Chapter 21

The thunder breaker finds her nose wrinkling as she grips on to the top of the scroll, eyes glossing over the text written on it.

Casmilia raises an eyebrow, as she lowers the parchment, "10 Boogies?"

The small girl looks up at the knight unblinkingly.

"That's me."

Casmilia bends forward to look at her at eye-level, narrowing her eyes.

"Why'd you pick that name?"

She lowers her gaze, before giving a small sigh.

"I wanted to fit in with the civilians, see. Apparently, my Erevian name translates to something like this in the Perion language," 10 Boogies, or whatever her true name is, crosses her arms, the gesture accompanied by a small pout, "If you ask me, I think it isn't half bad."

"Sure," Casmilia smiles.

10 Boogies clears her throat, taking the strange-looking contraption from Casmilia's hand, still with a frown on her face.

"So this is the device Neinheart wanted us to trial?"

Casmilia's eyes dart around, as though the dust flying into the air around barren trees could provide an answer. The auburn-haired agent sighs.

"The one that detects dark magic, Casmilia?"

"I think so," she hums.

"Let's turn it on, then, shall we?"

"Um…"

Without waiting for an answer, 10 Boogies slides her thumb over the switch, the red light flickering on and off as she does so, small 'beep's emanating from the small device.

"Hm… Interesting."

Casmilia leans forward to peer at it.

"What's going on?"

"It seems to have picked up dark forces immediately," she frowns, "This is urgent, Casmilia."

"What is it?"

10 Boogies shoots her a death glare, and, all of a sudden, the petite girl doesn't seem as cute anymore, "The source of the puppeteer's magic is at the excavation site."

"Where's that?"

With a sigh, she points to the decrepit gate, adorned by goat skulls, rotted wood and spider webs.

"Down there, there should be a tribe of wooden masks where there used to be architects and geologists."

If Casmilia looks hard enough beyond the gate, she can see dead trees and tumbleweeds lazily rolling across the horizon. An entirely different world.

"Used to be?"

10 Boogies rolls her eyes.

"I shall spare you the gruesome details, Lady Casmilia."

The teenager shudders, as she turns around towards the decaying arches.

"Off you go, now," 10 Boogies hums, "You must now kill one thousand Wooden Masks and obtain a Wooden Mask doll. Knowing the puppeteer—"

Casmilia freezes mid-step.

"What?!"

"Alright, we'll split the deal," she says airily, "I'm feeling kind today. How about five-hundred?"

The thunder breaker twiddles her thumbs, grinning like a maniac as she turns around slowly to meet her gaze, "T-Ten?"

10 Boogies raises an eyebrow.

"One-hundred."

"Twenty."

"Fifty," she says with an air of finality, "You will slay fifty wooden masks, and try to find a Wooden Mask doll. We are familiar with the puppeteer's tactics by now, so, surely, you'll find at least one."

Casmilia blinks in response, but what good would it do if she were to protest?

'Better than Hersha—at least there's a reason for all this…'

Begrudgingly, Casmilia wordlessly begins her descent down the mountain down to the excavation site.

The rubber soles of her shoes skid against the corridor, as she, with her heart beating in her throat, feels tears sting in her eyes.

The magician—can she even be called that anymore?—runs, though not for her own life. Cecelia turns sharply with a wince, as she tries the handle—thankfully, the door swings open with a resounding creak.

Not even bothering to slam it shut behind her, she feels cold sweat forming on her forehead, as she steps into the room. There, lying on the couch, is a tuft of tousled green hair rustling on the couch.

"Cecelia?" it grumbles from underneath the covers.

Cecelia's fists clench—not even caring enough to mask the sharp edge of her words, she snarls, "Francis."

"What are you doing here—" His breath is hitched in his throat, as he is torn from the couch by the top of his hood, skidding along the smooth floor until his back meets the wall.

Cecelia takes it upon herself to sprint up—and on to—him.

"You little shit!"

Eyes widened, little Francis clutches at his stomach as he attempts to sputter something along the lines of 'what did I do?!' only to spurt out blood, as her foot collides with his stomach a second time.

"Reina is dying because you couldn't clean your fucking room!"

"I-It hurts…"

Francis' eyes widen, as her incessant kicking begins to cease.

'She found out?'

