Chapter Text
Kendra had been right – it cost Suzaku a great deal of money to cross the ocean back to Britannia anonymously. He tried not to think about it; tried not to torture himself with thoughts of those he'd left behind, and those he was returning home to. It was an obscenely long flight, dumping him on the east coast for a few hours before the final leg. Suzaku didn't sleep a wink the entire time. He was simply going through the motions, doing what needed to be done. The vague wish for a weapon to field clean, just to occupy his time, dogged him, but instead contented himself with scribbling little doodles in the corners of brochures. By the time he landed the next day before seven AM, AIA was densely crowded, and it was easy to slip through, simply another body in the stream of humanity coming and going. First priority was getting to the nearest safe house he'd established in the sprawling new royal capital.
It was a bit of a misnomer to call them safe houses – they were bolt holes, with the basics tucked away should anything go awry. It was a practice he'd observed from Rivalz. Although, in those days, they'd been stocked with candy, comic books, and cash, as the man had fancied himself perpetually twelve years old. Now, Suzaku's versions were very different things altogether, yet the spirit of hidden safety remained the same.
He hailed a cab, hopping into the first one that pulled up to the curb. After fifteen minutes, Suzaku departed outside a diner, where he entered as if to grab a quick cup of coffee. Instead, he casually strode through like he was going to the bathroom before ducking into the kitchen and making a quick sprint out the back. The cook, underpaid and harried with the breakfast rush, didn't even notice when he dashed by. It opened to an alley that still dimly stank of the trash that had been picked up earlier that morning, the faint waft of urine and rot still relatively manageable. It wouldn't be after a few hours of brutal summer sun, but for now, Suzaku ignored it, switching out his black ball cap for a pair of sunglasses, slipping out of his windbreaker, reversing it, and tying it around his waist by the sleeves.
Even as he went about these changes, he never stopped walking, emerging from the alley now in a navy t-shirt, his bag hefted over his shoulder instead of dangling from his left hand. Idly, Suzaku thought Aurora would be proud, knowing that this sort of subterfuge is exactly what she would employ in such a situation, then winced as a lance of pain and longing shot through him with the crack of a whip, leaving him stinging and dazed. Marshalling himself and reestablishing the stride he'd allowed to falter, he pushed onward, hailing another cab and directing the driver to Creston Avenue. His face didn't change, but he was glad for the shield of his glasses – it took him a moment to bundle away thoughts of Aurora, the hope that she was alright, the regret, the guilt, the yearning. Later, he told himself. He'd deal with it later. Now, he had to focus on getting into the palace with the least possible stir. That particular splash was to be reserved for the court, malicious gossipers that they were. Anything less than a splashy return would be out-of-character for Zero, and he was nothing if not dedicated to the role he had to play.
As distracted as he was, it took Suzaku a moment for his eyes to land on the back of the driver's seat, where a month-old newspaper had been folded and tucked into the pocket. Suzaku nearly dismissed it, until a word drew his eye. Once he reached out and unfolded it, he could only stare at the broad, bold headline.
This was impossible. How could he have allowed this to happen? Why in God's name had she done this?
EMPRESS CHOOSES A KNIGHT
In the midst of Zero's suspicious absence, Empress Nunnally selects Sir Tritus Phillips, a foreign-born half-Britannian, to act as her personal Knight
Below was a grainy picture of Nunnally on what he recognized as the Gold Balcony at the palace, a fresh-faced, painfully young boy standing next to her, his dark hair ruffled by the breeze or restless fingers – it was hard to say. He looked to be around the same age as Nunnally, but Suzaku saw nothing but a child.
It was only when the paper began to rattle that he realized his hands were shaking. It took several swallows before he could manage to speak.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice barely noticeable over the sound of the animalistic traffic the cabbie was scuttling through.
"Yeah?" he responded carelessly, obviously irritated at being distracted from his downright heroic efforts to get them through traffic as quickly as possible, with little regards to their general safety. Suzaku held up the paper so that it could be seen in the rear view mirror.
"Is this…?"
"Crazy shit, huh? Guess when one boyfriend vanished, she just picked a new one. Old news, now, though. Wonder if the honeymoon has worn off yet."
Suzaku just silently slumped back against the worn seat that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and sweat.
Oh, God. What had he done?
Kendra had gotten the call yesterday – it had been Aurora, sounding like some robot running low on battery, informing her mechanically that she and Ban were heading out tonight, and would be back in England by tomorrow. She'd take care of a few things, get the house shut up before she headed out. No room for questions or concerns; she only answered that Suzaku had gone home, and it was time for her to leave Ireland as well.
It was the first time Aurora had ever hung up on her. Kendra didn't like it.
Not one bit.
All that evening, she was tense and distracted, snarling at Chandler at the slightest provocation. When he snapped back as to what her problem was, Kendra laid into her husband like a hormonal claymore. She couldn't say if she was really angry with Chandler, but he was the only place for her to direct her pained, impotent anger. Cute bloody couple, huh? Aurora sounded soulless and shattered, even as she tried to avoid sounding like exactly what she was; Suzaku had taken off back to the country where someone wanted him dead to take up a mantle that was killing him. But, no, of course they should get all mushy over each other, even though it was breaking her best friend's heart, because they were adorable. She fumed, even as Chandler looked a little deflated.
But he refused to stay that way. Eventually, he wound Kendra down, reminding her who exactly they were dealing with. Dammit, these two could take a hit, could roll with the punches with the best of them, if not better. Maybe all they needed was a little faith.
