sam behind.
His Majesty had ensured that Lady Gottwald and her daughter would forget every moment they spent with him behind the palace walls. Soon they would recall a stranger's face smiling at them, a servant's voice reading to them, the king an imposing figure glimpsed only from afar. This fragile thing could only remain with Suzaku, one last and precious burden to carry on the lonesome road ahead.
The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last for ever, said the voice on the other side of the wall. It was nearly noon. There was business to attend to. If the king did not finish soon, Suzaku would have to open the door. Worlds would be changed, deaths would be avenged, and he wished they had more time.