Chapter 25
(A/N) Internet cookies for whoever gets the reference in the title. OK, well, the chapter name is very, very loosely based off said reference, but…
Enjoy!
Francis lets a small smile play on his lips as he opens his eyes.
'This is all going according to plan…'
Bang!
The strings dissipate.
Bang!
"Let me in!" is the screech from outside.
He rolls his eyes, "As if I didn't hear you the first time…"
Nevertheless, Francis is still smiling as he dusts off the microphone…
… She pushes against the door, but to no avail—it simply will not budge.
"Gh…"
'C'mon, c'mon…'
Blinking away dust that flies into her eyes, Casmilia pushes against the door of what appears to be the dead hollow of a tree, a large puppet with its large wooden arms swinging like a pendulum over the entrance.
'For the love of–'
Click.
"Huh?"
Click, click, click…
The strings that seemed to uphold this great figure finally moved, pulled back ever so slightly.
Click-click-click.
Finally, its head is raised slowly, joints cracking from lack of use.
Clickclickclickclick…
Click.
Casmilia furrows her brow, "What?"
Its eyes begin to glower.
"Password."
"A-Ah!"
"Incorrect…" he remarks dryly.
Casmilia bites her lip, unfolding a piece of paper.
"Um…"
"Refer to your report whenever you feel troubled. I assume you have gathered enough information for you to locate and take out the puppeteer."
Golden eyes filled with determination, she pats the dust off herself, as she stands up. Casmilia opens her mouth to utter those words:
"X… XX… XXXXXX…"
She mentally cringes at the reluctance seeping into her tone.
"XXXXXXXXXXX is a genius Puppeteer!"
"Wh-What?"
This time, she stands, confidence seeping into her voice, "XXXXXXXXXXX is a genius Puppeteer!"
There is only a stretch of silence—and a password-locked door—sitting before them, so quiet that they can hear the wind whistling through the field.
"Ha…"
A snort can be heard from the other side.
"Haha…"
Laughter—one of mockery—rings through the stony wasteland, falling sharp on the young thunder breaker's ears.
"Ahahaha…"
"… Hahaha!"
Francis clutches at his stomach with his glowering hand, not caring enough about the fact that the strings might tangle, as he tries to, with all his might, not drop the microphone in the other…
"Are you—haha—stupid?!" he doubles over, "Oh, Goddess, my stomach hurts… Hahahaha!"
What sounds like an annoyed squeal sounds through the speaker.
"Don't you dare laugh at me!" her high-pitched voice remarks, "I will get into this hideout of yours!"
Her eyes narrow, as she scans over the document.
'Who is a genius puppeteer…?'
The distinct tap against the door, once again, elicits his reaction:
"P-Password…" he guffaws into the sound converter.
Information from The Rememberer:
The name of the puppeteer is…
"Francis is a genius Puppeteer!"
Clickclickclick…
He narrows his eyes, 'How…?'
Crash.
A distasteful scowl is planted upon the young thunder breaker's childish features—needless to say, Casmilia hardly shares his merriment, her nose wrinkled in disgust.
To say that the room is dank and dark would be a complete understatement—a falsity, perhaps.
It has a distinct smell—a strange smell, like that of sunlight trapped for several years, of rat droppings, of the ghosts of things that remain unremembered and unmourned—of a place not tended to for many, many years.
It is the smell of sadness.
Kicking away the puppet heads—covered with dust and cobwebs—in her wake, she slowly makes her way up to this "genius puppeteer"…
She raises an eyebrow.
'He's not much of a genius if he writes his password onto the back of a statue, now, is he?'
The small sound of knuckles cracking is unheard by the ten year-old boy:
"That is always nice to hear," the puppeteer says, "I'm truly flattered."
He masks the nervousness in his laugh with a too-cheerful grin.
Her shoes softly patter against the bumpy stone floor, grimacing as a hanging cobweb tangles in her hair.
The soft laughter of the puppeteer begins to die down, as his eyes catch a small flicker coming from her fists.
Slowly, slowly, it erupts, her entire fist crackling with power.
Crackle.
Fizz.
The neon-yellow light brought very little light into the room—perhaps only enough for him to see her scowl, those robes that hang over her thin—perhaps too thin—body, her badge gleaming in what little light the crackling electricity provided.
