Snow Flowers [Code Geass/Twelve Kingdoms, G]
Blah, I can't focus. I need to change this layout. :|a
Continuing my forays into Whimsical AUs That I Probably Shouldn't Entertain. Errant fill for cgkinkmemeii that isn't at all kinky. Zing! With a tiny bit of editing to fix my clumsy mistakes, in case anyone is keeping score. I don't know when I'll cross-post this. Eventually.
Snow Flowers
Code Geass/Twelve Kingdoms // Suzaku/Lelouch in a platonic soul mate sorta way, G
3070 words
And his kirin is also young, but he is the rarest black, gleaming like an ebon star in the night, and he tore through Hourai’s veil to find his king, and the ministers can’t--can never--argue with divine mandate.
He steps into a cold winter rain that soaks him through. Cold lights overhead punctuate the night in halos of fluttering ice, and the road gleams black like a river. The street is quiet and empty and dark, broken only by the static of rain. His mane is sleek and wet against his head. He lifts his face and breathes deeply of the cold and this different world’s air. His heart tugs at him--an incessant, urgent draw that grows stronger as he takes a hesitant step, as though he fans a flickering flame. It flares and grows stronger still and his chest aches with the cold and the need.
Taiho, his shadow whispers. Be careful. And he will be, he is, but nothing the nyosen or the others ever told him prepared him for this. He feels light-headed with the force of the pressure around his heart, as though a knotted cord has drawn taut. He steps out of the puddles and under the eaves along a wall, his fingers tracing the cold line of stone as he walks. (The untangled cord falling away behind him, and his pace quickens.) His pulse sings in his ears, and he wishes he could unfold into his true form and tread the wind in his search, but it’s so close and he can feel it, can reach out and touch it--
The boy jumps back, his face pale with surprise. He has a bag slung over his shoulder and wears a dark uniform that is a little rumpled, a little damp. “Hey,” he says uncertainly. “Whoa. Uh. Are you--are you okay?” He is alone and young--so young--and smells very strongly of this world and its dirt and its blood and its poison, but even in the dark and cold he shines and burns like a precious flame.
He tastes rain on his lips and folds himself to the ground, his hands pressed over each other on the wet pavement. He hears the boy’s dismayed surprise overhead and feels a feeble tug at his sleeve, but ignores them both and draws breath and says the fated words that proclaim this boy his true king.
His name is Suzaku, and the journey changes him: his hair now a sun-kissed copper in the morning light, his eyes now a deep, rich green. He gazes out at the vista of destruction and his mouth is a sad downturn and he murmurs that there has been a terrible mistake. Further south, a haze of smoke covers a blackened hillside. The tang of blood is on the air. The kingdom of Ryuu is many years steeped in vicious youma and barren land, desolate and riddled with death in the long interim since the last king sank in his mire of bribes and deception. The ministers will despair at their taika-king and his youth, his honest face and his willful, innocent goodness, but he is named for an auspicious and noble creature and his strength shines with the force of heaven.
And his kirin is also young, but he is the rarest black, gleaming like an ebon star in the night, and he tore through Hourai’s veil to find his king, and the ministers can’t--can never--argue with divine mandate. They will bow before their Phoenix King.
The learning is clumsy, as they all knew it would be. His king is uncertain and wretched with the expectation and duty forced upon him in an alien world. Ryuuki watches quietly and does not rescue him from the ministers’ impatience or the social gaffes or the struggles with morning messages. It is hard and it is necessary. He isn’t surprised when a whisper rouses him before sunrise in the Hall of Profound Compassion. Taiho. It is Sheirin, her gentle fingers tucking his hair from his face. He needs you.
Suzaku lifts his face as Ryuuki enters his chambers. He has not slept, his eyes dark and tired in his face. His fine clothes are rumpled, and he looks very young in the pre-dawn’s grey light. “I think you made a mistake,” he says.
“Oh?” Ryuuki exhales evenly through his nose. He tucks his hands into his sleeves. “I wasn’t aware.”
