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Three brush strokes to the right. Two to the left. A hand smoothing over his forehead, sweeping his bangs aside.
Shadow Milk knows the pattern well. His hair is always brushed the same way, in movements that seem almost robotic in how perfectly they’ve mastered the repetition. The bristles of the brush always skim over his closed eyes with such care, nimbly avoiding anywhere they might prick or poke. It always ends with a few final touches, tucking any stray wisps back into place before the brush is set back down on the dresser before him.
Pure Vanilla’s hands smooth through Shadow Milk’s hair, coming to rest gently on his shoulders.
“There. Ready for the day?”
Shadow Milk does not answer.
Shadow Milk has not answered in a long, long time.
His eyes are open but dull, unseeing; there is little more than an unfocused blur before him as he stares emptily forward. His own pallid reflection stares back, swimming hazily in and out of view. His dough seems exceptionally pale today, robbed of any spark of color that matches his lifeless eyes. His expression is utterly blank – a perfect mask for an emotionless doll, dressed in flowing robes and sitting pretty on Pure Vanilla’s stool.
His hair looks nice. It always looks nice. Pure Vanilla Cookie makes sure of it.
Shadow Milk can feel the Soul Jam at his back, its warmth taunting as it radiates from Pure Vanilla’s chest. Complete and whole once more, thrumming with power that had once been Shadow Milk’s alone to wield. His birthright, his reason for being, wholly claimed by another. The brooch that Shadow Milk once bore proudly has long been discarded, emptied of the last traces of his former self the moment Pure Vanilla had absorbed it into his own.
That had mattered, once. Shadow Milk had mattered too.
There’d been an attempt, at least. One last hurrah, one final defiance of the fate that had been cast upon them so long ago. Every Beast had brought their fangs and claws to bear in desperate fury, in a last-ditch effort to reclaim what had been torn from them all so long ago. One by one, they’d been struck down for their folly; one by one, they’d succumbed to their foes. The Ancients’ strength came from the Witches themselves, handcrafted with purpose. Destiny itself dictated their triumph over their forebearers in a blaze of glory, all to reunite the Soul Jams once more.
What a joke.
“I have a meeting with my friends today.” Pure Vanilla’s stepped away from the dresser, rummaging with something in his closet. “We’re going to be discussing the Beasts together. Would you like to come?”
A meaningless gesture. Shadow Milk will not answer him, has not spoken a word since his Soul Jam was stripped from him. Even the wisps of his own magic fail to heed him as he is now, so emptied of power and purpose. Had he even a spark of power left within, one single spell to scream into the air, things would be different. Even if spat through jam-covered teeth, Shadow Milk would fight. He’d lunge at the other, he’d bite and claw and tear, he’d – he’d –
He’d fail. He has nothing. He is nothing.
Would the sight of his captor, bruised and mangled, even bring him joy? Is he still capable of such feelings after all this time?
There is a chance his once-friends are faring better than he. Then again, perhaps they have been reduced to little more than powerless, hollow shells just as he has, or sealed away again despite Pure Vanilla’s promises. Are they angry? Hurt? Plotting a revenge that escapes even Shadow Milk’s fleeting pangs of hope?
He hopes they’re well.
He knows they’re not.
“Here we are.” Pure Vanilla’s returned; there’s a rustling sound, like he’s unfolding a row of cloth. “Come. Let’s get you dressed, and then we can head down.”
A hand touches on Shadow Milk’s own; his palm is clasped as Shadow Milk is gently guided upright. Shadow Milk’s dough crawls, even after Pure Vanilla’s hand has left him; it tingles, an unpleasant itch he cannot scratch. Shadow Milk stands still as a stone, eyes empty and downcast as Pure Vanilla methodically undresses him.
When laid bare, Pure Vanilla’s touches never linger; instead, they feel clinical, short and brusque. It’s not anything like when they’re alone at night, when Shadow Milk is curled in his bed with Pure Vanilla’s hand stroking gently through his hair or squeezing his shoulder in a show of reassurance. Touch is given freely then, a meager attempt to comfort and soothe that Shadow Milk never meets with anything more than an averted gaze.