His eyes widen at the very sight of it.
'Knight-in-training' is the small writing etched into a light blue-and-gold badge his sharp eye manages to pick up.
"Wh-What are you doing here?"
There, as he drops the microphone, his voice drops to a mere whisper, his mouth growing dry.
"A…" he trembles, pointing an accusing finger at her, "A Cygnus Knight?"
'I need to get out of here—unless…'
She glares at him menacingly,
"You promised."
He shifts, biting at his lip.
'It's like what Eleanor said,' his thoughts are a flurry, 'I shouldn't have come here, should I?'
"What are you talking about?" are the words, shaken, that leave his lips.
She steps forward, face holding no emotion.
"Francis, genius puppeteer," she says, almost accusing him, "You told me I could have eternity."
He frowns.
As he peers into the crack in the doorway, he is careful to not to step forward and make any noise.
Francis simply watches the Black Witch, as she, in morbid fascination, swirls bright pink-and-purple liquid in a small vial.
"Eternity, eh?" she says softly, twisting, turning the vial, biting her lip—hesitant.
As he peers through the doorway, he watches.
"Eternity?"
"Yes."
"I have no idea what you are talking about."
Casmilia narrows her eyes, "You're lying."
To this, the boy, at least three years her junior, takes a step back.
"I will fight for this promise."
'For this power.'
Francis swallows.
"What is your purpose of coming here?" the ten year old intones, unable to keep the waver at the end of his sentence sharp.
"For eternity," she answers simply, "For the sake of the Empress, I have set out on this mission."
"A mission?"
Lightning charge growing stronger, golden eyes filled with determination, she charges forward so suddenly.
Letting out a shuddering breath, he, too, gets into battle stance—one foot forward, puppet in front, standing his ground…
"Fine, then!"
He pulls his hand back, as the mana strings give a small buzz.
'Baroq,' he grinds his teeth together, as his eyes glower ever so slightly a soft shimmer of gold.
"If you wish to badly to fight as a member of the order of Cygnus…"
'Eleanor…'
He jumps back, as he avoids a simple, electricity-charged punch. A thunder breaker, he can tell—the girl with those ponytails fights with all brawn, and no brains.
No strategy.
No technique.
No elegance.
None of these advantages he, as the puppeteer—the magician—has been blessed with, and, more than he ever cares enough to admit, has taken for granted.
'I will make you both proud!'
"I will fight as a proud member of the Black Wings!"
Her eyes widen.
'B-Black Wings?'
Plick.
Plick-plick…
"Ah!"
"Seduce!" Is the spell that he casts in mere seconds.
"Wh-Wh…" her eyes widen, as, much to her chagrin, she steps backwards.
Francis grins, fingers moving accordingly.
"What…!"
Slowly, slowly, she backs out towards the doorway.
"What tricks are you pulling on me, puppeteer?!"
Casmilia's fingers tremble under his power, as she reaches out to push against the wooden door of the hideout.
"Now, then," he says airily, without answer, "I shall bid you adieu—"
Snap.
"Don't tell me that you call me here for a fight, with the promise of a reward," she growls lowly, "And you do this!"
Snip.
Francis feels a cold layer of sweat grow on his forehead, as the strings dissipate, her sheer strength even able to break strings of mana…
… Snip.
He steps back as the last string is snapped in half. Her fists are balled up.
"Don't be a coward."
The strings fizzle out, as she shakes the rest of them, still inside of her, to the floor.
"Wh-How…"
He stares at them flicker, before they fade away into the darkness of the cave.
"Dash!"
Like a flash before his eyes, Francis' eyes widen as she is, all of a sudden, close enough so that their foreheads touch, the light still swirling around her feet.
His heart skips a beat as she hurls him up by the collar.
"Let's see you battle against death with sheer force!"
'I-Is she…'
"Straight!"
With widened eyes, the breath is knocked out of him as he makes contact with the wall he is flung towards.
He wipes the liquid dribbling from his lips, the metallic taste at the back of his throat an unfortunately familiar one.
She looks down upon the boy, face planted on the filthy cave floor.
