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25 February 2009 @ 03:03 am
Sonnets: The Burial of the Dead [Lelouch x Euphemia] [Suzaku x Euphemia]  
Title: Sonnets: The Burial of the Dead
Pairing: Lelouch x Euphemia; Suzaku x Euphemia
Fandom: Code Geass Lelouch of the Rebellion
Genre: Tragedy, Angst
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,408

Warning: This is so wrong.

Sonnets: The Burial of the Dead

"My love is as a fever, longing still…"


Kings rise and fall
And princes come taking their place
Carrying out delegations (splicing hearts one, two, and all)
They become the fathers in name, in face
In the world, they conquer
And to the world, they lie—they smiled
Sucked and entrenched, a thousand miles past err
Remade, rekindled, (reviled)
These are the princes born and sworn
To take swift, ride fast, and burn out vengeance
To jar hemispheres and limbs asunder, a-torn
Only to be marked heedless as dark, dismal legends
And when these noble-sneering princes rest
The world will laugh and kindly swears them best.

—Sonnet VCII

When they were young and the world was not wrapped in torrents of disorder and disgust (when she was still alive), he played as her knight and her prince. He roamed over meadows and across streams, light and spry, and shouldered the burden of love split two.

One, he brought flowers (and the other premature disease and death). From deep-sought insincerity—blinded and folded and bent to become the genuine, the golden, the grotesque—he smiles at the other and apologized. And meant every word.

There were no more flowers to be picked.

And so, she believed because it was the virtuous thing to do, because that was who she is, because she wanted to have faith. And like flies to honey, her legs become sticky, her arms pinioned, and body slammed into a crevice into the hive.

"Lelouch, Lelouch," Euphie chanted his name, arms open and eager and waiting.

Lelouch,—and hyacinths droop and roses tip, curl in preconceived loops

By the villa (where his mother gazed on cheerfully), he ceased pretenses and rubbed raw his guard. Here, he took Euphie with the left and Nunnally by the right. And sometimes, they quarreled and fought aimlessly over who will marry him.

He scowled and shouted, and they chased relentlessly. Followed him over the meadows and across the steams, into every corner and motionless moment. Everywhere, he saw pink and yellow, two blurs just below the horizon, just past his line of sight.

. . .

Summer is the pitiless state, talking in tongues and breeding hate.

Summer is the barren land, holding under hours and striking misery.

Summer is the dry waste, beautiful in bounty and rising late.

In the summer they were young, Euphemia celebrated her birthday, and Lelouch felt a nasty sensation trickling down. And had an awful feeling—premonition—that summer was a season too cruel and ill.

(The hyacinths turn their heads in the height of summer, freshly dead petals cover the ground as matted, holy sanctuary.)

In the summer they were old, Euphemia died in surprise.

But still, Lelouch's mind wandered back to the villa and the country and all the fields (and all the things he wished he had a chance to say.)


Say not that a lady did massacred
Say not she stole their love and swore as her own
Believe true past deeds done as sacred
Believe true in crimson days and nights she trembled alone
Her mind stilted, sullied, and sullen
Convinced so nor fate nor desire nor ire
Can ever break her name brandished as villain
No painless, white—the consuming fire
As all part of a grander, grandiose scheme
She becomes naught but a vicious ideal
Out of ashes birthed a deadly, selfish dream
For the lady lays down her hand to reveal
A sacrifice hidden underneath
The funeral pyre and grieving wreath.

—Sonnet LVII

She had a death wish coming, he reasoned it out.

She knew he was Zero but continued ruthlessly, for her own regime, for her own victory. Lelouch had it figured it, had it fragmented and compartmentalized so not to forget (so not to be persuaded).

Euphemia talked of equality and peace and of a nation of two living as one. (Lelouch scoffed.) She was an idealist with no common sense, impractical and destined to be used. And so, it felt so damn righteously good (wrong) to blacken her name and gain himself a new vantage point.

And when he shot her (stupid) she stared at him with her big, lovely eyes asking: why why why? Why did she die, why did he shoot.

And he nearly said: it was inevitable (and then remembered that she was already gone).