“I’m right here.” Pure Vanilla’s mantra never wavers. “You don’t have to be alone, Shadow Milk Cookie.”
Such feeble attempts at kindness are pathetic, insistent –
Revolting.
Shadow Milk does not have to shiver in the cold morning air long at least; a new robe already is being gingerly tugged over him, his arms led through the sleeves before popping through in full. When it’s fully pulled down to his ankles, Shadow Milk finds his gaze absently catching on his reflection –
To a sight that makes his stomach clench in disgust.
Shadow Milk’s been dressed in a dark blue robe, golden accents and high collar nauseating in their familiarity. All that’s missing is the keyhole centered at his neckline.
“I thought you might be tired of wearing my old things.” Pure Vanilla’s voice is nauseatingly kind, a sharp contrast to the horror sinking into Shadow Milk’s dough. “I asked the seamstress to make something more to your taste. Do you like it?”
Shadow Milk hates it. Hates it, hates it, hates it.
He says nothing.
Pure Vanilla takes Shadow Milk’s silence as acceptance; his hand lifts, gently cupping Shadow Milk’s cheek. His gaze roams searchingly over Shadow Milk’s unbroken mask of placidity, a small smile on his lips.
“I wish you’d speak to me.”
Shadow Milk won’t. The final embers of defiance, the last resistance he has against the god that stands before him. The Beast of Deceit may be conquered, reduced to a pathetic mockery to be doted on like a pet, but he will not bend. Apathy, Sloth, and Silence are his constant companions, the walls getting him through each miserable day. The utter Destruction of self will be his finale – he will let it consume him until there is nothing left.
It is easier to exist as nothingness. It is relief each time Pure Vanilla turns away.
Pure Vanilla’s still looking at him, tenderly brushing the bangs from Shadow Milk’s eyes with a slow sigh.
“Apologies. The robe has mussed your hair again.”
Shadow Milk is sat back down upon the stool; the brush is picked up yet again as Shadow Milk’s head tilts forward, eyes fluttering shut.
Three brush strokes to the right. Two to the left. A hand smoothing over his forehead, gently caressing at his bangs.
“Alright. Shall we head down to breakfast?”
Shadow Milk says nothing. It doesn’t matter. His hand is already in another’s, pulled along by strings he has no will left to refuse. Pure Vanilla’s sad little smile is nothing more than a fleeting glimpse before Shadow Milk’s being slowly led from the room, a prop being moved to the next scene.
Not his scene. Not his stage.
Each dawn comes with another morning he must be forced to endure; the routine is drilled into his head by now. It comes with another breakfast Shadow Milk will not touch, another set of gentle questions he does not answer.
Another day of his new eternity as the prized trophy of the Vanilla Kingdom.
The day will pass. They always do, slowly and painfully, moments dragged into years as Shadow Milk stares emptily into space and counts each second passing by. He is never allowed far from Pure Vanilla’s side; he may be conquered, but he is still a threat, a snake curled in the grass with fangs that could bare at any moment. The rare moments of solitude he is allowed are treasured, though fleeting.
There is a reading nook in the corner of his room, a stained-glass window with a cushioned bench to support him. On rainy days, Shadow Milk will lie amongst the pillows, cheek pressed against the cold glass to watch the world pass him by. It’s the closest he comes to enjoying himself now, soaking in the golden silence and the absence of another pulling him close.
Today, he has no such luck. Pure Vanilla’s hand is firmly in his own. There will be no reprieve from the other until the separation of night.
At least he will hear of the Beasts. Perhaps they truly do fare better than he – perhaps they have escaped, or been slain for trying.
Death is a reprieve.
Shadow Milk will not be granted it again.
--
The technology of the Golden Cheese Kingdom never ceases to impress.
Perhaps it’s a bit silly to sit the metallic scarabs upon each chair at the lengthy meeting table, but Pure Vanilla seems to appreciate the decorum. Shadow Milk’s seated at his side, hands in his lap and gaze vacant as the wings on the devices flutter open, buzzing rapidly as holograms begin forming amidst the rapid blur of movement.
Above each chair, staticky screens fizzle into being one by one, filled with three wretchedly familiar forms.
