This is the second part of an AU fanfiction. The first part has been published seperately as "Raise the Bloodied Banner." (Replace the latter part of this page's URL with s/8510617/1/Raise-the-Bloodied-Banner ) If you have not yet read the first part, I recommend you do that first (though you can go without), if you have, welcome back.

Warning ahead: In this fic, three interconnected plotlines / POVs play parallelly. The order is as follows: Nunnally - Lelouch - Cecilia / C.C. The fic is also based on history, and will have the occasional infodump. Also, all of our main characters are somewhat to very dickish.

Disclaimer: Code Geass is not mine. I have taken loose inspiration from The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas and War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy. Unless stated otherwise, I try and use historical personages or transplanted Code Geass characters in place of OCs. There will be a particular focus on His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon the Great; Sir Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington; Sir George Scovell; FitzRoy Somerset, 1st Baron Raglan, and others.

Main pairings: Lelouch x Shirley, Nunnally x Suzaku x Euphemia, a somewhat creepy one-sided relationship between Nunnally and Nunnalouch.

Main characters: Lelouch, Nunnally, C.C., also Rolo, Suzaku, Clovis and Jeremiah

Bibliography:

- Wikipedia

- The Napoleon Series, napoleon - series . org

- Napoleon, His Army and Enemies, at napolun . com

- The Marteau Early 18th-Century Currency Converter, at pierre - marteau . com

- Volker Hunecke: Napoleon. Das Scheitern eines guten Diktators (Paderborn, 2011)

- Philip Dwyer: Citizen Emperor. Napoleon in Power 1799-1815 (London, 2013)

- Other sources as noted.

Reviews are appreciated and will be responded to at the soonest possible opportunity. I prefer a critical review to a dozen faves.

What We Cling To

Second Part:

The Flight of the Eagle

"A man will fight long and hard for a bit of coloured ribbon."

– Napoléon

The Eagle's Claws

Madrid, 3 May 1808

The door was opened and her cell filled with a blinding white light.

"Lève-toi!"

Nunnally Lamperouge, curled up in the cell's corner, did not stir. From the corner of her eye she could see a dark silhouette against the bright daylight in the doorway. Impatiently the man repeated his command, then grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. She offered no resistance. Another hand took hold of another arm, and the soldiers dragged her out of the cell. As she stumbled down the narrow corridor between the soldiers, her eyes slowly adjusted to the light. Uncaring stares from her fellow prisoners. The cells on either side of the corridor seemed more crowded than when she had last seen them a fortnight ago.

With every step, a shockwave ran through her body. Her wounds were minor, but they had not healed well in the damp darkness of the cell. She had not eaten nor slept for what seemed like days. Dirty strands of hair obscured her vision. The men dragged her up a staircase and down another corridor. If only she were armed – but what use would a sword be without the strength to wield it? From the corner of her eye she caught a glance through the open door into the room where the brief tribunal had taken place – not there had ever been any question. She had been ambushed by a detachment of French gendarmes on the road to Madrid. No hesitation, no question – they had known she was coming. The first few days of her imprisonment she had desperately tried to figure out where the mistake that had led to her capture lay, but as delirium clouded her mind, she had given up on that. As she had given up on everything else.

One rough shove and Nunnally stood outside in the blazing sunlight. Freedom? No, the courtyard of the prison. Several other prisoners were also present, watched over on one side by a handful of soldiers and an officer with a list. Indifferently she noticed that none of them could have been imprisoned for more than a few days, judging from their appearance. She was the only woman among them, and at thirty years one of the oldest (she probably looked older than she was, as well; it had been at least a year since she had last looked in a mirror), excepting an elderly man in a priest's habit. One of her escorts gave a command, but she only caught the last words, "… formez une ligne!" The butt of a musket in her back underlined the order, and Nunnally (with slow, but increasingly sure step) got in line with the other prisoners, leaning against the wall for support. None of them spoke a word.

The officer threw a look at his list. "Let's begin," he said in that detested language of his, "Gabriel Velazquez, student of the laws, found guilty of armed insurrection."

The man in question had understood no more than his own name and looked as confused as was frightened. One of the soldiers answered in his stead. "Present."

"Joaquin Cortes, baker, found guilty of armed insurrection."

"Got him."

