X. R&R

““Tobruk was a natural fortress buttressed with manmade features, a massive bowl-shaped dune on the coast with slopes two hundred feet high, covered in powdery sand too fine for wheels and land spinners to gain traction on. Bristling from the ridgeline were entrenched guns and pillboxes that dotted the perimeter like bastions of a castle. Ordered into reserve upon arrival, we stretched our legs and waited for the two divisions to catch up and join the war. The defense was expectedly rugged, for the fall of Tobruk—the last enemy stronghold in North Africa—would mean the war’s end and peace on our terms. Time and again our assaults were repelled, and soon the lone highway leading into the citadel filled with skeletons of burnt out machines.

Two weeks and four thousand casualties later time ran out for Geoffrey and Alfred. The public once again grew restless, the media unforgiving, and the look on the Emperor’s face, one presumes, increasingly sour. To save their necks—and share the blame in the event of another failure—they called upon the Ashfordshire Regiment to join the next assault.

Unease was evident at the battalion-level meeting as we heard Lt. Colonel Jeremiah’s brief. Up until now Prince Lelouch (whom we officers called “Old Man” in jest) saw to it that we always fought with an unfair advantage. We misinformed, feinted, and cut supply routes; we made sure the enemy was confused, blind, parched, starved, and sleep-deprived before we struck. We would now have to attack a determined defender, comfortable in his fortress, in daytime, over exposed terrain. My colleague Captain Havilland likened the task to a World War I infantry charge, hardly the image one wishes to dwell on the night before leading an attack. Sensing the mood, the Lt. Colonel concluded his remarks with a motivator. “Gentlemen,” He said as he exhaled a puff of smoke from his seven pound cigar, “after we take that fort tomorrow, no women on the planet will be able to resist us, depend on it.”

Except Major Villeta, but we’d be happy with the remainder just fine.

At 0500, XIV and XV Divisions launched their attack via the highway from the Southeast. To their dismay we did not take part; the Old Man had other plans. At 0510, after the main body of defenders had displaced to confront the threat, 382nd Regiment attacked from the West along the coast. We pushed up the slopes with every treaded vehicle in our inventory, spearheaded by the lumbering Longbows. Our knightmares—land spinners useless on the quicksand-like surface—hitched behind the tanks like schoolboys free-riding on double-deckers, firing as they went. This undoubtedly raised our foe’s ire, as they began shooting back and knocked the treads off several of the lead vehicles. When the assault began to bog down, I picked out the Lt. Colonel’s Sutherland, crouched behind his disabled “tractor.” What he did next would enter into the rich annals of Britannian army lore.

“C’mon lads, your Prince is watching!” And then to our horror, he abandoned his cover and began to RUN his way up the remainder of the slope. His contempt for the enemy’s aim appeared to act as an invisible shield, and when he reached the ridgeline, our horror turned to inspiration. The drivers gave up their zigzagging maneuvers, popped smoke screens, and floored the pedal towards the top where their commander was terrorizing the dispirited defenders. In a few minutes the rest of the regiment gained the ridge and by midday the business was done. Tobruk was ours.”

Captain Hugh Chadwick, George Company, 3rd armored cavalry troop, 382nd Ashfordshire Regiment; from “In His Highness’ Service”; HarperCollins, 2057.”

--

Lelouch faced towards the direction of the flashing bulbs and microphones; the press corps that his brothers had taken the trouble to assemble and fly in weeks ago was now put to good use, albeit for a different purpose than they originally intended. Images of Britannia’s favorite son appeared before audiences around the globe as the Empire reveled in her latest triumph. Behind the prince the imperial banner flew above the bunker which used to house the fort’s command center. Assembled at the flag’s base were soldiers who proudly displayed the colors of the Black Knights as they cheered and posed for the folks at home. Lelouch had much reason to be pleased; his casualties were light, his jealous siblings’ designs backfired, delivering all the glory into his hands while they inherited the embarrassment of four failed attempts to take the fort. For one of the few times in his life his smile was felt from within rather than a service to the public. He pointed at Diethard Ried, rewarding him the last question of the press conference, for though the man did not contribute towards his victories his services proved invaluable in turning his battlefield successes into reputation and fame. The long-haired journalist rose above his peers, pen and pad in hand as he made eye contact with his host. “My Lord, I’ve just received word that a motion at court to create you Earl of Ashfordshire has passed. You have also been promoted to brigadier general, making you the youngest ever to hold the rank. Any thoughts?”

