These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

Over the years, Ciel still returned to her haven in the forest. She sat beside her friend on that hollow log, just as before, but always with half a foot between them. The empty stare she saw that day didn't rupture their friendship. But it left a gap. It never widened, and never healed.

Rather than drift apart, they stayed in parallel. Ciel never quite tired of the taste of thyrel. Not exactly sour, never fully sweet, her time with Puck took on the comforting taste of familiarity.

She grew taller. And he didn't.

Her body grew a little sturdier, though she was still underfed. By contrast, her mother grew increasingly frail, her mind addled and her appetite ruined by the tinctured wine she perpetually sought relief in.

Perhaps this slow reversal of their health and strength had struck at something within Marcella. Because one day, mother and daughter sat at the dinner table—a particularly lavish meal set before Ciel, whose growth had made her hunger pains unbearable.

A whole roast chicken, a bowl of pottage with thick slices of bacon, warm rolls of bread already slathered with butter…

And a goblet of honeyed wine.

Despite her better sense, Ciel yielded to temptation at once. She plucked up a roll and bit into it, savoring the warmth before hastily reaching for the soup. She ate with hurried spoonfuls as if it might all vanish, biting through the thick-cut bacon in her bowl, then tore a leg off the chicken with no pretense of manners, pausing only to gulp the wine.

It was the finest meal Ciel had ever been given. Her instincts screamed at her that something was wrong—that these foods were too sumptuous, her mother far too quiet. Had she not been so hungry, she might have noticed the honey's sweetness masking the faint numbness on her tongue.

The host of aches which always plagued Ciel eased. Her limbs tingled faintly. Her motions slowed in a way she'd never experienced. When she reached for her goblet again, her hand slipped, and wine spilled across the table.

Yet her mother did not berate her for clumsiness, or for ruining the fine white cloth. She simply stared at Ciel, a tired smirk crossing her face.

Only then did Ciel realize the wine had been tinctured with something else.

"It feels nice… doesn't it?" Marcella slurred. "Go on. Act as if… you're above it."

Her face was caked with sweat. Yet she closed her eyes, lightly parting her lips as if she were the only one who could feel a pleasant breeze. "Pretend like you're better than… me."

Ciel sluggishly rose from the table, and left the room without a word. Marcella didn't stop her.

There was nowhere to go but the forest. Every step felt as if it belonged to someone else—like her body was moving ahead of her, through air as thick as syrup. No ache in her ribs, no cuts from stinging wind. There was a coziness to it.

For once, Ciel understood what it meant not to feel pain.

When she reached the edge of the forest, she sat against a tree, completely unbothered by the wet ground, nearly consumed by a kind of bliss she'd never felt in her entire life. She was steeped in a soothing balm, floating gently on the wind.

Curling her knees to herself, Ciel rested her head on them and began to sob.

It was about an hour later that Puck found her—a while after Ciel had stopped crying, and just around the time the effects of the poppy tears were reaching their peak.

She'd progressed to lying on her back, staring up through the leaves of the tree she was under. Frogs croaked somewhere off in the distance. Her back was cold, and a voice in her head told her she'd catch sickness if she kept laying there. But she couldn't quite will herself to get up.

"Ciel…?" Puck asked.

Ciel's gaze vacantly drifted sidewards. Just like the first time they'd met, she didn't notice him. This time, though, her mind was too dulled to flinch.

"Hello Puck," Ciel said.

"Are you alright, Ciel?" Puck asked, his voice small.

She thought the question over. Then, she slowly shook her head. "No," Ciel said bluntly. "I'm not. I will be. Eventually."

Through her haze, she became dimly aware of Puck's fingers softly curling around hers, as he took her hand to coax her upright. His other hand hovered near the small of her back, steadying her as she rose to her feet.

"There's somewhere I want to take you, Ciel," Puck said.

"Now?" Ciel asked. "While I'm like this?"

"It's close by," Puck said. "I'll lead you there."

"Okay, then," Ciel muttered. It was easier to follow than to think.

The small part of her that could still feel alarmed noticed he wasn't leading her deeper into the woods. They were headed towards the palace.

For a moment, she was simply bewildered. She hadn't even realized Puck ever left the forest. What would happen if a guard saw him? Or worse—a member of the family?

And they'd see him dragging her along—this mysterious boy, who none of them remember, leading along the young girl they already hate.

"I don't want to go back home, Puck," Ciel said, fear managing to edge back into her voice. "Not now of all times."

Her mother's face flashed in her mind and she felt the sudden onset of rage. Like needles pricking at her chest, or the crash of thunder and lightning in her head—it came so swiftly, so violently, that even she was startled.