And it was a shame that she was taken. He would have been "merciful" (the word tasted like soot). He would have carried her body home. He would have given her The Burial of the Dead. The bells would have tolled—for whom they did, for her.

And finally, she would understand. She would see it perfectly clear, in hindsight, in his sight. She would have wanted this.

But it wasn't right, for them, to call her that: The Massacre Princess. She wasn't a massacre, she was a symbol—

which he exploited.

As he did everything else.

. . .

Aboard the Avalon, nimble surgical hands bandaged her down and stuck needles all over her body. They (sterilized, shrewd physicians and nurses) injected her with medications and life-feeding fluids. He begged them to save her, and they vowed they would.

(Even Lloyd stood aside remarkably quiet and uncharacteristically obedient.)

So, when they allowed him inside (after telling him she will die), he thought for a moment it must be a horrifying, gutless joke. She looked so serene, so content, like she was just asleep. Pressing gloved hands against glass, Suzaku pleaded and bargained, thinking she will be fine.

That this was all a big mistake, confusion, not a massacre.

That Euphie will lift her head and smile at him and tell him how she will change the world (even though they both knew she never could).

Air stiffened and floors shook, but her body relaxed and became immobile.

. . .

Lelouch discovered the hard way that CC was not particularly comforting. She tried her best, and he took it. But when Nunnally asked about Euphie, nothing else mattered anymore.

He twisted his mouth, contorted minds and breaths, and expelled a child's lie. And Nunnally believed him, just like he predicted. He told her something tragic had happened to Euphie (so we can't see her anymore). Nunnally nodded wisely—sympathetically.

She reached over and wrapped her wispy arms around his neck (felt so different from CC's calm embrace). And Lelouch—desperate, frantic, hellish—held her tight to forget. Like a narcotic effect, she dragged him down into false, gratifying ease.

Tranquilized, materialized (an apparition carried over from the sewers of blood), he inhaled through her hair (cast down in drapes) and barely, nearly thought of impervious and nil. And maybe, just once, he could pretend. And perhaps, he could resurrect Euphie if only for a moment.

(Nunnally shivered as cold, snippy wind cut across her bare and empty chest.)

Lelouch smiled darkly and knew everything was all right again.


Dull is an evening meekly spent
Without dulled aching rust wine
And long-cast profound, just lament
As a poet would sit (tricked) to pen a line
A heathen lord unsheathe his sinning scythe
Contrasted the tipsy pair stumbling to a mirror
Bereft of ink or blade or of any sound device
They feast on natural vainglorious valor
For their lusted banes one and the same
One bedazzled of all soothing, rolling wit
And the other having forfeit a cunning game
And now their eyes narrowed in gruesome slits
Rough but unnerved they wallow in lecherous night
Having been hacked and lost all high sight.

—Sonnet LIV

He is overjoyed to find Suzaku pointing a gun at his head. If he marks and intends to be accurate, Suzaku will never miss. But Lelouch is clever too and has a furtive weapon enshrouded by his cloak.

One shot and they all explode and die.

Suzaku is no fool, recognizes that the stakes are momentous and monumental, and that one fatal move means instantaneous combustion. He shifts his stance (so slight Lelouch almost did not catch it). His heart pounds and his mind rages: Euphie died because of him.

But Suzaku does not have the courage (folly) to pull back trigger.

And before the verge of convergence of reprisal of zenith (of reprieve), one spins a fairytale and the other nightmare. And both in thinking he is right, the gun blasts and sends both straight to hell.

(Where there is no more Euphie.)

songs of the cynical: coffeerosael on March 1st, 2009 10:50 am (UTC)
So wrong, yet so right. I love it. Your style is very unique, in a good way. It just flows so perfectly. I wish I could get my writing to do that, but until I can, I'll just settle for my half-formed ideas.
Y U no auto-translate?lye_tea on March 1st, 2009 11:12 am (UTC)
*blushes* Thank you so much. ^^;;
songs of the cynicalrosael on March 1st, 2009 11:14 am (UTC)
No problem. The sonnets are especially beautiful, by the way.
Y U no auto-translate?lye_tea on March 1st, 2009 11:17 am (UTC)
I got really inspired after reading a massive load of John Donne. :3