"I'm going easy on you, brat!" Cecelia tightens her grip on him, "Help me, or I'll show you what true pain is."

Francis wipes the blood from the corner of his lip, panting, looking up at her, very sure he can no longer see out of his left eye.

'Dammit.'

"No need."

'… Cecelia's her partner, isn't she?'

Cecelia examines the rest of the room. Thankfully, there are potions lining the shelves of the room, stacks of paperwork sprawled on—and around—the desk and chairs…

"Don't fuck with me, alright?"

Cecelia trudges forward to the wooden shelf, as she plucks the coloured glass bottles from their shelves with trembling fingers—coloured glass bottles with nothing in them.

"Shit!" the bottles clatter, "Where the hell are we?"

Not wanting to risk yet another beating, Francis gulps.

"Eleanor's office."

Cecelia slams the bottles back to where they belonged, the entire shelf trembling from the force.

"Why the fuck does she have empty potion bottles on her shelf next to a bunch of spell books?!" Cecelia groans, clutching at her hair as she stomps over to the desk, "It's so fucking misleading!"

"Th-There's an apothecary nearby i-in Edelstein…."

"We don't have time to go to Edelstein!"

Francis tries to frown, though the swelling prevents him from doing so without him whimpering in pain.

"How bad is it?" he settles for a blank expression.

"She's dying, you shithead!" Cecelia begins to pull out drawers, a monstrous roar tears through the office as she struggles to pull it out. Using all of her strength to tear the drawer away, she pulls it out of the desk.

Francis simply stares on in horror, as unframed certificates, confidential documents and other asinine papers flutter to the floor amidst a flurry of every expletive known to man leaving Cecelia's lips.

"Fuck my life—!"

The plop of a vial dropping on the large mountain of paperwork rings in her ears. Cecelia pants, as she plucks it from the floor, examining it—the glow from the vial is reflected in her eyes, maniacal from desperation, as she turns to the small puppeteer, holding it up by its cork.

"What's in this one?"

Francis brings a finger to his lips, pursed in thought.

Francis peers from the crack in the doorway, hand leaning against the wooden frame of the door, as he witnesses the older woman lean back in her creaking office chair, muttering to herself.

"In this bottle, right here," she brings it closer to her face, swishing the glowering liquid inside.

The puppeteer narrows his eyes.

"Eternity."

As Cecelia slams it down on the table, before using her hand to clasp at the puppeteer's robes, pulling him up to her eye level, "I told you to not fuck with me!"

Francis trembles under her grip, his forehead touching hers.

"But th-that's what Eleanor said—agh!"

Slammed to the floor while Cecelia takes the vial into her pocket, Francis lets out a yelp of pain.

"We need all that we can get."

"I don't think it's a healing potion—"

"We."

Cecelia's pacing grows tenfold, as she sprints down the hallway, Francis' robes billowing out as he follows her.

"Need."

She grits her teeth, as her steps grow quicker, a feat Francis thought not possible.

"It!"

"Why are you running?" he pants, clutching at the stitch in his side.

"What the hell sort of question is that?!" she throws her arms in the air in a display of defeat.

Skidding as they stop outside of the door—the golden-encased letters saying 'Francis' Room' confirms that this is their destination—Cecelia wastes no time cracking the door open…

"Reina!"

Still unmoving, and growing ever so slightly colder, Reina doesn't even have so much as the energy to grunt in response.

It is the first thing to part her lips, as she flutters her eyes open to see light—natural light, not the fluorescent bulbs of a laboratory—for the first time in many years.

"Who are you?"

The girl with ashen brown hair keeps her gaze fixated on the road, as her jaguar whizzes through the air—the speed is almost like they were flying.

"I'm Hana," she says, "Hana Kikuchi—Wild Hunter in the fourth division."

Reina lets out a small grunt in understanding, before the second thing to leave her lips tumbles out almost automatically.

"Who am I?"

They come to a skidding halt, the jaguar purring as her claws scratch against the cobblestone paths of Edelstein.

"Your name is Reina," she grins, as she hoists the little girl on to her back, "and you…"

Hana sorts through the contents in her pocket, until she pulls out a key.

"… Are now my sister."

'Will I ever see you again, Hana?'

Cecelia forces open those colourless lips of hers, tears stinging in her eyes as she bites off the cork.

