Lambsong

by corvid_dreams

Summary:

A tyger and a lamb- fated to kill each other, never to coexist in peace. The lamb wants to know the tyger beyond his sinister guise, and the tyger wants nobody to see him for what he is.

★

It was when Shadow Milk was caged for the third time, he realized it. That he was going to die here.

“What is a beast?” came the voice from the dark.

He winced. “Beast is a synonym for monster.”

“And what are you?”

“A monster.”

Chapter 1: I. Did he smile, his work to see?

As a righteous cookie, Pure Vanilla Cookie had heard many religious hymns before—but none put him on edge like the ominous poem echoing through the Spire of Shadows’ halls. The clashing harmonies were anything but soothing as he marched with his four closest friends, the other ancients, through an endless marble corridor.

        His thoughts spiraled into darkness as he kept his head bowed. The paintings, the architecture, the familiar blue and white color scheme, and the silent pulse of magic in the air dragged him back to his days as the Truthless Recluse.

        His thoughts spiralled to a negative place as he kept his head bowed and continued walking, recalling his days as the Truthless Recluse. The paintings, the architecture, the oh-so familiar blue and white color scheme, and the silent presence of magic thrumming through the marbled halls all brought him back to his darkest days.

        He was brought out from the murky sea of unfortunate memories as Hollyberry Cookie gave the healer a firm rub on the shoulder, her jovial tone ringing out and clashing with the ominous choir still singing elsewhere in the spire.

”It’s probably hard for you to come back here, my friend… Don’t worry, we’ll dispatch of that wretched beast soon enough!”

        He nodded politely and huffed a small laugh, although he didn’t mean that or the smile that was plastered on his face. As the quintet followed the hymn’s sound (assuming it would lead to the Beast of Deceit), Pure Vanilla only grew more anxious. Yes, he should hate Shadow Milk for all he had done to him, but… he simply couldn’t help in believe there was good in the demented jester’s soul.

        In his own words, the halves of their shared souljam were like the yin and yang. The Truth was full of noble light and the best of intentions, yet carried harsh reality within it. The souljam of Deceit was the opposite, like a candle snuffer, or a curtain trying to obscure that glorious light. And yet, deep within Deceit, there was a seed of well-meaning, the desire to protect oneself and others from the sometimes monstrous Truth.

        It is precisely that philosophy that drove Pure Vanilla’s belief in his parallel. Yes, he hadn’t yet seen the goodness in Shadow Milk… but still, he believed.

        So how, pray tell, did he end up here, parading about in the jester’s domain with no good intention? It wasn’t necessarily his idea to come back to the Spire with the other four ancients to seal the Beast of Deception once again, but he had to oblige no less. Besides, what other plan of action could he take?

        As the group seemed to be nearing wherever Shadow Milk was, the choir’s voices grew louder, strings of notes soon blending into near-coherent words. The hymn itself did nothing to lighten the solemn mood, the increasingly decipherable words seeming quite ominous. Pure Vanilla wouldn’t put it past Shadow Milk to simply wait and let the Ancients grow unnerved by the foreboding tune, but, oh well.

“H… Meek, he… M… beca..e… lit… child…”

        The group stopped before a pair of ornate double doors, carved with the comedy and tragedy masks— a familiar symbol of theatre and drama, Shadow Milk Cookie’s forte. Golden Cheese Cookie hovered near, wings fluffed in stress as she readied her spear.

“Well, this… charming prelude is sure something. Are we all ready, friends?” she asked.

        Hollyberry nodded, shield gleaming. White Lily clutched her staff and nodded, too, her hands trembling.

”Well, this… charming prelude is sure something. Are we all ready, friends?”

        Hollyberry gave a firm nod, her shield and its souljam brandished confidently as usual. Most of them masked their anxiety with a brave resolve, the least threatening of them being White Lily, who held her staff close and sighed shakily as she nodded.

        They were about to face the cookie who had killed Elder Faerie; this must surely be something monumental to White Lily. While she still carried the same resolve her friends did, there was something more… human about her. How she didn’t cover everything under an eloquent mask of bravery, how she still trembled and cried like a real cookie. Seeing his friend adrift in a sea of self-doubt and worry definitely shouldn’t have been soothing to Pure Vanilla, but she had always been a grounding point for him. It simply brought him comfort to know he wasn’t the only one who was worried.

        They all communicated without words, a solemn understanding being shared through simple nods and glances as Pure Vanilla stepped forward, drawing in a breath as he placed his callused hands on the doors. This was the last moment he had to dwell on worry and fear, as there was no such place for those emotions on a battlefield. As he gently but decisively pushed the doors open with a creak, his staff’s eye quickly flitted about the familiar theatre behind the heavy, ornamental doors.

        The doors creaked open, revealing Shadow Milk—a blur of color, floating sideways and conducting a marionette choir. His posture radiated lazy confidence, but his sharp eyes missed nothing.

He turned his head a full 180°, a loud crack echoing as his cyan and cerulean eyes narrowed. The marionettes fell silent.

“Well, well, well! What have we here? A parade of little half-cookies, showing up unannounced!”

        Dark Cacao growled, raising his greatsword. “Your pathetic jesting falls on deaf ears, beast. Do I need to tell you why we’re here?”

        Shadow Milk hummed at the retort, tapping his chin almost comedically as he tilted his head, miming a phone call.

”Hello, hello? Is this the shit-giving department..? Ah, yes. An acquaintance of mine seems to have quite the question, I was wondering if we have any shits left in storage to give out. What’s that?? Oh dear… Oh… Is that so? I’ll let him know. Thank you, bye now~”

        Suddenly, he vanished in a cloud of dust and reappeared behind them, smirking. Golden Cheese thumped her spear, glaring. Pure Vanilla stayed calm—he’d seen through Shadow Milk’s bravado and display of confidence before.

“Shadow Milk, I’m sorry things have come to this. You know why we’re here. Please, don’t make this any harder.”

        Shadow Milk laughed bitterly, then clapped his hands. The world warped into a vast courtyard—milkcrowns blooming, blueberries peeking from the underbrush, the air thick with the stench of his magic.

        He dropped his lighthearted and flippant attitude quickly, donning an aggressive snarl as his pupils slitted and his claws flexed. The Ancients reciprocated the aggressive attitude, weapons and magic being readied against the beast.

”Absolutely insolent. You fools will be put in your place, I promise,” he drawled in a threatening tone, keeping a particularly keen eye on White Lily Cookie, snapping his fingers and summoning a manner of monsters to do his bidding. They weren’t meant to do any actual damage, simply to distract the five as he prepared for something more sinister.

        After grinning at the chaos resulting from the onslaught of monsters keeping the Ancients distracted, he slipped away into the shadows, changing his shape to that of a thick, sinister serpent. His scales were patterned with black and sapphire diamonds, blending in perfectly with the scenery of his Spire. He slithered in calculated circles around the five, carefully analyzing their well-practiced formation and battle strategies before striking.

        He dropped his lighthearted and flippant attitude quickly, donning an aggressive snarl as his pupils slitted and his claws flexed. The Ancients reciprocated the aggressive attitude, weapons and magic being readied against the beast.

”Absolutely insolent. You fools will be put in your place, I promise,” he drawled in a threatening tone, keeping a particularly keen eye on White Lily Cookie, snapping his fingers and summoning a manner of monsters to do his bidding. They weren’t meant to do any actual damage, simply to distract the five as he prepared for something more sinister.

        After grinning at the chaos resulting from the onslaught of monsters keeping the Ancients distracted, he slipped away into the shadows, changing his shape to that of a thick, sinister serpent. His scales were patterned with black and sapphire diamonds, blending in perfectly with the scenery of his Spire. He slithered in calculated circles around the five, carefully analyzing their well-practiced formation and battle strategies before striking.

        Pure Vanilla Cookie shouted as a black and blue blur hurtled towards him from the side, wrapping around his limbs like a whip, tightening and hissing furiously as it writhed and constricted. This beast was not partially inanimate and mindless like the other creatures Shadow Milk had summoned- it was more intelligent.

        What it didn’t seem to consider is how it put itself at risk by so firmly latching itself onto Pure Vanilla, compromising its mobility in the process. The others didn’t seem to notice, busying themselves with cutting through waves of aggressive creatures, which only made it worse as Pure Vanilla pitifully tried to wrench the serpent’s coils off his chest and arms.

        White Lily must have noticed his change of position, as she turned to support him, slamming her staff down and summoning a flourish of her signature white lily blooms, bursting with enchanted pollen and ensnaring vines that seemed to burn the snake’s scales as it hissed and unwound itself, fluidly changing from a menacing serpent to an agile Cream Wolf, darting about and instead biting at the five’s ankles and throwing itself at them.

        The shape-shifting beast jumped about with a profound agility and fluidity to its movements, easily changing its shape a multitude of times just to harass the Ancients in whatever way it saw fit. It was able to annoy and distract amidst the already pressing threat of summoned creatures quite efficiently, revelling in the chaos it fed.

        This creature was Shadow Milk Cookie. While the other monsters on the battlefield were intelligent, none were as quick and calculated as he was. As fast and agile as he was, there was one profound weakness that made itself apparent as he continued to freely shapeshift and pester the Ancients- his weakness to White Lily Cookie.

        If it wasn’t already enough that she had the power to seal him back in the Silver Tree, there was another weapon the fair cookie possessed that he wasn’t quite sure the fool had realized yet. You see, the aforementioned enchanted pollen of her white lily blooms held a game-changing power over the Beasts, one that unfortunately pushed the tides in her favour.

        The pollen of the white lilies that bloom around the Silver Tree had an anaesthetic-like effect, which only affected the Five Great Beasts. This effect was intentional, as the pollen kept the beasts as docile and incapacitated as possible during their gruelling punishment.

        As Shadow Milk bit, scratched, and twisted about the battlefield, he began to notice the familiar stench of those flowers. He had been too drunk on power and chaos to realize that nauseating pollen was floating freely about, gradually slowing his movements and dulling his magic just faintly. That smell fed his rage, the memory of the Silver Tree’s purgatory festering in the back of his mind.

        However, he couldn’t run on hate and a wish forever. As best as he tried to keep up and wear down the Ancients, he ended up as the only one tiring and slowing down in the end. Each transformation left him huffing and panting just a bit harder, his already somewhat weak body aching with each snap of his jaws and flail of his body. Eventually, he decided that shapeshifting was taking too much of a toll on his magic ability with the already present strain of the white lily pollen, and so he went back to his usual guise, hovering above the battlefield with his blueberry staff in hand.

        Hollyberry Cookie was the first to notice, turning her gaze skyward and lowering her shield before crying out, “White Lily, there he is! Do it, now!”

        The Silver Tree’s guardian gave a loud ‘yes’ and pointed her flower staff towards him, muttering some sort of incantation. With that, the ground began to quake, giving way to reaching silver vines that made a beeline straight for the Beast of Deceit. Shadow Milk’s hair flared out in almost comical spikes with surprise as he shot backwards, only to be grasped by the vines.

        His expression was immediately filled with the purest form of horror that Pure Vanilla had ever seen. His pupils that were once widened in ecstasy were quickly narrowed to slits as thin as a pin, his eyebrows furrowing drastically. His heart threatened to pound straight out of his chest as he violently thrashed and snarled, further panicking as the vines that once only wrapped around his wrists had begun to climb up his limbs and tighten, much to his absolute dismay.

        All of Shadow Milk’s further actions were driven by a nauseating mix of ire and fear. White Lily pointed her staff to the ground, and Shadow Milk was dragged out of his position floating in the air, slammed to the pale grasses of his courtyard as he growled. He tried to regain his footing, repeating the word ‘no’ like a mantra as he bit at his forearms, chest, and wherever else the vines had begun to grow, gnashing his teeth on his flesh in the process.

        He had taken it too lightly. He treated everything like a game; it was just his nature to do so, to downplay any threat with theatrics and sarcasm. He was so used to it working, he had barely begun to grasp the finality of the situation he was in as he thrashed and pulled at his restraints.

        To say that the sight of Shadow Milk tossing and kicking like a caged tyger unnerved Pure Vanilla would be an understatement. Throughout his time in the Spire of Shadows, he had grown familiar with the jester’s mask of confidence and arrogance and learned just how important that was for him. Shadow Milk needed control and power to thrive and stay stable, as unhealthy as it was. As Truthless Recluse, he had never dared to cross that boundary, quietly growing privy to the Beast’s customs and intricacies.

        To see the Master of Deceit struggling so uselessly against those familiar silver restraints was pathetic, a pitiful sight. Watching him grow physically tired but still in a state of psychological ruin as he was bound further by the vines, unable to do anything as his summons vanished without the supply of his magic, and for the Five Ancients to circle in and simply watch as he was bound to the point of immobility.

        White Lily looked down on the beast, a conflicted expression on her face as she watched the vines stop twisting around every inch of Shadow Milk’s body. Her eyebrows were knitted in solemn finality, but deep down, what her face didn’t show was the sickening satisfaction she gained from the sight. She shouldn’t feel happy seeing any cookie suffer, and yet, she couldn’t help but feel pleased with herself as she watched one of her many tormentors become completely vulnerable at her hands.

        The other Ancients were wordless as the Beast of Deceit’s struggle gradually slowed, pollen and exhaustion quieting his growls and protests as he gave up. Just for now, he’d told himself. He would break free at some point. He had to.

        Pure Vanilla Cookie knelt close to the Beast, sympathy creeping on his face as his no longer pristine white robes pooled at his knees. All of the participants in the scuffle had gained scratches and bruises, but Pure Vanilla told himself it was necessary to heal Shadow Milk’s wounds first. Not simply just because he pitied him, not just because of the way his souljam pulsed with nausea and some other bitter feeling as he looked down upon the ragdoll body of his equivalent with his orchid staff.

        He reached a hand out to check out a particularly deep wound on the cookie’s shoulder, only to be met by a sluggish snap of jaws and a bitter glare sent by heavily dilated pupils. Shadow Milk couldn’t lay a claw on Pure Vanilla as it was, but he got the message nonetheless. He took note of how Shadow Milk’s jaw clenched and his breath quickened, pitying the beast as he murmured, “I won’t push you, but let me heal you. You’re just as hurt as the rest of us…”

        His soothing voice fell on deaf ears yet again. Shadow Milk Cookie groaned, his pulse quickening with growing anger as he yet again pulled and strained against the silver vines. His throat was growing hoarse from the amount of panting and growling he’d been doing, and his already aching joints burned from the odd position he was put in. He felt like a spectacle, a real laughingstock as the Ancients stared down at him silently.

        His thoughts were broken by the resonant sound of Dark Cacao’s cold voice. He turned his face away as if he couldn’t bear to look at the pity party that was the Beast of Deceit, grumbling before saying in finality, “That is enough. White Lily, do as you must. We are done here.”

        His words were simple, but clipped and harsh. He always sounded angry, so Shadow Milk figured it was best to give up on deciphering his stern attitude. His hair writhed uselessly against his constraints as he watched the Ancients turn their eyes to White Lily- that is, all but Golden Cheese, who floated with a neutral expression and folded arms. Maybe that was something he could pick on later, if he ever saw the outside world again after whatever that wretched cookie was about to do to him. He tensed, unconsciously trying to curl into himself as he watched her movements with a steeled gaze.

        She quietly repeated some sort of enchantment, gaze indecipherable as she looked down at the Beast of Deceit, before cold silver forks thundered down from the heavens. Piercing into the ground like a cage around the beast, he bristled with hatred and undeniable fear as the familiar magic of the silver pulsed through the air. It was cold and piercing, threatening to melt his skin with the fire of the ovens and an unforgettable cold that he had never been able to rid his mind of. He desperately wanted to change forms, to run and hide, to yell and sneer- and yet, all he could do was watch as he was caged yet again.

