Character: C.C.

Pairing: C.C. x Lelouch

Summary: There is one and only one thing in this world worse than dying. Not dying.

Soap Opera

It is a wonder how the gods of mythology do it. Looking on at the lives of mortals without ever being tired of it. Then again, those gods are man-made, and man does not know any better.

Being immortal and watching humans is boring. Worse than watching a soap opera with a lousy script, because you know this isn't because of the blunder of one idiot. But every once in a while, the mortals will surprise you. And it's not because of how stupid you were at the moment, or how the scriptwriter was touched by a muse. It was because the scriptwriter was so terrible and stupid that he pulled something completely out of left field that made no sense at all. The fifth day of Zero's infiltration into Area 18, apparently, was one of those days.

He died for her. The boy who had such high aspirations, and so much potential. He held so much power, and had the world on the tips of his fingers. And he died for her. He died for her even though she was immortal and wouldn't die anyways, no matter how many bullets they shot at her. "But you still feel pain, don't you?" he had said to her, groaning and clutching his wound.

She cradled him in her arms, as the bullets and Knightmare Frames went by over their heads. She was centuries too old for tears, though. She had seen too many deaths, watched too many tragedies to cry for him.

It felt so odd, holding his dead body like that. She was with him for ten years, the longest she ever was with any contractor. She saw him age from a boy to a man. But even so... His cheesy promises must have been getting to her, because somehow, the idea that he would ever be gone, that he actually was mortal, that he wouldn't be able to spend eternity with her was so foreign to her even now when he was cold and still and dead.

Sitting on the edge of the already cleared out battlefield, the Sahara sands having piled over the corpses for days, she wonders about her next course of action. To begin her search again completely anew? Or continue with the royal family, although that would prove very dangerous?

Her mind drifts off, and she ends up wondering instead if she would've died for him. Of course she would. She hates living. Then if she could die and find peace if she killed him, would she do it? Bitterly, she decides she would. She isn't courageous or selfless or any type of hero.

He died trying to form a weak smile. Between them, there were too many words and things to say and not enough time for any of them. So he laid in her lap like that, the blood soaking in her clothes and the sand beneath them, and caught in their throat were their voices of everything they couldn't say.

His right hand was clutched over the bullet wound, the fingertips white with pressure. Her own hand moved over them. He grabbed that hand, leaving the wound unattended. Gasping from the pain, he found the words he wanted to say, "The immortal life is worth no less than the mortal one."

With trembling lips and hand, she replied, "And the immortal life is worth no more than the mortal one."

His hand slowly released hers, and his eyes closed. And with that, the boy who started out such a tremendous quake ended with such a quiet rivet. She wondered if he even heard her.

Her eyes close, and she breathes. The tears, those ancient relics of centuries long gone, still won't spill. It doesn't matter though. The warm blood in her veins and the cold body she still held in her lap were proof enough.