The snow is white because it forgot what colour it was supposed to be. C.C. believed in that, and when you lived for a long, long time and have seen people you love and care for come and go, you realise there was no point at all of wishing to cling to another person. C.C., sitting beside the sleeping young man, her best friend Marianne's only son, caressed his jet black hair. This was the man whom he had put curse on, to grant her only wish, in exchange for his Geass, the Power of the Kings.
At one point she will have to break it to him, that when his power becomes so strong he will not be able to control it her curse of immortality may be transferred to him. She took fondness on him, and although Marianne never really took her children seriously she knew Lelouch and Nunally sees her as the best mother in the world. Little did they know that it was only because of Charles that she held on to the royal children—well maybe pride too, that she was the favourite concubine, and her children the most loved among the eighteen recognised children of the Emperor.
And she talks to Marianne, with her power to communicate to anyone through their hearts. She is in the in-between, trapped in a world Charles and his older brother V.V. is trying to break into. There was once a time when C.C. trusted both Charles and Marianne, but they became too consumed with their ambitions. They wanted to become gods.
Recalling the nun who adopted C.C., she cannot believe she was fated to do as what was done to her. The nun gave her her Geass, and what she wanted was just so simple: to be loved. Her Geass enabled her to make people love her at her will. But then when everyone loved you to the point of obsession you kind of grow sick because of it. She remembered how she begged for the nun to take it away from her but she wouldn't—or rather, she couldn't. The rage was so strong, and the nun was willing. She slashed her with a shard of stained glass she picked up from cathedral floor who had just been subjected to breaking and entering and her wounded neck didn't heal. The peasant who broke in an axed her only gave her a tickle, but her hand, her cursed hand, granted the nun's wish. She swore she saw a genuine smile on her dying lips. She bade her good bye, wished her good night, and blessed her with her Latin thanks. She died peacefully, after four hundred years.
Lelouch then felt the witch beside him and his sleepy eyes shot up towards her. She continued caressing his hair, the same thick strands like Marianne.
"I know you're a witch but it's 2 a.m. and I need to sleep." said Lelouch, exhaustion present in his tone. C.C. decided to lie down beside him and went under the covers with her keep.
"I'm sorry Lelouch," she whispered to his ear, "but you will know loneliness nobody has ever known, including me."
"The witch I know does not make any apology." he answered, his back pressed against the curled woman. His voice was hoarse, but his tone was not irritated. She took a hint of concern in it. "I asked for this, so don't make a trip down the memory lane in this witching hour. Go sleep now, I will have to conquer Britannia tomorrow."
She thought he was still very young, and she felt, and she knew her intuition is always correct, that what he wanted the most would lead him to despair. She took care of so many children before, and they all went mad for her like Mao, but Lelouch was different. He commanded her, and she thought that finally someone can grant her wish, although the consequence to getting it spelled another soul living like her. She brushed her cheek on his soft hair.
"I wish you could command the dissolution of the curse we have on us both."
She slipped from his bed went for the door. He does not know yet what it is like to lose everything and you witness them being taken away. But then again, she trusted his judgment. He will not budge, and he will get what he wants. He has the Power of Kings, the power to command and be obeyed whatever it is that is asked of the subject. He commanded many people to their doom. And so he can command her death.