"Abbé Alvaro Lira, priest of the Roman confession, found guilty of incitement to treason and armed insurrection. My, my, how unchristian of you." The priest's presence was confirmed.

"Gaspar Ramundo, vagabond, found guilty of begging and armed insurrection." To her mild surprise, the beggar answered for himself in unaccented French.

"Jose Hernandes, employed at a textile factory, found guilty of armed insurrection." Nunnally had to wonder what she had missed these past two weeks.

"Jose Zermeno, haberdasher, found guilty of armed insurrection and murder of an officer in the service of His Majesty the Emperor." – "Present."

"Suzaku Kururugi, blacksmith's apprentice, found guilty of armed insurrection." A strange name, she idly thought, but then again so was hers. His presence was affirmed.

"Nunnally Lamperouge, brigand. Obviously … oh well. We don't have all day."

It took Nunnally a moment to realise the French soldiers' intentions. Five men formed a line facing the courtyard wall and loaded their muskets. What a waste of good saltpetre.

One by one, the other prisoners were made to stand against the wall and fusilladed. While the firing squad reloaded, two more soldiers removed the bodies. Nunnally tried to watch impassively. She would die, she knew, but there was nothing she could do about it. Weak, and disarmed, and bereft of fraternal aid and comfort. Nevertheless, her throat was tight and her hands were twitchy – perhaps it was the line of muskets, unerring, death-bringing steel, or rather the hands that guided them. Blue uniforms lined white piped red, golden eagles and 'N's on shakos and coattails. Was there anything more humiliating? Or perhaps it was the begging for mercy of the victims. Those aren't rebels, she thought, but then decided it was best not to dwell on that.

To his credit, the priest did not beg – he was mown down halfway through his prayer. The soldiers botched the execution of the haberdasher, necessitating a shot to the head at point-blanc range from the officer's pistol. Then it was the turn of the apprentice with the strange name. Beside that peculiarity, there was nothing extraordinary about him – an average face, green eyes, brunette, tall and muscular owing to his profession, plain attire. Nonetheless she felt a certain interest. Invariably, her tired eyes were drawn to his person. "I am no rebel," the boy firmly insisted when he was brought before the firing squad. He said it with more indignation than fear. Fool, did he think he could change the verdict? "I am a blacksmith's apprentice, the hammer you found my with is a tool of my trade, not a weapon …"

For the first time in what seemed like months, Nunnally smiled. Stupid naïve fool. Even if he had spoken French, their executioners would not have cared. Still, it was endearing, in a way … Nunnally sighed and closed her eyes. She had known for fifteen years that she might well die in the pursuit of her goals, and had accepted that chance. Only she had always pictured herself dying sword in hand, in battle.

"Présentez armes! Prêts, à mon commandement!"

Nunnally realised that she did not want the young man to die.

The command to fire never came. Rapid footsteps, the clicking of heels. "Mon capitaine!" She opened her eyes. The soldiers had lowered their muskets. Another officer had entered the courtyard and was just returning her executioner's salute.

"At ease, carporal. Take your men and come with me. Trouble at the Royal Palace. Orders from the Grand Chapeau himself."

The corporal seemed confused. "What, the Emperor?"

"Marshal Murat, you fool. Now drop what you're doing and come with me."

"But, sir …"

"The prisoners are not going to run away."

Her executioner muttered something under his breath, then turned. "Eure, Patenaude, Latour, Géroux, return the prisoners to their cells. The rest with me."

Like limbs to the mind, the soldiers obeyed without question or impulse. Again her arms were grabbed by rough hands, but this time she shook them off and marched – if slowly, and insecurely – ahead of her gaolers of her own strength. The man – Kururugi? – uttered a relieved prayer at this brief respite. They were led back inside the block of cells. Not a word was spoken. At some point, Nunnally looked back and realised that the other prisoner was no longer behind her, presumably led off to a different block. She could not help but feel a slight pang of guilt for failing to rescue him, even when she could not even save herself. Still, she thought, he has a noble heart, that one. To face death with such serenity!

"Hold on," one of her escorts said and halted his steps, and it took her a moment to realise that the words had been directed at his comrade and not her. "While we're here, I need to get new cartridges from the armoury. I've only two left."

"Ah, sure," the other man replied. "Better hurry, though; captain will want us back soon."

"I'll be just a minute. You'll manage the prisoner?"