“I can’t do this. I can’t be this. I’m sorry.” Suzaku hangs his head and presses his hands to his cheeks. “I’m not a king,” he says. “A mistake.”
“There is no mistake.”
Suzaku looks at him miserably. “How do you know?”
“Your majesty underestimates himself. You belong here.” Suzaku scoffs weakly, without humor or hope. “You understand spoken language like a true taika. You wear the crown and your people hear hope in your name. No divine hand has struck you down. You have not managed to deceive the whole world. Have patience, and give yourself time. The kingdom has suffered for many years, and it will not be easy to fix.”
“What can I fix?”
“Everything. Confidence is a valuable thing, my lord.” He tilts his head to the side and struggles with his impatience. “It is no wonder that the court is wary of a king who takes no initiative. Trust in yourself, and in the forces that brought you here.”
“Trust in you, you mean.” Suzaku’s voice is hollow. “You can’t possibly be wrong?”
“No,” he snaps. “I cannot.”
An attendant slips in with a tray of steaming tea cups and bows her way out at the curt wave of Ryuuki’s hand. Silence stretches between them, and after a long, tense moment he sighs and comes forward to sit at the table. The attendant also brought a dish of sweet, mild yogurt, garnished with thin slices of dried fruit. He nibbles at the fruit and says finally, “I made no mistake. A kirin cannot mistake his king.”
Suzaku has not moved. “What does that mean?”
“A kirin can feel his king. An aura, bestowed by heaven--the ouki. It surrounds you always. Trust in that. I feel it all the time. It is how I found you.”
The wretched quality begins to fade from Suzaku’s face. “What does it feel like?”
Like the gentle touch of the sun in spring or the scent of lush, sweet grass; like golden light through the cold or warm, sleepy comfort. Like the giddy, panicked clutch of the heart and the moment when years of loneliness and yearning come to a final end at the feet of someone new and so, so achingly familiar. Like all the goodness in the world crystallizes into bright, tangible form and my heart’s missing piece slots neatly into place.
Ryuuki smiles a little and looks away. “That’s a complicated question. Drink your tea. It wouldn’t do for the king to fall asleep in court.”
Later, quietly:
“It’s just that...I don’t know.” Suzaku lets out his breath. “I don’t know why anyone would have faith in me.”
He gives a sudden smile, hopeless and sad, and Ryuuki stifles the dumb animal part of him that wants to curl around his warmth and melt beneath his hands. He says only, “Then your majesty has much to learn.”
Respect comes with bloodshed, as it does to men. As winter slides into spring, Shisou suffers an attack of ravenous youma, the city gates besieged by tooth and fang and bathed in the blood of its people. For the first time, Suzaku goes, boot-shod and astride a tenba, the treasure of Ryuu sheathed at his back, flanked by the Royal Army General. I need to see this, he said, and no one could sway him.
Ryuuki feels rather than sees the departure from the palisades. “Gyatso,” he murmurs, “go.” His shadow flutters and is still. And he waits.
The day slides sluggishly away, every moment taut and ill. There is work to be done but he cannot do it, shifting from kingdom annals to pacing his quarters and casting his eyes to the sky. He holds court alone and greets suspicious murmurs and the chousai’s shifty gaze with cold silence. The attendants wordlessly remove and replace his untouched tea. Sheirin tries to soothe him, and then falls silent as the hours wear on.
As the sun casts long, stark shadows the papers stacked on his desk rustle. His majesty has made landfall at the western courtyard with his company of victorious men, Gyatso rumbles, so the taiho can put his mind at ease. Ryuuki chooses not to grace this with a reply. On his way he passes a startled aide on her way to his quarters, a message in hand.
The courtyard boasts a disarray of men and their mounts. Suzaku is a great and terrible figure among them, fierce and blazing in the afternoon light with sheathed sword in hand. He swings down from the tenba and in the postures of the men around him it is clear he proved something, commanded something from them, for now he holds himself straighter as though a weight has lifted from his shoulders. He looks crowned by the sun, and Ryuuki feels a warm blossom of pride for his king and starts forward.