        Curling in on himself with petrifying fear, he turned his eyes quietly to White Lily Cookie. He was tired, his head throbbed from pain and exhaustion, and yet he still stayed awake. Yes, one couldn’t run on pure hatred, but it still had to count for something, did it not? His face was uncharacteristically neutral as he opened his fanged maw to speak, his serrated and slightly yellowed teeth a stark contrast to the powder blue of his skin.

“You. You are the most pitiful excuse of a Virtue I have seen. You are nothing more than a sorrowful usurper. You will never do the memory of that old whelp justice so long as you live— I promise you that. I will not rest until I see your dough  crumbled at my feet. ”

        White Lily Cookie bit into her lip as she met the beast’s quiet eyes for a moment, before looking away and instead turning her gaze to Pure Vanilla Cookie. He regarded her with tired eyes, yet still profoundly kind as usual, before awkwardly stealing a glance at the now-caged Shadow Milk Cookie before looking back to the fair cookie before him.

”Don’t mind him, he spits venom as if it’s a second language. I do think we should put him to sleep while we travel back, he probably won’t quiet down so long as he’s still conscious… Besides, he’s stressed out. It wouldn’t be good for him to get stress sickness.”

        Shadow Milk sneered from behind bars, offended by his other half fretting over him so much. He barged into his domain, interrupted a choir rehearsal, fought him, and ruined his beautiful courtyard. It’s their fault if Shadow Milk feels any kind of way. He was the grandiose Beast of Deception and Lies. What was a bit of stress gonna do to him?

        Nonetheless, the foul healer turned his stupid seeing-eye staff towards Shadow Milk, a palm drenched in sugar-sweet healing magic. How cliché.

        The fatally familiar stench of warm, rich vanilla filled the beast’s mouth and nose as his body released its tension. Not because he was relaxing, but because Pure Vanilla had used a sleeping spell to quiet and hopefully calm Shadow Milk while they traveled back home.

        Watching the beast lose his grip on his consciousness brought a slight comfort to White Lily- yes, she knew his bitter retorts were only borne of hate and a desire to hurt, but he was undeniably good at just that, hitting where it hurt.

        She nodded with finality as she watched the jester fall into a tumultuous sleep, her companions getting the hint and finally letting their guards down.

        Hollyberry Cookie let out a deeply satisfied sigh as the threat was relinquished, letting her shield down to rest at her side as she pulled her friends into a hug. Her arms were big and warm, tugging her allies together despite how much someof them might have qualms with each other.

        That was all Shadow Milk saw before he fell into a restless sleep. His friends would never comfort him back when he was the Fount of Knowledge; they were never that close. There was never anyone to comfort him, to save him from himself. He was still dully aware of how his body ached, of how a lingering feeling of nausea sat at the bottom of his gut. He was always hurt in one way or another; it didn’t help that the monumental damage done to him in that fight amplified his pain.

        He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t move his legs to try and find a position where his calves didn’t burn, he couldn’t shake the silver vines that bound him, he couldn’t escape the cursed cage that the self-proclaimed ‘Guardian’ had put him in.

        Shadow Milk wasn’t in control.

        He was powerless. He was a caged beast, a pacing tyger.

        He was out of control.

Chapter 2: II. Did he who made The Lamb make thee?

Summary:

Shadow Milk is unwillingly brought someplace in the Vanilla Kingdom as a prisoner. Words and pleas drenched in honey do nothing to quell his silver tongue.

Notes:

I spent hours on this today, hopefully updates will be bi/weekly! It might end up being sporadic but I will not abandon this like the millions of art projects I’ve given up on… 🙏

        When Shadow Milk woke up, the air was still tight and chilled with White Lily Cookie's magic. The vines that once bound his flesh like a net were gone, replaced by familiar chains and cuffs. They didn't singe and burn his skin like they did in the Tree, most likely due to its new guardians' inexperience wielding its powerful magic.

        His neck, wrists, and ankles were all bound by outrageously thick cuffs connected to the admittedly exquisite silver fork-cage he sat in. It took a bit for him to come around to himself fully, giving an experimental tug at the chain binding his left wrist. Yup, it was not there just to look pretty.

        As he gave his surroundings a look, he could discern a few things from the scenery. It was a greenhouse or garden of sorts, and a few of those stupid white lilies were intentionally growing and wrapping around the outside of his cage. Those stupid flowers wouldn't keep him quiet, nor would the chains and cuffs. As long as he made a scene and caused a ruckus, his fight wasn't lost just yet.

        As he sat restless, pondering his situation, he naturally began to realize how dire the situation was. He was bound, powerless, stressed, and refusing to come to terms with the possibility that he might just not escape this time. 

        Pacing and wrecking things were his two favorite ways to vent stress, and he couldn't do either right now. He felt sick to his stomach, between the stench of lilies and flowers in the air, the almost dead silence lingering in the air, and the feeling of his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. That bitter taste of nausea returned to the back of his throat, forcing him to actively repress the desire to fold in on himself and cry.

        Just in time to catch the disgraceful mockery of a beast, the steady rhythm of footsteps was heard approaching. Calm, unhurried. A third sound accompanied the footsteps, the rhythmic tap of a cane following said footsteps. Of-fucking-course it was Pure Vanilla Cookie.

        As his white robes and familiar face peeked out from around a hedge, Shadow Milk grumbled and straightened up as best he could. Not like there was any point in trying to mend the fragmented scraps of his dignity, though.

        Pure Vanilla's face twisted in sympathy as he gazed down at his counterpart. The lamb pitying a caged tyger, declawed and muzzled. How ironic. He approached the silver-fork cage, donning a face of indifference before speaking in that sickeningly sweet voice.

"You've awakened, that's good. How are you feeling? Do you need anything? If you do, I'll have to bring it to you myself; you can't be trusted around servants yet."

        Shadow Milk turned his face, curling his lip in a passive snarl. His eyes rolled as he shuffled minutely away from his oh-so-righteous and kind captor. His hair was no longer animated and expressive, his coattails didn't flail in an invisible wind anymore. He was grounded, equal to any other cookie as he sat below his other half. His voice was raw and rough, the first few words being choked out with strain.

"I don't need anything from you. I can't be trusted not to maul your servants to death, huh? You can't be trusted not to feed me fucking poison and make me wish I was dead. The mistrust is mutual, pretty boy."

        Pure Vanilla grimaced at the pet name, shaking his head as his grip on his staff tightened just a bit, a stress reflex.

"You have no reason not to trust me, Shadow Milk. I assure you, it w-"

        A sharp, barking laugh cut him off, the jester pulling at his binds to bring his sneering face as close to his captor as he could.

"HAH!! I have no reason not to trust you!? What a joke, I thought I was the clown! Might I remind you that you first came into my domain to figure out how to put me back into fucking hell??"

        The last sentence was bit out with particular venom, which, judging by the healer's expression crumbling in regret, hit home quite well. Pure Vanilla shoved down his emotions quickly, shaking his head and frowning down at the jester. 

"If you won't engage in peaceful conversation, you won't be indulged at all, and that is final."

        Shadow Milk flinched slightly at that, growling at the simple threat. Depriving someone of chatter was something, but depriving Shadow Milk of chatter? Blasphemous! He thrived on conversation and snitty quips; the silence often got too loud without them. That's mostly why he had Candy Apple and Black Sapphire; because throwing insults at a spider on a wall got boring, and was ultimately very pitiful.

"You're just mad 'cuz I have you figured out. Trust me, I don't forget anything."

        Pure Vanilla scoffed and slowly turned to leave. His robes just slightly brushed the cobbled paths in the garden, the steady click of his staff's foot tapping the ground growing distant as he had left, just like that.

        Shadow Milk didn't dare call after him and spit more insults his way; there was no point. He watched bitterly as his 'friend' left him alone, with nothing but flowers and bugs to accompany his imprisonment. Speaking of bugs, an ugly cobalt blue butterfly dared to flit too close to his twitching hands. That was clearly a mistake.

        The air was quiet for what must have been hours after the healer left the garden. Shadow Milk hadn't been bored like this since... well, since something very similar happened before. Nothing had seemed to change, not in how he groaned ass he tried to stretch out his burning joints, not in how he scoffed at the way sweat built up under the cuffs restraining him, not in how utterly bored he soon became.

        If boredom was what drove Burning Spice Cookie mad, Shadow Milk would quickly learn just why. It crept into his skull, silence prodding at his memories and values as if begging for him to think about his actions and morality. What a drag, Shadow Milk thought he'd killed that disgustingly nerdy habit along with the Fount of Knowledge. Not like Burning Spice was smart enough to think about such large questions and concepts, but surely something similar had kicked around his friend's (probably small) brain before.

        This was exactly why the fallen virtue hated silence. It did nothing; it wasn't even more than a concept or an idea, but it still exposed his inner workings and fears without doing anything. It left him vulnerable to himself.

        ...

        Ever since the beginning of his existence as the Beast of Deceit, people have hidden from him. Cookies, afraid of deception and being lied to, shielding themselves from all that he had become. There were always cookies to save each other from his lies, but never someone to save Shadow Milk from himself. 

        Nobody ever brought him comfort amidst the tremendous weight of Knowledge, nobody soothed his rushing thoughts when things became too much. Nobody tried to reach out a helping hand when the Fount of Knowledge fell to the deepest abyss and died. He kicked at the floor. The chain upon his ankle clattered. Nothing. Not even an echo. He gritted his teeth, stuck with the distant twittering of birds and rustling of foliage.

        That stupid Pure Vanilla Cookie was no better than him; he was just another innocent lamb walking straight into a slaughterhouse with a blindfold over his eyes. Well, he didn't need a blindfold; he was already blind. But that's not the point, is it?

        The sun had dipped low by the time footsteps echoed on the flagstones again. Shadow Milk, sprawled against the bars and half-dead by the greenhouse’s boringly peaceful air, cracked an eye open.

  Pure Vanilla reappeared, a silver tray balanced in one hand and his staff in the other. The scent of warm bread and sweet blueberry stew permeated through the floral staleness, making Shadow Milk’s stomach twist with reluctant hunger.

  “Dinner.” Pure Vanilla’s tone was careful, measured politeness, as if Shadow Milk might bite (he really might if the blind fool got close enough). He slid it through a gap in the bars, smiling softly, although the gesture was empty.

  Shadow Milk glared at him. “Oh, how kind. You come bearing gifts now? What’s wrong—afraid I’ll starve before you get your redemption arc? I'm not playing into your stupid savior complex.”

  Pure Vanilla didn’t rise to the bait. He set the tray down and pushed it through, still staying carefully distant from the beast. “No one will hurt you here as it is. Please, just behave."

        Shadow Milk rose from his odd position, reaching a clawed hand carefully out to a slice of buttered bread. Plain and simple, it surely couldn't be tainted or poisoned. He picked it apart with a nail, a little bit, sneering as he sniffed at the dough. Normal. 

Shadow Milk let the silence stretch, then snatched it up once deeming it safe, tearing into it with exaggerated savagery. The crumbs stuck to his lips as he stared Pure Vanilla down, daring him to scold him for bad manners.

  Instead, Pure Vanilla sat down cross-legged a safe distance from the cage, staff across his knees. “I’ll be here for a while. You don’t have to talk.”

  He tore into the bread, warmth blooming in his mouth—a cruel contrast to the chill biting at his wrists and ankles, eyeing the stupid, corny staff that his captor held. “You waiting for me to say thank you? Not happening.”

        Pure Vanilla simply nodded, and that pissed the beast off. He wouldn't reciprocate his snark and aggression; he wouldn't get hurt too easily when he made jabs at him, and this stumped him. He wanted to argue with the bumbling fool; he wanted the sick rush of adrenaline he got when he picked at someone like an ass, he needed the thrill of shouting and baring his fangs. His claws dug tiny crescents into the bread, as if he could tear his way out of this cage one crumb at a time.

        Instead, the healer hummed happily as he watched the beast devour his food. "I'm glad you're eating so... enthusiastically. It's far better than bitter silence, isn't it?"

        Between bites, Shadow Milk grumbled and continued poking at Pure Vanilla. He had to find a sore spot that hurt. "Just because you have me in your prissy little garden right now doesn't mean shit. I still have the birth-given right to that stupid souljam you brandish like it was made for you. Bummer alert, it wasn't. Your fragile truth is just as skeptical as deception, only knowledge is absolute."

        Pure Vanilla shuffled where he sat, growing irritated at the repeated attempts to start an argument staged by the Beast of Deceit. He truly didn't want to argue with Shadow Milk, knowing how unpredictable he was at times. He instead settled for telling a rational truth. "That may be true, but that problem shouldn't be at the top of your list right now. You do not know what I've sacrificed to keep you in my kingdom, so behave, lest you want to be imprisoned again."

        Shadow Milk bared his teeth in a defensive growl, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkling. His skin itched as the cold cuffs remained, reminding him of just how powerless he was.. “Oh, you’re a martyr now? Please—don’t act like you did this for me.”

Pure Vanilla’s patience snapped. His grip on the staff whitened, and his calm mask slipped just enough to show the exhaustion underneath. “I didn’t have to bring you here,” he said, voice low. “I could have left you to be judged by the other Ancients, none of whom are as compassionate. I’ve risked everything—my kingdom, my friends—because I thought you could be saved.”

  Shadow Milk’s eyes flashed, the mockery faltering for a split second before returning, doubled and jagged. “I’m not letting myself be fixed just for your gratification. I’ll make your life hell so long as you cling to your happy-go-lucky attitude. Y’know, red flags just look like flags through rose-tinted glasses.”

  Pure Vanilla stood suddenly, the motion sharp enough to rattle the tray. He hated the spike of regret—hated that, for just a breath, he wished the decision had been easier. That he’d chosen peace. That Shadow Milk wasn’t here, gnawing at his conscience and his patience every hour of the day.

  But the guilt hit just as quickly. He forced his voice to be gentle again. “I’m… sorry. That’s not fair to you.”

  Shadow Milk just laughed, harsh and bitter. “Keep telling yourself you’re the hero, 'nilly. See where that gets you.”

  Pure Vanilla turned away, robes whispering against the grass. He paused at the threshold of the garden, shoulders tense, and didn’t look back. “I’ll see you in the morning. Please, just behave.”

  He left, the click of his staff fading into the night. Shadow Milk sat alone, licking the last crumbs from his claws. For once, he didn’t feel like grinning.         

        The familiar spiral of thoughts caught him in its vortex again. He sighed, dipping his head as he lay on his side, pillowing his head with his wiry, scarred arms. The air was quiet again, and the birds and insects no longer flew about. Just the silently festering emotions forming a golf ball in Shadow Milk's throat as he considered something.

A beast. That's what I am. Monster is a synonym for beast- is it worth anything to try and claw myself back up from this pit? Nobody will humor me if I've already painted myself as a horrid villain.

...maybe Mystic Flour was onto something with her whole apathy bit. Maybe I should just give up and quit digging my grave.

        His sleep was dark and silent, cold. The cage around and below him was unforgiving, not sparing him a touch of comfort or warmth as he slept fitfully, waking up periodically to jeer at any garden insect that dared to crawl over whatever skin that was exposed. His souljam remained with him, faintly glowing and casting a blue light on his distressed features.

        This was not going to be fun.

Chapter 3: III. Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.

Summary:

Pure Vanilla is patient, and Shadow Milk is persistent to no end. Which half of their whole will win the struggle of annoyance and indifference?

Veery brief mention of self-harm, not in-depth, however. Just so you all know, topics of self-harm and generally self-destructive tendencies will be a key player in this fic.

      The next day, Pure Vanilla Cookie woke up with just a little less patience than usual. Patience and kindness are virtues that go hand-in-hand, and one is naturally meant to falter when the other is in short supply. At this point, it was barely noticeable, and it was easy enough to simply accept one’s circumstance and not make a fuss about what couldn’t be helped.