'What dreams do you see behind closed lids?' Reina's eyelids flutter, her vision growing ever so slightly dimmed.

'I suppose I will find out soon—'

Cecelia flings the cork to the side, as she presses the neck of the vial to her lips.

"Don't die on me."

Hana stares at her hands, flexing her fingers in those leather gloves as she slings the quiver over her shoulder.

"Reina," she says, as she touches the handle of the door, "I'll be going out on a mission. Don't expect me to come home for a couple of days."

"You're always on missions, Hana."

"What's wrong, kiddo?" Hana blinks, pushing the door shut.

Reina looks up at her with her wide, child-like eyes.

"I heard about him."

Hana kneels down by her chair with a sigh, unstrapping her crossbow.

"Reina, oh, Reina…"

Her chin rests on her shoulder blade as she hugs her from behind the chair.

"He was a top member of the Resistance," she explains, "Notorious, too, notorious for being so talented at his art."

Hana shakes her head.

"Too talented, that is," she tuts, "They always take down the hard workers first. The talented ones are their biggest threat."

Reina feels a lump growing in her throat, "You're good with your crossbow, Hana," she cringes mentally, "Your jaguar is the one which is most well-trained of all."

Hana hugs her from behind tighter with a laugh.

"I found Jaira through sheer luck, Reina!" She ruffles her hair, "That's got nothing to do with skill at all."

Reina turns to the window.

"… I'm scared."

"This isn't my first mission I've ever done," Hana's tone turns impatient, "And it's not that hard, anyway—just scouting for intruders. There usually aren't any, anyway. It's basically me camping out and doing nothing for a couple of days."

The drab grey of the clouds is the same colour as her eyes, as she gazes forlornly through the glass.

"It is raining."

Hana lets out a sharp sigh, loosening her grip around Reina.

"I'll be back really quickly."

"But—"

"I've left food in the fridge. Enough to last an entire week—it might go off by then, knowing your eating habits," she laughs,"You eat basically nothing."

"Wait—"

Hana gets up as quickly as she had wrapped her arms around her just seconds before.

"I'll be back before you know it, trust me."

Reina turns around in time to see her goofy grin spread across her face, as she swirls around for the door.

"It'll be like I was only gone for a few seconds!"

So quietly, without any more to say, she shuts the door behind her.

Those seconds turn to minutes.

Those minutes turn to hours.

Those hours turn to days.

Those days turn to weeks.

And ever so slowly, as the pendulum swings, the hands on the clock twirl, those weeks turn to months…

And, before those months turn into years, she is gone.

Reina's eyes snap wide open, glowering a soft shade of green—numbers, digits and several strings of jargon she cannot possibly begin to hope to understand flash before her eyes.

"Reina?"

The girl is silent, mouth parted ever so slightly as a drop of the liquid dribbles out from the corner of her now-pigmented lips.

"Reina?"

Cecelia takes her head on to her lap, as her eyes begin to flash, from faded green, to pitch black, as those binary digits flash across the void of her eyes.

Kneeling by the edge of the river with stained cheeks—whether those blinding droplets that stream down her cheeks are raindrops or tears, she doesn't care enough to know—Reina's fingers tremble.

The small girl clenches her fist around the petals and crunchy leaves, as she gazes up into the sky. Alas, she can only mutter one of the most obvious, mundane of things.

"It is raining, Hana."

There is no laughter followed by the words that she utters, no friendly teasing as she ruffles her hair. No smile that lit up and filled the world surrounding that was so bleak, so dark, and so, so empty.

Setting the wreath down into the water, an array of white lilies, thorny red roses, and tulips, washed away by the current. Perhaps the rain, like the flowers, symbolised forgiveness—the cleansing of sin, the washing away of tears.

"Nothing good ever comes out of the rain."

Perhaps the rain washed away all of the hope, as well.

And Reina watches, with a strange, serene expression, as the heavy clunk of metal slowly—very slowly—bobs up and down the river, surrounded by a sea of bubbles before it is gone altogether.

Perhaps the rain washed away all that is bad and old.

"I have nothing left."

Perhaps, just maybe, when the sun peeks through the clouds…

Reina turns away from the carnage, the wreath of flowers now no longer visible no matter how hard she squints her eyes, as she runs her finger over the gem-encrusted ring.