The armored men bow away as they notice his passage, murmuring their respects. Suzaku touches down on the paving stones, and too late Ryuuki sees his flinch and his gingerly clutch for balance against the tenba, the wash of blood down Suzaku’s leg.
He recoils, pressing his sleeve over his mouth and nose as nausea washes over him. There is an alarmed cry as he sinks, his untrammeled mane falling askew over his shoulders, and the world swims in the haze of blood-sickness. Before he can fall, hands take his shoulders and with a gruff, “Your forgiveness, Taiho,” the General Shouan bodily picks him up and extricates him from the crowd. He is firm and steady as stone, but the heavy metal scent of blood rolls off him in waves and Ryuuki struggles weakly against him and chokes and finally succumbs to a limp faint.
He wakes in his own bed, Suzaku sitting dejectedly at his side. His robes are clean and new and he smells like a bath.
“Are you all right?” he says quietly.
Ryuuki averts his eyes and ignores the question. “This is hardly a place for your majesty.” It must be well past sundown. Lights flicker in their sconces and beyond, the curtained windows are dark. He twists his hands absently in his covers.
Suzaku shrugs and peers around, oblivious to decorum. “I think it’s fine. I don’t mind. And I--” He presses his lips together. “I was worried, after all that. You just--toppled over right there in front of everyone. Shouan is still bowing and apologizing for manhandling your holy person.” He looks up and cracks a tentative smile. “Sorry. It was my fault. I didn’t realize. The blood. I should have cleaned up right away.”
“No.” He pushes himself up, feeling heavy and numb. He traces his fingers across his brow and draws a breath. “No. I should have waited. I am to blame for my impatience.”
Suzaku’s smile turns surprised. “Missed me?”
“It is natural to be mildly concerned when my king disappears on a dangerous rescue mission that the provincial army could have handled on their own.” He presses his palm to his forehead and closes his eyes. The place where his horn sits tingles. “Moreso when he is gone for the better part of the day.”
Suzaku’s fingers pry his hand away and fit it around a tea cup. “For the headache,” he explains. The smile has not left. The tea is tepid and has a sharp, medicinal aftertaste, but he drinks it anyway.
“Are you badly hurt?”
“Ah, no. It’s a nasty scratch, really. There was a--a bird. Big.” He gestures to suggest size. “It, um, tried to grab me and missed. The cut just kept bleeding. It doesn’t really hurt.” He sits awkwardly for a moment, and then adds, “I’ve had worse. When I was ten my cousin pushed me out of a tree. That was worse. Fifteen stitches in my arm. I thought I was going to die.” Ryuuki watches him, and he finally makes a face and shakes his head. “Never mind.”
Ryuuki gazes into his cup. “This will likely be the first attack of many. Perhaps the next will be by a man’s hand.”
“Maybe. We’ll just have to do our best.” He brightens. “Shouan says I’m to start swordsmanship tomorrow. I’m not sure how that’s supposed to fit in with everything else, but he said it’s important.”
“You mustn’t miss court.” It comes out as a sleepy insistence. The tea was stronger than he expected.
Suzaku huffs out a little laugh. “I won’t.”
“The ministers will be outraged if the king shuns them for the Royal Army General.”
“Yeah. I know.” He pulls the empty cup from Ryuuki’s hands. “You should rest. I’m lost without you, so get well.” Ryuuki settles back without argument. Sleep drags at him and he does not fight it. The room darkens around him and then, clear as anything, a hand rests on his head. “I’m sorry I made you worry,” Suzaku whispers. And a stroke down the length of his mane, and then the touch is gone.
The world begins to change. The ministers find Suzaku to be more stubborn and with a much sturdier moral compass than they expected, and for a time, court is exciting. General Shouan delights in his new pupil and Suzaku rises before dawn to sweat and work out on the frosted training grounds. Hunger-mad youma attack Shisou again, without success. Flowers prick the countryside and another harvest is sown and nurtured with prayers for a good year. The wind’s edge is still sharp and wintery when Suzaku summons Ryuuki and shyly presents him with a given name.