She gives what she thinks is a laugh, saying nothing as the thoughts—is this right? Is this what the empress wants?—
He slowly picks himself up and off the floor, expression still unyielding, taking no notice of the small droplet of blood that trickles back down his chin.
"Strai—"
And, all of a sudden, surrounded by blackness, there is no more of that lightning of hers to guide her through the dank cave.
There is nothing within the darkness of the cave except the dimmed light of his magic, and the gold in his eyes flashing like the strings on his fingers.
Eyes widening, Casmilia no longer feels the familiar warm buzz of mana fizzling and bubbling through her, emanating and crackling at her fingertips…
"… Seal."
Francis pulls his arm back again, hazel eyes sharpened.
'Fire!'
Zap!
"Aah!"
And, before she knows it, she is tumbling through the air—the force of his power so powerful that her legs swing over her heels, as she tumbles through the cave…
'How does he…'
Crash!
"I never thought I would have to resort to this."
A warm droplet trails down from her forehead.
'He's just a child…' she rolls over, now flat on her back, 'How…'
He walks so slowly to her body sprawled out on the floor, as though mocking her—her heart beat the only other sound she hears as his quiet steps echoing through the cave get closer, closer…
'That power…'
Casmilia gives a small whimper as she pulls her hands away from her forehead, hissing in pain.
Slowly, slowly…
She narrows her eyes at her hand, "Gh…"
Although she cannot see, even with the primitive lamps lining the hideout, she can tell that warm, sticky substance on her fingers isn't sweat.
"I didn't think I would have to do this," he says again, "But you didn't want to leave while you had the chance."
His eyes glower—the brilliant shade of gold light is the only thing she sights now.
"So, now…"
Zap.
"Gh…"
Casmilia sits up, glaring at the small boy with a smile on his face.
"You're sick," she hisses as she rises from the floor, "You lot are. You're all sick."
Francis takes a cautionary step back, though the fear does not show in his eyes.
"So says the one who feels the need to break into the hideout of a ten year old boy," he sneers in response, "Even if it is by the command of Cygnus, that just proves your lot are the ones, that are, in fact—"
Wham!
"—Sick?" Casmilia finishes for him, "Are we, now?"
Francis falls to the floor, clutching at the pain in his stomach.
"No wonder they told me to get rid of you," her nose wrinkles, "You Black Wings are scum. You can't even fight properly."
His eyes widen, as he is still doubled over.
"Wh-Why—?"
Before he could so much as complete his sentence, Casmilia gives a swift kick to his chest. The little boy spurts out blood, tainting the pure white of her robe.
"Why does the world think your organization is evil, you ask?"
Kick.
"S-Stop—"
"—Because Cygnus said that you work under the Black Mage. The Black Mage is evil. That is because he opposes Cygnus."
He covers his head with his hands as she continues to beat him, trembling as the tears pouring from his eyes blends with the blood spurting out of his mouth—parted in a silent scream of shock.
'And is everything Cygnus says is right?'
No matter how hard he tries, no matter how hard he forces himself to breathe, he simply chokes on the stale air around him.
He knows—how he knows—that he will never get an answer, as he is pulled up by his collar.
"Cygnus is the messenger of Goddess herself," she growls, "Who are you to oppose her?"
Francis grits his teeth, as she suddenly drops him to the ground once more.
A mocking smirk stretches across her face, the drop of blood that slowly crept down from her forehead and down to her cheek now drying.
"Those puppets of yours," her fists crackle still, mouth open as she pants, "They're empty."
Francis simply grunts in response, strings still attached to that floating puppet, as his broken body is sprawled on the ground.
"Empty," she says again, "In body and soul, they're hollow."
Francis finally takes in a quivering breath.
"… Everything."
His voice is hoarse as the thunder breaker frowns, as his trembling form begins to rise from the shadows.
She gives an incredulous frown, bringing a trembling hand to her mouth, as though defending herself.
"What?"
"Everything has a soul."
With his frail legs quaking as though they are about to break, with a swollen eye, and with his broken, beaten body…
"Don't you see, knight?"
Casmilia wonders why he is still able to smile.
"What deludes you into thinking that everything has a soul?"
He gives a cough, the pain washing over him making him grimace. Even as he feels as though he will cough out his lungs—and perhaps the rest of his internal organs—he presses on.