      He awoke like any other morning, running through a familiar routine that hadn’t changed in ages. Routine was stagnant and grounding, a stalwart stone amidst a rushing stream. The morning sun peeking through cream-coloured curtains, the slide of worn cotton robes against soft tan skin, and of course, the shelf that housed mismatched trinkets and gifts given to him over his many years.

      A familiar tune played at the tip of his tongue as he tucked away items that were misplaced with no need, saying ‘you’re welcome’ to the tired version of himself that would only end up back here when he was tired enough to sleep standing up. A dusty leather book was placed back upon a shelf, and a vase of blooming rhododendrons was placed back on the windowsill where the flowers could flourish in the bright sun. He lifted his staff from its place beside his bed, humming in approval as the world was made just a touch clearer.

      Looking proudly around at his tidied room, the healer bid farewell to his abode, wandering the halls of the grand Vanilla palace on autopilot, smiling at servants and cleaners as they passed. The place smelled of flowers and the faint tang of scented cleaners, with a familiar scent that could only belong here.

      He went out of his way to greet and thank the staff, even those in the kitchen who would poke at him for not stopping by as often. There was one person in the castle whom he did not greet in the mornings, although that person did not need any introduction.

      Pure Vanilla dutifully avoided the southern wing, which is where the only entrance to the courtyard lay. Shadow Milk would flat out refuse food half the time unless it was catered to his (increasingly picky) taste, and he never showed any appreciation for the meals he was given anyway. Whoever said beggars can’t be choosers had clearly never met a stubborn, egoistic maniac before.

      Despite picking up idle and meaningless tasks to distract himself from the barely-contained threat at the heart of his kingdom, he still managed to stress himself out over the matter. After doing his rounds in and around the castle, he proceeded to his study, mentally preparing himself for gruelling hours of paperwork and letter-writing.

      The door was not as extravagant or bold as one would expect, being carved of simple wood and painted with natural designs at the corners. Simple and homely. It creaked when opened, a nice little touch of worldliness as he stepped into the quaint room.

      If maids and servants did not clean it routinely, everything but the desk would have surely been blanketed in thin dust. Although amenities like chairs and a fireplace were present in the study, they were rarely put to use. If Pure Vanilla wanted to sit down and have a drink or indulge in some other idle activity, he’d surely be doing it away from his workplace. 

      Sitting down in the chair before his desk, he sighed as he placed his staff beside him. If he were like any other geriatric, he’d probably grumble and clear his throat before placing a pair of distasteful glasses on the bridge of his nose- but he was already completely blind, so that would be a useless gesture. 

     Mail was brought to his study early each morning for him to sift through, stacked in neat piles at the top right corner. He ran a hand through his somewhat tidy hair, pulling at the few knots just slightly as he mentally prepared himself for the possibility of word from the other Ancients. 

      Friends could be petty, and he knew it wasn’t past his own to be passive-aggressive if that’s what they felt like. It had been his own (probably awful) choice to house Shadow Milk Cookie amongst the common folk in his kingdom, and it was really only a matter of time before someone said something. He looked out his window with unfocused pastel eyes, idly watching a lone magpie brandish its patterned tail and clean under its wings. 

      Pure Vanilla sighed as he shook his head, bringing himself to lift the first letter and lower his head to read the content. Trade agreements and revisions from the Creme Republic, how entertaining!

      Things were just as fun until late afternoon, when his anxiety spiked at the sight of a deep fuchsia letter stamped with the Hollyberry family crest. The healer stood up to prepare himself, pushing aside his chair as he rolled his stale shoulders and listened to the near worrying snap of his spine as he bent back and flexed it.

      He looked outside again, dreading the letter sent by what should be his greatest solace, one of his closest friends. The sun was beginning to fall, bleeding through the leaves of trees like an eloquent gouache. The smell of grasses and baked goods carried through the air, a common smell that often came downwind from the farmer’s market.

      Just in time, a knock at the door came to save Pure Vanilla from the object of his anxiety. A soft-spoken maid peeked her head in, smiling humbly and folding her hands before her as she looked at the healer expectantly. He turned his head to greet her, nodding simply as a permissive gesture.

”Your majesty, I apologize for interrupting your work, but… the guest you’ve brought with you has been causing quite the ruckus in the courtyard.”

      If he were any less refined, Pure Vanilla would have groaned and smashed his head into the wall right there. Perhaps it was to his disadvantage that he merely nodded in resignation, humming apologetically before responding to the maid.

”I was anticipating that, my apologies for neglecting my duty to check on them. I’ll be down after I take care of this letter. Can you ask the chefs to prepare some sort of dinner? Something with blueberries, preferably.”

      The maid perked up and gave a dutiful bow, thanking the healer for his time as she went off briskly. Pure Vanilla simply sighed and ran his hands through his hair again, pulling at the knots plaguing it before smoothing the fair strands down and making his way to the kitchen.

      After making his way to the kitchen to promptly pick up Shadow Milk’s… humble dinner, he quickly went off to the garden. His footsteps were rushed as he speed-walked through the halls of his castle, his staff’s eye nervously flickering about as he went. His temples pulsed just slightly with frustration as he soon peeked his head through the courtyard entrance, composing himself with a small groan.

      The now-setting sun cast golden light across the foliage of flower bushes and hedges, painting a most glorious portrait. That is, if it wasn’t accompanied by screeches and yelps that one could attribute to a banshee paired by the clattering of chains and the occasional muffled thump of something firm. 

      After peeking one’s head down the row of trees that led to the back of the courtyard, it would become clear that this was not a malefic spirit, but a wailing, caged Shadow Milk Cookie. He was not crying out from pain, as his wounds had been tended to after he’d fallen asleep a few days prior. He seemed to simply be acting out for the fun of it, tugging on his chains and wailing with a painfully irritated look plastered on his face.

      He sat kneeling before the bars, sporadically kicking and rubbing his bound legs on the floor, groaning purposefully loudly, and occasionally banging his head on the bars.

      As Pure Vanilla approached, the cryptic smile on Shadow Milk’s face shifted, a sharp, challenging glint entering his eyes. He ceased his purposeful groaning, but his bound legs continued to twitch restlessly against the floor, a low, agitated hum escaping his throat. Pure Vanilla sensed the shift in mood, understanding that Shadow Milk was far from subdued.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the esteemed healer,” Shadow Milk drawled, his voice carrying a brittle edge. “Finally decided to grace your ‘guest’ with your presence? Or perhaps you’ve come to lecture me on the virtues of quiet contemplation?” His movements were still agitated, a restless energy that seemed to vibrate through the bars, hinting at a deeper unease beneath his defiant posture.

      Pure Vanilla sighed, a sound barely audible above Shadow Milk’s low growl as he sat and festered in his own negative emotions. “Such theatrics are hardly necessary, Shadow Milk,” he murmured, his voice gentle but firm. “They serve no purpose but to exhaust yourself and those around you.” He watched the other cookie, noting the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze flickered away for a fraction of a second before locking back on him with renewed defiance.

      It was a performance, Pure Vanilla knew, a desperate attempt to provoke a reaction, to feel some semblance of control. But it was a performance that wore thin, and it was unbecoming. Pure Vanilla’s serene expression tightened almost imperceptibly, a familiar throb beginning behind his temples. His grip on his staff tightened, knuckles whitening slightly. For all his renowned patience, he felt it chipping away at his resolve, piece by agonizing piece.

      He bit the inside of his cheek before wordlessly approaching, lips pressed into a thin line. He paid gentle regard to the white lilies growing on and around the cage, contemplating if they had done anything to soothe Shadow Milk at all. However frustrated he might have been growing at the situation, he was still a gentle cookie at heart, putting a rigid hand through the bars.

"Show me your wrists and ankles, I'm sure you must've given yourself a rash or friction wound by now."

      Shadow Milk sneered and gave another complaint, although he readily presented an arm, his claws a not-so-subtle reminder of how violent he could and would be if given the chance. His slotted sleeves were caught between the cuffs and his skin, serving as a pitiful barrier between frail skin and harsh binds. He snorted, turning his head away. "Yeah, yeah. It'd sure look good on your resume if someone found a dead cookie in your pretty little garden. An unkempt one, at that."

      Pure Vanilla only nodded, gently pushing up Shadow Milk's ruffled sleeve and the chain cuff along with it. Sure enough, the jester's wrists were raw and dark, clearly irritated from how long he'd been making a scene of himself. Pure Vanilla caught sight of some scars disrupting the pale blue of his skin further up his forearm, but didn't pry as he fixed his sleeve, putting it back to where it had been before.

"You've definitely irritated your skin by causing such a ruckus... I'll see what I can do soon; you're enjoying this as much as I am, I promise you."

      Pure Vanilla makes his way to the kitchen, eager to get out of the beast's sight for even a moment. Shadow Milk's anatomy was different than most cookies, one such feature being a tapetum lucidum that made his slitted pupils glow like an ominous flame in the dark.

      He arrived and departed from the kitchen briskly, rigid and autonomous in his actions as he picked up the plate meant for Shadow Milk, thanking the chefs with a humble smile as usual. By the time he had come to the courtyard's doors, his frustration had settled into quiet somberness. His staff's eye was no longer dilated, his footsteps dragging just minutely. Although he was the one keeping Shadow Milk hostage, he felt like the prisoner here.

      He bowed himself to place the tray through the silver bars, his gestures stiff and rigid. He bowed his head before standing straight up and grasping his staff as he watched Shadow Milk eye the simple meal of meat jellies and blueberry pastries carefully. The healer did not bow out of reverence for his other half; it was a way to hold onto his humility amidst exhaustion. He cast a weary look down onto Shadow Milk, saying with measured calm, "Behave yourself while I'm not here. As much as I want to keep you intact, there are some people who... well, don't."

      He turned to leave quickly, not wanting to hear whatever snappy retort Shadow Milk Cookie might have on the tip of his silver tongue. He cast a final, lingering glance at his counterpart, pale eyes filled with a complex and near-indescribable mix of resolve, pity, and frustration, and that was all. He left, pure robes fluttering behind him and darkening after brushing over the dew sitting untouched on the grass and flowers.

      All he had to do now was read the letter sent from the Hollyberry Kingdom. His study didn't feel inviting or homely as he entered the room, the floorboards creaking quietly underfoot, and the stale but floral scent of the place being the only thing to greet him. It no longer felt comfortable, tainted by the outside world and its qualms.

      He picked up the pink envelope, eyebrows knitting in a frown as he tore the top open, processing the look of the familiar pale pink paper within. He pulled it out, rubbing his thumb over the paper. Not quite grounding, not quite comforting. Only an object of torment.

      His staff's eye picked up on the neat cursive belonging to Hollyberry Cookie herself, quickly beginning to read with an undertone of urgent anxiety.

 

Pure Vanilla Cookie,

As we Ancients all know, you've brought the Beast of Deception home with you. I understand your decision and logic, and trust that you've made a good decision weighted equally by emotion and logic. I hope that you will keep your values and ration at heart while handling him, as not just us, but our world and kingdoms we've worked so hard to raise are at stake as well.

As the Five Ancient Heroes, it is our responsibility as a group to ensure the safety and harmony of the cookie world is held in the best regard. We have the power for great change, as do the Beasts, which is why the cookie in your hands must be handled with care and utmost caution.

I hold all my friends and allies in high regard, but if there becomes any reason for me or our friends to worry over your choices, we will have to intervene. We believe in you right now, and I want to be sure I can trust you for ages to come.

Best of luck,

Hollyberry Cookie

      As he finished reading, Pure Vanilla's own eyes had long become unfocused. His eyes seemed to gaze through the paper, seeing only dire consequences and unknown intentions as his hands trembled, placing the letter down. It was gentle, but not voluntarily, simply... resigned. Worried. This wasn't about just him and Shadow Milk; it never was. He was risking his dearest friends, political conflict, and worse things he didn't need to fathom right now.

...

      Shadow Milk ate his food with no particular class, simply frustration and gusto as he wolfed down the meat jellies without chewing. He ate with purpose, as if he was punishing the food for the situation that he miiight have brought upon himself in the end. There was no point in savoring the food anyway; he was too worked up to enjoy anything besides probably tormenting the lone magpie that sat perched on a tree branch far away.

      After finishing, he kicked aside his dishes, the loud clattering of silverware resounding jarringly in the once-quiet garden. He did not need to reciprocate kindness or care; he wasn't going to be placated so easily. He watched the tray clatter to the ground, snorting as he rearranged himself in a less-than-comfortable sleeping position.

      His wiry muscles twitched as he lay down, his breath slow and calculated as he fixated on the bird that still hung around with sharp eyes that glowed in the dark like smoldering embers. His sharp teeth poked at his lips as he drew an indignant snarl, like a coiled spring. Ready to react. Tense, dangerous, even in response.

      He did not relax even in sleep. His face was contorted into an angry grimace, his clawed fingers occasionally twitching against cold metal. His breaths were the only thing filling the stagnant silence, bitter retorts and clanging chains long gone from the garden's soundscape. His sleep was dark and filled with nightmares of the Silver Tree, but nobody had to know. He didn't have to acknowledge how truly vulnerable he was, and he wasn't going to. It was emotional walls that had kept him (barely) sane during his imprisonment, and he'd cling to them until the bitter end.

He was not born as the beast he is now, so is it truly nurture over nature? You can reach out to pet a hissing cat, but it will still bite in the end.

Notes:

Feral cat Shadow Milk I love you...
Doing my best to keep this updated weekly, I hope this reaches an audience who'll both enjoy it as much as I do, and who will stick along for the ride with me! I originally had this scripted, buuuttt... my dog ate the script. Oh well!

Chapter 4: IV. What the hammer, what the chain?

Summary:

Shadow Milk gets let out of his solitary confinement.

…Only to be put in another cell. At least he’s not being left completely alone anymore.

In the morning, Shadow Milk felt as if the world had changed while he slept. It wasn't as if the sun turned red and the air had filled with ash; it was quiet, unfamiliar as he groaned at aching muscles before sitting up in a hunch.

        The hydrangeas, marigolds, and hellebores that grew just out of reach of his prison seemed to taunt him with their bright petals. Shadow Milk sighed wistfully as his dry eyes scanned his familiar surroundings, limp and eyeless hair no longer thrumming with an eerily arcane magic. His claws had begun to grow dull and fragile without the regular care he'd often put into them, points curling into rounded ends.

        He wondered if this was the rest of his fate. As the former Fount of Knowledge, he was expected to know everything. One thing he didn't know, however, was the nature of a souljam's original owner and their mortality. He didn't know if he could be killed, or if he was bound to the double-edged sword of immortality forever. He cast a contemplative glance at the frill that still held his souljam, giving it a rather rough scratch as he huffed and slumped down as he sat on his calves.

        As expected, his stupid counterpart had come to feed him later in the morning. The same bland meal was placed upon a tray, held with care. Pure Vanilla's steps were light and fleeting as he approached, his hair looking frizzy as if he'd only combed it with his fingers. 

        Shadow Milk did not greet him. He wasn't obligated to be nice, thankful, or kind - firstly, he wasn't any of the above, and secondly, he didn't have to be anything at all. Taking the tray with fervor, he looked down as he ate. Pure Vanilla didn't observe him like an ant in a jar this time, standing close by with his staff idly looking nowhere, head lolling to the sides just slightly as if he were about to fall asleep.

        He was so pathetic like this. For all his idiocy disguised as kindness and humility, Shadow Milk swore he'd turn the healer into a Judas goat. He'd let Pure Vanilla fall into his web of delusion, leading him and his friends into a pyrrhic victory, and leaving only the usurper behind to live with the loss for the rest of his eternal life... Huh, sounds familiar, doesn't it? The jester swore he'd learnt a story like that before.

        He'd have to remember that for later when he'd get his hands on paper and a pen. For now, he'd have to lend his scrutinous gaze to Pure Vanilla as his head shot up to look at Shadow Milk, breathing in as people usually do before speaking. "I know you're most likely unhappy with your situation, and you're probably getting tired of the garden. You're not in a position to have any choices at all, but..."