“Lelouch,” he says, and looks at the floor. “If that’s all right.”
A name from Hourai. He weighs it on his tongue. “What does it mean?”
“I don’t know.” Suzaku turns pink and fiddles with his quill. “Nothing, I guess. Names shouldn’t mean nothing. Never mind. It’s just--Ryuuki seems very formal. It’s impersonal. Like a title.”
“My title is taiho.”
“I know. Never mind. It’s silly. Forget it.”
“No. It is an honor.” He can’t help but smile. “I accept it.” But Suzaku is terribly embarrassed and doesn’t say that strange, foreign name often; only when they are alone, and then softly like a prayer. He can’t begin to fathom how to write his new name and so he continues to sign his more personal missives Ryuuki, but he cherishes the gift, earnestly given and kept close to the heart.
And so they change.
The groundskeeper coaxes back flowers from the dead stretches of decorative courtyards surrounding the palace. Brittle thicket gives way to new limbs and unfurling leaves. Suzaku spends an evening wandering the grounds in innocent exploration and, eventually, convinces his kirin to accompany him. He walks with his neck craned back, eager to point and trace the lines of the constellations. Lelouch listens and agrees at the appropriate moments and watches the line of Suzaku’s profile as he appraises the stars.
He peers at the moon from beneath the intricate latticework of the pavilion and snugs his wool-lined cloak around him. He can tell without looking that Suzaku watches him.
“You’re different, aren’t you?”
“So are you.”
Suzaku perseveres. “You’re not like the other kirin.”
“Goodness. Has my lord been consorting with the other saiho under my nose?”
If he realizes the teasing, Suzaku ignores it. “I saw something in the annals. A sketch of Ryuurin and some personal notes from the court notary. And something about, um. The Pure-King and Hourin.” He gives an easy shrug. “And you’re different.” Lelouch says nothing and Suzaku flushes pink around his ears. “Am I not supposed to talk about that?”
“No, it’s fine.” He smiles. “You are correct. I’m not like them.” He slides his fingers back through his mane and peers out into the night. A cluster of hardy vines twine around the edge of the pavilion, and he brushes its waxy leaves, cool and wet-feeling against his knuckles. “I am not one of Tentei’s golden children.”
“Then what are you?” He wonders how long the question has been dying to be asked. How long curiosity has languished.
“The term, your majesty--”
“Suzaku.”
“--is kokki. I am a black kirin. It is very rare for Mount Hou’s riboku to bear a black kirin’s ranka. It is thought to be...most auspicious. Special.” He flicks the leaves but does not pluck one from its tender new stem. He looks at Suzaku through his eyelashes and finds himself under scrutiny.
Suzaku wets his lips and hesitates, and then: “May I see?”
(And how long he has needed to hear it asked, to have unconcious permission given.)
He turns away from the starlight. It is easy as exhaling, slipping from his human facade and settling into the form that is true and right. He taps lightly onto cloven hooves, his robes curtaining to the stone tiles around him. He hears Suzaku’s sharp intake of breath, and he steps from beneath the drape of his cloak and whuffs out a breath softly against Suzaku’s chest. Suzaku straightens and meets him, fingers finding the cool, long line of his neck, his withers, and stroke down over the curve of his back. Lelouch stands still under the attention, and his ears flick as the contact continues. The heat of Suzaku’s hand trails down to his haunches and back as he circles.
“Look at you,” Suzaku breathes. He combs his fingers through Lelouch’s mane, brushes his forelock back. His fingers give Lelouch’s horn a respectful distance and smooth instead down his face, tracing lightly over his velvet nose. “Look at you,” he echoes helplessly. His voice is full of some nameless emotion. Joy, perhaps. Or pride.
Lelouch presses into his hand. “I meet approval, then?” He breathes the warm scent of Suzaku’s palm.
That startles a laugh from Suzaku, and he sinks to his knees. “Of course.” He swallows, and whispers, “Thank you. Thank you.” He twists his fingers in Lelouch’s mane and smiles. He presses his lips to the side of Lelouch’s muzzle and folds him into a gentle, awkward embrace. “Thank you.” It is now not so cold.