The fourth scarab’s screen remains empty, buzzing in a harsh whine before finally flickering out into nothingness.
White Lily Cookie will not be joining them. How unsurprising.
“Ah! There you are.” Golden Cheese Cookie’s voice carries through the ballroom, empty of all but Shadow Milk and his warden. Her staticky visage fills the screen as she peers down at Pure Vanilla, who gives a friendly wave in return. “I thought you all might be having difficulties with the devices again.”
They are, if the sight of Dark Cacao Cookie’s broad chest and nothing more is anything to go by.
“Nonsense!” Hollyberry Cookie’s cheerful voice booms through the speakers, accompanied by a crackling of static. “My granddaughter was all too happy to help. She’s a real smart Cookie, that one!”
“It is good to see you, my friends,” Pure Vanilla replies with a smile. “Though – Dark Cacao Cookie, could you lift the device a bit higher?”
There’s a grunt, followed by some fumbling sounds as Dark Cacao Cookie’s screen shifts. The view tilts upwards; now, Shadow Milk is greeted by the sight of the man’s large shoulderpads instead. “Is this sufficient?”
“I… yes,” Pure Vanilla relents. “That’s fine.”
“Honestly, Dark Cacao Cookie,” Hollyberry Cookie chides. “Ask one of your aides! The young ones are much better with this technology than we are.”
“May I remind you,” Golden Cheese Cookie sighs, “that I am older than both of you, and can manage just fine? Honestly, it couldn’t be simpler.”
“My friends,” Pure Vanilla interrupts calmly, “I am glad to see you all well. And thank you, Golden Cheese Cookie, for allowing us to meet like this.”
“Of course!” Golden Cheese Cookie tilts her head proudly. “My treasures may be well guarded, but you have all been too long denied my magnificence.”
“That we have,” Pure Vanilla laughs. “Tell me – how do your treasures fare? And how is Burning Spice Cookie?”
Shadow Milk’s hands clench slightly. The room feels dangerously cold; his hair shudders in reply, the eyes within creasing with worry.
No. Keep them shut. Betray nothing. Feel nothing.
“As well as he could be, I suppose.” Golden Cheese Cookie’s tone shifts from friendly into something more aloof. “He’s well-occupied within my Golden Coliseum.”
Pure Vanilla’s head tilts. “Golden Coliseum?”
“Well, I couldn’t just keep him asleep in my sarcophagi forever. Might as well put him back in the tree at that point.” Golden Cheese Cookie’s palm extends; a tiny device in her palm flashes green, displaying a new, more distorted screen. Though it’s hard to tell, there’s a hazy blur of red making up a familiarly broad form. “So,” she continues, “I transported him into a smaller subsection of the Golden City. A gladiatorial pit with a never-ending stream of fighters, so he can battle and destroy to his heart’s content. All without laying a finger on my treasures.” Her palm closes, and the screen disappears. “Quite ingenious, if I do say so myself.”
“I see!” Pure Vanilla replies cheerfully, even as Shadow Milk’s nausea returns in full force. “That’s very clever.”
It’s torture. A new unbroken cycle of eternity in a world that doesn’t even have the decency to end.
Shadow Milk wonders what Burning Spice would think of him now. Perhaps the God of Destruction would grant him what he seeks. Perhaps he would see the shell of his comrade before him and simply snap its neck, let it fall limply to the floor before him. It would be kind. It would be merciful.
It would be more than Shadow Milk deserves.
“And what of you, Dark Cacao Cookie?” Pure Vanilla’s attention has turned to the shoulder on screen. “How is Mystic Flour Cookie?”
“Unchanged,” comes Dark Cacao Cookie’s gruff reply. “Since her initial placement within the holding cell, she has cocooned herself and the area. There has been no response to any efforts to get her out, and all food has been left untouched.”
“I see.” Shadow Milk can feel Pure Vanilla’s gaze flick to him briefly, before he sighs. “I understand. Perhaps she just needs more time.”
Laughable. Delusional. She will never emerge again.
Mystic Flour Cookie had always enjoyed sunsets. She'd sit high atop her mountain, her Haetae resting in her lap as she watched the sky fade into night. The wind always rustled through her robes, but she’d never seemed to mind no matter how cold it grew.