"Perhaps I can start again."

And, as nothing but that pitter-patter of rain as it drowns the world is there to answer her, she is gone.

Letting out a relieved sigh as she slowly begins to breathe again, Cecelia, however continues to shake her tiny frame—better to be safe than sorry, no?

"Was that…"

Cecelia blinks in response, as the digits become smaller, running faster across her eyes until all she can see are not but digits, but blurring symbols blurring with one another until they formed solid lines.

"What was that?" Cecelia ponders to herself.

She watches on, as the glowing neon green blurs into her eyes, slowly fading, dying down to black as she opens her mouth open wider to speak—

'Why does this hold so much worth to you, dearest child,' she laughed, and laughed, and laughed; even after her lips have been silenced, the voice still rings shrill and clear in her ears, 'if you don't even know what it even is?'

With blank eyes, previously clear like crystal, now muddled like smog, for, now, there is blood on her hands, she slides the ring back onto her crimson-stained fingers.

Is she as bad as they are, now?

No more than a hypocrite?

A mere mockery of everything she ever stood for?

She answers to what is left of the woman, strewn across the floor, a red-blotched cloth laid over her head, for the sight is too grotesque to witness.

"Because it is the only part of me that I have left to cherish."

She has no more verity.

No more integrity.

Not even an identity.

"There is nothing left for you to take away from me."

"Aaaah!"

Reina's eyes return to the ghostly, silvery white they once were—she jolts up with a start, clutching at her chest.

Pant, pant, her heart thuds in her throat as she clutches at it with her other hand, choking on her own breath…

The looming darkness of shock overtakes the pleasant amazement of her not screaming out in pain whenever she moves her arms.

"… C-Cecelia…"

With a calm—almost cold—politeness settling on her expression, the girl steps forward, eyes wary as she watches the witch from afar, those brilliant magenta robes billowing out into the air.

The elite, they are. It is pronounced by their shimmering badges, the gold trimming to their robes, the weariness in their eyes.

… They are the Black feathers embedded in the wings that will allow him to rise into power.

Swallowing, she is careful to be polite, yet not condescending.

"To what occasion do I owe the honour of having two of the Black Mage's elite visit me?"

Reina's voice crackles at the edges, as the sobs rack her chest.

"Please tell me that this world isn't a falsity."

Cecelia frowns.

"What?"

"Tell me… The Maple World is real," she lowers her voice to a whisper-shout, "This isn't an illusion!"

Reina can no longer see Cecelia's dumbfounded expression through her vision, clouded by those murky tears. She clutches at her shoulders, out of desperation—out of denial.

"You can't tell me that…"

Cecelia's eyes widen in realisation. She places her hands over her Reina's, her expression mirroring that of Reina's mere moments ago.

"How much do you know, Reina?"

"What's in here?"

"Eternity."

Reina's arms begin to tremble under her touch.

"Y-You knew all along, Cecelia?" Reina sniffles, "You knew…?"

Nothing about the world she lives in tangible, nothing is real, and she wonders if she is the same. She touches the side of her face—the tears that run down her cheeks are merely fabricated. The sadness that swells in her chest is perhaps only an imitation.

"You knew I wasn't real, all this time?"

The clap of Cecelia's hand colliding with her cheek rings sharp through her ears—the burning in her cheek, perhaps…

"Could you feel that?"

Tears continue to stream down her eyes, "What?"

"Could you feel the pain?" Cecelia says, expression still unyielding, "The humiliation from the fact that you're sputtering and crying in front of me like an idiot?"

Reina's cheeks are tinted a rather lovely shade of scarlet.

"N-Now, I do," she turns her head away, lips quivering as she suppresses another sob.

"Are you thinking right now?" Cecelia narrows her eyes now, "About how bitchy I am for pointing all of that out?"

Reina purses her lips, lowering her gaze even further.

"In all honesty…"

"I don't want an answer to that one."

Cecelia plucks her hands away from her shoulders, and sets them in Reina's lap.

"If you can think, feel, live for yourself, then you are more than a collection of pixels on a computer screen…" she says, "If you have a heart that beats day after day, even for the most hopeless of purposes… Then you are human, Reina."

"What's going on?"

Cecelia's eyes narrow.