Continuing my forays into Whimsical AUs That I Probably Shouldn't Entertain. Errant fill for cgkinkmemeii that isn't at all kinky. Zing! With a tiny bit of editing to fix my clumsy mistakes, in case anyone is keeping score. I don't know when I'll cross-post this. Eventually.
Snow Flowers
Code Geass/Twelve Kingdoms // Suzaku/Lelouch in a platonic soul mate sorta way, G
3070 words
And his kirin is also young, but he is the rarest black, gleaming like an ebon star in the night, and he tore through Hourai’s veil to find his king, and the ministers can’t--can never--argue with divine mandate.
He steps into a cold winter rain that soaks him through. Cold lights overhead punctuate the night in halos of fluttering ice, and the road gleams black like a river. The street is quiet and empty and dark, broken only by the static of rain. His mane is sleek and wet against his head. He lifts his face and breathes deeply of the cold and this different world’s air. His heart tugs at him--an incessant, urgent draw that grows stronger as he takes a hesitant step, as though he fans a flickering flame. It flares and grows stronger still and his chest aches with the cold and the need.
Taiho, his shadow whispers. Be careful. And he will be, he is, but nothing the nyosen or the others ever told him prepared him for this. He feels light-headed with the force of the pressure around his heart, as though a knotted cord has drawn taut. He steps out of the puddles and under the eaves along a wall, his fingers tracing the cold line of stone as he walks. (The untangled cord falling away behind him, and his pace quickens.) His pulse sings in his ears, and he wishes he could unfold into his true form and tread the wind in his search, but it’s so close and he can feel it, can reach out and touch it--
The boy jumps back, his face pale with surprise. He has a bag slung over his shoulder and wears a dark uniform that is a little rumpled, a little damp. “Hey,” he says uncertainly. “Whoa. Uh. Are you--are you okay?” He is alone and young--so young--and smells very strongly of this world and its dirt and its blood and its poison, but even in the dark and cold he shines and burns like a precious flame.
He tastes rain on his lips and folds himself to the ground, his hands pressed over each other on the wet pavement. He hears the boy’s dismayed surprise overhead and feels a feeble tug at his sleeve, but ignores them both and draws breath and says the fated words that proclaim this boy his true king.
His name is Suzaku, and the journey changes him: his hair now a sun-kissed copper in the morning light, his eyes now a deep, rich green. He gazes out at the vista of destruction and his mouth is a sad downturn and he murmurs that there has been a terrible mistake. Further south, a haze of smoke covers a blackened hillside. The tang of blood is on the air. The kingdom of Ryuu is many years steeped in vicious youma and barren land, desolate and riddled with death in the long interim since the last king sank in his mire of bribes and deception. The ministers will despair at their taika-king and his youth, his honest face and his willful, innocent goodness, but he is named for an auspicious and noble creature and his strength shines with the force of heaven.
And his kirin is also young, but he is the rarest black, gleaming like an ebon star in the night, and he tore through Hourai’s veil to find his king, and the ministers can’t--can never--argue with divine mandate. They will bow before their Phoenix King.
The learning is clumsy, as they all knew it would be. His king is uncertain and wretched with the expectation and duty forced upon him in an alien world. Ryuuki watches quietly and does not rescue him from the ministers’ impatience or the social gaffes or the struggles with morning messages. It is hard and it is necessary. He isn’t surprised when a whisper rouses him before sunrise in the Hall of Profound Compassion. Taiho. It is Sheirin, her gentle fingers tucking his hair from his face. He needs you.
Suzaku lifts his face as Ryuuki enters his chambers. He has not slept, his eyes dark and tired in his face. His fine clothes are rumpled, and he looks very young in the pre-dawn’s grey light. “I think you made a mistake,” he says.
“Oh?” Ryuuki exhales evenly through his nose. He tucks his hands into his sleeves. “I wasn’t aware.”
“I can’t do this. I can’t be this. I’m sorry.” Suzaku hangs his head and presses his hands to his cheeks. “I’m not a king,” he says. “A mistake.”