How cruel that a dark, silent dungeon should be her final resting place.
“Don’t look so glum, Pure Vanilla Cookie!” Hollyberry Cookie’s leaning forward, grinning face filling the screen. “Eternal Sugar Cookie took wonderfully to her new accommodations!”
Pure Vanilla perks up. “Really?”
Really?
“Of course!” Hollyberry Cookie beams. “The Hollyberry Kingdom has the grandest rooms you’ve ever seen! She sleeps day and night upon the softest bed in all the castle and drinks mulled berry juice by the barrel. Why, I don’t think I’ve seen her wake for more than a minute before dozing right back off!”
Shadow Milk’s eyes flutter shut. Ah. So this is what they mistook for her happiness. The annihilation of consciousness.
He wonders how her garden’s doing. If it’s withered away without its keeper, if there’s even a single Sugar Angel left dutifully tending to their fallen master’s legacy. She’d already had a home, a perfect paradise to shield her from the cruelty of her own creation – and they’ve ripped her up by the roots.
“What of you, Pure Vanilla Cookie?” Dark Cacao Cookie’s voice crawls unpleasantly along Shadow Milk’s dough. “What of your own… attempts? It was for his sake that you asked this of us.”
All eyes are upon Shadow Milk Cookie now; he continues staring vacantly forward, refusing to meet a single appraising stare. He is a poised and perfect doll, not a hair out of place. There is no snarl, no scowl to betray his contempt to the faces bearing down upon him with a critical gaze.
“Shadow Milk Cookie is still recovering,” Pure Vanilla replies kindly. “I have been showing him around the kingdom in the meantime. He has not caused any harm, and I have done my best to look after him while he… while he takes the time he needs.”
“Hm.” Golden Cheese Cookie glances over him, tone dismissive. “Not very talkative, is he? He was quite a mouthy little thing on the field of battle, as I recall.”
“As I said, he is recovering.” Pure Vanilla’s smile is tinged – with strain or sadness, Shadow Milk does not know. “I believe all the Beasts will need ample time to adjust.”
“You would be wise to be wary,” Dark Cacao Cookie replies curtly. “The Beast of Deceit poses a unique threat to you, Pure Vanilla Cookie.”
The Beast of Deceit is an empty shell, fit only for display.
“I understand your concern, Dark Cacao Cookie.” Pure Vanilla’s hand comes up, brushing against the Soul Jam. “And I appreciate your willingness to try. As I’ve said, I do not believe re-sealing the Beasts will bring anything but pain. Our world may be new to them, but I believe they can embrace it if given the opportunity.”
“Your unwavering faith has always exceeded my own,” Dark Cacao Cookie replies evenly. “But it is that faith that has always led us forward.”
“Hear, hear!” Hollyberry Cookie laughs. “I trust Pure Vanilla Cookie’s judgement completely! We’re more than capable of fighting back, should any issues arise.”
A firm hand around his neck. A withered carrot and a sharpened stick.
“Besides,” Hollyberry Cookie adds, “Pure Vanilla Cookie may be the first of us to consider such mercy, but he was also the first to claim the full power of the Soul Jam. I see no reason to doubt him now.”
“Thank you, Hollyberry Cookie,” Pure Vanilla says with a smile. His hand smooths over his brooch as he continues: “I truly believe that if we keep at it, the Beast Cookies can find their place in our world.”
Shadow Milk’s rage is a strange thing in this sort of state. His anger smolders furiously in his chest, yet it’s smothered by the numbness that’s consumed his very core. He hates them, hates every single face in this room, how they smile and laugh amongst one another – the saviors of Cookiekind, standing tall upon stolen blessings.
No – not stolen. Earned. Ripped from the hands of the unworthy, those who were no longer fit for anything but existence. An existence resented by all but the deluded, wretched Cookie who sits at his side, who graces him with a kind glance and gives Shadow Milk’s knee a comforting squeeze.
“Shadow Milk Cookie?”
All eyes are upon him again. Perhaps his expression has shifted, his perfect mask cracking under the weight of his raw, potent disgust that’s rolling over him in waves. He can feel the studious gazes appraising him, picking over the silent, broken doll seated amongst the holy.