The soldier gave a derisive laugh. Nunnally tried not to let her understanding of French show. "Of course I will. What do you hold me for that I couldn't detain some filthy peasant woman for a minute?"

"I'm more worried about our prisoners multiplying if I leave you alone with her."

"Hey, that was only once. The girl in Hamburg doesn't count …" Laughing, the first Frenchman walked off in the direction of the armoury. Through the open door, she caught a glimpse of dull and of shining steel; muskets, bayonets – swords? A faint hope caught on within her. The chance was too opportune not to use it.

Nunnally waited until the soldier had disappeared from sight and she could hear him speaking to someone in the armoury, though she could not make out the words. She closely watched her escort, who had produced a pipe from his shako and was struggling to light it. Nunnally bit her lip in thought. If only she could get behind him … but the man stood with his back to the wall. He was about the same size as her – his yellow collar and epaulettes marked him as a voltigeur, a vaulter, which was to say a skirmisher. Even so take him on in open combat would be madness, even if there weren't his compatriots in the adjoining rooms of the fortress to worry about.

With a frustrated sigh, she leant against the wall next to the Frenchman, who chuckled with some disbelief at the sight. "Disrupted your plans for today, did we?," he good-naturedly joked and seemed to find himself incredibly funny. Again, she tried to hide her understanding. Her eye fell on the voltigeur's side arm on his left hip, the standard-issue sabre-briquet. She had experienced the notorious dullness of the blade on her own flesh, but the short sword would serve, if only she could get her hands on it … Or perhaps she could snatch the musket from his hand? The fixed bayonet was thin and too light to be properly wielded in hand, yet it would suffice to kill a man who did not expect it. But what was she even thinking? She would not last long, even if she should be some miracle escape. She knew her own weakness and had been resigned to certain death but a brief while ago, whence then that sudden and unwelcome change? Perhaps it was but the hope sparked within her by catching a glimpse of the armoury.

Her captor was still trying to elicit sparks from his tinderbox to light his pipe with. "Damn flint must be used up again," he muttered under his breath. Then, he leaned his musket against the wall, took off his knapsack and sat it on the ground to search for a replacement. Almost without thinking, Nunnally's hand slowly, ever so slowly, reached for the musket … a flick of a switch, and the bayonet lay in her hand, cutting deeply into her flesh.

"Huh, what …" Before her victim could finish the thought, Nunnally put her hand over his mouth and, in a single fluid movement, rammed the bayonet into his throat seven or eight times. His words turned into a gurgle. The dull impact of his body on the floor boards, the metallic rattle of his arms and insignia, seemed to her as if even the ogre in Paris must have heard it. Hastily, Nunnally grabbed the sabre-briquet from the pool of blood that was starting to form, and hid next to the door to the armoury, holding her breath.

To her immense surprise, she was not immediately set upon by half a dozen enemies. She believed to make out some words – "You heard that?" – "Heard what? Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, there you are. Try to fire your gun less, we're short of ammunition as it is. Bloody English."

For a brief moment, Nunnally closed her eyes in relief. If the men inside had not heard, she had some more time. She could only hope no one would come along; even if she … Heavy footsteps interrupted her thoughts. She tensed and readied the briquet in her hand. The door opened. It took the soldier a moment to attach the refilled cartridge box to his shoulder belt – a moment she exploited by ramming the sabre in his stomach. A surprised scream, she withdrew the blade and darted into the armoury. The quartermaster drew his sword.

Nunnally hesitated. The briquet in her hand felt tiny and brittle against a real weapon. He had the advantage of reach, and rest, and – "Vive l'Empereur!" With that battle cry, he charged at her. Not a heartbeat too late she dodged the officer's downward slash and tried a thrust at his side, but failed to strike flesh. They whirled around each other to dodge simultaneous strikes, then a swift kick swept her off her feet. Before she had even touched the ground, Nunnally retaliated and brought him to the ground. She rolled around to stab him, the officer scurried away and raised himself up against a rack of swords. Before he had recovered, Nunnally jumped at him, and together they crashed into the shelf. Her opponent uttered a surprised gasp, as though all the air were pressed from his lungs, and Nunnally followed it up with a punch in the face. (Had she dropped the briquet? She must have.) A knee to her groin later and the French officer was above her, pummelling in on her chest and face – with her left arm she tried to defend herself as well as possible, while her right hand searched for something to grasp, anything to return the advantage to her – her briquet, perhaps, or a sword – she grasped blade after blade, in her hand impure blood mixed with her own …

There, a hilt! So familiar in her hand, a lover's touch almost, a sensation so entirely pleasant that she almost forgot about the severity of her situation; and the voice of an angel … Beloved sister.