“There is no mistake.”
Suzaku looks at him miserably. “How do you know?”
“Your majesty underestimates himself. You belong here.” Suzaku scoffs weakly, without humor or hope. “You understand spoken language like a true taika. You wear the crown and your people hear hope in your name. No divine hand has struck you down. You have not managed to deceive the whole world. Have patience, and give yourself time. The kingdom has suffered for many years, and it will not be easy to fix.”
“What can I fix?”
“Everything. Confidence is a valuable thing, my lord.” He tilts his head to the side and struggles with his impatience. “It is no wonder that the court is wary of a king who takes no initiative. Trust in yourself, and in the forces that brought you here.”
“Trust in you, you mean.” Suzaku’s voice is hollow. “You can’t possibly be wrong?”
“No,” he snaps. “I cannot.”
An attendant slips in with a tray of steaming tea cups and bows her way out at the curt wave of Ryuuki’s hand. Silence stretches between them, and after a long, tense moment he sighs and comes forward to sit at the table. The attendant also brought a dish of sweet, mild yogurt, garnished with thin slices of dried fruit. He nibbles at the fruit and says finally, “I made no mistake. A kirin cannot mistake his king.”
Suzaku has not moved. “What does that mean?”
“A kirin can feel his king. An aura, bestowed by heaven--the ouki. It surrounds you always. Trust in that. I feel it all the time. It is how I found you.”
The wretched quality begins to fade from Suzaku’s face. “What does it feel like?”
Like the gentle touch of the sun in spring or the scent of lush, sweet grass; like golden light through the cold or warm, sleepy comfort. Like the giddy, panicked clutch of the heart and the moment when years of loneliness and yearning come to a final end at the feet of someone new and so, so achingly familiar. Like all the goodness in the world crystallizes into bright, tangible form and my heart’s missing piece slots neatly into place.
Ryuuki smiles a little and looks away. “That’s a complicated question. Drink your tea. It wouldn’t do for the king to fall asleep in court.”
Later, quietly:
“It’s just that...I don’t know.” Suzaku lets out his breath. “I don’t know why anyone would have faith in me.”
He gives a sudden smile, hopeless and sad, and Ryuuki stifles the dumb animal part of him that wants to curl around his warmth and melt beneath his hands. He says only, “Then your majesty has much to learn.”
Respect comes with bloodshed, as it does to men. As winter slides into spring, Shisou suffers an attack of ravenous youma, the city gates besieged by tooth and fang and bathed in the blood of its people. For the first time, Suzaku goes, boot-shod and astride a tenba, the treasure of Ryuu sheathed at his back, flanked by the Royal Army General. I need to see this, he said, and no one could sway him.
Ryuuki feels rather than sees the departure from the palisades. “Gyatso,” he murmurs, “go.” His shadow flutters and is still. And he waits.
The day slides sluggishly away, every moment taut and ill. There is work to be done but he cannot do it, shifting from kingdom annals to pacing his quarters and casting his eyes to the sky. He holds court alone and greets suspicious murmurs and the chousai’s shifty gaze with cold silence. The attendants wordlessly remove and replace his untouched tea. Sheirin tries to soothe him, and then falls silent as the hours wear on.
As the sun casts long, stark shadows the papers stacked on his desk rustle. His majesty has made landfall at the western courtyard with his company of victorious men, Gyatso rumbles, so the taiho can put his mind at ease. Ryuuki chooses not to grace this with a reply. On his way he passes a startled aide on her way to his quarters, a message in hand.
The courtyard boasts a disarray of men and their mounts. Suzaku is a great and terrible figure among them, fierce and blazing in the afternoon light with sheathed sword in hand. He swings down from the tenba and in the postures of the men around him it is clear he proved something, commanded something from them, for now he holds himself straighter as though a weight has lifted from his shoulders. He looks crowned by the sun, and Ryuuki feels a warm blossom of pride for his king and starts forward.