The anger pulsed all the way to her fingertips—and with it came a pang of guilt. Because Puck was still holding her hand, so tenderly.

"It's okay. We're just going to the Playground. The very edge of it," Puck told her.

"That garish place?" Ciel mumbled. Reluctantly, she let her worries go and sank into her haze.

The willows bowed low as they ran through, their leaves brushing lightly—almost ticklish. As they emerged, forest floor turned to cobblestone grown mossy, and soon the bell tower beside the palace loomed into view.

Even in her dulled state, though, Ciel noticed: there were guards. Just a couple of them, since the tower wasn't particularly important. Thinking they were going to be caught, she felt her stomach clench.

'Oi! Drill muster! North quarter formation, on the double! Meet at the gate!'

An angry man's voice bellowed loud and clear from one of the courtyards between the tower and the palace. Confused, the two guards exchanged a glance before starting toward it.

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Puck, breathless, led a dazed Ciel into the bell tower and up its spiralling steps, until they emerged near the top.

"That voice was you, then," Ciel said, still trying to string thoughts together as they tried to float away. "I've never been up here—"

The sight of Amière sprawling below caught her breath. "Oh," Ciel whispered. "So… high up."

The sky seemed to tilt. Clutching at Puck for support, Ciel held her breath, struck by the horrifying sensation that the bell tower was swaying, while the city beneath seemed to spin.

"What do you think, Ciel?" Puck asked her.

"What should I think?" Ciel asked quietly.

Her knees bowed in. She lacked the full faculty of her movements. Was it possible she might lean too far and slip past the railing?

"Marcella and I used to look down at the city from here," Puck said, his smile as soft as ever. "I'd do that same old trick to call away the guards. It always works. Even after all this… how long?"

His brow furrowed thoughtfully.

"My—mother—?" Ciel blurted thoughtlessly, her mouth drying out. "Right now, we're talking about my mother?"

"...Sorry," Puck said. His voice went limp, and his expression turned to one of genuine remorse. "She's... probably not something you want to talk about right now."

"That's not… exactly…" Ciel rasped the words out, attempting to shift her weight back from the railing but feeling the ground shift beneath her feet instead. Her ankle rolled and she stumbled backward—caught by Puck's arms.

"Marcella's not what she used to be," Puck frowned, steadying her against him. His eyes, crestfallen, scanned the city below. "She lost something that you still have."

Ciel felt herself hanging in his embrace, her head tilting back, her eyes turned skyward. The stars were circling now. Terrified that any more flailing might send her tumbling off the tower's edge, she forced her movements still, trying to make the world stop spinning with just her gaze.

One of Puck's hands rose, slowly and carefully, brushing lightly against Ciel's cheek. "You're still innocent, Ciel."

She shuddered. Her stomach dropped. And when his hand gently turned her face toward his, she looked into his eyes and saw they were jet-black.

Iris to sclera, dark as obsidian.

"The humiliations of Marcella's life transformed her," Puck said, his voice growing softer with each word. "Like a hundred little cuts, all over her body, until she could only feel the sting."

"Puck," Ciel pleaded. "I want to… go down…"

"I'm going to take them away, Ciel. The painful memories, starting with today," Puck said. "Just look into my eyes…"

Then with his usual smile, boyish and comforting, he added, "I'll eat them."

That was the moment Ciel realized the truth of her friend from the forest. The look that crept into his eyes when the voices of the past dragged him back. The way he spoke kindly, yet always halfway lost in memory.

"You're… empty…" Ciel breathed out. "Just like her…"

"Ciel?" Puck asked. His voice trembled. "Why are you…?"

Ciel didn't know what kind of expression she was making at that moment. But she knew that for the very first time in her life, something scared her more than her mother.

She didn't remember much after that.

A few hours later, she woke near the bottom of the bell tower's steps, trying to piece together how she'd gotten there. She remembered the dinner, and her mother's trickery—the tinctured wine. And that's how she accounted for the gaps in her memory.

But Ciel wouldn't realize just how much had been taken from her that day. Or why she was filled with an inexplicable fear of the forest.

Whatever face she made had been too much for Puck to bear. Because that was the day he ate her memories of him.

Now in that cozy glade tucked away in the forest, so many years later, the two were face-to-face once again. Physically, the shadowless boy looked just as he had when Ciel was a child. But there was a darkness in his expression that hadn't been there before.

"It hurt me, Ciel," the boy said. "One day I saw you running back in the forest and… I thought it was because you remembered me somewhere deep inside. Just like you said you would."

"Puck, I—" Ciel began.

"I told you I go by Robin, now," he said in a low voice.

