Disclaimer: Kuroshitsuji (Black Butler) © Yana Toboso. No profit is being made from this story. This story does not necessarily reflect the author's religious views, beliefs or morals.

Rating: PG

Warning: Contains spoilers for the manga. Angst. Psychological.

Summary: Ciel sometimes wonders if he is human. Sometimes when he looks in the mirror, he had the uncanny feeling that someone else was looking back at him.

Story type: Manga cannon reflective AU.

Pairing: None.

AN (may contain spoilers for story and cannon): The inspiration for this story came from volume 18, chapter 84, page 50-51. Originally this was just to put down some of my thoughts about the "Two Ciel's theory", with this particular thought stemming from chapter 34, page 57. Spoilers for Chapter 105. Originally this ended with "He was a bizarre doll with a soul", but I felt that there was more to it, but I couldn't get anything at the time. So I chucked it in the completed folder. I was deciding what to publish in the second half of 2015, when I came across it. Once again my muse ran interference, and it promptly tripled in size. Go figure. So I wrote it. Then rewrote, until it finally came out like this. I'm pretty happy with it now, so I hope you enjoy it.

Sorry! I updated this to my main archive but completely forgot about here. Oh well, better late than never.

Historical Notes: "tentative grasp of Morpheus"; No, I'm not referring to that guy with the two pills in 'The Matrix', but its close. Morpheus was the ancient Greek god of dreams which was later extended to sleep. Ciel would most likely come across him in his Latin texts, which would have been drawn from the classics (i.e. Greek).

Conception Date: 26/12/2014

Completion Date: 27/7/2015

Doll

The mind can be a strange thing, idle hands make mischief and so does an unoccupied mind. It happens in those moments between sleeping and waking, where the daily cares of life are left behind in the search for sleep. But there will always be those times when sleep alludes us, where the mind wanders into uncharted territories. For the most part these wandering are harmless, but for someone who deals in the twilight world, where the strange and bizarre are commonplace, these wanderings can take frightening and dangerous turns.

The young mind of Earl Ciel Phantomhive had wandered the darkness for many nights since the events that led to the sinking of the Campania. Yet those innocent words of explanation and reasoning continued to haunt his wanderings; "The current corpses are being moved… by their longing for the future. Do you not agree that what will be perfected… is a reanimated corpse… infinitely approaching a living human!?"

Sleepless nights haunt him, something about Undertaker's words keeping him from peaceful rest. Uneasiness eddies and gathers, solidifying until the horrible thought arises; so close to death he reeks of it, though no life blood stains his hands. Was he in his own strange way, a bizarre doll?

His memory of the cult is confused. There were times when he is sure he died on the alter table; felt the knife as it was forced through his flesh, scraping bone. But he is certain that he had been in the cage, looking out, grubby hands clenching the bars, too scared to reach out to the grasping hand that seemed to be his, yet couldn't be.

It is in the darkest hours of the morning when he wonders; how different is he from Undertaker's bizarre dolls? The question dogs his steps, as he walks over corpses and past the suffering he leaves in his wake. It sends a chill up his spine when he is alone, and makes him nauseous in the company of living, breathing humans.

There are times when he wondered if he was still human.

If he had actually died wouldn't that make him a bizarre doll? But that couldn't be; if he had no soul then Sebastian couldn't have made a contract with him. Ciel pulls the covers further up, his mind soothed. But the doubts won't leave him alone; like a mosquito, it whines as it files around, louder than softer, but never quite disappearing. Then a disturbing thought crosses his mind, one stemming from when his mother and father took him to church, to watch the ceremonies and listen to the sermons, always about two things; the body and soul. He is almost afraid to face the thought; what if he had really seen himself being sacrificed, what if his soul had watched his body die. It made perfect sense of the confusion in that moment.

He had died.

His soul had made a contract.

His dead body had been given a soul, then directed towards a future that he longed for.

He wasn't human.

He was a bizarre doll with a soul.

His mind shied away from the thought like a skittish horse. He could barely think about it, face the horrifying possibility. Was he really no better than Joker and the members of the first tier? Desperately tearing others down to protect, obtain that which did not exist?! Could he even claim to be the same as them? His wild screams amongst the ruins of the orphanage came back to him; "I too am packed full of the same hideous stuffing as they. This is what we humans are! This is what humans are like!" Could he really lay claim to those words? He was human wasn't he? He had to be! He just had to make the "lie" into the "truth", believe the lie till it became "truth". It would all just be a matter of time.

I am human, I am human, I am human, I am human, I am human, I am human, I am human, I am human, I am human, I am human, I am human, I am human, I am human, I am human, I am human…

The mantra echoed in every beat of his heart, in the rasp of every drawn breath. Day by day the weeks passed and the "truth" became sugar coated with "lies".

But oh, those wretched sleepless nights!