The armored men bow away as they notice his passage, murmuring their respects. Suzaku touches down on the paving stones, and too late Ryuuki sees his flinch and his gingerly clutch for balance against the tenba, the wash of blood down Suzaku’s leg.
He recoils, pressing his sleeve over his mouth and nose as nausea washes over him. There is an alarmed cry as he sinks, his untrammeled mane falling askew over his shoulders, and the world swims in the haze of blood-sickness. Before he can fall, hands take his shoulders and with a gruff, “Your forgiveness, Taiho,” the General Shouan bodily picks him up and extricates him from the crowd. He is firm and steady as stone, but the heavy metal scent of blood rolls off him in waves and Ryuuki struggles weakly against him and chokes and finally succumbs to a limp faint.
He wakes in his own bed, Suzaku sitting dejectedly at his side. His robes are clean and new and he smells like a bath.
“Are you all right?” he says quietly.
Ryuuki averts his eyes and ignores the question. “This is hardly a place for your majesty.” It must be well past sundown. Lights flicker in their sconces and beyond, the curtained windows are dark. He twists his hands absently in his covers.
Suzaku shrugs and peers around, oblivious to decorum. “I think it’s fine. I don’t mind. And I--” He presses his lips together. “I was worried, after all that. You just--toppled over right there in front of everyone. Shouan is still bowing and apologizing for manhandling your holy person.” He looks up and cracks a tentative smile. “Sorry. It was my fault. I didn’t realize. The blood. I should have cleaned up right away.”
“No.” He pushes himself up, feeling heavy and numb. He traces his fingers across his brow and draws a breath. “No. I should have waited. I am to blame for my impatience.”
Suzaku’s smile turns surprised. “Missed me?”
“It is natural to be mildly concerned when my king disappears on a dangerous rescue mission that the provincial army could have handled on their own.” He presses his palm to his forehead and closes his eyes. The place where his horn sits tingles. “Moreso when he is gone for the better part of the day.”
Suzaku’s fingers pry his hand away and fit it around a tea cup. “For the headache,” he explains. The smile has not left. The tea is tepid and has a sharp, medicinal aftertaste, but he drinks it anyway.
“Are you badly hurt?”
“Ah, no. It’s a nasty scratch, really. There was a--a bird. Big.” He gestures to suggest size. “It, um, tried to grab me and missed. The cut just kept bleeding. It doesn’t really hurt.” He sits awkwardly for a moment, and then adds, “I’ve had worse. When I was ten my cousin pushed me out of a tree. That was worse. Fifteen stitches in my arm. I thought I was going to die.” Ryuuki watches him, and he finally makes a face and shakes his head. “Never mind.”
Ryuuki gazes into his cup. “This will likely be the first attack of many. Perhaps the next will be by a man’s hand.”
“Maybe. We’ll just have to do our best.” He brightens. “Shouan says I’m to start swordsmanship tomorrow. I’m not sure how that’s supposed to fit in with everything else, but he said it’s important.”
“You mustn’t miss court.” It comes out as a sleepy insistence. The tea was stronger than he expected.
Suzaku huffs out a little laugh. “I won’t.”
“The ministers will be outraged if the king shuns them for the Royal Army General.”
“Yeah. I know.” He pulls the empty cup from Ryuuki’s hands. “You should rest. I’m lost without you, so get well.” Ryuuki settles back without argument. Sleep drags at him and he does not fight it. The room darkens around him and then, clear as anything, a hand rests on his head. “I’m sorry I made you worry,” Suzaku whispers. And a stroke down the length of his mane, and then the touch is gone.
The world begins to change. The ministers find Suzaku to be more stubborn and with a much sturdier moral compass than they expected, and for a time, court is exciting. General Shouan delights in his new pupil and Suzaku rises before dawn to sweat and work out on the frosted training grounds. Hunger-mad youma attack Shisou again, without success. Flowers prick the countryside and another harvest is sown and nurtured with prayers for a good year. The wind’s edge is still sharp and wintery when Suzaku summons Ryuuki and shyly presents him with a given name.
“Lelouch,” he says, and looks at the floor. “If that’s all right.”