"Is that what Cygnus told you?" his steps are stilted, "That only humans have souls?"
His arm is propped up against the wall of the cave for support, as he shuts one eye in pain, slowly creeping forward—step, step.
"Because, if you rely on Cygnus' words as much as you drink water to survive…"
Casmilia's eyes widen at the sight of the glowering puppet.
"If you're just a puppet bound by obligation and society—bound by the strings of the queen," his grin grows wider, though another trail of blood dribbles from the edge of his lip, "Then are you no different to my own puppets?"
She frowns, letting out a grunt as she is knocked back by his magic.
"Are you no different to me, bound by the strings of the Black Mage? Perhaps you're even worse than I am—"
Crimson spatters on the floor.
Francis' eyes widen, as he chokes on his words, the blood he coughs, and the bile that threatens to rise from his throat.
He crumbles to the floor, choking, without even a shred of dignity.
"You aren't profound," she hisses, "You're just a child who spews lies—the lies which are the teachings of the Black Mage."
Not even able to muster up the energy to speak, the energy to feel angry, to feel sadness, to feel humiliation, he grits his teeth before he allows his body to give way—
—Casmilia takes his face up by the chin.
"I have defeated you," she says, "And you promised. So tell me. You promised you would."
"P-Promised…?"
"I will swear on my life, when you are older," Reina says with absolution, "That I will come back to this wretched place."
'Promises…'
"I have broken many promises, knight," he says, "But I can't remember ever making one to you. Perhaps that is because I have broken too many."
He stares at her with those wide eyes—innocent eyes not tainted nor darkened by the burden of knowledge and the despair in which he is surrounded—as he hugs the puppet encased in his arms closer to his chest.
"And the Black Mage will give me everything?" He says, "A land full of toys and puppets?"
Eleanor, without lines marring her face, and hope—perhaps false—still lingering in her eyes brushes the hair away from his face with a smile.
"Everything you'll ever want, Francis," she laughs, "You will get it, I'm sure."
She pulls him into a warm embrace.
"I can promise you that much."
His smirk is mirthless.
"… Perhaps that's because none of mine have been fulfilled."
"Gh…" Casmilia clenches her fists, "Why are you doing this? You're only destroying yourself!"
He cannot even bring himself to grimace.
"And you're just destroying us, too," she mutters, "By being a hypocrite. By forsaking your promises, you're…"
'Why won't you give me what you've promised, when it doesn't even matter whether you have it anymore because you've been defeated?' is Casmilia's real question.
'Why are you protecting the likes of the Black Mage?' is what Francis hears.
The beaten boy looks up. Smiles.
"Because I am a slave to the Black Mage."
'Because I'm a scorpion.'
Casmilia steps back, tears prickling in her eyes.
"Bound to him for infinity," he continues, "Only to get infinitesimal. Don't think I don't know that I won't get anything out of this."
"Are you the puppeteer?"
"Keh," he spits out more blood, "What sort of question is that? You know who I am. I should be asking you who the heck you are if you think you can just barge into my hideout."
It is then, when she looks into his eyes—darkened with knowledge beyond his years, wearied from despair—that she realises the contrast between them and the striking, chilling red.
"You're not the puppeteer I met in Ellinia," she observes, "You are not the same person."
He laughs in answer.
"And yet you are the same."
In the darkness of the cave, Casmilia does not shiver from the cold, as she pulls bandages out of her pouch.
"You haven't gone all over Victoria," her voice quivers as much as his does, as she turns him on to his side, "Planted possessed dolls into the monsters?"
His laughter, he hopes, will mask the pain.
"So that's where my monster doll collection went—"
Francis' eyes widen as she pulls away his cloak, to reveal a ripped black shirt.
"W-W-Wait, hey," he stammers, "What are you doing?"
Casmilia, as much as it pains her to be helping a loathed enemy—and as much as it pains him—lets him lean against her arm, as she pulls him up from the ground.
She can't have a human life on the hands of young Empress Cygnus.
She can't have a human life on her own hands.
'I aimed to defeat him for what I wanted,' she sighs, 'To fulfil my mission.'
"Do you want to die?"
'Not to kill.'