But that faith was in short supply when Aurora walked through the door the next morning. Ban trailed behind her, and any impartial observer would see absolutely nothing wrong. Aurora looked fit and strong, balanced and capable. Even the dog appeared delighted to be home.
For Kendra and Chandler, though, the change was jarring. The Aurora they'd seen in Ireland was country comfort and flashing smiles, dancing eyes and easy charm. The woman who stood in the kitchen, however, was another creature altogether.
What had once been soft flannel and loose jeans was now a military-grade olive jacket and tan cargos. Hiking boots had been traded for combat boots, and the long golden spills of her hair were now restrained in a tight bun high on her skull that made Aurora appear even more feline. Even more dangerous. Everything gentle and open she'd been in Ireland had been traded for sharp edges and distant eyes, and it hit her friends like a blow to the gut with its dangerous familiarity. She looked ready for a war-zone, which, inarguably, London had the potential to shift back into. But it wasn't just the way she dressed.
It was the way she carried herself, straight and forbidding as she strode in like a general, smiling her greetings with a touch of reserve as she set down her bags, hesitating a little and pulling away quickly from the married couple's welcoming embraces. Her expression was bright, as always, but her eyes were as flat as cold, frosted metal. Apparently, Suzaku wasn't the only one who'd left Ireland to return to a mask, one that hid emotions and vulnerabilities with such succinct grace, it was downright disturbing. Except Aurora's mask was her own skin, and that unnerving ability of hers to hide what writhed inside from manifesting even in her eyes.
It was a galling realization that Aurora wasn't ready for war; she was already fighting one. And by the looks of her, it was only a matter of time before she lost.
"It must be said that Lord Zero's support would be invaluable in these trade agreements."
Nunnally gave what she considered a valiant effort to avoid grinding her teeth in a visible, unsightly manner. Instead, she slowly drew a calm breath through her nose before turning her attention to the viscount that had spoken.
"Lord Zero's support is always invaluable, Viscount Cavanaugh, but to my recollection, he has never been particularly interested or well-versed in trade agreements."
"But his face and name mean something," the nobleman persisted. Nunnally wanted to tell them that the reality was, none of these over-groomed power-mongers knew Zero's true face or name, so who were they to barter with it? But that would gain her nothing except a whole new slew of problems. The current overwhelming tide was plenty. Before she could continue, however, a new voice weighed in on the issue.
"Empress Nunnally's face and name mean more, however. I find it both bizarre and tiring that the court insists on the approval from a phantom when the Empress's final say is the only one that really matters. Especially considering the work she's done to stabilize the EU and strengthen our ties."
Nunnally glanced out of the corner of her eye at Tritus, her Knight. So earnest, she thought was a warm, internal sigh. So eager to protect every aspect of her. That kind of dogged loyalty, once so familiar to Nunnally, was the characteristic that had initially drawn her eye.
Jesus, Suzaku thought to himself as he logged into the palace's coms and cued into the exchange in the Audience Chamber, making his way through the old servant's passages. They had been his preferred method of moving about the palace when he wanted to do so without attention. Either this new knight of Nunnally's is an infant, or an idiot.
Zero's endorsement was the closest thing to a guarantee this current political climate had to offer; the public adored him, and foreign powers respected his history of unpredictability and capacity for mayhem. The Britannian court had become accustomed to easy wins, at least in matters that both Nunnally and Zero supported. The prospect of actually struggling for motions that the Empress was behind proved to be something that both unnerved and divided them.
Which was exactly what he was supposed to prevent, and was spectacularly failing at. Suzaku quickened his pace, adjusting his gloves and telling himself, over and over, that the mask wasn't stifling. He'd been wearing the thing for three years now; he should be more than used to it. But a tiny part of his brain, screaming and wailing, didn't want to wear it anymore. Didn't want to play this game anymore. He just wanted to go home. Coming to an abrupt halt as his knees started to shake, his breath stalling in his lungs, Suzaku suddenly slammed the side of a black-clad fist against the wall, sending a fine misting of dust drifting down, winking in the cold lights like distant stars.
"This is your home, goddammit," he muttered, jolting, then a little sickened, at the sound of Lelouch's voice speaking his words. His masks were built with the capacity to overlay the original Zero's vocal tones onto the words Suzaku spoke. Zero's voice was very distinctive, after all, and Lelouch had mercilessly accounted for all possibilities when planning his requiem. In that respect, Aurora was similar to her late sibling.
"Just let it go," Suzaku continued in a forced whisper. Finally, he straightened, drawing back his shoulders and readjusting his waistcoat. As he resumed his quick stride, Suzaku tuned back in to the conversations in the Audience Chamber, dismayed to find the level of veiled hostility rapidly rising. Breaking into a run, he raced to his destination.
Schneizel had stepped in, effectively defusing the volatile situation this boy Tritus had so easily ignited. However, his appearance sparked new outrage – it was well known that Schneizel served Zero with unparalleled loyalty. The fact that neither he nor his half-sister deigned to honestly answer the question of Zero's location was starting to grate. So much so, new theories were beginning to find voice with dangerous implications.
"Perhaps his continued absence is a sign, Empress. Perhaps Zero no longer allies himself with you, or this court."
Interesting how quickly they'd dropped his honorary title, one Nunnally had given him years ago to cement his status as her advisor, when his loyalty was doubted. Suzaku could practically see the slight curl to Schneizel's lip at the rising waves of dissent. Questioning Zero's loyalty, after all, was tantamount to questioning his own.