She whirled the sword around and skewered her assailant breadthwise at the height of the navel. Almost at once his attacks diminished. She rolled him off her, then for good measure slashed his throat with her rapier. Only when he stopped gurgling up blood, Nunnally let herself fall back into her uneasy bed of blades and racks, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. You need to get out of here without delay.

True, she replied and got to her feed, rubbing her back, but not alone. She got to work. The uniforms of the soldiers outside were stained beyond salvaging with drying blood, but that of the officer was stained only on the crimson collar. The blood was barely visible – yet, in less than an hour, she would be unable to fool anyone with it. At once she began to strip the quartermaster and exchange her own rags for his uniform. A reasonably fresh white shirt, a blue pair of trousers, long-sleeved waistcoat, and coat with crimson lining and piping, black boots, a golden gorget with an engraved eagle and a single golden epaulette on her right shoulder. Instead of the man's sabre, she girdled herself with their ancient rapier. The clothes were too large for her, but that would serve well to disguise the very slight curve of her breasts. Using a strap of linen torn from her old rags, she tied her hair to a ponytail and hoped the bicorne she found in a corner of the armoury would complete her disguise. Nunnally resisted the urge to rip off the tricoloured cockade on the hat. She quickly scanned the weapons scattered in the chaos for something useful, then selected a stiletto and hid it in her left sleeve. Why would such a thing be in a military armoury, she wondered, then she realised that it had been in the same chest as their rapier. A weapon confiscated from one of her fellow prisoners, perhaps? She would need to find out about what had happened in Madrid these past few days. But first she had other matters to attend to. She adjusted her waistcoat.

So far, she had not yet been discovered.

It seemed quaint that she encountered no soldiers as she hurried back the way she had been led. Where was the garrison? She kept on her guard. What are you doing?, Lelouch asked with some alarm. Don't tell me you're planning on doing what I think you're planning to do.

Her lips twitched. As if you didn't know it. Stop me if you want. Her brother did not reply.

Nunnally realised that the corridor through which she had been lead had only two branches between the point she had last seen the other prisoner and the point he had been gone. She took the first, and soon came across what appeared to be a different part of the prison. The cells were packed, but not with the ragged creatures she had expected – indeed, many of them looked like wealthy bourgeois. Most warranted her with looks of unbridled hatred (clearly, the French uniform was working), one begged: "Please, señor! I have done nothing wrong! I have a wife and children!" She ignored him.

At the end of the corridor, she found the two soldiers who had led the other prisoner playing cards in the guardroom. She had her hand on her sword's hilt, but the moment they saw her, the Frenchmen jumped to their feet and saluted. "Uh, mon capitaine! We … we thought it unwise to, er, to leave the prisoners unguarded, that's why we're not …"

"Shut your mouth, man," Nunnally snapped at him. Her French felt rusty, but she hoped she was still fluent enough in her mother's tongue to not give pause to the soldiers. "Identify yourselves."

"Yes, sir. Voltigeur Alexandre Latour, _e Régiment de ligne, first battalion."

"Voltigeur Ulysse Eure, _e Régiment de ligne, first battalion."

"I'll make a note of that. Anyway, I need a prisoner. Orders from the very top."

"What, from the Grand Duke of Berg?"

It took her a moment to remember who that was. "Yes, from Marshal Murat. There's a prisoner I'm supposed to get, a blacksmith seized yesterday. Turns out he's a French subject on his mother's side. He's to have a trial."

"Yes, sir. The name?"

"Kururugi."

One of the soldiers consulted a ledger on the escritoire of the guardroom. "Is that Kururugi with a C or with a K, sir?"

"Damned if I know," she snapped back. "I wasn't given written orders. Just look under both C and K."

Voltigeur Latour clearly didn't like that, but discipline got the better of him. It took him near two minutes to find the name, leading her to suspect he could not read. At last, however, he said: "Kururugi, Suzaku. Number 25. That's just around the corner. Ulysse, let's go unlock for the captain. Please follow me, sir."