There is no place for him at their table. He is here because it suits Pure Vanilla’s whims. His delusions of companionship.
Of understanding.
There is a pause, as if waiting for a reply Shadow Milk will never give. Eventually the gazes turn away; a new conversation is struck up, something about the borders and Parfaedia that melts away beneath the buzzing in Shadow Milk’s ears. The topic of the Beasts is discarded just as easily as they were, as nothing more than an afterthought. There are more important matters at hand, after all. A new dawn has broken, guided by the new Soul Jams of prosperity and peace.
What a glorious, perfect world they’ll create together.
Shadow Milk’s chest is cold, his stomach tight and ill; the feeling is worsened with each gentle smile he can glimpse being directed his way. Pure Vanilla’s hand is still resting atop his knee, a grounding touch that’s making Shadow Milk’s head reel in protest. He does not want to be here, does not want to be reminded again and again of his disposability. Of a life forever at the mercy of his creators and now, his betters.
Created for a singular purpose, only to fail. A trial run for the future, perfect heroes that stride bravely forward where he’d stumbled. He had been crafted; they had been chosen.
Shadow Milk is nothing. An error to be swept under the rug. A unsightly blemish persisting in a world that has no place for him, and never will. His existence is a mercy born of repulsively misplaced pity, of an unwillingness to erase that which does not belong. His suffering was a stepping-stone, a learning experience to teach the next generation of gods.
The Fount of Knowledge’s shattered remains have proven just as illuminating as he’d been.
Time passes in the meeting hall without notice; the chatter in the air is nothing more than a dull drone as Shadow Milk sits and hates and grieves. The sun’s rays burn hot on his cheeks; Shadow Milk simply closes his eyes, tuning out the world around him as best he can. Deep, icy hatred ebbs and flows through his jam in pointless waves, meaningless without effort he cannot muster. It is not until Pure Vanilla touches his cheek that Shadow Milk eventually realizes the voices have stopped; when he flutters open his eyes, the sun is already setting against the horizon.
How long has he been here? How long had they discussed their brave new world, built upon the backs of the broken?
“Shadow Milk Cookie,” Pure Vanilla says gently. “Are you awake?”
Pointless questions hurled against a brick wall. Talking to his doll like a child playing make-believe.
“I’m sorry that took so long.” Pure Vanilla’s hand has dropped to Shadow Milk’s own, gently guiding him upwards. “You must be hungry. Let’s go have dinner, alright?”
Pure Vanilla waits – he always waits, always gives Shadow Milk time for an answer that’s never forthcoming. It’s only when the silence builds to the point of choking that Pure Vanilla’s smile lapses, a soft sigh echoing through the room before Shadow Milk’s being led from it.
A broken toy is never as interesting as one hopes.
Another evening comes with another cycle of repetition. A dinner he does not touch, fed only by spoonfuls of soup tipped between his lips. An evening wash-up, quick and clinical; the shampoo in his room smells of spiced vanilla, a sickeningly cloying scent that turns Shadow Milk’s stomach as Pure Vanilla scrubs it into his hair.
Perhaps it is not the scent, but merely the act of being touched so firmly. Pure Vanilla’s hands always knead on his scalp with such delicate movements, yet feel painful with each press.
Shadow Milk’s body always hurts nowadays. His eyes are often puffy when he wakes, his joints throb with any amount of exertion. Even the steps he takes, effortless and limp along Pure Vanilla’s strings, feel stumbling and slow. There’s an chronic feeling of weak feverishness that persists even on the days he sleeps away.
His body feels as if it is constantly fighting a war of its own, breaking down bit by bit.
The washing is concluded in its usual silence; when he exits the tub, there is some solace in the wretched robe finally being discarded as Pure Vanilla prepares him for bed. Shadow Milk’s usual borrowed nightrobe is pulled over his head in its place; his arms are slipped through the sleeves before he’s led to the dresser and sat back down upon the familiar stool. The brush is picked up as Pure Vanilla sweeps Shadow Milk’s hair to the side, exposing his neck to the cold evening air.