"Perhaps he's betrayed us!"
"Gone on to a higher bidder!"
"Such an ambiguous creature could never be trusted!"
"The blow to Britannia could be immense!"
"He's done too much damage in the past to be trusted as a rogue entity!"
"Either he must be brought to heel, or put down!"
"Enough!" Schneizel's command wasn't a bark, but it did lull the tide for a moment, cutting through the frantic anger that was building, this hallowed chamber of discourse rapidly becoming the scene of a mob. His word sliced through the tension, bringing every eye to his tall form.
"Zero maintains his loyalty to Empress Nunnally, and always will. It is not for you to call his motives into such question – our Empress's faith should be our own." Instead of killing the burgeoning frenzy, however, Schneizel's words fanned the sparks into a flame that speared up into a collective roar.
"Then where is he?"
The desperate bellows were abruptly silenced, however, when the doors to Audience Chamber, tall slabs of steel oak harvested over three centuries ago, slammed open, revealing the distinctive sight of Zero, his cloak moving ever so slightly in the backlash of his movement.
The silence was absolute. Every eye turned, locked onto Zero as if magnetized. For he was, indeed, magnetic. As Suzaku began to walk down the aisle, a blue silk runner marking the demarcation between the Ector and Kay political parties, he couldn't help but ponder this effect Zero had on people, even those of the highest rank.
Suzaku had always hated it – how Zero commanded such absolute interest. Objectively, he understood the effect of Zero's status, that of all but a god on earth, power and revolution incarnate. Yet he could never forgive the mask for what it stood for, and what it had done – and Lelouch by extension. The reality of what it represented and what it had actually accomplished were moderate compared to actions taken by others throughout history. People that had admitted their names, whose faces were known. He'd never comprehended why it had appealed to Lelouch so much – why he had decided to build his legacy on a what was essentially a lie.
But he couldn't deny the power of that lie. The power Zero wielded over people by the sheer magnitude of his mystique. It wasn't Suzaku's to own; simply his façade to maintain. But he could admit that he wasn't above using it. As he walked, almost leisurely, towards the Empress, Suzaku came to something of a realization.
His time with Aurora had allowed for introspection, a luxury the likes of which he had never before indulged in. With his newfound perspective, Suzaku couldn't help but be a little… tickled, he supposed, by the awe, the shock, the utter confusion that painted each and every face he passed. He had literally become a human bomb blast upon his return, and as he walked through the stunned fallout, Suzaku almost found it a little funny. He was just a man in a mask, but there was something about this particular mask that made the man that wore it more than just a man. It just so happened that he was the current wearer. He couldn't quite decide if it was ironic, frustrating, or infuriating.
However, he had more pressing concerns. Upon reaching the end of the runner, Suzaku now found himself at the base of the royal dais, three steps leading up to where Nunnally sat, shielded by Schneizel and this boy, Tritus Phillips, at her side. Schneizel, always something of a sphinx, did look a little relieved. Phillips appeared as if he'd just been tased, and then there was Nunnally, resplendent in a wine-red gown and the crown of her office glinting from where it sat amongst her carefully coiffed curls. Her eyebrows were raised a little in surprise, but there was a tiny, gentle smile curling her lips, those giant lavender eyes relieved and ever so slightly misted with tears. Suzaku swallowed as he formally knelt to the only human Zero ever bowed his head to.
"Your Majesty. The reports of my defection have been greatly exaggerated." His words sent an embarrassed ripple, quiet as a traitor's bargain, through the gathered courtiers.
"I can see that. It's good to have you back home, Lord Zero," Nunnally returned gently, her expression warm, like soft sunshine. God, Suzaku had missed her. Suzaku stood, but still respectfully remained at the base of the stairs.
"My time away from court has been… extremely interesting. But I'm glad to return to Aurelius, and to my loyal service at your side, Empress."
She dipped her head in regal acceptance of his words, but he thought he saw a careful relief in her eyes.
"You will always have a place here, Lord Zero."
With that explicit permission, Suzaku mounted the stairs, nodding to Schneizel as he took his usual position to Nunnally's left. As she began addressing a few of the more vocal protestors, Suzaku murmured in Schneizel's ear that they would meet for a briefing shortly. The prince's minute nod of confirmation was like treading old territory.
But there was plenty new here to adjust to. The energy of the room, while mitigated, was still on edge. The courtiers gave him only a moment before a barrage of questions were flung his way. Where had he been, what had he been doing? Why had he been gone so long?
As a unit, Suzaku and Nunnally began setting about easing their fears. The questions he bothered to answer were vague at best, but the fact of his presence alone assuaged much of them. It really took so very little for Zero to hold them in the palm of his hand; there were a few still doggedly concerned about his absence, but by and large, most of them were enthralled. And if he acted like the young knight, now quiet, didn't exist, well. He could handle only so many problems on his already extensive list.
It almost felt like Zero was a star, a sun basking in the gravitational pull he exerted so effortlessly on the planets of people that orbited him. But no, that wasn't quite right, either. Zero was more of a black hole, a non-entity. A force of power so vast, it consumed even the identity of the man that wore the mask, until he devolved into a negative individuality; a mythology so immense, even the collapse in on itself had rocked the world and its moorings.
He'd believed that once. Had felt Suzaku Kururugi's identity being gradually stripped from him, like flesh slowly peeled from bone, sucked away by the demand of Zero's persona. Until that job in London and its life-threatening consequences had flung him free, a comet thrown from its orbit, free-falling through space, unfettered but utterly without support.