Francis watches on in horror as his cloak is flung carelessly to the side.
"Do you even know how to heal people?"
"I broke one of your ribs thinking you were someone else!" she exclaims, "I can't just leave you in pain—or, even worse, dead. Your ribs—"
"—I don't care about my ribs."
Casmilia finds herself recoiling.
"My ribs… They mend themselves."
She pauses, frowning as he lowers her gaze. She continues to watch his eyes, the quiver of his lip, hear his shallow breathing.
"Why are you crying?"
He turns his head away from her as far as possible.
"You kept saying it was hollow," his voice is full of spite, tugging her arm away.
"Mama?"
The little green-haired boy's eyes light up, as she holds it in her hands—a doll, though without a mouth to speak, says more to him than anyone—anything—ever would. Though without eyes to see, has perhaps seen a thousand lifetimes.
A fascinating doll, perhaps not as much of a toy as much as an artefact.
And he points at it, in spite of manners, in spite of everything.
"What's that, mama?"
The woman laughs, as she wipes the dust off of it with her sleeve.
He grunts as his back hits the floor again, though the pain isn't nearly as bad as the one stinging in his arm, nor the—very literal—crack in his chest…
"In body and in soul, you saw that they were nothing but wood, string and a little bit of magic to move them."
Casmilia turns to the direction he turns his head toward, as he grits his teeth.
"But, me?"
He outstretches his arm, just far enough so he can touch the cheek of the puppet with his fingertips.
"Me…"
"This is from your grandfather—the one who loved life, the one who loved you and the one you loved."
She places the doll, with its bumped surface, evidently made from the hands of an amateur, further worn with scratches from years of love, limbs hanging loose from overuse into his hands.
"They were passed on to my dearest brother—bless his soul—when he was your age."
The brunette smiles wistfully, ruffling her son's hair.
"I see much more than that."
He does not dare meet her gaze, as she drops the bandages.
Where there used to be a puppet, there is now a pile of splintered limbs, an odd torso, and a solitary—almost tragic—head still rolling back and forth, as though still alive, on the cave floor.
"I'm sorry," she says insincerely, "I can buy you a new one."
"You have the same hair, the same voice," her voice is soft as a whisper, "The same eyes. You're a spitting image of him."
For perhaps the second or third time in all of his years, Francis hears her laughter.
"Your namesake."
"Mama?"
"Yes, my son?"
For perhaps the two-hundredth, or three-hundredth time, Francis sees her tears.
"What's wrong?"
She wipes them away with a grungy sleeve.
"I miss him, that's all."
She pauses, the look in her eyes unfathomable.
"Then where did Uncle go?" The boy always asks questions, sometimes silly, sometimes not, without knowing the weight behind them, "What happened to grandfather?"
"That doll is irreplaceable."
"I'll get you some glue, some string, spare parts—"
"—Knight."
She winces, his voice is sharp enough to cut her.
"The doll is broken."
Tears flow from his eyes as the truth of his words weighs more on him than it should.
"You said that my doll is hollow—that it is empty, in body and in soul."
She crouches down to Francis' level, though looking at the doll he caresses in his arms, rather than at the boy himself.
"With all my hope, I wish they went to a land without tragedy, with a lot of toys, dolls," she cups the cheek of the doll, "And puppets, like this one, with a thousand silly faces. They would have liked it that way, I think."
Francis smiles at the thought of it.
"But, for now, you will live as they did—as a puppeteer. And you will be different, Francis."
"But it's not hollow. I know this now."
"How?"
He traces his finger over the bumped, scratched surface, worn with love, scratches still fresh from the heat of many battles.
"Because you brought it to a land without tragedy," he smiles, though it is mournful, "With toys, dolls, and puppets, like this one, with a thousand silly faces."
"How will I be different?" He pipes up, "How do you know I won't retreat into the world of toys, dolls, and puppets with a thousand silly faces?"
Leonore inwardly grimaces.
"Because, my dear, my son," she runs a hand through his hair again, "You will be the genius puppeteer—I can see it in your eyes, as bright as your future."
"You think so, mama?"
"I am sure of it," she pats the doll's head with a soft touch, "With this doll, you will go many places."
"What are you talking about?"
"Leave."