        Shadow Milk rolled his eyes as the healer trailed off, showing his teeth as he clapped twice with particular snark, his sharp and untamed features accentuated by the dull and vengeful look in his eyes. "Chop chop, it's not like we have eternity to waste waiting for Gramps over here to lick his gums and have a Werther's. Get to the point.”

        "Interrupting is rude," Pure Vanilla slowly said with a well-disguised bite before continuing, "you'll want to listen. I'll take you to the guest house at the far side of the Vanilla Castle today, so you feel less like a prisoner. You can shower, do whatever... just don't cause trouble. I'll be supervising you the whole time."

        Shadow Milk recognized that tone. It was that of fermented anger, left to sit for so long it had simply become cold and precise. And, well, he didn't care. If this geezer was going to play house with him, who was he to complain? At least he didn't have to be the dog anymore; he was getting tired of biting the hand that feeds and pacing in his cage.  

        With a soft sigh, Pure Vanilla knelt to mess with the lock that was well-hidden near the bottom of Shadow Milk’s cage. As it was undone, Shadow Milk’s pupils constricted as he watched the metal fall to the ground. He didn’t move for a moment- his chains didn’t shake with any slight movements or shuffles, only the ruffs that partially covered his chest rose and fell with each calculated breath.

      Pure Vanilla watched him. He could not decipher what it was that the beast was thinking, but if the sharpness in his contemplative silence said anything, it was probably mischievous. “If you run, nothing will turn out well for you,” he said with finality. He silently commanded the chains around sore blue wrists to undo themselves and dissipate, only leaving the considerably thicker cuff and chain around his neck.

      “Wow, so kind of you. I’m so excited to go on a walk wearing a leash like a pet.” Shadow Milk’s sneer was still just as rude before, but his words were just a bit breathier and shaken than before. As his narrowed eyes followed the tan hands that grasped the chain links connecting to his neck, he prepared to balk and spit insults while being tugged like a whiny dog.

      There was no firm pull. No frustrated sigh, no ‘come onnn…’ spoken with venom. Pure Vanilla’s light eyelashes parted as he gave Shadow Milk a sincere yet expectant look. It wasn’t pressing or anything, just… waiting. 

      Pure Vanilla watched the gears turn in the jester’s mind as he mulled over his situation- his eyes darted around, but his head didn’t turn, only his pinprick pupils flitting from the opened cage door, the hand holding the chain binding him, and the floor beneath his freed hands. 

      He didn’t pull, didn’t force him. Shadow Milk had two qualities that kept him afloat- a rather exaggerated sense of pride and a signature penchant for mischief. He figured it’d be best to let him feel he was in control of something, just to keep his sporadic ego afloat. Heaven knows what chaos he could cause, even if he were outside of his domain right now.

      With a resolute grumble, he got to his feet, the click of heels and the jingling of bells accompanying his almost autonomous movements as he left his little prison. Getting afoot on heels was a daunting task as he finally stood up for the first time in a while. The small of his back felt as if he bent over, the muscles would fray like a rope, and the arch of his foot tensed as he lifted himself onto his feet and stood. What a good idea to always wear heels.

      Pure Vanilla watched, and his eyebrow quirked humorously as he made note of how surprisingly short Shadow Milk was. Even in 4-inch heeled boots, the jester still only came up to the tip of his nose. Nonetheless, he gave him an acknowledging smile, the hand grasping the heavy silver chain tensing.

      “What, do you need me to be your seeing eye dog?” Shadow Milk poked at his apparent blindness, growling and waving his hand flamboyantly in the healer’s direction. Unfortunately, Pure Vanilla was not easy to bully, his response being, “You’d probably walk me off a cliff. We can go.”

      He followed. He wasn’t dragged along, wasn’t rushed to keep up. As he and his little friend traversed the pathways and gatehouses of the rather large estate, they walked side-by-side. Pure Vanilla kept a watchful eye on the beast and paid attention to walk the more scenic route to where they were going. The common people didn’t quite appreciate the almost absurd number of gardens and trees that accompanied the longer paths anyway.

      After a while, they had come to a broad field. Shadow Milk recognized the scent of livestock and musky green grass. The pathways had ended by the time his dog walker opened the... humble wooden gate leading into the pasture. It was noticeably more difficult to get his footing on the soft and lenient ground where the hordes of sheep roamed, but he masked the discomfort with a slightly more awkward gait as he still followed.

      He showed his teeth to a particularly cute-looking lamb as they ambled through the field at a painfully slow pace. Pure Vanilla was content with the warm sun blanketing his shoulders and the sheep ogling at him from far and wide, swaying his head contentedly as he glanced at the jester once every few minutes. Shadow Milk was trying to sow mischief as usual, but he didn't mind, letting him carry on. He was sure it would cease soon.

        After scaring off the simple-minded lamb with a snap of his teeth and a snarl, he was content with the small thing scurrying off. Through his self-serving distraction, he hadn't noticed that he and Pure Vanilla had come to a small wooden cottage at the far end of the field. Digging his heels in, he balked and dramatically crossed his arms. The chain ground sickeningly on the back of his neck with the action, and his teeth gritted against each other with a creak as he cast a snarky side eye to the man looking apologetically at the chain tugging on his neck.

        "Woah, woah. So am I getting, er- promoted, or what? Or is this just a staycation at your little garden shed? Hmph." The question was laced with sarcasm and refined rudeness, but for once, he did want the answer. Of course, sarcasm usually begets an answer just as sincere, but Blondie was either too polite or too stupid to get the point. "If that's the case, the cheesy flowers gotta go."

        "If you don't bring the entire place down with you, then yes, you can keep the guest house. Until political matters... work themselves out, this will be your place to stay." He waltzed over to the door, fiddling with a rusty-looking and simple silver key. The door creaked, less than flattering, as Shadow Milk followed unusually candidly. His boots clicked on the cheap lacquer floor, eyes crinkling with mischief as he took note of how the top piece left scratches in its wake if he walked too heavy-footed.

        It smelled like dust, grandparents, and a bit of cheap soap. Pure Vanilla smelled coincidentally similar, although he stank a little bit more like... well, his namesake. Vanilla. He undeniably wasn't excited to be locked in a shitty cabin that smelled like his arch-nemesis-frenemy-doomed-by-the-narrative counterpart, but surely it'd go away soon enough. He stared at the plain decorations, floral doilies, and corny paintings assaulting his eyes with their plain nature.

        "Shadow Milk, will you come to sit down? I need to take a look at your, uhm, residual injuries." He seemed to be nervous about his choice of words, knowing that the aforementioned menace had purposely hurt himself in his vain struggle for acknowledgement. He sat down on a plain beige couch, robes bunching around him as he sat, watching Shadow Milk follow suit. He noticed how he took a moment to flare out his coattails before sitting, making sure they still fanned out around him even as he sat. 

        The beast settled just a little far away from him, looking expectantly into the eye of the orchid staff with an antsy edge before pulling back the thick ruffs that adorned his wrists. The healer winced as he watched Shadow Milk's particularly curved and sharp nails graze his skin with the motion, wondering why he felt it necessary to be armed with fang and claw like a tyger.

        "Oh dear..." He placed his staff to lean on the arm of the loveseat, the gentle sound of wood hitting wood making a gentle thump. He hummed as he looked over the rashed and raw skin of his wrists, reaching out to cradle his forearms automatically. He had long grown accustomed to soothing with touch, and it was simply misfortune that Shadow Milk had to be the victim of his smothering nature. "Those chains really do upset you... I'm sorry. I'll do all I can to help."

        A hand pulsing with warm light magic reached out to smooth over his wrists before the beast violently jumped in his seat, snarling as he withdrew his arm as if a serpent had lunged at him. He yet again showed his teeth, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkling as he shouted, "You idiot! Do you know nothing about magic?? Psht. White Magic is volatile, fool."

        Pure Vanilla tilted his head and frowned as he watched the greatly exaggerated reaction coming from Shadow Milk. White Magic was a symbol of pristine purity and healing, so why would it be hurtful? "I'm afraid I don't understand, White Magic is a universal symbol of cleansing..?”

      Shadow Milk snorted and rolled his eyes, tapping the bridge of his nose as if he had a monocle resting on it. “Well, someone doesn’t know the basics of magic. If you didn’t already know, I’m the creator and master of Dark Moon Magic, the exact opposite of White Magic?? They don’t go well together, case closed.” With a dramatic jingle, he pulled his sleeve down. “Fuck around and find out. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

      Pure Vanilla was yet again at a loss for words. In their previous proximity he had gotten a brief whiff of how Shadow Milk smelled, as well as gently grazed over his skin. He was used to identifying people by smell and touch- he was often written off as physically affectionate, but through his years of being blind he’d learned to recognize the textures of his friend’s skin. Hollyberry often wore gloves but had surprisingly soft skin with a large writer’s callus, White Lily had extremely soft but delicate skin, etc. It was just something nice to know when he didn’t have his staff.

      Shadow Milk’s skin, on the other hand, was rough and slightly unpleasant to the touch, probably more unpleasant to live with. He contemplatively gazed at his clawed hands as the jester fiddled with his sleeves. His cuticles were frayed and covered in wounds, his skin was dry and peeling, he figured Shadow Milk probably didn’t have a mind for lotions or any sort of skincare. 

      “Well, gonna keep ogling? I’ll get settled. You can go away, I don’t need dinner today.” He picked at his fingernails with a flat frown, arching a thin eyebrow as he spoke. Pure Vanilla contested, putting his hands in his lap and glancing at the chain he had left to sit between them. “I know you’re independent, just let me stay for a bit. I won’t bother you.”

      He was met with an exasperated groan. Usually cookies would give up after a few sarcastic retorts, but Pure Vanilla proved himself to be a pest as well. “Ugggh. Fine. Whaddya wanna do, gossip? Play with puppets?”

      Pure Vanilla prided himself on finally getting Shadow Milk to at least agree to being productive. He shuffled a little closer, hands politely folded in his lap. “I was thinking we could simply chat. We have… a lot to talk about, after all.”

       A wary glance was sent his way as Shadow Milk relaxed from his previously uptight stance, claws fiddling with a seam as he leaned on the couch’s arm. “I’m not apologizing.”

      “I don’t want that. In fact, I had a question. I was thinking— you’re known for being a shapeshifter, but what is your… true shape, if that makes sense?” He tilted his head with sincerity, looking over through his staff with a soft gaze. Just casual. He subtly tried to pick up again on the musky wine scent that followed Shadow Milk. It was difficult to discern, yet bitter once identified.

       The beast dismissively waved a hand, giving a wide grin as he spoke. His left canine snagged his lip just a little, peeking out from the rows of otherwise uniform off-white fangs. “That’s a long talk, pal. Too long for you.”

       Things went on similarly all afternoon. A gentle question from Pure Vanilla, a snide remark or short answer from Shadow Milk.

      He was tough to poke at, but slowly, it was going somewhere.

      Well, until he was shooed out with a loud shout and a remark to do with being like a toddler that asks “why” like a broken record.

      Progress was progress.

Notes:

RUSHED THIS ONE AT 11 PM ON A SUNDAY WHERE’S MY GOLD STAR STICKER✊✊

this is going somewhere i think,, will they continue being sappy and domestic or will shadow milk wreck it because he can 🫡

Chapter 5: V. I, a child, and thou, a Lamb.

Summary:

Pure Vanilla can't force Shadow Milk to do anything, and he knows that. He knows that hope is a double-edged sword, and that some things are simply too far gone to fix.

Is this still hope, or is it a twisted desire to fix something so he could feel accomplished?

      Although the two had made a crude mockery of connection in the early evening, it didn’t quell Pure Vanilla’s anxious mind for longer than half an hour after he’d gone back to his castle. As much as it proved to be a simple distraction, an idle way to waste time, he still had other duties that were equally as important. Although it ended on a negative note, he had to believe things were getting better. That had to be the truth.

      There was still the ever-present threat of his ‘allies’ actively seeking to destroy Shadow Milk; yes, he was one of the most utterly vile and corrupt beings about, but he still had a soul. Still had wants, feelings, and desires. Pure Vanilla sat in his study chair, slumped and idly tapping the end of his pen on the wooden desk.

      Each click of metal against wood was a second he could spend doing something —writing a letter, signing documents, being productive. The faint smell of sour wine and berries that was Shadow Milk’s lingered on the back of his throat like a reminder, a taunt. The bitter clip of his snarky retorts, the edge in his sapphire eyes that brought to mind a cocky tyger watching a mouse skitter by his muzzle- he was unpredictable, but it was good in a way. It was admittedly more exciting than watering flowers and chatting with servants.

      Enough reminiscing. Pure Vanilla grimaced as he turned to look at his ornate clock on the wall opposite his desk- 11:28. He had an idea of what to do to finish off the day- writing letters to the other ancients. Although the others (besides Hollyberry) had gone silent, his inner voice, plagued by worry, could only twist that into a concerning silence.

        They probably didn't need a follow-up from him. Maybe they couldn't care less about Shadow Milk. Still, it was more likely than not that they were going to act first without his input if he continued to lie down and spend his days delivering dinners and discussing the fundamentals of magic with a clown chained up in his cottage. He tugged at the neck of his dark brown bodysuit, sweaty. He needed to do something, to vent.

        An oak drawer creaked and rolled open as he pulled out four sheets of paper, each with a custom letterhead with light tans and browns, and a pale blue souljam that was unmistakably his. Or was it?

        The mechanical and versed action of dipping his pen into the inkwell, scraping the sides of the glass as if it'd prevent his constantly quivering hands from letting ink spill where it didn't belong. Late nights when he had time to think were the worst, but maybe it was to his benefit that he'd never taken a liking to caffeinated drinks and snacks- it'd probably make his rushing mind a thousand miles faster.

        He began to write. He placed an elbow on the table, making sure not to fold the end of the paper under his elbow like he usually would. He'd make sure to finish the letters by midnight; he'd have to rush, but it was fine. Dark Cacao was usually the hardest to deal with as he was an old cow stuck in his ways a lot of the time, so he'd get that over with first.

Dearest Dark Cacao,

I'm truly sorry we haven't spoken since the incident in Beast-Yeast earlier this month. You're a valuable friend and ally, and I assure you I have not forgotten about my obligation to keep you and our friends updated on how Shadow Milk Cookie has been adjusting to the Vanilla Kingdom. In all truth, I promise you he has not been a threat to the safety of anyone yet- in fact, I'm quite pleased with how he's been behaving (aside from the constant snark and attitude, haha!)

...

        In his own words, Shadow Milk was not adjusting well. There was a list of around 4,000 things he hated about his situation, 3,000 of which could be solved by fixing the loud absence of his magic.

        He couldn't alter a room's temperature to suit himself. He couldn't float off the ground when his body started to ache. He couldn't see with eyes in his hair and tailcoat; he wasn't himself without it.

        At present, he was pacing around the shitty, glorified storage room Pure Vanilla had dared to call a guest house. Although his own Dark Moon Magic wasn't present, there was certainly some sort of spell or rune in effect where he was. He could feel it, and it worried him, angered him. Was it an observation rune, a suppression spell? 

        If curiosity was to kill the cat, then so be it. Shadow Milk began to erratically flit around the small lodging, scratching at windows and blowing at dust to see if spells in salt were poorly disguised beneath it. The signature magic of the Silver Tree was still ever-present in the thick cuff around his neck, although that wasn't what he was looking for.

        Eventually, he began to mess with candles, crumpling potted flowers to see what they did. 

        Nothing.

        If curiosity wouldn't kill him, boredom just might. Shadow Milk hated a total of three things: the Witches, silence, and inactivity. That was a lie; he probably hated anything with a pulse and a capability to find his jokes unfunny, which was most things, including White Lily and Pure Vanilla. The living room he was in smelled like both of them, even worse.