Three brush strokes to the right. Two to the left. A hand that comes to rest atop Shadow Milk’s shoulder.
“You…” Hesitation. “You were upset today, weren’t you?”
Ah. Perhaps Shadow Milk’s mask had visibly cracked after all. It is always difficult to control his hair in times of stress; it lashes out when he cannot, shuddering with grief and rage.
He’ll tame it, in time. Smother it in bitterness until it is as frail and brittle as he’s become.
“I’m sorry, Shadow Milk Cookie.” Pure Vanilla’s apology comes with a new grasp to Shadow Milk’s hand; he’s being led up and over to the bed, gaze on the floor as Pure Vanilla guides him along. “I had hoped the news would be better. I know my friends are trying. I…” A swallow. “I am still trying.”
Shadow Milk is sat upon the covers; when his hand is released, it drops limply to the side. His legs dangle over the bed as he keeps staring emptily ahead, refusing to meet the sad eyes roaming over him.
“I know you won’t speak to me.” Pure Vanilla’s sitting down beside him; the mattress creaks beneath the added weight. “I know you’re still hurting. Still angry with me. I understand.”
Understanding. A pretty little lie Pure Vanilla believes with his whole heart. Perhaps he’ll mold it into truth someday. Perhaps he’ll finally break Shadow Milk down into the Cookie he wants him to be.
It’s possible. Pure Vanilla has all the time in the world.
“I want all Cookies to be happy,” Pure Vanilla says softly. “I want you to be happy. Even if we were enemies once, that does not mean it is the end of our story. You have the chance to be something new.”
Shadow Milk does not want to be something new. He was already created to be what others needed, and despised it. He shook off the shackles of destiny only to be struck down by silver chains. Now, his creator’s fondest creation extends a hand down a path that demands acceptance of his own failures, of a need to be anything but what he’d chosen to be the moment the Fount had died at his hands.
There is no solace to be found in rebirth. Obliteration is the most merciful option, but Pure Vanilla will never allow it. His own selfish kindness demands Shadow Milk’s continued existence in his life. His greed and pride will not allow the object of his misplaced affections the death it seeks, because granting such death would free Pure Vanilla himself. It would free him of the burden of Shadow Milk’s existence, of the ugly little truth that hangs between them.
Shadow Milk is that which came before. That which cannot be saved.
That which should have been destroyed long, long ago.
There is no solace in this mercy. A gilded cage remains a cage. Shadow Milk will be held suspended in this world forever until he finally, finally submits to the gentle hand clasped around his own.
The sheets rustle; Pure Vanilla’s leaning over, guiding Shadow Milk down into the pillows. The covers are pulled up to Shadow Milk’s chin as Pure Vanilla tucks him in, tilting him onto his side and readjusting the pillows beneath his head. The blankets are too heavy, too warm – they feel suffocating as Pure Vanilla lays them out, one atop the other. Perhaps he fears Shadow Milk will get cold during the night.
Warped, misplaced kindness smothering Shadow Milk once more.
“It’s alright,” Pure Vanilla murmurs quietly. He bends over, clicking off the bedside lamp; the room is plunged into darkness, with only a sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains. “You can take as long as you need. I’ll be here.”
A hand brushing over Shadow Milk’s cheek. Affection and longing for the silent, obedient husk wrapped in Pure Vanilla’s sheets and scent. “I won’t leave you. I promise.”
Such finality in his damnation.
Shadow Milk’s eyes have already slipped shut; he feels the weight on the mattress shift as Pure Vanilla rises to his feet. There’s the sound of shuffling, the tap of his staff as it’s retrieved from the wall. Footsteps retreat and the door opens with an audible creak. There’s a pause, a weighty sort of silence – as if Pure Vanilla is looking back, watching Shadow Milk from the doorway. Finally, one last creak as the door shuts and the lock slips back into place.
Quiet cloaks the room like an old friend; Shadow Milk exhales, slow and soft as his mind goes quietly, blissfully blank. Sleep empties him like no other, a brief stay from reality that he welcomes with open arms.
The black beneath his lids swaddles him in the sweetest embrace as Shadow Milk’s consciousness willingly slips away into gentle night.
He does not dream.