The boy was in a cell that would have held ten with twenty other men. Eure stood at attention outside the grille, musket at the ready, while his comrade unlocked the cell. "Kururugi!," he bellowed, "Get out of there if you're still alive!"

Nunnally doubted that anyone in the cell understood a word of French, but the name alone sufficed to make some of them hope for freedom (or a quick death), so that six different men claimed to be Kururugi. She recognised him in the back, he had been the quietest of them. "I understand he is a young man with brown hair and green eyes," Nunnally told the voltigeurs. She could have gone into more detail, she remembered her fellow prisoner's face perfectly.

"That would be the lad at the back," Eure concluded. Both soldiers had to hold the other prisoners at bay with their weapons while the boy fought his way out of the crowded cell.

"Are you Suzaku Kururugi?," she asked him. The boy nodded. He did not seem to recognise her. The look in his emerald eyes was one of uncompromising solemnity, but without the hatred she had seen in other prisoners. She avoided his gaze and turned to the soldiers. "Lock up. I'll be taking over the prisoner from here on. You can get back to your cards."

Latour flushed red. "O...of course, sir. If you don't mind, we need a receipt for the guard book."

She rolled her eyes. "One could think this army runs on ink, not blood. Very well then. Forward march, prisoner." To make her words understood, he shoved Kururugi forward. In the guardroom, the soldiers tied his hands while she wrote something about having received the prisoner Kururugi to conduct him to his court-martial, jotted down the current date (she had to ask: it was the third of May 1808) and scrawled something illegible for a signature. Then, she took her leave with the prisoner.

"Did you recognise that captain?," she overheard one of the soldiers ask his comrade ask his comrade.

"Never seen him in my life. A queer one …"

"You sure we should have handed over the lad without written orders?"

"No. But orders are orders …"

Nunnally smirked. She gave a brisk pace, only to find herself having to catch up to the prisoner she led in front of her. With some luck, she found the way out of the fortress. The entrance was heavily guarded, but the soldiers saluted and let her pass without question, and soon they stood outside on the street in the blazing midday sun. After weeks of imprisonment, she had to close her eyes against the blinding light. Deeply she sucked in the fresh air, rich with the smells of the city. Gunpowder from the fortress behind her (exercises or executions?), spices, fish and meat from the markets, cheap brandy and wine from the pubs, the vapours of a thousand hearths, the perfume of the rich and the filth of the poor, and blood on the pavement.

It took her a moment to gather herself sufficiently to lead Kururugi away from the fortress. She took no less than six turns until she was certain not to have been followed. In a dark, empty alley, they stopped. Kururugi seemed confused, but she put a finger on his lips before he could say anything. "Quiet," she told him in Spanish and began to remove his binds. His eyes widened. "I am on your side. Do you want to live? Then do exactly as I say."

"Why should I trust you? You're a French officer …"

Nunnally removed her hat. "We're in the same boat. Remember me?"

"You … you were at the execution …"

"Nunnally Lamperouge, at your service. Now let's get going, there's no time for chit-chat." Briskly she marched away. They needed horses, and she needed less conspicuous clothes, not to mention supplies …

"W...wait!," he caught up to her. "You're a woman!"

She rolled her eyes. "My, you're an observant one."

"Uh, sorry. It's just, you're in uniform and your voice is rather deep."

She grimaced. He had hit a soft spot there. As a girl, she had dreamed of becoming a singer, but over the years the cold of the mountains, tobacco and cheap brandywine had distorted her voice. As she was very well aware. "Why, thank you," she snapped. "Anything you want to add?"

"Um … why … you could have saved everyone. We could have overpowered the soldiers, tie them up somewhere. All the others are going to be shot."

Nunnally halted in the shadow of a corner. They had reached a main street. A French patrol of twelve men crossed their path. She frowned. What had happened the day before? "Too dangerous. I'm stretching my luck far enough with you alone."

The patrol having passed, she stepped out on the street, but Kururugi grasped her wrist. "Why me, then? Why would you save me?"

Nunnally glared at him. "Indeed, I am beginning to doubt my decision. You have been nothing but a nuisance to me. Bear in mind that I just saved you from certain death. You owe me your life, boy. And while I'm at it, do not touch me again, or there will be no third time. Is that clear?"