Casmilia's mouth grows dry, as his gaze meets hers again, his eyes hateful, as he snarls like the wild animal Cygnus told her he is.
The Black Wings, so tainted and evil, are decreed no longer human by the standards of Ereve: and yet why does he cry, like a normal human being—a child—right before her?
"Leave."
"I'll get you some string, some glue, and your puppet will be fine—"
She lets out a little scream as she is pushed back into the floor, as he—as much as it pains him—rises to the floor. Though his stance is lopsided, Casmilia can't help but gulp.
"My puppet was never hollow!"
"Franci–Puppeteer…"
"You're the one who came along and made it that way!"
The tears are hot on his cheeks, the anger and adrenaline rushing through to the tips of his fingertips fuelling his rage, pushing him forward, as though he has a purpose, a plan.
"Leave!" He says a third time, "Get out! I never want to see you or your organisation again!"
Casmilia simply blinks in response.
"Tell that stupid strategist of yours…" Though his voice is full of rage, it is also choked with tears, "Tell him that I don't want to fight anymore."
"You're leaving the Black Wings?" her voice is quieted with fear, "Just like that?"
Francis throws his head back into sadistic chortle; the last thing he does before he lands with a thud on the floor.
'Leave,' he had told her, 'Tell that strategist I don't want to fight anymore.'
The thunder breaker does not dare look at him, sprawled out on the floor, as she pulls out her old clipboard, the text barely readable in the dim light.
Objective: Go to the wastelands of Perion defeat the Puppeteer—
Suddenly, her blood runs cold, bile rises from her throat as she struggles to contain it.
'Is this what it means to be a Cygnus Knight?'
"It has been done."
Neinheart looks up to the great beast laying before him, her eyes still half-lidded as the bird lifts her head.
'You told her it was poison?'
Neinheart gives a curt nod, hands behind his back. Shinsoo gives what sounds like a sigh of relief, her head resting against the floor again.
'Good,' her voice is light, 'Thank you for reporting to me, Neinheart. You have always been loyal to me, and to little Cygnus…'
He still does not move, expression unyielding, as he keeps his hands folded behind his back.
"Shinsoo," he bows his head, "I don't mean to doubt your profound knowledge…"
He clenches at the vial behind his back.
"… But is there really deadly poison contained in this vial?"
Neinheart takes her silent answer as a 'no'.
"What was really in this vial, if it is not rude for me to ask?"
Shinsoo flares her nostrils.
"No, no," she sighs once more, "It is not rude at all. It just shows that you are able to question something that seems dubious, unlikely, no matter where it comes from. As a strategist, that is an ability that is required for your job—"
"—Then may I ask what exactly is in the vial?"
She holds her breath.
"… You may."
Neinheart raises an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Well?"
"What is within that vial, and a deadly poison," she says, "There is no difference between them."
The paper crunches effortlessly under her fingers, as it is flung to the side.
"I get it, now, Francis."
'To do anything for the sake of the empress, even kill a child, so that she won't have blood on her hands?'
"Knowledge, the acquisition of truth, and a lack of blissful unawareness, Neinheart," she says, "That is more harmful than poison."
She gets out her quill, as she scrawls something across the page.
'We aren't too different, are we?'
She narrows her eyes.
"We had the same goals."
'We both wanted to prove something.'
The paper is crunched again, the ink staining her fingertips as she writes it over and over and over again.
'We both wanted to make someone proud.'
She opens a single eye, looking at Neinheart for perhaps a few seconds too long—finally, he shifts, uncomfortably, from his initial position.
He clears his throat, "You still haven't answered my question."
More paper litters his hideout—Casmilia promises herself that she will tidy it all up before she leaves. Then again, what is a promise, if there is no-one out there to really give it to?
'We were both promised something,' her eyes scan over the paper again, 'Even if that something—for you—was infinitesimal.'
"Memory serum," Shinsoo declares, "Knowledge. That is what is in that vial."
With all its scribbles, crosses, and ink blots, she tears the paper off her clipboard (though taking care to not rip the page in half) before she folds it in half, and half again.
'This will have to do.'
Not before placing potions, a roll of bandages and a note by his side, Casmilia walks out of his hideout without even so much as a second glance.