Lelouch chuckled. “It is an honor, but I’d rather they had sent me forty more knightmares instead.”

--

“Persian oranges, blood oranges, orange juice, orange concentrate, orange blossom honey, orange sorbet… put this in the freezer please.” With a smooth underhand motion, Kewell lobbed the container across the room to Villeta, who caught and placed the icy treat in the refrigerator.

“Orange wafers, orange in light syrup, crème brulee a l’orange, marmalade… Gottwald’s Genuine Orange Pekoe? I say, your father has really outdone himself expanding the old family business’ product offerings. These care packages just become more outrageous with each passing year.” Kewell said without looking up as he stood amidst the packing crates, arrived earlier that morning from Florida by special courier.

Jeremiah sat by himself at the lounge and continued to look outside. “Just finishing taking what you want. I’ll hand out the rest to my troops.”

“Even the orange liquor?” Kewell glanced at over at his superior, whose countenance was unusually tempered compared to the festive atmosphere in the camp, where celebration amongst the rank and file was still in full swing. “You’re not still hung up with that case of citrusphobia, are you?”

Jeremiah slammed his fist against the table. “I do not have citrusphobia; it’s not even a bloody word!”

“Citrusphobia, a fear of… oranges?” Lelouch walked in as if on cue. Jeremiah blanched, Villeta leaned against the counter with her arms folded; clearly this was something new for her as well.

Clearing his throat, Kewell proceeded to explain. “When the lieutenant colonel was six, he fell from a gangplank into a vat of orange pulp while visiting the family juice plant; nearly drowned. The incident has instilled in him an irrational fear of oranges ever since. The doctor coined the term citrusphobia for his condition, as there were no prior cases.”

“That’s a lie!” His outburst was quickly cooled with a glance from Lelouch. “I meant, sire, that I do not have an irrational fear of oranges, at least, not anymore. I merely hate them.”

Silence ensued. Lelouch frowned; he had not realized that his right hand man possessed such a weakness and wondered whether, if made known, the knowledge could be used against him in the future. He quickly decided that the odds for such an event were thin and the notion was on a whole too ridiculous to be concerned over. Thus resolved, he approached the crates and began looking through the contents, holding up and examining a perfectly ripe fruit. “I believe the occasion of our victory calls for celebration, a special meal, and here we have just the ingredients.”

And Jeremiah felt the weight on his chest joined by a sensation not unlike motion sickness.

--

Lelouch did the cooking, as the cook—like most other members of the regiment—had been given 72 hours leave. After the meal of orange chicken, kippers with orange slices, green salad with orange dressing, and orange sorbet, Lelouch left to take care of certain travel arrangements and Jeremiah retired to his tent, citing a need to lie down. The two majors stood next to each other before the kitchen sink, one rinsing and the other drying in silent partnership until Villeta spoke. “I don’t understand why you keep on doing that.”

Kewell took the plate from her. “Do what?”

“Annoy the lieutenant colonel.”

“I was merely being informative for His Higness’ sake.” He dried off the dish with a cloth and placed it in the cupboard.

“And the time with the male fan mail?”

Her fair-skinned colleague colored slightly and sighed. “I’ve known Jeremiah for years—always had the misfortune of ending up in the same class or unit as him. This… rivalry of ours goes way back.”

“That’s why you two work so well together.”

“In spite of it is more likely.” The dishes finished, Kewell knelt down and opened the cupboard to fetch the kettle. “Tea?”

Minutes later, the two officers sat down at the cleared dining table with a pot of Darjeeling between them. Outside, the noise level from the camp died down as men began dozing off after yet another night of merrymaking. Kewell leaned back in his chair. “So, what will you do after you get your wish and the prince makes you a peer?”

“You don’t know that he will.”

“I imagine he would, you’ve earned it. The Right Honourable Lady Villeta, Baroness Nu, has a nice ring to it.”

She chuckled and with chin in hand appeared to think the matter over. “All my life I’ve wanted to become a member of the aristocracy, but now that it seems within reach I’m not actually sure how I plan on enjoying that privilege.”

Kewell smirked as he raised his mug. “True, one can hardly imagine you in petticoats with a parasol.”

“Nor can I, at least now my parents will stop sending me portraits of doctors and barristers; it wouldn’t do for a noblewoman to wed beneath her station after all.” Taking a slow sip, Villeta turned the question back on her companion. “What of you? What will you do when you receive your peerage?”

Kewell looked towards the ceiling. “I suppose I’ll stay, retiring when I make Brigadier or outrank Jeremiah, whichever comes first.”