Almost instantly the boy let go off her. Looking sheepish, he avoided her gaze. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"Good. Follow me." She led him across the street and into another maze of alleys without knowing where exactly they were. She had never been to Madrid before Ogi, camping east of the capital, had sent her to buy several items – medicine, maps, weapons, the type of thing you didn't find outside cities – and find out about French troop dispositions.

The French, of course, had been in Spain for almost half a year. An army under General Junot had first crossed the country to invade and occupy Portugal, England's ancient ally, without resistance, in November 1807. But everyone knew that they had also taken a vivid interest in the army, infrastructure and fortifications of their Spanish allies. When tensions had erupted between the inept cuckold king, Charles IV, and his son, the Prince of Asturias Ferdinand, and they called upon the Corsican ogre to mediate between them at Bayonne, Bonaparte had used the opportunity to seize the fortresses and cities of Northern Spain in a rapid succession of coups de main. Since February then, Spain had been under French occupation.

"They mentioned an uprising? What happened there?"

"What … how can't you know? The city was at war yesterday!"

"I was a bit preoccupied."

"Um … oh. Oh, I see. Well … it was pretty sudden, you know? And I wasn't really a part of it, I just got caught up in the fighting. As far as I know, the whole thing started because of a rumour that Murat was sending the Queen of Etruria and Infante Francisco to Bayonne – the last royals remaining in the country. A crowd formed before the palace to keep them from leaving, and, well, you know how it is – the French fired grapeshot into the crowd, and all of a sudden the city explodes. The whole thing ended when their heavy guard cavalry charged near the Gate of the Sun. Over the next few hours, they took control of the city. They caught me in the evening, my master had sent me to deliver something … I wasn't aware of the curfew and I didn't realise my hammer would get me arrested. That's all I know."

Very briefly, she smirked. "Of course it is." She looked around and had to admit she was lost. "We need to get horses. You know a stable nearby?"

"What, are we leaving the city? Wouldn't it be simpler to lie low in the city for a while? There'll be guards at the gates."

"Answer the question."

"Alright, alright! I … I don't know, I think there should be someone selling horses near the church of St. Ildefonso …"

Kururugi's guess turned out to be correct. He may be a nuisance, but I'd be lost here without him. After army requisitions, only three mares remained in the stable, two light chestnut and one bay, all of them looking malnourished and moderately diseased. Even though it was bright day, the boxes were locked, and the owner nowhere in sight. Nunnally knocked at the next door until someone opened. The old man threw one look at her uniform and paled. "I've done nothing wrong!," he pleaded, "You've got the wrong man, sir!"

"Calm yourself," she replied in Spanish. "Are you the owner of that stable?"

"Ah … yes, but I've …"

"We need your fastest two horses saddled and bridled in five minutes."

The man's face lost what little colour remained in it. "But … Monsieur officer, you have already taken all my best horses from me for your artillery … if you take those I have left, I will be destitute! Please, sir, I have a family to provide for, we depend on the foals my mares will bear this year!"

"That is none of my concern," she said, grabbed the man's arm and drew him outside. He barely resisted. "In the name of the Emperor, we are going to requisition two of your horses. Don't worry, you will be appropriately recompensed." A light shove lent urgency to her words, and the stablekeeper hastened lead the bay and one of the chestnut horses out of their boxes.

"You won't be happy with these horses, no you won't, sir," he insisted while saddling the bay. "They're old and weak, that's why they left them to me. Too old for long marches, let alone hunting. Won't do you much good on the battlefield either, they haven't been trained for all the noise – let me give you the address of a colleague of mine who'll be happy to give you much better steeds …"

She told him to shut up and work faster. Since Kururugi didn't look too helpful, she had to keep an eye on the street. A man in a blue coat passed by – her hand shot to her sword, then she realised he was a civilian. Relax, Lelouch told her, there is no need to be so upset. We'll be fine.

At long last the horses were ready. With shaking hands the old man lead their mounts out of the boxes. "Please, sir," he pleaded one last time, "do not take my livelihood from me."

She ignored his objections. "Be proud, citizen, you have done a service to the nation. Get on the horse, boy."

"B...but … my money! You said I would be recompensed!"

"Yes." She let the stiletto slip out from her sleeve, grasped it it, darted forth and before the old man could even react she had stabbed him in the heart four or five times. "Recompensed as a traitor to his country deserves."