Once again his search of sleep let the pervading trickles of doubt seep between all the "lies" that hid the "truth". Slowly those niggling doubts came back, causing him to toss and turn restlessly. And as much as he tried to forget them, once again it was the Undertaker's words that shattered his coating of "lies"; "Poor thing. Even his bones burned to ashes. With such a death it's just… Ahh… But… The "Earl of Phantomhive"… is still… with us, after all…"

What on earth had he meant? Was he talking about Ciel himself, or his predecessor? On moonless nights, when sleep eluded him, Ciel pondered on the nature of dolls. There were some occultists, who believed they could communicate with the dead via dolls. And in a way bizarre dolls were the same, though soulless (he was the same, though once again his mind shielded away from that line of thought). In his more morbid moods he wondered what would happen to his body once Sebastian consumed his soul. Would it really just be like any other dead body, or would it stand and hone in on the next living person, ripping through flesh seeking that which it needed to be complete.

Then in a blinding moment of clarity the thoughts and fragments of possibility fall together to create the larger picture; Undertaker's words, possessed dolls, the possibility he was a bizarre doll.

Could he be nothing more than a flesh and blood puppet for his father's soul?

The thought jerks him right out of the tentative grasp of Morpheus. He sat up in the cold moonlight, the chilly fingers of horror, dragging down his spine. Shaky breaths shook the fragile frame. Ciel shivered, feeling those cold fingers tighten round his frantically beating heart.

No.

It wasn't possible.

He was being stupid. Because he was human, not some Shinigami's warped experiment. Ciel searched his memory, trying to find something that would assure him of his humanity. A long forgotten memory came unbidden to his mind. Wandering down into one of the infrequently visited wings with his father. His small hand dwarfed in the grip of the older. They had passed into a corridor.

'This is where all the portraits of your ancestors are, Ciel.' His father had said, before lifting him up to the first one. 'This is Edward, the First Earl of Phantomhive.' Ciel had stared wide eyed at the painting, before turning to face his father.

'Father, why does he look exactly like you?'

'Haha, I don't know son. Why don't we have a look at all the other portraits, you should get to know your ancestors.' Vincent had said, before moving off. But all Ciel could remember of their journey down the passage way was the repeated portraits of the same man.

The chill of horror saturated his flesh, caressing his bones. Since his contract with the demon, Ciel knew many things were possible. And this was no exception; was it possible that every Earl of Phantomhive was somehow the same person? Ciel's insides churned. He wanted to be sick. Was he Ciel? Was he Vincent? Was "Vincent" even the real name of his father? Ciel had to know. On shaky legs he made his way to the library.

Taking the heavy leather book down from the shelf he brought it over to the reading table by the window. The sterile moonlight clearly illuminated the pages of his family history as Ciel carefully perused the book. The cold fingers of horror, seeped into his bones, mingling into the marrow at their core. Ciel abruptly leant to one side and was sick. Kneeling on the floor he gagged as bile forced its way out of him. There was only ever one son born to the head of the family. And every Earl died shortly after their son came of age.

The mind can only take so much before it snaps. The results from this kind of stress can vary; violent denial, a complete forgetting of the facts, a rewriting of the memories that lead to the mind snapping, the list goes on.

The young noble continued to kneel, his vulnerable lungs heaving for precious air, as painful spasms shook through his body. It was sick, it couldn't be true. He must have been remembering things wrong. Those dates in the family history were just coincidence right? He let out a shaky laugh, the brittle sound echoing emptily in the darkened library. It seemed to mock his weak denial, deepening into a laugh that was not his as it faded away. Ciel swallowed hard, banishing the knowledge to the back of his mind, willing it back to the obscurity it had risen from. There was no way something like that was even possible. How foolish of him, to let his imagination get away like this, to be scared of something so trivial. The young lord let out another laugh, the sound much stronger and brighter than the first, calming him. Yes, he was simply stressed from running the company and the tedious errands the Queen had him running lately. He let out a snort of derision. The sprits of the deceased possessing their descendants. How ridiculous. He carefully wiped the bile off his mouth with a sleeve, looking disdainfully at the stain it left behind. Straightening he looked distantly out the window.

'Sebastian.' He said to the empty room. The darkness heaved and the familiar form of his butler, stepped out into the moonlight. Approaching the small figure, the taller bowed.

'You called my lord?' The smooth urbane voice of the butler inquired.

'Run me a bath, then clean up this mess.'

'Yes my lord' came the reply.

Relaxing in the lavender scented water, one might be forgiven for thinking that Ciel had forgotten all about those thoughts from the shadowland. And in time Ciel would consciously forget it, sealing it shut deep in the darkest corners of his mind. But every so often he starts awake, chest pounding from a nightmare he knows is real but cannot recall. Sometimes he will turn back to the mirror, carefully studying it before assuring himself that there is no one else there. And always the question will haunt him;

Who is really looking back at him?