Until the gravity of a little, hidden star had snagged him. Had given him direction and purpose, space and time. Nothing short of the cosmic pull of Zero and the responsibilities woven into every stitch of the uniform could have torn him away from that tiny, private universe he and Aurora had built. His hands were cold inside those gloves, but he clutched the warm glow of her star close, sneaking it away safe under his ribs. Felt her in the way he tilted his head, the way he gestured with a certain angle to his wrist.
The bizarre weight of the scenario had him adrift, contemplative. Almost outside of himself. Suzaku realized now that while he had always worn the mask with the stiff, militaristic tendencies that came to him so easily, a defense hefted almost without thought, Lelouch's Zero had been anything but. Teasing, clever, even sexy. He thought of the glitter of Aurora's eyes as she'd run from the grouchy museum curator, the way she'd sparkled as she'd maneuvered a borrowed coin over her dexterous fingers, her intense beauty as she danced. It was like an echo through his blood, a ghostly touch along muscles that moved almost on their own.
Later that evening, some would comment over the change. The way Zero had given most statements with the equivalent of a verbal wink, the shift of his shoulders or the movements of his hands… alluring. Something had changed in the man, and none, not even Suzaku himself, could quite identify what it was. If he had to guess, though, he would point to the influence of a secreted star, shielded more thoroughly by every bulwark and protection he had at his disposal than his own heart.
Which left Suzaku shaky and defenseless. He played it flashy and cheeky, because it was easier than trying to be himself, or what he'd once been, inside the shell of Zero. Because it was Aurora and Lelouch rattling around inside his head as he tried to find a place to stand on this new ground, a way to give life to Zero without compromising everything he'd gained through so much hardship over the last three months.
The teeter-totter of want and need was exhausting, his mental connections strained from being tugged in so many different directions. Even as Suzaku played the role, said all the right things at all the right times, he felt it – just the tiniest shake in his fingertips. He wondered what Kendra would say about that; about the physical manifestation of his weakening control. Time away had gained him much, but had also cost him a great deal. It suddenly seemed so much harder to stay in command, to function without actually feeling. But then, that had never been a strong suit of his to begin with.
It took a while for Suzaku to admit that the tremors in his hands, his legs, hell, even his lungs, weren't going away. He managed as long as he could; he stopped gesturing as he spoke, hiding his hands in the folds of his cloak as they began to visibly tremble. A pressure began to constrict his chest, growing with sinister inevitability, crawling up from his gut like jungles vines. He let Nunnally or Schneizel answer, only stirring himself to respond when he absolutely had to. The memory of the wave of panic that had overtaken him in the tower in Galway swam to the surface, and Suzaku tensed. He couldn't afford that here; he dare not show that kind of weakness.
The sensation built, expanding from Suzaku's chest until blood pounded in his head, muscles straining under the pressure. Every molecule of air in the mask turned to mud, trickling down his throat and flooding his lungs. Breathing suddenly became a near impossible task, and Suzaku mutely struggled to bring his faculties under command, to maintain. But eventually, not even that was enough to preserve his final shreds of control. Suzaku touched Nunnally's shoulder, bending down to murmur quietly in her ear.
"We have much to discuss later."
She glanced at him, searching the blank plate of glass that was his face's proxy. What did she see there, when she gazed at the mask her brother had created? Instead of saying anything, Nunnally just nodded. Fighting in vain to control his escalating breathing, Suzaku straightened, sketching a courtly bow to his audience before turning, exiting the chamber through one of the small side doors reserved for members of the royal family and the staff that served them. As he wasn't the former, Suzaku supposed that he would be considered the latter.
Suddenly without the press of so many eyes, Suzaku's control shattered. He stumbled down the halls, panting furiously, his vision fraying like tattered cloth. Why was it so damn hard to breathe? Finally, he all but fell into an unoccupied office, slamming the door shut and collapsing against the wall, fumbling for the jammer in his pocket that would kill all video and audio feeds in a 5 meter radius. Suzaku's fingers felt like twigs, uncooperative and clumsy as he jabbed the button then frantically worked the catch to the get the mask off. When it finally came loose, Suzaku gasped as he dragged down the face guard and dropped his arms to his side, the mask eventually falling from his numb fingers to the antique carpet with a thud.
His entire body vibrated with panic and stress, his breathing little better than harsh pants. Every nerve felt engulfed in ice, Suzaku's knees all but knocking together. His inhales tasted like charcoal, heavy and dry; sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. Soon it was too much to even stand. Suzaku slid down to the floor, his head tipped back against the wall and his eyes closed as his legs folded like wet paper. The blood screamed in his ears, wild and desperate as a starved animal.
He'd always known, but the gravity of what he'd returned to pressed upon his very bones. It wasn't just his duty to Nunnally; it was the depth of this persona he was required to heft, this suit of armor that weighed so much. Suzaku had to figure out anew how best to stand under such a burden. At the moment, though, it was all he could do just to breathe.
Aurora hadn't even taken the first sip of home-brewed tea when Kendra's cell phone sounded. A dispassionate beep that demanded attention without emotion. Her work phone, then. Too tired to truly dial in, listening with only the most rote of attention, Aurora instinctively stiffened at the expression on the doctor's face when she lowered the phone and suddenly stood. Kendra had gone gray as concrete, her shoulders hardening against the impossible weight that had just descended on them.
"There's been a collapse in the Bones. We're to expect company."