The old man's death throes mixed with the horses' panicked whinnying and Kururugi's outcry. Nunnally wiped the blood and gore off the stiletto with a sleeve of the traitor's shirt, then hid it in her boot and mounted the bay. "You … you murdered him! You murdered him!," the smith stammered.

"True," she replied. "Now get on your bloody horse before the patrol finds us here or I swear you are next!" Once again she laid hand on the rapier's hilt. After a moment of hesitation, the boy mounted. He was pale as snow, his eyes wide with shock. One should think he's seen blood before, Lelouch mocked him. She did not listen. "Can you ride a horse?"

"I … I think so …"

"Then let's be off." She spurred the bay into a gentle trot. The boy sat in the saddle like a sack of flour and could barely keep up. "His death was necessary," she explained on the way, not knowing why she bothered. "He would have ratted us out. Beside, he was a traitor, a collaborator."

"Ratted us out to whom?! We'll be gone before they even start looking for us, and besides how was he supposed to know anything?!"

"It's better to be save. And anyway …"

"But not at the price of murdering an innocent old man!"

"… did you want to pay for the horses? … Thought so."

"You're insane. Insane and mad and evil."

"Shut up. There's guards at the gate ahead." Madrid had no real fortifications any more, and the "gate" was more of a decorative arch. Still, the nominal border of the city was guarded by a handful of French soldiers. To her delight, they were not very attentive; saluted her and let them pass without question when she explained that Kururugi was with her. After that, they rode out of Madrid without further incident. They spoke very little – her companion was still in shock, and Nunnally found herself wondering whether it had been worth it.

It had to be done, Lelouch assured her, but for once his words sounded hollow.

Ogi had promised he would wait until she returned – they had found a large cavern halfway between Madrid and Cuenca, large enough to accommodate their whole band, yet close enough to several major roads to keep up business. Nunnally and Kururugi arrived there at dusk. It was quieter than she would have expected. They dismounted in front of the cavern. A sudden breeze let warm sunlight shine through the dense foliage, illuminating the remains of a large campfire. "Hello?," she shouted, "Ogi? Sugiyama? Tamaki? Anyone there?" There was no reply.

"You sure your friends didn't abandon you to die?," Kururugi asked, no, sneered. "If I didn't owe you my life …"

She paid no heed to him and entered the cavern. It was devoid of life, with only a few hints of previous habitation – spoiled food, scratchings on the walls, beds of leaves and grass – proving that she was in the right place. Nunnally ground her teeth. What had happened? Had they been captured, or driven from here? Something caught her eye – a folded piece of paper, pinned down by a rock. She knelt down and opened it. The handwriting was near illegible, the spelling and grammar rife with mistakes. Nunnally – we've left for the region near Zaragoza. Ogi says to give up on you, that you won't return. I couldn't get him to wait any longer. Tamaki.

For a moment it was as though the air had been knocked out of her. Her vision was blurred, her hands shaking. They have betrayed us, Lelouch expressed, just as shocked as she was. Ogi has … betrayed us …

When she rose, her whole body was shaking with tranquil fury. "Get back on your horse," she shouted to her unwilling companion, "we're riding to Zaragoza."

I refer to Wikipedia's article on the Dos de Mayo Uprising for a fairly comprehensive coverage of the events and causes of 2 May 1808.

Leve-toi: Get up!

Formez un ligne!: Form a line!

Presentez armes! Prês, à mon commandement!: Present arms! Ready, at my command!

Carporal: Corporal

Les Grand Chapeaux: "The Big Hats," Grande Armée slang for Napoleon and his marshals

Vive l'Empereur: Long live the Emperor!

Mon capitaine: my captain. In the French army, officers (but not NCOs) are addressed as "my (rank)". Not applicable in the French Navy.

Voltigeur: "Vaulter", originally intended to be soldiers moving quickly across the battlefield by jumping on horses behind cavalrymen. When that proved unworkable, reformed into skirmishers. Every line and light regiment in the French army had two elite companies, the heavy grenadiers (the tallest men) and the light skirmishing voltigeurs (the best shots, but usually the shortest men due to a British-induced shortage in saltpetre making practice shots impracticable). In battle, these would be detached from the line in loose skirmishing order to take out officers and harass the enemy by actually taking the time to aim.

Ulysse Eure = Ulysses eu Britannia

Alexandre Latour = Alexander la Britannia

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