        Soon enough, he realized he didn't have to do any of these stupid tasks anymore. He wasn't a Cake Hound. Why was he trying to find an enchanted object through smell alone? With a groan and a firm kick of his heels that scraped the varnish of the wooden floorboards, Shadow Milk spun and marched towards the front door.

        Spindly and cold claws undid the lock before they wrapped one by one around the scratched and rusted brass doorknob. His wrist jerked to twist it, and a bolt of acute pain shot through his neck where the cuff pressed against his skin. He yelped and jumped back, instinctively scrabbling at the chain that burned with frostbite and fire all the same. 

        Pure Vanilla really was stupid. The same old tricks that his stupid little girlfriend must've taught him, played again and again. It pissed Shadow Milk off; he had long ago grown very accustomed to the magic of the Witches and the Silver Tree, yet it was the one forbidden type of magic he was never allowed to learn, and that was coming back to bite him in the ass.

        He groaned loudly, locking the door once again and returning to his pacing. He purposely ruined lacquered floors and mild fabrics as he walked laps around the small guest house, snapping at any object that dared to catch his heels or make his pace stutter.

        All night, he paced. His eyes went dry and strained with anger, his hands never once finding a light switch and turning it off. The synthetic light of lamps and chandeliers burned his mismatched eyes, strands of white and cream beads taunting him as they basked and glowed in the warm light.

       Shadow Milk did not glow in the light of lamps and candles. The purple skin under his eyes was brought out, the angular shape of his face and features only grew more pronounced with the deep-ceded frown pressing jagged teeth to bitten lips. He did not sleep that night, festering in the growing pit of sorrow and hatred that had begun to bloom like a bitter black dahlia.

      Pure Vanilla, on the other hand, did sleep. Fitfully and awfully later than midnight, but it could be called sleep. Every time he’d wake up after another half hour of sleep, he’d turn to his bedside table, only sighing and flopping back down once he’d seen the soothing light of the moon that confirmed he still had time to sleep. 

      He had slept, but in the morning he was not rested. The letters he had written taunted him from where he had thrown them on his bedside table to be taken away, the mere sight of them making his palms grow sweaty. He got up and went to the vanity near the window, drawing the fine curtains and looking at himself.

      A former king, now a sight for sore eyes. His hair was frizzy and one side was wavier than the other, his eyes were unfocused as usual, and his mockery of a smile was the cherry on top. As much as he abided by the truth and sincerity, his characteristic fond smile was all but sincere.

       He combed his hair, fixed the robes he had admittedly fallen asleep in, and got distracted by picking at a scab he had picked up some time ago. Shocker, it stung when it finally gave way, and beads of blood formed at the corners.

       Pure Vanilla caught himself running his hands over his arms in search of skin and blemishes to pick at, shaking his head and humming before grabbing his staff with a 'fake it till you make it' attitude. 

       It had only been, what, 4 days? Maybe. He’d lost track of time, and everything felt the same. Bring breakfast, bicker, take care of the kingdom, bring dinner, and get shouted at before coming home to a cold fireplace and a stack of letters and requests.

       He wanted today to be different, for the sake of his sanity. He opened the door and left his prison of a bedroom, steps rigid and stilted with anticipation. The letters to his friends would be sent by midday, and their responses would come soon. He didn’t like that, but it had to be done. He really couldn’t keep Shadow Milk prisoner for the rest of their lives; both of which were eternal. Life in prison sounded a lot different when you were bound to the double-edged sword of immortality. 

       He didn’t stop to greet the staff and chat after getting Shadow Milk’s food, simply saving his energy for trying to deal with him. He didn’t take the scenic route to get there, and he didn't stop to soothe the lambs and gently work through their wool with practiced movements. He simply came back to the guest house like it was his prison and not Shadow Milk's. A congregation of 13 magpies lingered in the sparse tree branches littering the edges of the fields surrounding the place.

        Surely it would be over soon. Right?

        After brushing off the ends of his robe that had brushed cobbled paths and dirt roads, Pure Vanilla opened the deep brown door with a creak that resounded more than it should've. Although it was relatively early, all of the lights were on, and the foyer felt like it had certainly been disturbed. It was odd, unfitting with how Shadow Milk had behaved in his spire; he would sleep for at least 12 hours on end, going to bed early in the evening and waking at noon.

        The healer clung to the wall as he meandered towards a wooden desk, knocking gently and placing the plate he had carried with him, saying, "Shadow Milk? I have your food, good morning."

        ...

        Silence.

 

        That is, until a bloodshot pair of eyes bloomed in the shadow cast by a shelf. Shadow Milk's movements were as lithe and limber as usual, but he seemed skeptical as he approached this morning. His steps were tepid and slow, but not in the calculated creeping manner he'd usually adopt. Pure Vanilla tilted his head and smiled half-heartedly, pushing the plate over.

        Shadow Milk smiled back in kind. Teeth shown, eyebags crinkling as he leaned in with a sinister and low chuckle.

        You see, to any regular cookie, a smile meant politeness and kind regard. But not to Shadow Milk- he was a beast not just in theory, but in practice as well. He spoke the same tongue as the tyger and the foul serpent, adopting a cruel guise purely to deceive. He smiled to threaten, he was straightforward to challenge, and he made eye contact not for the sake of being polite, but to assert that it wasn't something he'd shy away from.

        Pure Vanilla noticed the rigidity in his stance, not quite understanding each twitch of muscle and skin, but still getting the general message of the whole display. He didn't want a disaster on his hands- maybe a simple conversation over breakfast would prevent an explosion before it happened.

        "How was your night..? You look a bit tired, that makes two of us." He signed in resignation, meaning a lot more than simply being sleep-deprived. His staff's eye focused on Shadow Milk, who snorted and locked his eyes with the staff's before pushing the cold plate left on the shelf back. 

        "Oh, it was great. In fact, I had a lot of time to sit on that little question you asked me yesterday, hmm? 'member?" His coattails swayed in a sinister manner as he jeered, moving forward and surrounding Pure Vanilla subtly, not stepping towards him, but advancing in a discreet way. Moving his balance between legs, leaning on objects, gesturing, and creeping forwards in the process.

        Oh no. If Shadow Milk had brought it up now, he'd probably been sitting on it all night. Pure Vanilla quickly shook his head and put up the hand that wasn't holding anything, gesturing dismissively. "Shadow Milk, don't take it too seriously. It was just a passing thought I shouldn't've voiced, it's-"

        That was all the Beast of Lies had to hear before indulging his fine prey and striking after spending all night thinking on how he'd do it. He caged Pure Vanilla between himself and the wall, growling deeply as his heeled foot found its way to soft brown robes, pinning the fabric underfoot as he grinned. "It's what, 'Nilly? A shallow, meaningless question? I won't fall for your tricks. Deception is my game, you can't fucking play me like that."

        Claws dug into his shoulders, adrenaline spiked in his blood as he shrank back. In all truth, Shadow Milk could do no damage, but it was still threatening to see a beast with bloodshot eyes and a scowl two inches from your face. He thought about pushing him off briefly, but the sentiment never came to fruition. Pure Vanilla simply stood there, at the mercy of someone who was supposed to be at the other end of the situation.

        "You think you're soooo smart. Well, guess what? You don't get to see that body. Because the Fount of Knowledge is rotting in that fucking tree where you're gonna try and send me. I know what you're planning, keeping me here like some sort of pet. I'm just another lamb for the slaughter, hm?"

        Pure Vanilla opened his eyes. They hurt particularly badly today, but he did nonetheless. In the similarly strained eyes of the Beast of Lies, he saw something.

        He saw the truth of the wretched tyger's soul through slitted lenses- he had bitten the hand that gave him life and bid him feed, and now dared to call himself a lamb. It was not a self-given title out of defiance, but it was another lie woven of sweet wine and honey. It was a balm to try and soothe the blemishes festering in his heart, but it only made the wounds worse.

        Even now, as the beast ranted and snarled in his face, he could not help but pity. 

Notes:

Back with another chapter at long last!!

I've been trying to weave in metaphors and references to how things are and how they might go, challenge yourself and skim through to see if you can figure it out :]

Chapter 6: VI. In what furnace was thy brain?

Summary:

Pure Vanilla has had enough time with Shadow Milk, and decides to go for a stroll. But is being alone with your thoughts any different than being in a room with a worried maniac?

        Shadow Milk was furious. His pupils dilated with ire as he continued to shout in Pure Vanilla's pathetic face, gripping at his clothed shoulders and ripping the fabric with a tight grasp. 

        A sleepless night only fueled his paranoia and anger, and he had to do something. His rationality and smooth, snarky demeanor slipped away as he snapped his teeth, crying out in rage and pushing Pure Vanilla back, grinning sickly as he heard a 'thump' and a pained grunt. Slitted eyes curled into crescents as they met a confused face, digging his heel into the ground, and growling wildly.

        The feeling of demeaning something divine was familiar. He was no longer an all-powerful virtue contesting his creators, but simply a snake in the grass, hissing at someone who dared to step too close. He had now grown used to the cuff around his neck, recalling just how he had thrashed and cursed the first time he felt the burn of the Witches' rage. Oh, how naive he once was.

       Pure Vanilla gritted his teeth and stepped forward, trying to appear more in control. "I understand if you need to run yourself ragged to get your frustration out, but violence is not the way to do this." His hands shook and sweated profusely, but he couldn't give the slightest bit of room for Shadow Milk to pick on him. 'Give them an inch, they'll take a mile' certainly applied to the beast, and although they were 'equals' in a sense, there was certainly a power struggle between the two.

        "You're a fucking hypocrite. Why don't you tell me to sit and beg next? Witches know you could throw me around like a ragdoll after stripping me of my magic. Unrightfully so, might I add." Shadow Milk, although still jeering and bursting with explosive energy, was slightly deterred. He backed up, an analytic gaze locked on his captor as he stalked back and forth. Perhaps if he still had magic, he'd flare out his eye-infested hair and float menacingly, maybe change his form to be taller, but that was nothing more than a dream now.

        Pure Vanilla likewise kept his distance, biting the skin of his inner lip as he gripped his staff. His gaze briefly flitted to the still-full and icy plate of breakfast- maybe it wouldn't be the best idea to force something on Shadow Milk right now. He sighed, dipping his head in resignation. "I know that you're frustrated, but I really can't do anything until the other four meet with me and discuss what we're doing with you long-term. It's out of my hands for now."

        Although he was a clown, he certainly wasn't a fool. Shadow Milk knew who the other four were, and he knew just what trouble he could be in given that they were going to come to visit him. "How sweet, how considerate! Checking in on poor little me, huh?" He leaned in fearlessly, bearing his teeth in a growl. Pure Vanilla didn't contest him this time, but he didn't quite back off either. He just stood there, silent for a moment.

        "If you want to continue like this, that's fine. But my life extends beyond taking care of you, and unless it's more important than mockery, I have to go." His tone was unusually firm and final today. Maybe frustration was finally getting to the guy. 

       And boy, was that satisfying. So satisfying in fact, that Shadow Milk dropped the ball right there, barking a sharp laugh and stepping back with flair. He swiftly pointed to the door that Pure Vanilla hadn’t even moved 10 feet away from, his clawed finger hanging in the air without a hint of hesitation. “Whelp, that’s all for today’s show! See you later, pretty boy. Make sure to brush out all that frizz in your hair, y’ just might get struck by lightning.”

       All he got was a muttered ‘farewell. ’ The claw he had pointed at the door faltered for a moment- curling not cruelly but softly, catching on Pure Vanilla’s robes and leaving a small tear as he turned and walked away with ease. Just like that, ‘Nilly left him again. Alone, quiet, although this time the sickening sight of sunlight barging past the blinds was there to light up his surroundings. 

       Without something to mess with or torment, Shadow Milk felt very… understimulated. Crows and sparrows called outside, the wind rustled tall grass, but none of them sang their praises for him. It made him miss Candy Apple and Black Sapphire a bit- he’d never tell them, lest he be teased until the end of his days, but they really had grown on him. Oh, what isolation drives cookies to.

       With a sigh, he awkwardly turned to go to the bedroom. It had long been untouched; even he hadn’t sat on it since he got here. His movements were almost mechanical- he trudged as if chains were still binding his wrists and ankles, as if he had already been condemned to his fate. That wasn’t entirely a lie, though.

       And so, he slept. The Grandmaster of Deception resigned himself to boredom, giving in to the situation and doing what he knew to do- sleep. In the Silver Tree, he slept when he wasn’t going mad, and when he’d exhausted games and tricks in the Spire, he would sleep. Usually, it was quite a difficult thing to do, given that he had more negative experiences to dream about than good ones, but this time, it was different.

       He curled up on the bed, positioned as if he was halfway between leaping out to maul someone and tucking himself away within the ruffs of his outfit like a cat. He stared bitterly at the roof for a while before his mismatched lashes fell closed and did not open. His dreams were dark and silent —not a calming silence, but the type of horrifying feeling where all is calm, but one knows misfortune is soon to strike.

       Perhaps, either through coincidence or the bonds tethering their souljams together, Pure Vanilla felt the same as he meandered back to his castle. The other four that were (unfortunately) mentioned had taken an unusual amount of time to reply; if all was well, they could send letters between each other with great haste, taking two days at most to send them back and forth. With the advanced technology and magic of the time, letters did not take four carriages and an entire pilgrimage to cross one border.

       Usually, Golden Cheese and Hollyberry would respond first. The Hollyberry Kingdom was very close to the Castle in the Sky, and Golden Cheese Cookie’s Cheesebirds were surprisingly diligent and fast. White Lily would always be the latest- living on a different continent where everything wants to kill you doesn’t make for the best spot to live to begin with.  

       And that is exactly why it was so odd that none of Pure Vanilla’s friends had answered him yet. It was a pressing matter, and his letter, written in an anxious script, probably made it sound worse than it was. 

       Maybe it was time to engage in the real world, he thought. He had not gone to the market or the town square to visit the locals and socialize, nor had he taken time for himself since the whole Shadow Milk fiasco began. Usually, he would set aside a substantial portion of his time during the week to do such things as it was enjoyable for everyone involved. Children would follow him and chatter; merchants and farmers would offer him things simply out of the goodness of their hearts.

        The sentiment was too alluring to ignore, and so Pure Vanilla changed his path. Lonely countryside dirt roads soon turned to cobblestone paths, filling with more and more pedestrians as he went. Not long after, he came to the most densely populated area of the castle town, the weekend farmer's market. Roads were blocked off, musicians were playing somewhere off in the distance, and vendors merrily chatted with customers.

        Normal. It was a break from the utterly abnormal situation he'd been in for the last while. Putting the stress of friends, politics, megalomaniac clowns, and impending social doom alike, Pure Vanilla stuck to the sides of the roads, only waving or greeting others when they did such first. It was peaceful.

        He soon opted to sit down on a bench by a storefront, folding his hands politely in his lap and swaying his head gently in beat with the tune he was humming. His staff rested over his lap, its eye squinted minutely in the bright daylight. Birds chirped, people chatted, and... well, they gossiped too. A pair of ordinary-looking cookies was just a few feet away from him, arms crossed and grins delighted as they exchanged stories that had nothing to do with them.

        Something about politics, occurrences within the Vanilla Kingdom, nothing too abnormal to talk about. Pure Vanilla unconsciously lent an ear to them, still acting as if he were simply indulging in the atmosphere. Witches forbid a cookie's curiosity from getting piqued!

        The topic shifted once more. Something about the king becoming withdrawn, how he hadn't made any public appearances recently. Oh my, thought the 'king' in question. He had never managed to shake the title, although he rebuked it ages ago. Being such a prominent social figure came with many challenges, one of them being the subject of many malicious rumors. To his advantage, Pure Vanilla was, well, pure, and rumors hardly ever caught traction before becoming irrelevant. 