"You're still here?" she snarls, turning to the puppeteer, genuine confusion is what she finds in his eyes.

Francis frowns, "What are you people on about?"

"That's none of your goddamn business."

Cecelia clambers up, as she sights the hole in the wall, looking Reina dead in the eye, she tilts her head towards the tunnel.

'Let's go.'

Reina, though the tears still flow, finds her eyes filling with as much determination as there are tears, as she wipes the last of them from her cheek. Cecelia, without a word—without even so much as a glance at the puppeteer—pulls Reina up on to her feet, before they set out into the secret exit.

Reina turns her head to the puppeteer with a small, sad smile.

"I suppose this is farewell."

Wide-eyed, Reina feels the familiar coldness and stinging pain flowing through her…

"I suppose it isn't. Not quite yet."

Cecelia whips around at Reina's small squeal, clenching her fists as her eyes are alight with anger.

"Seduce…" he mutters, eyes glowering.

"You little shit!" she points at him accusingly, "I knew it!"

Francis' grin grows dark.

Cecelia growls, "Let. Her. Go."

"Don't jump to conclusions, I'm not holding you back."

"My darling, my son…" she whispers, cupping his face in her hands, "If there is one thing that you should remember of me…"

"I just have a favour to ask of you."

Reina bites at her lip, as his mouth is right next to her ear.

"Wh-What is it?"

"It should be that I loved you very much."

"Find my mother."

The strings dissipate, and Reina's eyes widen, as, although she is free, she doesn't move. Francis gives a small smile, not quite noticing the tear sliding down his cheek.

"Tell her that I forgive her." The petite teenager turns around, so that her entire being is facing the puppeteer, "And when you find the truth, Reina, tell it to me."

Reina takes his hand in hers, circling her thumb over the back of his hand with a smile.

"I already know of the truth."

"The truth?" Francis cocks his head, "The truth of what?"

She bites her lip.

"The meaning of this life—no, this existence we both lead."

"Tell me, then."

Reina raises his hand to her chest with a small smile.

"I will make a promise to you, Francis," she says, tears threatening to fall, "I will swear on my life—when you are older—that I will come back to this wretched place."

Francis' mouth forms an 'o' shape as he feels the ba-thump of her heart under his fingertips.

"… What will happen then?"

Reina clasps her hand tighter around his, "Then, and only then, I will tell you the truth. You are, indeed, a smart child, but you are much too young to bear the weight of the truth of the Maple World upon your shoulders."

Turning around one last time, she still gives him that solemn smile of hers—for she never smiles out of happiness. Finally, she unclasps his hand.

"Adieu."

The resounding farewell, ridden with tragedy, echoes through the exit as the pitter-patter of steps soon begin to be swept up by the cloak of darkness in the looping, convoluted tunnel.

"I will keep this promise, Reina," he says to no-one in particular, "and I will wait for you."

And, as he gazes longingly into darkness, bright as his future, he lets the tears fall as his gaze is directed to another corner of the room. There, hanging on the dresser, is a faded red coat—the one he has to pat the dust out of because it's been sitting there for too long.

nd that nice, cream-coloured cashmere scarf – the one he got from his mother.

"Mama, why are you dressing me up?"

She brushes the hair out of his eyes, before she gives a soft smile – a soft, warm one, for the first time in what seemed to be a century.

… Oh, he knows—how he knows—that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

Mama never smiles.

"Because we are going shopping today, my dear boy."

"I don't know when you're going to come back."

Another tear finds its way down his cheek, as he mutters to himself 'you're stupid,' before wiping it away with his thumb.

"I don't know if you're even going to come back at all."

Francis takes the puppet—the one that isn't broken—from its place next to his bed, as the mana buzzes at his fingertips, his strings attaching to the mannequin.

"I don't know if you know who I am anymore, mama."

He shuts the door of his room softly behind him—Le Tierre would clean up the rest, right? Not caring enough to figure out the answer to that question, he steps slowly, now, to the entrance of the Verne mine.

"Until then, Reina, Hana…"

He props himself up against the wall near the entrance, the air musky as dust flies about the entrance of the Verne mine.

"Mother…"

Perhaps, there is a chance, today, that something will emerge from the dust storm. A something that has wine red lips, rags over her too-thin shoulders, and arms spread wide to pull him into an embrace, those lips curved into a smile full of hope.