What passed after was a blur of blood and bleats of pain. They'd had not even twenty minutes to prepare before the wounded and the dying descended on the clinic. Aurora resisted the temptation to ask which building had collapsed; a part of her wondered if it was the one she'd seen Suzaku fall through. It didn't matter – the reality of the situation was that the Bones harbored a homeless population that took shelter in the abandoned buildings. One of those structures had suddenly gone down in a scream of metal and a billowing cloud of rock dust, taking seven souls with it in the immediate aftermath.
Two dozen more were injured, ranging from cuts and bruises to broken bones to the old woman with a length of rebar penetrating her all the way through just below the outer left flare of her ribcage. Kendra's was one of the closest clinics to the disaster, and easily the best-outfitted, now that she'd revamped the OR following Suzaku's surgery. The call had been from Dr. Liz Jacobson, a friend and a colleague. She'd been doing volunteer work three blocks away when the building had gone down and, knowing the proximity of Kendra's clinic, had called to give her a heads up.
For a moment, Aurora had just stared at her friend, raw and exhausted. She couldn't do this. She'd couldn't become this, not when she still felt sharp shards at the edges of her mind.
But it didn't matter. Kendra put out the call for her grunts to gather, and between her and Aurora, they prepped the clinic as best they could for the swarm of injured about to rain down on them. Somewhere between snagging gauze from the supplies closet and taking stock of the blood they had on hand for transfusions, Aurora felt a click deep inside her head. It wasn't necessarily good or easy; but it was necessary. Emotional crises were for people with time on their hands, and she was too damn busy to wallow or try to effectively rebuild her brain's barriers. Sometimes, when an attack was too overwhelming, tactical retreat was more viable than a long, drawn-out fight. If her guts ached like she'd been cored out and left to dry, so what? Peoples' lives depended on her; time to get her shit straight.
It could have been worse. But Kendra also acknowledged that it could have been a damn sight better, too. She lost five within the first hour; two hours in, another two followed. By the time the sun set, she was almost relieved to lose another, a teenage girl who'd practically had her brain crushed, but had somehow held on for nearly six hours. The rest ranged from mild injuries already discharged to those too shattered to move but too tough or stubborn to die. She appreciated them, even as she hurt for them.
Aurora, however, was a different story. As a nurse, an assistant, an invaluable third hand, she was without equal. Even elbows deep in blood as one of their patients died, she maintained a cool control that Kendra had only ever seen in trained, experienced professionals. As Aurora had little stock in either qualities when it came to medicine, where, then, did her serene calm in the middle of screams and soul-crushing moans of pain come from?
Even as she depended on it, valued it, Kendra was a little scared of it, too. Something was going on in Aurora's head. Something dangerous and different. She was reluctant to consider what Aurora had sacrificed inside of herself to deal with the chaos they found themselves embroiled in. What she had shut away behind that fortress of a mind in order to function in a role she'd occupied with ease before Suzaku. From prior experience, Kendra knew that there were corners of Aurora's mind utterly inaccessible unless she willingly granted entrance; parts of her impervious to charm or manipulation or logic. Even Chandler, good with people in a way that Kendra envied and could never hope to emulate, could barely get Aurora to let down one or two of her defenses when she wished it otherwise.
Worst of all, though, was that Kendra had seen this before. This disturbing propensity of Aurora's to lock away what hurt the most and function around the edges of it, utterly unwilling to admit any sort of weakness. Fair enough tactics until the sore spot was so infected it broke free and bled anger and pain all over everything in her path, including her well-meaning friends. They'd been here before, and Kendra had so hoped that they'd never tread this road again. So much of her exceptional brain was focused on saving lives, however, she couldn't devote much to the puzzle of her broken-hearted friend and what exactly she could do about it.
Kendra regretted asking – regretted the fact that Aurora had to deal with something of this magnitude so soon after she came home sore and sad. But she'd needed her. Every person that survived today had Aurora's help to thank. The oath she'd taken demanded that she place the sanctity of others' lives above the emotional fragility of her best friend.
But she hated every second of it. And feared just what kind of aftermath this could bring.
By the time Suzaku arrived at Nunnally's office for their promised meeting an hour later, she never would have guessed that he'd survived a panic attack, then meticulously scraped himself back into some semblance of order. After a polite knock, he entered, glancing around at the familiar surroundings. Nunnally's tastes ran to the elegant, antique, and feminine here, the delicately carved cherry desk and soft lavender drapes adding an airy, almost fairy-like feel to her private office. He sat when she gestured, the obedience resurging with surprising ease. Then again, Suzaku thought with a splash of bitterness, he was predictably the epitome of a well-trained dog. He shook off the tang of it, though, as Nunnally rounded the desk and drew close, her eyes intent and concerned.
Knowing that her office was one of the rooms in the palace swept for bugs on a downright obsessive basis, Suzaku relented, removing his mask so that he could meet Nunnally's gaze with his own eyes. With the care one usually reserved for wild or wounded animals, Nunnally gently grasped his gloved hand in hers, the mist in her eyes allowed to coalesce into tears.
"Where have you been?" she whispered. Finally, for the first time today, he could hear it; the fear and anxiety in her voice that she'd been battling with for months. It made her sound young and fragile; the girl he'd carried in his youth when her brother hadn't had the strength. A pair of crystalline tears slid down pale cheeks, and he would have gladly taken another bullet to make them stop.
"I'm sorry," Suzaku returned quietly, stripes of guilt painting themselves across his back. "Nunnally, I'm sorry." He slid to his knees beside her, covering her hand with his, trying to comfort what his weakness had damaged. But she just sniffed, smoothing away the tears with an almost pious grace. Meeting his eyes again, Suzaku could see that she was once again in command of herself, once again his empress.