        He wondered how they didn't manage to notice he was right beside them as they chatted away. Why spill tea when the ingredients are in the room with you? Their feelings might get hurt, or worse, their constant state of anxiety might worsen a bit.

        "You know, I heard he's changed since coming back from Beast-Yeast. Something to do with one of those old Beasts that moms use as cautionary tales. It must suck for the guy; he's gotta be getting too old to rule anymore." The taller of the two cookies shook their head, gesturing with their arms to accentuate the last bit. They chuckled. Pure Vanilla grimaced a bit, but not caring too much. He had long grown used to the old age schtick; y'know, he had a lot of time to get used to it.

         The other cookie seemed much younger, tittering and covering her mouth with a hand and leaning back with a particularly loud laugh. "I know, right? I guess that's why he's an ancient-- hey, do you think the other ones are wearing out, too? They probably all think they're the shit 'cuz of their souljams or whatever. I wonder what they'd do without them, hm?" The young girl leaned in, tilting her head and getting up in the other cookie's personal space.

       They quickly batted her away, flattening out the oddly pristine white apron they wore. "You just go away, now. I need to go back and help out my boss. You go bug other kids and skin a knee or whatever." The younger cookie stuck her tongue out at the latter, laughing and running off into the crowd, her rather plain and simple outfit soon getting lost in masses of people. 

       It was just gossip between two cookies, it wouldn’t spread. That’s not the thing Pure Vanilla worried about as he gave a quizzical look to his staff, fiddling with the fabric of his robes— what he did worry about was Shadow Milk. 

       He worried about what would happen if he got a handle on his magic again. Cookies were already slaves to the gossip mill whether they admitted it or not, and a master of circulating lies might just destroy his life if he got a little bit of wiggle room. 

       Come to think of it, could Shadow Milk even be let into the world again? The beasts had been so far removed from society that they’d become antisocial and hateful, it might just be impossible to integrate him back into society. Pure Vanilla looked over the crowds of happy cookies, chattering and laughing, thinking about it all.

      His citizens were happy. Not a care in the world, sharing and enjoying life. They didn’t even stop to bow or greet him formally, only greeting him like any other cookie. Everyone here was equal.

       Pure Vanilla wanted that for Shadow Milk. He wanted to see what he was like in his better days, he wanted to see who the beast was when he was happy. Carefree.

       But yet, Truth and Deceit cannot exist without each other. As long as the sun floats in the sky, rain falls from the heavens, and wind blows throughout the lands, one cannot exist without the other. Truth is good in nature, and Deceit is evil.

       As long as Pure Vanilla was happy and whole with the souljam that bound together his worn robes, Shadow Milk would always be stewed in vile blood and hate. 

       As Pure Vanilla went back to the castle after a messenger bird told him of urgent letters being returned from the other kingdoms, the question ate at his happiness like a predator to prey. How could there possibly be any defense for the Beast of Deceit?

       The Vanilla Kingdom had long healed from war and famine. Streets were full of shops and flowers, people smiled at Pure Vanilla as they passed him. As fortunate as the sun-kissed lands of the Vanilla Kingdom were, others were not as fortunate.

       The Dark Cacao Kingdom was always challenged by food shortages and the less-than-accommodating environment, and Golden Cheese’s kingdom was, well… You know.

       Hardship created stoic attitudes and unforgiving ways- The other four were as likely to give Shadow Milk a chance as likely as a king was to forgive an outlaw. Pure Vanilla was more gracious when it came to things such as sympathy and respect, but the others were not.

      Perhaps in an-person conversation might be a bit more persuasive. It’s possible, yes, but is it smart? That was a question for the Pure Vanilla of the future when he gets home to read letters.

       What a great time.

Notes:

For anyone who is interested, I feel like giving a bit of background on why I decided to start writing this fic!
For those who aren’t familiar/haven’t noticed, this work is heavily inspired by a pair of poems by William Blake- The Tyger and The Lamb. To downsize it, the two poems represent the contrast between innocence and cruelty, and how it’s possible that God created such purity as the Lamb, and yet also the harsh and brutal Tyger.
I noticed a lot of people comparing Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla to wolves and lambs in their own writings, and the symbolism of the Lamb specifically got me thinking down a rabbit hole, which eventually led to me writing the first draft for this in my notes at 2 AM.

As I continue with this, I’ll probably continue to share my inspirations and goals for this fic as I update. And if you haven’t, give The Lamb and The Tyger a good looking into if you haven’t! Knowing the context and meanings of the two poems will surely better the experience of reading this as you go. ❤️

Chapter 7: VII. When the stars threw down their spears,

Summary:

You know that one scene in Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom where Wheatley goes in to take one of the Indoraptor's teeth and it fucks around with him before eating his arm?

That's exactly what happens, but it's a deranged clown and a sweet healer (equally deranged, mind you) who has no ill intentions. What an asshole Shadow Milk is.

IMPORTANT: This chapter contains graphic depictions of physical violence. Read at your own discretion.

        Shadow Milk slept for days. He barely moved, only bothered to shift around when something itched or when the sun dug into his eyes too much. He smelled of sweat and sour wine, and one of his arms had been asleep for who knows how long- it had previously been under his ribs, his clawed hand clenching at his souljam as if it would disappear if he didn't grip onto it with such devotion.

        Pure Vanilla still brought food every day. Catered to his taste, blueberries and lots of meat. It was all wasted; Shadow Milk didn't want to eat, so he'd simply creep out an hour after it was brought and shovel the food off the plate, kick it under the bed, and go back to sleep.

        His hair was greasy and matted. His body hurt. The spots behind his eyes hurt, even if he dug his claws into his eyelids seeking relief. Everything was dull and painful, and sleep stopped bringing him relief the minute he was bound and thrown into the Silver Tree.

        Every few hours, he'd wake up standing somewhere, sitting upright, or to the sound of his screams. He didn't quite know why, but he'd often wake up screaming, kicking, sweating, or wide-eyed and panicked. Shadow Milk was never one to remember his dreams, anyway, but maybe that was for the better.

        It went on for an indiscernible amount of time. This was presumably the new-and-improved Silver Tree; better get used to it. At least he was being fed, and the space between his tibia and fibula wasn't concave from a lack of fat.         

        The last body he'd endured punishment in didn't quite make it through; the bones in the Fount's wrist jutted out, and his spine was visible. The body Dark Enchantress made for him was less than suitable, but it kept him alive. Whether that was fortunate or not is up to you, dear.

        His spiral of sleeping, waking, kicking food away, and repeating was broken by the creak of a door, and a cracked but soft voice greeting him. It was Pure Vanilla, but he sounded... ragged.

        "I know it isn't the best time to talk to you, but... Well, the other Ancients are coming to see you soon. They demanded to evaluate you for themselves. I'm sorry. It's much more than a personal qualm now." Woooowwwww. What a great wake-up call, just an ominous and vague description of self-proclaimed Sibyls coming to tell his fate. Just what poor Shadow Milk needed.

         He sat up, looking around in a bit of a daze. It started to smell a bit like rotten food, but Shadow Milk didn’t care. He didn’t care for how he looked, like he’d been dragged through a ditch, didn’t care about trying to pick up the leftover shreds of his dignity. 

          Shadow Milk picked himself up and shuffled over to the dusty vanity in the far side of the room, groaning at the stiffness in his muscles. He heavily placed his elbows on the table, leaning most of his weight on the wood. 

          His slitted eyes slowly lifted to look in the mirror, and Shadow Milk almost gasped at the sight of himself. He recalled his days in his spire long ago, when he’d put on makeup every day, fuss over his features, and have his outfits ironed each time a wrinkle dared to stay —to be frank, those days were long gone.

          He still had his jester outfit by sheer luck, but it was certainly worse for wear. His puffy sleeves drooped and didn’t flay out like he’d prefer, and his ruffs had multiple stains and spots where the fabric had begun to fray. Whatever had been white before was now either dingy grey and crumpled, or stained with food and dirt, and maybe a few dried spots of blood that were brown enough to be dismissible as dirt.

          It wasn’t bad enough to care. What could he even do, wash his clothes in the bathtub and sit naked in a corner while they dried? He'd rather die in a ditch before degrading himself to that.

        One thing that didn't change about Shadow Milk's reflection was his teeth and eyes. The one canine on his left still poked out from between his lips just slightly, and his eyes were still sharp like a predator's. While his artificial weapons, such as magic and manipulation, were taken, he could still fight. He could still hurt, biting the hand that feeds him.

        His thin lips quirked in a grin as he stared at himself, chuckling before deciding to lay the preening and picking to rest. His heeled boots still clicked sharply with each step; he'd never bothered to take them off, not for comfort nor politeness. He looked down at his messy bed, muttering some sort of curse word before flopping back down and wriggling deep under the covers.

        The left side of his face was still visible, alongside some strands of hair splaying out alongside him, but the rest of his (rather small) form was curled up in a mess of blankets. A last twinkle of foreboding mischief crossed his eyes before he closed them, a drawn-out sigh leaving his thin lips as he stretched languidly into a comfortable position.

        Was he comfortable, or was he lying? It was, for once, a valid question, as anyone else in a similar scenario could not be so carefree as to stretch like a housecat who only has to worry about which kibble he'll be fed for dinner. 

        As for his counterpart, who was under a lot more stress, he was not faring as well. All morning, Pure Vanilla was... puppet-like. He ran through all the motions of his routine, but when a servant asked him what he had just finished doing, he stared blankly before registering a good 10 seconds later that they'd said anything to him.

        When his friends arrived at the front door of his castle with smiles and kind greetings, he didn't feel like he was the one exchanging pleasantries and giving noodle-armed hugs —he was tired, and that was all. It was just from a lack of sleep. When Hollyberry asked if he'd slept, the white lie he'd told wouldn't hurt anyone. It was only to save himself as he quickly walked his friends to the guest house, keeping his hands out of sight. 

        He knew Golden Cheese had especially keen eyes when it came to observing things that were out of the norm. Pure Vanilla made sure to hide his dark circles with concealer, keep his quivering limbs under an extra layer of robes, and not let it be obvious when he had to use his staff as a cane and not just a vision aid. 

        Out of them all, White Lily was the most skeptical. She had long ago grown intimate with Pure Vanilla's struggles and flaws as they'd grown closer, and she had learned all of his warning signs easily. She made sure to look away from the other ancients as they traversed the Vanilla castle, instead looking out over the landscape and horizon. She didn't want to see his suffering anymore.

        As he opened the shoddy wooden door and stepped to the side to let her and the others in, White Lily immediately tensed. Her lower lip quickly became what she exerted her stress upon. When she was younger, it was acceptable to bite on hoodie strings or necklaces, but now all she had was the increasingly painful sore right in front of her lower incisors.

        She waited for Pure Vanilla to lead them to where Shadow Milk, not daring to step one foot out of line- according to Pure Vanilla (who had been lying about many things recently), the beast had been sleeping for the past week and only waking to eat food-- maybe it was some sort of hibernation deal, but White Lily didn't really know how the beasts worked, and frankly, she didn't want to learn.

        As they not-so-slowly intruded on Shadow Milk's nap, the Silver Tree's indomitable and powerful guardian preferred to linger carefully behind Dark Cacao's strong body. Not like a physical wall of flesh would save her from magic and mauling, but it was worth a try. As she stood beneath the doorframe, silently processing, Pure Vanilla's warm hand reached out to hers.

        Slow, smooth circles. She knew, as she turned his worried gaze to Pure Vanilla's closed eyes, that it was not just to soothe her. He was worried too. She gave him a resigned smile, backing off to the wall of the bedroom and not daring to look at the wretched beast that hid itself behind cotton and satin, instead watching as Pure Vanilla drew in a breath to speak.

        "He really has been asleep for days, the only way I know he's moved is because his meals get eaten within the hour. Believe what you will, but I think his chains can be taken off by now." He meant every word; however, his posture was just slightly hunched, and his staff's eye held just a minute piece of worry within its gaze.

        Pure Vanilla's meek statement was met by a sharp and sarcastic laugh from Golden Cheese and a wordless grumble from Dark Cacao. The Golden Sovereign crossed her arms, shaking her head. "You've got to be going senile, old friend! He's a monster. Why trust anything about him? He's a master of lying, for cheese's sake!"

        Getting called crazy twice in a week, now? Maybe Pure Vanilla was getting too old for his own good. Nonetheless, he continued pushing, trying to keep his voice lowered as he looked over the expressions his friends were pulling. Disgust, pity, confusion, disappointment... well, he wasn't unused to it. "And I hold the Light of Truth," he spoke with his head bowed. "Who would you rather believe? I have nothing to gain by leading you all to your graves."

        A Judas goat. So naive and faithful. Selfish, even.

        White Lily spoke up, tilting her head with a sincere look in her eyes. Her eyebrows were furrowed with worry, but she didn't care to hide it. She was scared, but it was only a natural response. "He wouldn't lie, friends. I think we should just take his word for i--"

        Dark Cacao bowed his head, raising his greatsword and firmly planting the tip of its blade back onto the precarious wooden floorboards. "Arguing begets nothing. I will see for myself if he is truly asleep."

        He slowly took steps towards the lump in the blankets that was Shadow Milk. His heavy boots hit the floor at a steady pace, carrying with them an unspoken attitude and finality that the other ancients would not dare brandish so boldly. He stood at the bedside, his heavy indigo eyes falling on the Beast of Lies' body for a moment, before a hand reached out.

        Moving aside the covers, he looked down at the beast with a sour expression. His hand hovered before he firmly grasped at what powder blue skin was accessible between metal and frills.

        Silence.

        ...

        "He is asleep. His pulse proves such." A lot of cookies liked to make fun of his... Odd speaking mannerisms, but he was straightforward, and that was all that was needed. The others silently let out the breaths they had been holding, communicating through simple looks and quirks of the lips.

        After a few moments of relieved silence, White Lily approached Shadow Milk's sleeping form as well, holding a hand to her chest as if he were a coiled snake that might jump out and bite if she let just one hair stray too close. "If that's true, I guess I can remove the silver cuff..."

        As her hands shakily met the cold metal, she cast a wary glance at the beast's visible eye. For a moment, the other ancients creeping in closer to watch did not exist, only the anxiety surging in the blood in her ears as she looked into his eye.

        They were not slitted with malice for once. Only one was visible, the other squashed into the mattress. A nictitating membrane covered half the eye, the other half a hollow azure that did not hold any conscious thought behind it, for now. His dilated pupil drifted about, unfocused in sleep. It should have been soothing to see how deeply tired he was, but it simply wasn't.

        With a strained groan, she ordered the cuff to disappear, and it did just that. It dissipated into pale, shimmering particles, whisking themselves away as if a strong wind had forced them into doing so.

        Everything froze. She lifted her hand from where it was, backing off and grasping at her robes and palming off the sweat that had gathered there. She cast a glance over her friends, seeking their approval as if she'd die if someone didn't affirm to her that Shadow Milk wouldn't leap up and maul her to bits. Hollyberry gave her a firm nod, smiling and letting the slight gap between her front teeth show. Oh, to not worry about such trivial things.

        The soft smiles and nods calmed her, as they all settled and lightened as the beast was taken care of.

        What wouldn't have calmed them, however, was the sickeningly slow drag of white nictitating membrane against rolling azure eyes as sharp black pupils came into focus. While they looked at each other instead of him, Shadow Milk simply smiled.

        Just as quickly as they had peeled open, his eye had shut the moment Golden Cheese drifted in to get a better look at him. Her eyebrows pinched together as she scrutinized him in his 'sleep', just barely keeping her nitpicky nails off him.

        She seemed satisfied with her look, turning to beckon Hollyberry as her wings flitted with happiness. "What an odd thing! His clown makeup looks almost like someone carved it into his cheek." Hollyberry sauntered over, giving her friend a firm pat on the back as she looked onwards. What she didn't look too closely at was how the shadows beneath the bed stretched forwards, just about curling around her boots before she stepped back to linger around the front door.