A name from Hourai. He weighs it on his tongue. “What does it mean?”
“I don’t know.” Suzaku turns pink and fiddles with his quill. “Nothing, I guess. Names shouldn’t mean nothing. Never mind. It’s just--Ryuuki seems very formal. It’s impersonal. Like a title.”
“My title is taiho.”
“I know. Never mind. It’s silly. Forget it.”
“No. It is an honor.” He can’t help but smile. “I accept it.” But Suzaku is terribly embarrassed and doesn’t say that strange, foreign name often; only when they are alone, and then softly like a prayer. He can’t begin to fathom how to write his new name and so he continues to sign his more personal missives Ryuuki, but he cherishes the gift, earnestly given and kept close to the heart.
And so they change.
The groundskeeper coaxes back flowers from the dead stretches of decorative courtyards surrounding the palace. Brittle thicket gives way to new limbs and unfurling leaves. Suzaku spends an evening wandering the grounds in innocent exploration and, eventually, convinces his kirin to accompany him. He walks with his neck craned back, eager to point and trace the lines of the constellations. Lelouch listens and agrees at the appropriate moments and watches the line of Suzaku’s profile as he appraises the stars.
He peers at the moon from beneath the intricate latticework of the pavilion and snugs his wool-lined cloak around him. He can tell without looking that Suzaku watches him.
“You’re different, aren’t you?”
“So are you.”
Suzaku perseveres. “You’re not like the other kirin.”
“Goodness. Has my lord been consorting with the other saiho under my nose?”
If he realizes the teasing, Suzaku ignores it. “I saw something in the annals. A sketch of Ryuurin and some personal notes from the court notary. And something about, um. The Pure-King and Hourin.” He gives an easy shrug. “And you’re different.” Lelouch says nothing and Suzaku flushes pink around his ears. “Am I not supposed to talk about that?”
“No, it’s fine.” He smiles. “You are correct. I’m not like them.” He slides his fingers back through his mane and peers out into the night. A cluster of hardy vines twine around the edge of the pavilion, and he brushes its waxy leaves, cool and wet-feeling against his knuckles. “I am not one of Tentei’s golden children.”
“Then what are you?” He wonders how long the question has been dying to be asked. How long curiosity has languished.
“The term, your majesty--”
“Suzaku.”
“--is kokki. I am a black kirin. It is very rare for Mount Hou’s riboku to bear a black kirin’s ranka. It is thought to be...most auspicious. Special.” He flicks the leaves but does not pluck one from its tender new stem. He looks at Suzaku through his eyelashes and finds himself under scrutiny.
Suzaku wets his lips and hesitates, and then: “May I see?”
(And how long he has needed to hear it asked, to have unconcious permission given.)
He turns away from the starlight. It is easy as exhaling, slipping from his human facade and settling into the form that is true and right. He taps lightly onto cloven hooves, his robes curtaining to the stone tiles around him. He hears Suzaku’s sharp intake of breath, and he steps from beneath the drape of his cloak and whuffs out a breath softly against Suzaku’s chest. Suzaku straightens and meets him, fingers finding the cool, long line of his neck, his withers, and stroke down over the curve of his back. Lelouch stands still under the attention, and his ears flick as the contact continues. The heat of Suzaku’s hand trails down to his haunches and back as he circles.
“Look at you,” Suzaku breathes. He combs his fingers through Lelouch’s mane, brushes his forelock back. His fingers give Lelouch’s horn a respectful distance and smooth instead down his face, tracing lightly over his velvet nose. “Look at you,” he echoes helplessly. His voice is full of some nameless emotion. Joy, perhaps. Or pride.
Lelouch presses into his hand. “I meet approval, then?” He breathes the warm scent of Suzaku’s palm.
That startles a laugh from Suzaku, and he sinks to his knees. “Of course.” He swallows, and whispers, “Thank you. Thank you.” He twists his fingers in Lelouch’s mane and smiles. He presses his lips to the side of Lelouch’s muzzle and folds him into a gentle, awkward embrace. “Thank you.” It is now not so cold.