Puck's face twisted, gaze fixed on the dirt at his feet. "You just went looking for a way out." Then he slowly raised his eyes. "And I helped you. Did you think you found that hollow log into the tunnels by yourself? I always watched over you."

"You're the one who erased my memory… Robin," Ciel whispered. "I don't understand. You chose this. Isn't this what you've always done?"

"There was always another child," Puck said softly. "Another Blanc to find. Another name to remember… even after they forgot mine."

Puck glared at her. "What I don't understand," he shouted, voice rising, "is how you could fall in love with the man who killed your family!"

He stood up from the hollow log and took a step closer. "He killed your mother, Ciel. No matter what she did to you—no matter how bad it was—he still killed her."

"My mother… killed herself with the way she lived," Ciel said numbly. "She was dead before Sigurd's sword ever reached her."

"Don't say that," Puck murmured. His expression crumpled, and he shook his head like he couldn't bear to hear it.

Ciel's stomach knotted at the sight.

Now that he stood in front of her, she saw it clearly—just how small he was. He had the stature of a ten-year old boy. And now she towered over him as an adult, a full head taller.

He was ageless. He would live longer than she ever could. But in that moment, all she could see was a child pleading.

"Robin," Ciel started softly. She knelt to match his height. "I just… want to see my daughter. She's a Blanc, too, isn't she? I want her to be safe."

"She'll always be safe with me," Puck snapped. "The only question is whether you'll be with us, too."

Ciel froze.

"…What are you saying, Robin?" Her voice was barely audible.

"She'll stay with me, Ciel. And if you'll be a family with us, you can join too," Puck said. His voice was flat, straightforward. It wasn't a threat.

It was simply the future, as he saw it.

"I'm playing family right now, too," Puck said. "I'm Gerhardt's son. He was the only one who actually came back." His voice took on a sad note. "He's the one who looked for me."

Then his eyes turned cold. "But I know he's just using me. That's why I'll act the father this time. I'm done being passive. I'm going to do what I want."

"Did you plan this, Robin…?" Ciel asked. "For Bea to come here?"

"It wasn't me that brought her here," Puck said. "It was fate. My father asked me for a favor… and I helped him." His looked away, jaw tight. "I have my grudge against Sigurd, too."

Then he met Ciel's eyes coldly. "The forest is my domain, Ciel. When Sigurd ruined this city, I reclaimed it. And the moment Bea entered Amière, she was just another lost child… wandering into my woods."

Ciel felt it again. That same repulsion that had driven her away in the first place—the fear that had made the forest more terrifying than the palace.

"Then… you want me to play wife and mother," Ciel choked the words out in a whisper. "And what about when Bea grows up, Robin…? What then? Will she become your wife then, too?"

"Of course not," Puck said, his brow curling as if he'd heard something absurd. "She'll still be my daughter."

"Bea will never be your daughter, Puck," Ciel said, her voice cracking.

"Then she won't be yours!" Puck yelled. "You'll forget she ever existed! And I'll make sure she knows you abandoned her!"

'That child? I was… relieved when she left. If she ran away of her own desire, is it truly my fault anymore?'

It was her voice—stolen from her to speak disgusting words. And imagining Bea's face if she ever heard them was like a blow to Ciel's stomach, worse than any time her mother had ever struck her.

'All those peculiar thoughts she has. There has always been something bizarre about that girl. She speaks to those toys as if they were real friends because she simply can't make real ones.'

'I see her father in her face sometimes, and it makes me terribly ill.'

'I always find myself dreaming… what sort of life might I have had, if she had never come to be?'

Ciel staggered back. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Her knees began to wobble until they gave out, and suddenly the ten-year-old boy in front of her seemed to look so tall.

"…Don't take her from me." Her voice caught, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "Not Bea. Please."

Like he had so many years ago, Puck lifted a hand to her cheek. "You deserve to belong, Ciel. Even if you turned your back on your real family… You didn't do anything wrong. You never hurt anyone yourself."

Then his voice fell to a hush—more tender than it had ever been, and all the more malevolent for it. "It's alright. I'll take away your memories of Sigurd. It won't have to hurt. This time we'll all be happy."

Ciel was paralyzed.

She thought of never being able to hold Bea again, reading her bedtime stories as she fell asleep. Never hearing her soft, thoughtful voice. She imagined going back to that room in Calum. Seeing Bea's stuffed animals lying there on the bed… and not knowing why they were there.

The nightmare of losing not just Bea, but the memory of her entire existence was too much for Ciel. And as Puck's eyes turned dark as obsidian, all she could do was gaze back in stricken terror.

But at that moment when she was about to surrender to her deepest fears, Ciel was pulled out of the darkness by the clanging of a bell.