"Mama?" he says to no-one in particular, as the sun sets into the horizon—the chilly day soon turns into the still chilly night.

"Please come back, mama."

The boy shivers, as he huddles the skeletal puppet to himself closer.

"We don't like the cold."

Closing his eyes, Francis slides down the wall until he is crouching low on the ground; where he will stay, until he feels the tingle of her hair draping over his face as she pulls him into a tight embrace—one that says 'I will never lose you again'.

And, until he sees that figure emerge from the distance, he will wait.

"I won't forget you."

He will wait, and he will remember.

Casmilia wipes the sweat from her brow, raising her eyebrow.

"What're you looking at me like that for?" she flips her hair, placing a hand on her waist.

10 Boogies simply stares on at the pile of dolls stacked in front of her, mouth growing dry.

"I-I didn't expect you to get this done so quickly…" she blinks, "Perhaps I should have made you kill 500 Stone Masks—"

Casmilia clears her throat in protest.

"Fine," the agent rolls her eyes, as she sorts through her pockets, "I'll give the device back to you, along with the report. Report to Neinheart as early as possible with your results."

After she pulls her leather gloves tighter, Casmilia takes the scroll into her hands.

"Wait, Casmilia."

The thunder breaker gives a small hum as she swirls around, her pony tails swishing at her waist.

"Yes?"

"I usually don't tell the knights assigned to help me something like this," she lowers her voice ever so slightly, "Really, this is the first time I've said something like this at all."

Casmilia's shoulders relax.

"What is it?"

"You have potential, Casmilia."

The young girl's eyes widen.

"R-Really?" a blush tints her cheeks, "You really think so?"

10 Boogies' unusually solemn smile becomes genuine.

"From what I'd heard from the other agents…" she tilts her head to the side, "You might have gotten your friend to help you, but you'll soon surpass him in level and strength."

A brilliant grin brightens up Casmilia's innocent features, "Did they all say that?"

10 Boogies supresses her own giggle.

François' red eyes glower as a brilliant grin stretches over his features, knuckles white as he carves the message into the damp wood.

"This should do excellently…"

"Hey!"

Turning around, unblinkingly, François sees the man on top of the arc leading into Sleepywood, a frown on his face.

"What do you think you are doing, child?" he questions, "The Mysterious Statue is an artefact of the ages. How dare you defile it!"

He simply giggles, as he presses his knife harder against the rotted, splintered wood: the puppeteer simply laughs harder, as he admires his handiwork—to his chagrin, The Rememberer does not stare on in horror, as he hoped—expected—he would.

Instead, he sits in contemplative silence.

"Child," he booms, "Come forth, child."

François' face falls to a deadpan.

"I can see it in you," he lowers his gaze to meet him at eye level, "Are you lost?"

The child raises an eyebrow.

"… Not at all," he answers, "Aren't you going to chastise me for vandalising the statue, or something?"

The Rememberer gives a sigh, "I just want to know one thing."

"What?"

"Your name, child," he says, "What is your name?"

"Francis."

The boy's eyes glower, as he gives a brilliant smile.

"My name is Francis."

The gruff man places his hand on his chin, pursing his lips as he hums meditatively—this boy…

"… There is something odd about you, Francis."

His grin only grows wider at this statement.

"What is it?"

He peers at the small child with narrowed eyes.

"Are you a child of darkness?"

François returns his expression, glaring daggers into the older man with those brilliant red eyes of his.

"What's it to you?"

The Rememberer exhales—perhaps this child isn't a child at all, for his aura of darkness is too strong… Not even an adult can hold so much hatred inside of them that it emanates from their heart in such strong waves.

"Goddess… I only met you a couple of minutes ago, and you're already going to lecture me!"

With a maniacal laughter escaping his lips, he swirls around on his heel.

"Oh well—it doesn't matter in the end."

The Rememberer blinks.

"What?"

"… It's only a matter of time, after all."

10 Boogies' face falls to a deadpan once more.

"Go," she points towards the steep mountainside—what separates Perion from the outside world, "Report to Neinheart as soon as possible."

Casmilia gives a sharp nod, eyes filled to the brim with determination, the bounce in her step as bright as the lingering smile on her lips.

'I wonder what that potion does…'