“Rise past the lieutenant colonel?” Villeta’s cup paused on the way to her lips. “That’s your goal?”

“There are days when, weary of cleaning up after his messes, I can think of nothing better than to have him report to me for a change.” When her brows remained raised, the Australian gave a grin that was nearly like a grimace. “You don’t think I stand a chance, do you?”

She shook her head and smiled. “One never knows, though I can easily picture you making High Command, even General Staff. The straitlaced culture there seems perfect for someone of your disposition.”

Kewell laughed.

--

“… so we’ll visit Gibraltar, stay the night, and be back tomorrow by noon. When Jeremiah is feeling better inform him that he’s in charge of the regiment in my absence.”

At three-thirty in the afternoon, Lelouch stood on the tarmac of the airfield as he left instructions to Kewell. Behind him were Villeta and the military transport that would fly him to the Britannian territory on southern tip of the Iberian Peninsula, where his sister was waiting. When he was finished, he boarded the aircraft and in a few minutes Tobruk was little more than a dot on the coastline. He looked across the table to his companion, who continued to adjust her harness to keep the apparatus from creasing her dress uniform. “Nervous?”

“A little, Sire.”

“It will be an informal meeting, just dinner and conversation.”

“Aye Sire, still, one cannot help feeling excited about meeting Princess Cornelia.”

Lelouch opened the day’s edition of the Daily Telegraph; the cessation of hostilities and capture of Tobruk’s airport and port facilities meant not only the arrival of fresh foodstuffs but also regular mail service and newspapers. The latest reports indicated that Schneizel was close to concluding a treaty with the NAL that, while involving no transfer of territories, would lease Britannia all naval and military bases along the North African coast for up to 99 years, ensuring the Empire’s ability to project power into the Mediterranean, a fact that caused the EU extreme consternation. Combined with war indemnities of one percent GDP for the duration of ten years, the terms were heavy but not oppressively so in light of the Empire’s treatment of her defeated foes in recent times.

He knew well that Schneizel’s made the offer out of reasons besides generosity, though that was how most would perceive it; he knew that annexing the nations would almost certainly bring Europe into the war and guarantee years of armed resistance from the native populace. Unlike Area Eleven and its sakuradite mines, North Africa had no economic incentive worth mentioning which would justify a costly occupation, so the decision, while questioned by some as being too lenient towards the belligerents, was in fact most profitable for the Empire’s strategic purposes.

--

“My boy!” Three hours later, Lelouch alighted from the plane and immediately found himself caught in a breath-taking bear hug that lifted him off the ground. The scar-faced soldier pounded him on the back and bellowed in laughter. “Still thin like a reed I see, and not a shade darker after all this time in the desert.”

Lelouch glanced at the members of Cornelia’s personal guard who formed the welcome committee—despite their reputation for discipline, he noted that the sight of their tough-as-nails commander squeezing the air out of a prince of Britannia raised a number of brows. “Hello, Andreas. You look well.”

“Couldn’t be better. That was a brilliant job you did down there, magnificent job. Gilbert and I have been following your progress on a daily basis and making predictions on your next moves. Naturally, with my extra years of experience and accumulated wisdom, I came out on top. Isn’t that right, Gilbert?”

Guilford reached in and began to separate the teacher from his pupil. “Yes, you’ve mentioned that plenty of times already.” The bespectacled knight turned to Lelouch. “You would not believe the airs he’s been carrying about the last several months, as if he was the one who won the war.”

“Considering he was the one who taught him, I believe Darlton deserves some of the credit.”

The three turned to find Cornelia, dressed in her best military finery. The guards snapped to stiff attention as the empire’s most celebrated soldier approached the small group, white boot heels clicking crisply against the asphalt until she stood before her younger brother. For a minute, the siblings merely looked at each other until Cornelia raised her hand in salute. “You’ve done well, colonel.”

Lelouch returned the gesture. “Thank you, General.”

“And this must be Major Nu, whom I’ve read so much about.” Cornelia turned towards Villeta and smiled. “On behalf of the royal family, I thank you for your services.”

“Your words are on wasted on me, my lady.”

“Come now, dinner awaits.”

--

Dinner was held at the Moorish Castle, in a dining room with a view of the strait that separated the continents. Originally constructed over ten centuries ago, the castle had undergone extensive renovation in past decades to serve as the permanent command center for all Britannian forces stationed in the African-European theater. The five talked cordially over pitchers of sangria and roasted salt marsh lamb, the topic never straying far from details of Lelouch’s recent exploits, the shortcomings of the current generation Sutherlands, and the degradation of combined arms training due to a singular dependency on knightmares which became evident in the final assault. At the conclusion of the meal, Guilford and Darlton invited Villeta to join them at the officer’s club for drinks and billiards, leaving Cornelia and Lelouch alone to catch up.