"It's alright, Suzaku. I just want to know where you've been, and what caused the delay. I'm assuming it was a matter of some importance. Sit now, and be comfortable. I'll decide later if it's worthy of penance." She said the last with a shadow of a wink, but Suzaku found absolutely nothing about this scenario humorous. So, heaving a breath, he began to tell her what had occurred over the long days of summer.
As she carefully listened, Nunnally couldn't help but notice how Suzaku seemed… different. Changed, somehow, in a way that she couldn't quite trace back to an obvious origin. Even to her, Suzaku had been so distant and cold these last few years, ice wearing away at the fire of his soul, inch by inch. Yet now, something kindled in his eyes, a warmth she'd almost feared him incapable of anymore.
With it, she could sense a vulnerability to him, like the scent of mint and lonely skies. Nunnally couldn't decide if it worried or encouraged her; she did know that this new Suzaku was completely beyond her experience. So she listened intently as he described the crucible that had forged this new version of her best friend and most valuable ally.
He spoke easily of his injuries, even though it made Nunnally pale dramatically. As for the men that had caused it, both briefly fell silent, all too aware of the implications such actions promised. When it came to Aurora, though, Suzaku suddenly found himself reluctant. The root of his reticence wasn't immediately apparent, only obvious when Suzaku caught himself nearly talking in circles around Aurora's identity and behavior. But if he spoke of it, unknowingly broke some fairy's law cast upon him that night at the stone circle, it might rob the magic from the private dream Ireland had become for him.
But he couldn't keep this from Nunnally. Beyond the fact that she needed to know as his ruler and commander, he couldn't justify hiding the truth of her half-sister's survival from her. Suzaku didn't know how Nunnally would react, but she deserved the truth, regardless of his emotional misgivings.
When he finally managed to shove the words out into the empty air, Nunnally didn't believe him at first - her face said what her words could not yet manage. Suzaku recognized that blank denial in her eyes; had seen it from her and Lelouch before. It was the instinctive recoil from a strike, the mental equivalent of a ducked head and closed eyes. Comprehension sacrificed in favor of self-preservation. Choosing instead to wait for the initial wave of shock to spend and ebb, Suzaku kept his silence, rubbing a finger over the key still secreted away in his pocket.
"You're sure?" Nunnally finally managed, her voice trembling a little under the force of emotion now coursing through her. After losing so much of her family, it seemed impossible to actually gain a sibling back. Suzaku nodded by way of answer, and she murmured, "She… She's well?"
"Very. She's safe, does good work, and you would be proud of her. Not to mention, I owe her my life." And quite possibly his mind and soul, but Suzaku couldn't quite admit that to himself yet. As it stood, it ached to think of her, thousands of miles away, still fresh enough in his mind that when he'd caught the delicate, wild scent of flowers earlier, he'd glanced around, waiting for her to step around the corner with a smile. He would take it to his grave, but when Aurora hadn't appeared, Suzaku's heart broke.
Nunnally was also rattled. Aurora had disappeared from her life the same night so much else had changed; her mother's death, her disabling injuries, the end of everything she'd known, the gaping expanse of a future she had no possible idea how to navigate. She would have been lost without Lelouch, and later Suzaku. But it had always nagged at her, the half-sibling also caught in the crossfire. It was boggling to consider that Aurora had slipped away that night, not to drown in the current of events, but also cut loose from the tether holding their lives together. It was mind-blowing, and delightful.
And interesting, Nunnally realized as she truly looked at Suzaku's face. There was a pain and nostalgia and longing there that she'd only ever seen him express in regards to one other person. A different half-sister, one that would never be shockingly resurrected the way Aurora had just been. As the implications rippled through her mind and settled, Nunnally was stunned to feel a thread of jealousy move through her.
For so long, Suzaku had been hers: her friend, her protector, her ally. The one Lelouch had chosen to be her shield, the one who had aided her in her post as Viceroy. He may have loved her sister passionately, but his loyalty to Nunnally had always been absolute. They were each other's links to the past, to all those lost to Lelouch's Rebellion. And she was his only confidant, the only person who knew what lay behind that mask, the reality of an empty coffin buried in the Court of Kings, and could face him maskless as she did now.
It rocked her, to realize she now shared that knowledge with Aurora, a sister who had faded from her mind in the intervening years until it had taken effort to conjure a mental picture of what she'd looked like in their youth. According to what he'd told Nunnally, Suzaku's injuries had been brutally life-threatening. But she couldn't help but wonder, seeing the way his eyes glowed and drifted at the thought of the woman who had saved his life, if he'd stayed for another reason entirely. She didn't know what to do with that thought; frozen by what it meant, or that she could think it at all.
Nunnally worked diligently to present the image of a competent, strong empress, but she was only eighteen. And throughout the most catastrophic tragedy and hardships, Suzaku was the only one she could pull close and cling to. Even if she had still been blind, it would have been impossible for her to miss the way Suzaku had devolved the last three years; truly, since Euphemia's death. But even then, he'd still stood by her side, protecting her, supporting her. After all the grief Nunnally had struggled through, she knew that Suzaku, weakened and tattered though he may have become, was better than nothing at all.
Now, though, he stood before her, healthy and alert, more so than in nearly a year. But she could see the way his mind was fractured, parts of him pulling away. Suzaku sat solidly at her side, but Nunnally realized, with the sinking feeling that often came before a war was declared somewhere, that there were parts of him that were no longer hers.