        Dark Cacao shot a skeptical glance at White Lily, frowning as he spoke in his usual monotone. "We should leave him be. He might awake soon, and I assume none of us want to be here for that."

        At once, Shadow Milk slowly opened his devilish eye once again, looking White Lily right in her own two. His lips curled up at the corners like the Cheshire Cat, slowly. Antagonizingly. She immediately froze, panic seeping into each inch of skin and bone as she could not bear to look away from his slitted gaze.

        Before anyone could even think to react or what to do, he threw aside his blankets and hurtled straight for Pure Vanilla, claws brandished and teeth bared in a drooling, manic smile.

         It was all planned. The moment he knew he'd have visitors, he knew he'd have his chance to act. Rather than fleeing out a window in an animal form or melting into the shadows, he wanted to cause a scene. As Black Sapphire had so graciously taught him, the readers didn't like slow burns. They wanted action and drama, and boy, could Shadow Milk put on a show.

        His body weight was laughable, but still enough to knock over the righteous Virtue of Truth in all his glory. Shadow Milk bit out a fierce and blood-curdling shriek right at the healer's face, pushing his upper body down with all his might. The man under him was absolutely floored, pun intended, his body freezing as he groaned from the pain of being tossed down so violently.

        And then he went in for the attack. His one chance to make sure his silly Vanilly would never, ever forget him.

        Claws teasingly raked up white-clad arms, just slightly catching on wrinkles to remind of how sharp they were. He lifted a talon, gazing at it with a sinister grin before he dove in, pointed talons and nails sinking into tanned flesh as if he were a mere toy for a cat to play with.

        White Lily gasped in horror as she watched Shadow Milk hunch over Pure Vanilla, rearing her staff and stepping in to separate the two as the metallic stench of blood filled the air. In a blind panic, she beat Shadow Milk to the floor, kicking him back and shouting to stay away from his other half. She did not see the other ancients circling and brandishing their weapons in shock, frozen and unknowing of what to do. 

        She had already lost someone she'd loved to this wretched beast. If that wasn't enough to permit her beating the monster to death on the spot, his attempt to kill the only person who still loved her was. Shadow Milk hissed and snarled, coiling in the corner, hair whipping about wildly as he was beaten into the ground, fabric tearing and revealing thin, blue skin.

        The master of lies had never been punished so brutally before by another cookie (another cookie, mind you), and was never one even to risk injury. He'd never broken a bone, only bruised himself or gotten cuts by sheer coincidence. He didn't know this kind of pain before, and had never wanted to. As his hair whipped about and he writhed in fear and agony, he knew powerlessness once again.

        A hand grasped at White Lily's calf, nearly pulling her off balance as she jumped back, expecting it to be a shadow tendril pulling her down.

        But it was not.

        It was a worn, tanned hand, followed by a cracked plea, nearly a sob in nature. "Why," cried Pure Vanilla, who sat on his knees, his other hand clenching at torn and bloodied fabric on his chest and arm. "Why would you do that?"

        Pure Vanilla truly was out of his mind.

        Shadow Milk had just torn his skin and flesh to shreds, and here he stood, dizzy and giddy from blood loss, begging his 'savior' to stop beating the beast that had just lashed out at him, biting and clawing. He did not say anything else after pulling at White Lily's ankle, casting an odd look at Shadow Milk.

        The hand putting pressure on his wounds drifted to his souljam, leaving bloodied fingerprints on its pristine surface. He winced in pain, laughing breathily. As blood pooled around the idols of Truth and Deceit, the other virtues simply watched. Shocked and scarred beyond words, they merely watched the ordeal.

        Shadow Milk had already fallen unconscious in the scuffle, his fangs brandished in blood and spit as his jaw lolled open, his gaze milky and absent. His claws had gotten chipped and broken as well, his hands convulsing at his sides as deep red blood dripped down his digits like the devil's tears.

        Even after being physically, emotionally, and psychologically abused by the beast, Pure Vanilla held on. He slumped as he reached for his other half, his arm falling slack from injury and falling to the bloodied floor. Even as he suffered the consequence of trusting a lying tyger, he still tried to help.

        Like the faithful Judas goat he was, Pure Vanilla came to seek his cruel shepherd through the pain and knowledge of what he'd done. He lay down, his body crumpling in an unnatural and painful position.

        And all was silent for the first time in weeks.

Notes:

It's starting to get reaaally juicy now. Hopefully the cliffhanger was good enough to keep you all in a state of abysmal anticipation while I write chapter 8!

This is just the tip of the iceberg, I added the whump tag for a reason. It's gonna get worse, far worse. So buckle up! Love you all, and thank you for reading!!

Chapter 8: VIII. And water'd Heaven with their tears.

Summary:

It is not Pure Vanilla's torture he is made to endure, but it hurts all the same.

Notes:

There is a Mitski reference in here!! Find it if you can-- more specifically, it's a bit from Francis Forever.

        Shadow Milk proved himself. He proved that he was a true beast, proving that even the most pristine of souls were not impenetrable to his manipulation and deception.

        Pure Vanilla showed himself. Despite being torn apart both mentally and physically, he came back. Although he could heal himself and rid his chest and arm of the horrendous scarring that was left, he did not. His friends did not trust him any longer, and he did not trust himself. He couldn't let Shadow Milk be alone, not even if it was at his own expense.

        He slept for days after the attack. He hated himself, hated how he ignored the signs and believed in his other half, hated everyone for letting him believe. He didn't care to ask his friends what they had done to Shadow Milk, because he knew. He knew they would not be as kind as he was.

        Even when he was better and could go to the dining hall to socialize and eat, he wouldn't do much of either. He would idly take a bite every few minutes, aimlessly staring at the wall as if it were the most interesting thing ever. He would forget where he was, forget why he was still at his castle.

        He felt horrible. The scars were firm and limited his range of motion, but that wasn't what hurt. It wasn't the headaches, the nauseating twist of his stomach, that reminded him not to enjoy life too much.  It wasn't how citizens stopped caring, not how he couldn't even leave the castle at present.

        What hurt was how his souljam reminded him. When he slept, its warm and light presence would twist into something sinister, something cold and sharp. His dreams would change from innocent streams and hills, soft voices of beloved ones, warping into a dark space that was the same each time.

        There were no visible walls, no floor that one could see-- only black.

        And within that black was a cage. A cage decorated by deceptively innocent lilies.

        And within that cage was a beast. A beast bound at each joint and junction, stilted and bound into a pose that could not have been comfortable. The beast was on its knees, arms held open by layers upon layers of gleaming chains and cuffs and locks. 

        Its neck was held up by chain upon chain, and its mouth was held open by a pronged metal contraption. Its tongue was dry and cracked, and its teeth did not sheen with spit. Pure Vanilla did not feel real as he gazed upon the thing, his eyes open. It was a dream, it must be. That was why he could see through the eyes of his own.

        Its eyes did not once drift to him. Its once-sharp pupils were wide like saucers, absent and glazed. It was dressed in a simple black robe. Between the robe and the layers of metal, each inch of its sickly pale blue skin was covered in wounds. Bruises, scratches, cuts, and lacerations.

        Pure Vanilla nearly stepped a foot forward to approach the poor thing, but a booming voice erupted and shattered the silence that was the dark. The beast's eyes came into focus, its arms twitching, and its open lips contorting in a grimace. It did not seem entirely lucid as it paid attention to the voice, eyebrows twisting in a deep sorrow.

        Anyone would have known that this beast was Shadow Milk. Here he was yet again, caged and bound. Those who had put him back were not as kind as Pure Vanilla was with the restraints. He now missed the courtyard and the guest house. Those places were not freedom, but they were as close as he knew he'd get for the rest of his life.

        It was when Shadow Milk was caged for the third time, he realized it. That he was going to die here.

        "What is a beast?" Came the voice from the dark.

        He winced. "Beast is a synonym for monster."

        "And what are you?"

        "A monster."

        Beads of blood formed at Shadow Milk's lips as he spoke, metal prongs digging into the skin inside his mouth. All night, from the moment Pure Vanilla coaxed himself to sleep until he woke up unrested, he would have to endure the nightmares. It was not his torture, but seeing Shadow Milk berated, harmed, and humiliated each night was torture enough to wake him up in tears more than once.

        He should hate the beast. He should feel happy seeing him subdued and caged, but he didn't. During the days when he'd water the flowers and write letters, visit shops, and eat, he would find himself yet again staring at nothing. Staring at the shadows in corners and behind trees, wishing that a pair of mismatched eyes would peek open from the blackness.

        In all truth, he didn't know if it was a nightmare or not. His friends stayed with him while he was healing from his injuries, but not once did anyone speak about the Beast of Lies. They never told him what had become of Shadow Milk.

        One evening, after a shower, Pure Vanilla could not bear the silence anymore. He missed White Lily, who had once been his closest companion, but she was now far away in Beast-Yeast, where he couldn't see her or confide in her. He missed being younger and not knowing of the beasts, missed believing that he was a hero. He missed Shadow Milk, who never confided in him for the few days that he was here, but could run conversations for hours and never once become boring.

        Sleep had no longer become a refuge from the long days he'd always endure. When he lay down, he would collect himself, palming back his hair with shaky hands and wishing someone was there for him. His friends no longer cared, and the people of his kingdom could do nothing. He was on his own, and it was his fault-- because he'd chosen to believe in something that wasn't worth it.

        That night in his dreams, he did something. He didn't hide in the shadows and hope to go unnoticed, he didn't stand still and watch as the darkness tormented his equal. Before the voice could speak, before Shadow Milk's pained gaze would come to life to be berated, he walked over.

        His footsteps were silent as he strolled forth upon shadows, each footfall tepid and worried, like a lamb shuffling up to something scary. The beast's head did not turn; it could not. It didn't move or blink, and its eyes looked forward with no soul.

        Pure Vanilla was not afraid of the beast, as he hesitated to move into its field of view, no. He was afraid of himself; he was afraid of what the sight of him might do to it. It was his fault that they were both in the situation they were, and even if his mind wanted to torment him with visions of the consequences of his actions in dreams, he could still pretend as if his hands weren't covered in blood.

        With a silent shudder and a sharp inhale, Pure Vanilla moved in front of Shadow Milk. He was like a deer in headlights, standing stiff as cardboard until something happened. It took a few moments, but soon, those lifeless glazed eyes rolled over to him.

        Shadow Milk's first reaction was to violently jerk, but he couldn't go anywhere due to how heavily he was bound. His eyes widened larger than before as he frantically looked over Pure Vanilla, trying to shake his head and shout to get away. He could not cry or scream, and all that came out of his mouth was a strangled and cracked groan. 

        The sight of Shadow Milk's once-animated and fierce gaze turned to something bloodshot and afraid, hurt Pure Vanilla. It physically hurt to see what the beast had come to as a result of his actions. He took a hasty step back, watching as Shadow Milk pitifully writhed and tossed about, trying to escape.

        Light was scarce in these nightmares. The silver of chains and bars was the brightest thing around, and even that couldn't be considered pale in this environment. On the other hand, Pure Vanilla was dressed in the purest of white robes, golden accents shimmering even in the dim light. He was a saint, and he stood before the sinner who had double-crossed him more than once.

        Pure Vanilla was wordless. He didn't know what to say, and even if he should speak at all. Shadow Milk did not dare try to speak either, and all he could get out was gravelly and choked whines. What could even be said? Why would it matter? It's just a dream.

        He thought of something. He looked down at the ground, contemplating his words in silence. He turned his gaze upwards to meet Shadow Milk's watery eyes, parting his lips to speak--

        And all was black. Not the black of his nightmares, but the darkness under your eyes when it's time to wake in the morning. As much as a nightmare was a nightmare, he didn't want to wake. He tried to soothe the wounds that dirtied pale and thin skin, he--

        What was he thinking?

        He should, no, he had to hate Shadow Milk. Compassion got him nowhere; compassion was to tear open one's chest and trust that one's organs would not be flayed. He was nothing more than a lamb flaunting its tender flesh for a predator, lying to both of them and hoping that he wouldn't be torn limb from limb.

         He was so tired. Sleep did not bring him refuge, and friends did not care to lend him an ear anymore. He didn't dare speak to White Lily after the... incident, either. He didn't have the desire to do anything besides sit on his bed and stare out the window like he was now.

        He watched the world pass him by. Watched children play and run around in the gentle spring sun, watched murders of crows come and go, watched everything change around him as he did nothing.

        You see, time does not wait for anyone. Whether you're a caged animal, a prisoner of your own making, or maybe both, nobody will wait for you to come back around. Nobody will cut your hair for you, trim your nails, or soothe your wounds. It is only you who can manage yourself.

        And what was Pure Vanilla doing?

        Letting time pass him by.

        His hair became frazzled, and he did not care to cut it, and he stopped caring for concealer and soft floral baths that he'd once taken for the fun of it. He still attended political meetings and tended to the gardens and people, but not in the same way. He kept up his facade for the sake of pride, not yet wanting to fall off the face of Earthbread in irrelevance.

        He was still a somebody. He was a hero, a figure of fairytales and prayers for safety and love.

        So why didn't he feel like it?

        He would sit and wonder why he felt miserable, but he knew why. Each night when he'd lie his head down upon his sorry excuse for a pillow (it was as thin as cardboard and the cotton was clumped, it really couldn't be called a pillow), the nightmares would come back.

        Each night, he would come back to an ink-black place of torture and hatred. Shadow Milk's punishment was not his own, so why did he have to suffer for it? Yes, he was not the one being tortured and silenced, but what cookie in their right mind could watch someone they... cared for be belittled and abused and come out unscathed?

        Each night, he would endure Shadow Milk's punishment in silence. He had not voiced his presence since the one day he'd tried to speak, but it was for the better that he didn't talk. He didn't need to get attached to Shadow Milk-- that would only make it hurt worse. It hurt him as much as it must've hurt the immobilized, wounded beast to see him subject to such cruelty.

        In the end, it was his fault this happened. He let the others walk into his trap, and acted surprised when Shadow Milk lashed out. It was like trusting a piece of twine with your life. It was he who unclipped his leash and said, 'Go crazy!'

        Some nights, the voice would berate and belittle him, call him horrid things, and force him to agree or nod along. It would call him things too harsh for paper, for those words were so acidic they may burn the paper of those who dare to recall them. Curses, honey-soaked manipulation, all meant to beat Shadow Milk into something that could not be called alive anymore.

        And on other occasions, hands would reach out from the darkness, tearing open gashes and strangling him by pulling at his restraints. Those nights would not come often-- not out of kindness, but of something borne of pure, animalistic hate. They would let his wounds heal, only to come back and rip apart the just-scabbing flesh. They would break his bones, twist his heavily-bound joints until he cried out.

        It could not have been nightmares, Pure Vanilla came to realize. It was too real, the shrill screams of agony that Shadow Milk would belt out, the acrid stench of infection and blood, the sight of silver chains clashing with black robes and mangled skin.

        

        An entire year had passed like this.

 

        Meetings came and went, and Pure Vanilla would force himself to don a smile and meet with the other ancients. It was no longer friendship; it had become a political necessity. He would attend festivals and celebrations, and forget about the torture that awaited him in the night by drowning in chatter and festivities.

        Seasons came and went. Summer passed by and left behind leaves singed at the edges in its wake, and autumn, like a savior, came to drown panting animals and cookies alike in cool whispers of promised winter. Autumn came when summer felt like it wasn't quite ready to pass by, and still, Pure Vanilla watched.