For several minutes after arriving in the princess’ chambers the siblings said nothing except to hold each other in close embrace. Over the years they had taught themselves to maintain a polite distance in public, treating each other as professionals even before confidants such as Darlton. But here, alone and secure from scrutiny and potential ill-wishers, there was no need to maintain pretense; here they could be family.

“Let me have a good look at you.” Cupping his face in her hands, Cornelia examined her younger brother closely, which produced a frown from the elder woman. “I didn’t think it was possible, but it looks as though you’ve grown even thinner. Are you sure you’ve been eating properly?”

“Yes sister.”

Still Cornelia was not satisfied. “I shall have to fatten you up before we return to Britannia. Euphie will have a fit if she thought that you weren’t taking care of yourself.”

“Have you heard from her lately?”

“Just this morning, I told her that you were coming to visit. She made me promise that we’d all have dinner together as soon as we return.”

“Shouldn’t be long; we could be home by Armistice Day, plenty of time before Christmas.”

She brushed aside a strand of hair from his face. “Still nearly two months left and already so excited?”

The younger sibling looked up with a look resembling a pout and averted his gaze as Cornelia continued to smile fondly. “… Not especially.”

The two took turns in the bathroom, Lelouch taking his time as he savored the hot soak in the lavish surroundings. When they finished, a video call was made to their younger sisters and the four siblings enjoyed a reunion of sorts, catching up on the mundane and precious details of life at home, like Nunally’s singing lessons and Clovis’ brief but gift-laden visit which he managed by sneaking a vacation from his duties as Governor of Area Eleven.

That night, sharing a bed with his elder sister, Lelouch enjoyed the soundest, most uninterrupted sleep he had had since he embarked on his campaign.

--

“So, I trust that Darlton and Guilford showed themselves to be good hosts?”

“Very, sire. I learned much from speaking with them.”

“Good.” Back on the plane and en route to Tobruk, Lelouch turned his attention to the notebook before him. “As soon as we return we’ll begin the task of sorting out prisoners and cataloguing our remaining equipment and those we captured.”

Villeta made a note in her own computer. “Aye sire, I’ll forward the relevant data to High Command.”

“Put in a request for extra personnel to speed the process along. We’ll also need… what is that?”

He pointed out the window, and through the tinted double-thick windows a small object glinting in the sun appeared to approach from the coast below at high speed. Seconds later a high pitched din began to sound inside the cabin as one the pilots yelled from the cockpit. “Missile alert! Hold on!”

The aircraft tilted ninety-degrees and began a hard jink towards the direction of land, sending drinks and notebooks spilling across the cabinet. Lelouch fought off the wave of nausea that threatened to overtake him as the harness strained against his abdomen from the violent maneuver. Seconds turned to minutes to hours until the pilot called. “We’re clear… wait, second missile inbound!”

In the midst of the chaos, Lelouch caught a glimpse of a bright flash near the wing tip, followed by the one of the engines erupting into flames and holes punched into the fuselage, sending the plane into a spinning plunge. He was aware of the pilot’s frantic distress call over the roar of the depressurizing cabin. He saw his adjutant's head hanging loose, passed out in front of him. The last thing he heard was the sound of a loud hiss and boom, and then the world went black.

--

Cornelia had just begun reviewing the day’s report on European troop movement when she heard the knock on her office door.

“Enter.”

It was Darlton. When she looked up and saw his expression her heart sank—Darlton had been the one to inform her of Marianne’s death six years ago, and he was wearing the same look now. “Tell me.”

“My lady, Prince Lelouch’s transport has been shot down.”

To be Continued.

Author’s Notes: How long has it been, three months? No excuse, really. Unfortunately, the law school applications largely didn’t pan out, and I will prepare once more for the LSAT while continuing the job hunt in the mean time. If any of my old readers are still around, thanks for sticking by.

Barring overwhelming reader response, this will be the last time I make light of Jeremiah’s connection with oranges; the scene early in the chapter was mostly a tribute to the unintended fallout created by the original’s Orange Incident. The reader should also by now be able to discern a few of my preferences—kinks, if you would—which include favoritism for Kewell and finding the idea of Cornelia doting on Lelouch irresistible.

Well, until next time.