But then, he wasn't the only one who had changed in the time they'd been apart. Suzaku visibly gathered himself, then pinned Nunnally with an expectant look, brows raised and expression this side of disapproving.
"Care to tell me why you appointed a knight?"
Because it felt vaguely like an older brother questioning her choice in prom date, and because she'd fielded more doubt in regards to that choice than any other single action in her entire reign, Nunnally stiffened.
"Because you were gone, Suzaku. I couldn't afford to remain in a position of weakness, and needed a show of tradition and support."
"Schneizel-"
"Can't be trusted, as you well know, especially when you're not there to guarantee his obedience. Tritus, however, is trustworthy, loyal, and honest. Reminds me of someone I know." Nunnally knew that Suzaku understood her reference by the way his mouth twisted. He looked like she'd condemned him, not complimented him. Huffing in frustration, Nunnally just shook her head. If she could refrain from commenting on the possibility of new allegiances he harbored in his heart, then so could he.
"It was my decision, Suzaku, and one that I stand by. I won't tolerate more possessive sniping - I've heard more than my fair share of it while you were in Ireland. Besides, I merely did what my sister and brother have before; I gave myself a knight in the absence of one." Her tone was as gentle as always, but there was an arc of steel in her words. He'd learned, through repeated displays of strength, discipline, and determination, that Nunnally was, without question, the heir to her brother's vision. She wasn't his only full-blooded relation for nothing. And was Suzaku simply galled that she'd chosen an unknown, or that, unlike Euphemia and Lelouch, she hadn't chosen him? When she spoke again, there was a conciliatory lilt to her words.
"Suzaku, I need - no, I'm asking," she corrected herself with a soft shake of her head, "for your support on this. Zero remains unparalleled, and it would mean a great deal to me."
Suzaku tipped his head in acquiescence, but he wasn't done yet.
"Fair enough, Nunnally. But if he damages that trust, I'll tear his head off and scatter his bones."
Nunnally worked to bite back the smile. They loved each other; always had, always would.
"Your reputation precedes you; I'm sure Tritus would expect nothing less."
They spoke a while longer, of things both monumental and mundane. Finally, Nunnally seemed reassured of his health and his pending investigation into the machinations behind the assassination attempt on Zero. She bid him good evening with a kiss to the sharp edge of his cheekbone, strangely conflicted when he drew up the face guard and replaced his mask when she had thought herself long ago accustomed to it.
Suzaku mulled over his course of action as he moved through the cavernous hallways of the royal palace. Someone, somewhere, had the ability to imitate an order from the Empress; it was too dangerous to fathom. It was a simple matter of deduction to ascertain Justice Havens was the one who had carried out the attack on him, but did it end with the Head of Covert Affairs, or was he simply a pawn? It was a disappointing turn of events, as Nunnally, and Suzaku if he was being honest, set great store by him. Over the course of their service to the Empress, Suzaku and Justice had come to respect each other, and he deeply dreaded the conversation he would be forced to undertake tomorrow.
Eventually, he found himself wandering through the winter gardens, largely deserted this time of year. Soon enough, the fragile blooms housed here would have the undivided care of the gardeners, the word outside blanketed in snow. Now, though, summer was in high gear, and attention was devoted to watering what eagerly grew during these hot days. Which left Suzaku utterly alone, wandering through the stripped and waiting landscape.
Private and secure though it may be, he dared not remove his mask, contenting himself with the rustle and peep of the night creatures, the silent shine of stars softened by the ubiquitous city lights. Yet another thing to miss - the pristine brightness of stars seen in the Irish countryside. With an annoyed sigh, Suzaku rubbed his recovering shoulder, still faintly aching from being jammed in a crappy seat in coach for entirely too long. He was getting thoroughly sick of the self-flagellation he inflicted seemingly from habit. What possible reason could there be to torture himself with thoughts and wishes for something he could not have? He might as well obsessively yearn from the moon, all the more good it would do him.
Already, he missed the life he'd left behind with a creeping intensity, and damn near every aspect woven into the fabric of it. Missing Aurora was worst of all, no question, but uprooting himself had cost Suzaku things he'd only just begun to appreciate again. Friends, a dog, simple sunshine and well-brewed coffee. A normality so foreign, it was almost fanciful. God, but it made him angry to give it all up for a cause greater than himself, even as he willingly walked away.
Bitter experience warned that forcibly dulled pain receptors had the tendency to resurge with a vengeance - trying to cut his heart out to silence the screaming had left him bloody and crippled. Which meant, Suzaku admitted with resigned bitterness, he was just going to have to live with it.
He watched the moon, cataloguing its contours and secrets and whims, for a long time. Warning himself he was far too world-weary to actually believe such nonsense, the idea of Aurora standing under that same moon did offer some measure of comfort. The savage loneliness eased a little at the thought that someone, somewhere, gave a damn. If that was all Suzaku had, then so be it. With that to hold onto, he could consider surviving.
It was midnight before the last of the patients were settled, blood scrubbed away, and clothes changed. In the soft light of the kitchen, half-packed boxes shoved into the corners, Aurora and Kendra sat at the table, wolfing down sandwiches and guzzling water like they were returning home from a battlefield. Chandler sat with them sipping a beer with mechanical movements, having eaten his supper far earlier, snatched in between emergency meetings and hard-voiced commands for action.
He explained more details about what had happened, and how the people in London's heart were dealing with what had happened earlier today. Not up to his standard by half, but he was getting there. This would be a valuable catalyst to start work on at least shoring up the worst of the damage in the Bones, instead of leaving it to rot. It was valuable information, but Aurora was disengaged, seemingly uninterested in the political parlay that usual held her attention.
Aurora finished her meal and slipped away like a wraith after bidding them a quiet goodnight, Ban making more noise as her shadow than she did. The kitchen remained quiet for a while, Chandler slowly spinning his now empty beer bottle in its ring of condensation on the table and Kendra carefully cleaning her already clean glasses. Finally, the politician chucked the bottle into the bin in the corner with a sigh, waiting until he wife reluctantly met his eyes.
"You need to go talk to her."
Kendra just raised her brow as she slid the glasses back onto her nose.
"Why do I have to talk to her?"
Chandler just settled deeper into the chair, resting his temple on a pair of fingers.
"Because she's your best friend."
Kendra pursed her lips. There was that.
"What the hell do you expect me to say?" she countered, privately afraid to say the wrong thing and worsen her friend's hurt instead of easing it.
"I don't know, dumpling. Just talk to her. She probably has things she wants to talk about that she doesn't even know she wants to talk about."
Standing with a frustrated sigh, snapping that "dumpling" was an awful endearment and grumbling under her breath about ambiguous emotional nonsense, Kendra mounted the stairs, lips thinning more and more with every step. She'd avoided Aurora's room during her time away in Ireland, the empty space feeling a little abandoned despite the fact that she'd been only a day's trip away. Now, even though she was home and Kendra could hear the rustling and footsteps as Aurora prepared for sleep, it felt more empty than ever. Likely because Aurora had left something invaluable behind.
Knocking on the open door, waiting until Aurora's eyes swung to hers, Kendra dredged up the smile that felt driven to hide like a rabbit to its warren under the pass of an owl's wings.
"Hey. Settling in OK?"
Aurora nodded as she finished rubbing lotion into the abused skin of her hands, red and a little angry from repeated washings today.
"Sure. Same as always."
"I'm sorry today was so crazy," Kendra tried again, disconcerted by how easily Aurora had ducked out of that conversation opener. It had been years since she'd been so succinct. Kendra had forgotten what it was like to long for her bright, easy chatter.
"No problem. Part of the job, right?" she tossed back, adding a small, cool smile that was weak on any scale - near dead when compared to what Aurora was usually capable of. The dance continued as Aurora swept the blankets down and slid in, bracing her back against the wall as she checked her phone, loosely braided the tail of her hair, and neatly dodged every question Kendra threw her way. Frustrated, she ignored Aurora's less than subtle signals that she was about to go to sleep and Kendra needed to leave, striding over and plopping down on the bed next to Aurora's legs.
"Can you just tell me if you're OK? I'm serious, Aurora. Really, truly OK."
There was no possible way the answer could be anything but "no." But Kendra was not leaving this room until she got a shred of honesty from her friend, who'd been treating her like a bare acquaintance since striding into the kitchen that morning with the look of a combat veteran. Aurora gazed at her for a long time, her eyes searching and calculating. Not the least put off by that gaze, Kendra stared back, waiting her out.
"Sure," Aurora finally replied. "If you can do me a favor. I need you to lie to me."
Bemusement traced across Kendra's face as she took her friend's hand, more by instinct than design.
"I need you to tell me that I made the right choice, even if that's not really true. Please, Kendra, as a friend. I'm going to need that lie for the next little while." The quicksand of tears had begun to invade Aurora's voice, held back by sheer force of will. It was all there, waiting to be seen by eyes accustomed to pain: the glimmer of early morning stars on her lashes, the frantic bob of her throat as she swallowed back salt and heartache, the steel-cable tension she exerted on Kendra's hand. Dammit, sometimes it sucked being right all the time.
Kendra sighed, rubbing a soothing hand over Aurora's knee, turning to face her more truly. She tried to smile reassuringly, but settled for calm when her face felt like dried-out putty.
"I don't need to lie. It was the right choice to let him go."
In utter, haunting silence, Aurora gazed at her, tears beginning to track down her cheeks in steady, burning inevitability. Kendra held still under that ghostly stare, aching for both of them. Slowly, her gaze shifting away to the middle distance like someone shell-shocked, Aurora nodded. She made no sound, no move to wipe away her tears, obedient as a doll as Kendra stood to settle her down, cleaning her face and stroking her hair as the final swell of sorrow poured from the deep well inside, that thoroughly hidden vault where Aurora secreted emotions she could not control.
Finally, exhausted beyond measure and brittle enough to shatter at the first careless touch, Aurora fell asleep. Kendra took to her feet, waiting until Ban hopped up onto the bed and settled down in the curve of his mistress's legs to give him an approving pat on the head. As she shut off the lights and prepared to head to bed herself, she saw the moon through Aurora's window, well settled into its rise over London's battered streets, bright and bold and burning with echoed light.
She thought of Suzaku, far away and dangerously alone, having passed the moon from his sight, over an ocean, to them. Kendra had lost her faith somewhere along the long, hard journey of her life, the ornate, chaste Eastern Catholicism of her early days subsumed by the cold comfort of science, and the cruel fortunes of fate. But now, she offered a prayer to whatever goddess, spirit, or star that happened to be listening.
A prayer for her sister of the soul, and the brave fool stranded on far shores. It may not have been Aurora who looked up at the moon's white face and thought of Suzaku, but it was a friend. One who wished fervently for his safety and well-being, fearing all the while that it was pointless to hope for the impossible.