        He would take walks down sun-dappled avenues, wondering just when that shop had opened or when that house was built. He would take the same route every day, humming the same songs and smiling at the same few owls that would watch him with saucer-eyes that looked a bit too much like another pair of dilated eyes he'd grown familiar with. Amongst all the ever-changing questions he had for the world, there was one he dared not speak while his eyes still perceived the bores of the waking world

        Each day, he'd walk to a quiet, forgotten park and sit. He would sit with the air that didn't ripple with shadows and cerulean eyes, he would sit with the stray cats that curled their little tails into question marks and loafed at his feet. Each evening, he would stay for them, scratching behind their ears and at the sweet spot on their butts that would make them purr and roll over.

        And one night, he made the mistake of letting a small kitten's purr, so untainted by the trials of the world, lull him to sleep. His hands, ever warm, ceased to stroke the little thing's back as his head drooped forward.

        Like every other night since the day his stiff and scarred arm had healed, he found himself privy to the torture of Shadow Milk Cookie. Those mismatched eyes that once carried a fierce wit, his forked tongue, whose silver edges had once mocked every cookie around, were still. 

        To Shadow Milk, nothing was real anymore. He saw lines in between the bars of his cage, and he heard angels pick on his every mistake, even when they had not come for the day yet. There was no night or day in his purgatory, only silence and shadow. The darkness which had once bent to his whim and will now turned into a device of torture. 

        The hallucinations never once stopped. He couldn't tell which voices hurt him from outside, and which ones crawled from the depths of his mind. Sometimes they were the voices of his loved ones, sometimes the Bringer of Happiness still combed her firm stiletto nails through his hair and sang his praises. Sometimes the silence would bring back the ghosts of horrors past, and it taught him a lesson.

        He didn't want the souljam that still clung to his chest, a reminder of what he'd become. Of how he'd betrayed what was once the Virtue of Knowledge.

        Shadow Milk eventually learned to never trust his sight. And that is why, as Pure Vanilla knelt before his cage like an archangel clad in golden rings and god-blessed robes, he did not believe. He did not react, and he did not thrash or shriek. He simply looked on. 

        He wished those freckled cheeks were real, wished that those gloved tan hands were here to save him from hell. His eyes met the clear pastels of Pure Vanilla's, hazy and sore. Back in his Fount days, he had glasses to help with his admittedly bad vision. When he was corrupted, and thin-rimmed gold glasses didn't fit the jester aesthetic, he'd opted for ominous all-seeing eyes everywhere.

        His already unfocused sight was blurred further by tears that wordlessly fell down his cheeks and accumulated at the prongs holding his jaws open. It hurt. The chains hurt, the infected wounds hurt, the darkness hurt. The illusion of the last person to care for him hurt.

        Perhaps just this time, he'd indulge in his delusion. He'd treat this cruel hallucination of salvation as if it were the man that cared, not the tricks his wretched mind would taunt him with.

        The gossamer and sheer strands of his hair were frayed and unkempt- he looked a bit more like the Truthless Recluse than the last time he'd seen him at the castle. Maybe it was because he'd secretly delighted in Truthless Recluse a bit more than he'd be willing to admit.

        He expected the delusion to berate him. Call him a pathetic bitch, a dirty dog destined for the sewers, and nothing more. Pure Vanilla's face was callous and stern as he drew in a silent breath to speak. His hand reached up to grasp the bars-- Shadow Milk croaked, wishing he could tell him not to touch the white-hot bars of misleading silver.

         He could no longer speak; his throat was raw on the inside from screaming and torn on the outside from the hands that came up from the abyss to tear him to bits. His mouth had not closed in Witches know how long, and his fangs had begun to rot from the lack of moisture, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth, cracked and bleeding whenever he dared to move it. No matter what he tried, he could not scream at the illusion to go away. To save itself from him.

        It watched him with a piercing and worn gaze, and then it spoke.

 

"Give me a reason why I should save you."

Notes:

For those who like commenting, my name is Corvus if you'd like to refer to me by name. Originally, I thought I'd try to keep this a bit impersonal and stick to just writing, but I can't help responding and conversing with people.
Thank you to everyone who comments and praises me; it truly does make me happy. There's nothing like waking up to 5 emails from AO3.

Also, be prepared for more whump. It will get worse still (I think). Happy reading, all!

Chapter 9: IX. Gave thee such a tender voice,

Summary:

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results.

        Shadow Milk stared at Pure Vanilla, his strained eyes just managing to focus on him. Amidst the darkness of hell, the luster of Pure Vanilla's robes burned his eyes. The voices had taught him to fear such soft radiance-- should he ever see light again, his eyes would surely burn. He was a sinner; he did not deserve light.

        His cracked lips twitched against the cold metal, stretching them open, the silver prongs pressing threateningly into his flesh. He'd become accustomed to the pain; he didn't care if the sores on the inside of his lips ripped open again. He tried to choke out a word, but only voiced a quiet, breathy groan. It hurt, as if someone force-fed him sandpaper.

        He wanted to tell the illusion of his other half to fuck off. To go parade himself somewhere else, to let him die in peace. He strained against his constraints, wanting to snarl and turn himself into a threat, but couldn't. Long ago, his screams turned to strangled breaths, his raw and aching throat not being able to voice the words he wished to shout into the void.

        Pure Vanilla's solemn face faltered as he watched the Beast of Lies' pathetic twitches and pants. He could not bear to see suffering, no matter who it was that endured it, even if it was the one who ruined him. He knew that Shadow Milk didn't care for him anymore; he knew that the jester would not care if he told him he'd stepped back into bad habits, fallen prisoner to his mind that had been so cruelly toyed with. 

        He was truly a bleeding heart that had fallen into clawed hands. He could not bring himself to tell Shadow Milk a 'cold truth' right then, and so he fell to his knees. His gloved hands slid down the silver metal that caged his tormentor, his knees coming to rest on cold darkness that seeped into his weary soul.

         He bowed his head in apology and wept. He sat there on his knees before the confined beast, tears falling from his pale lashes and disappearing into the watery abyss that caged them both. He couldn't tell if he was crying for himself or Shadow Milk at this point, unable to stifle the pathetic whine that left his lips as he kneeled.

        Stress, loneliness, fatigue, and hatred were all he felt as he wept for the sorry sight that was the beast. His hands periodically clenched and loosened as he fell apart, a liberty that the half-lucid monster before him did not have. Shadow Milk was simply limp and unmoving, his hollow eyes barely spectating the sight. Tears still lingered at his bony cheeks, reflecting the white that was the robes of the weeping angel before him.

        He whined, groaned, and made whatever noises he still could with a bruised and sliced throat. He didn't know what he wanted to say anymore; he didn't know why he should be freed from purgatory once again. It was purely a coincidence that he'd escaped once, and for him to be freed once again, it surely must be fate's will.

        Pure Vanilla perked up slightly at the sound of Shadow Milk's strangled cries, his sympathy-ridden face twisting in empathetic agony. His right hand twisted around the bar it held, and he cast it a doubtful glance before slipping it through silver bars. The bones in his wrist barely fit through, but he made it work, his left hand following the same trajectory.

        Like a poor soul reaching to the heavens for rainwater, he reached up and cupped Shadow Milk's bruised and tear-streaked cheeks. Shadow Milk struggled at the touch, flinching and tearing up. He had not been touched in what must've been ages, except for when the hands of the abyss came forth to tear apart his festering and crusted wounds anew. Touch only reminded him of pain; he had been reminded that touch only begets injury.

        So why did those pristine white gloves only avoid his hot and aching cuts, worshipping his skin as if he were made of gold leaf? He wanted to growl, to tuck himself away and avoid the pain that was surely coming, but he couldn't. He could only twist his body the wrong way and wheeze as broken bones dug into the spots they were supposed to protect.

        Pure Vanilla only cast periodic and careful glances at Shadow Milk as he slid his hands upwards, his thumb carefully smoothing over the silver contraption that kept his cracked and bleeding mouth pried open. He couldn't bear the fearful whines and horrified gaze that watched his hands delicately ghost over Shadow Milk's noticeably sharper jawbones.

        He bowed his head as he familiarized himself with the workings and texture of the device binding Shadow Milk's mouth. He carefully avoided yellowed teeth and cracked skin that would surely crack like desert earth if he pressed on it too hard, careful with each touch.

        "I'm sorry."

        His words were nothing more than a fearful whisper as he pried Shadow Milk's sore jaw open a bit more, pulling at metal and trying to avoid digging the sharp spikes into his skin. All the while, he had begun repeating his two words like a prayer, apologizing as if it would fix the pained hisses and hitching breaths that came from the caged beast.

        When it was removed, he apologized again. His eyes threatened to spill tears again if he blinked too hard, but he gathered himself. He ignored the bewildered and horrified eyes that stared into his hands, which had thrown aside the torture device.

        "Tell me why, Shadow Milk Cookie. Tell me why I'm here, why I shouldn't be celebrating your imprisonment." His voice cracked as he spoke, his words laced with the type of anger that had fermented and stewed for so long that it had turned from something red-hot and aching to something cold and stagnant, bitter and laced with unknown elements that could kill with a taste.

        Shadow Milk's sore and dry tongue licked over his lips, almost burning as his dehydrated skin dragged on more of the like. He took a moment to breathe and wince at the pain of his lips cracking and burning, drawing his lips in a defensive snarl as he spoke. "I told you so," he said with a breathy and strained whine. "I told you that y-you'd send me here. It's not my fucking fault I--"

        He broke off with a wheeze as crusted blood flaked off the corners of his pale lips, swallowing with great struggle. Nonetheless, he continued. "You're why I'm here. A-answer what you came up with."

       "I don't know the answer. That is why I ask the question," answered the saint. He locked eyes with Shadow Milk as he spoke, softly keening over the sniveling monster as he reached out to hold the bars again. Maybe in another life, he'd reach out again, maybe Shadow Milk wasn't beyond saving yet. For once, he really didn't know.

        And neither did the jester in question, who choked on his blood and gave up fighting with chains and delusions. He knew the Silver Tree, and its wrath was not unfamiliar; if there was no escape, then that was all. He could live with it. He didn't need salvation; he didn't need fixing.

        "Go away."

        Pure Vanilla frowned as he stood up and stepped back, holding his hands to his chest as if the silver of the beast's cage would burn him. "Very well."

        And that was all. Pure Vanilla soon woke up to the calling of sparrows and the light of the sun on his face, the welcomes of the waking world. He needed the daytime to think, to prepare for the nighttime that awaited him as soon as he fell asleep. He didn't live for himself anymore; he lived for the realm that awaited him in sleep.

        The day was a blur. He did not remember what he did in the mellow afternoon after eating lunch; he wouldn't be able to recall documents he'd signed or letters he'd written at his desk anymore. He felt as if daytime was a torture of its own, like a forerunner to the gruesome suffering that drained him in sleep, which was meant to be restful.

        He forgot to bring food for the street cats, kept his eyes locked on the pavement instead of lush red trees and calm, darkening skies. He didn't care for the whispers of the trees and the tall grasses at the park, nor the walk home, since he had become a slave to what awaited him in slumber. Each night, he'd fall asleep fast with a need to rest, but would wake up feeling nothing of the sort.

        The night after he asked the question was worse. His 'intervention' made it worse.

        The voice that reigned with authority over the abyss shouted at Shadow Milk, hands borne of darkness scrabbling at his robes and peeling them back to claw at untouched skin. The voice beat down upon his confidence, assuring him that he'd never leave, and it was all simply a delusion; nobody would come to save him.

        That night, when the shadows formed into hands, the beast screamed louder than ever. The metal device was placed once more in his bleeding mouth, and his flesh was torn to bits once again. Hands tugged at his hair and broken limbs, and the voices returned. Voices of his friends and once-allies, crying for help, berating him, and belittling him.

        All of that night, Shadow Milk screamed and sobbed. Screams turned to ragged breaths and choked-out sobs, and sobs no longer made any sound besides the wheezing of his cracked ribs. His eyes squeezed shut, as if closing them would hide him from the torture inflicted upon him.

        Soon, his mind lost all coherence. He was unable to hold a train of thought for more than a few minutes, pain overwriting anything he thought true before. He begged for salvation, begged the voices that nobody would come to save him if this was what comfort begets him. He swore to the wrath of the abyss that he hated Pure Vanilla, that he wouldn't let himself be saved.

        And all the while, the man in question watched. It decimated his heart to see Shadow Milk scream out that he hated him-- it wasn't the words that hurt, but it was why he cried such things. The madness of darkness broke him to obey its will, made him recite mantras of worthlessness and self-loathing until he believed it true. That night was long, breaking them both into ideals that were not truths.

        The waking day for Pure Vanilla following that dream was spent in obsession. For once, he got ready with purpose, dressing himself with vigor. He brushed his hair, grabbing his staff with an anxious but purposeful rush. 

        He went to the castle's grand library, seeking knowledge. The last time he'd sought a book for a reason was lost to time, and the stained glass greeted him with ethereal rays of sun that illuminated the dusty and old-smelling passages of the place. His short fingernails grazed over the book covers of leather and paperboard, the dust lining their edges brushing away as if it sought to let him lay his eyes upon the wisdom that could only be told by parchment and India ink.

        He went to the long-abandoned section at the very back that few cookies dare enter, for fear that the primordial texts housed within would bore them. Pure Vanilla did not have any concerns of the sort, silently begging through swift footsteps and shaking hands that he might find a book authored by a very particular person.

        That person held the answers to the universe that were lost with their death, whispers of the world that would only bow to him and him alone. Pure Vanilla had once seen a portrait of that person in the academy where he once spent his days learning; a cookie with hair that, with each sway, revealed a new star contained within its tossing volume, a glinting golden monocle placed upon a straight, crested nose. The founder and father of magic as all knew it, a benevolent soul who once shared the Knowledge with any who dared ask for it-- the Fount of Knowledge.

        The Fount was one of the only cookies who knew of the nature of the world, subspaces, and dreamscapes, and so his writing was the most reliable thing to seek out. Within rows and rows of books that had his name elegantly scrawled upon them, there were two that stuck out: The Dubious Nature of the Souljam and its Properties, and Propositions of the Other-Realm and Other Such Hyperplanes. The first one he chose because of its title, and the second because he desperately hoped it'd hold the answers to his questions.

        And so Pure Vanilla gently took the tomes, with their frayed corners and yellowed pages, and set them down on an equally old-looking leather chair and wooden table, where he sat. The material of the lounge chair was cracked, and the white between the fractures of the black leather only stretched further as he sat down and let his weight settle into the seat.

        His robes pooled at his feet, draping from his arms and waist like a marble statue carved at the peak of Romanticism. He gently opened the first book as if it'd crumble if he held it too tightly, thumbs gliding over textured paper. He could see well enough with his staff to read, and that was fortunate at the least; did braille even exist at the time of the Fount?

        The first book was confusing and went entirely over his head, droning on about the laws of physics, the psyche, and so on. Pure Vanilla respected the sheer intelligence it took to speak so eloquently of such subjects, but felt as if he were a toddler in a ninth-grade science class trying to learn polynomials.

        He nearly fell asleep trying to get through it, nodding off and bowing his head every so often. He never stayed in sleep often; each time he'd give in to the taunting pull of slumber, he'd recognize a grating screech that woke him up just as quickly as he'd fallen asleep. He thought it a good waste of an hour trying to comprehend the text and ultimately gave up, setting it to the side with a frown.

        The second book was much easier to stomach, although the Fount's elaborate cursive nearly killed his fuzzy eyes trying to read it. Pure Vanilla knew how to read cursive and was fluent in it, but it had changed in nature since the rise and fall of the first Virtues.

        Throughout the entirety of the text that took all evening to read, there was one passage that stuck with him. The book contained many observations on the souljams that Pure Vanilla knew the intricacies of himself, but the one paragraph that stuck with him read as such.

        'It seems that, for something as slight as a touch to the souljam's surface, one can comprehend its owner with just that. Through using my fellow Heroes as guinea pigs, I've come to that conclusion with ease. Furthermore, the more intricate the bonds between a souljam's owner and the one they've grown attached to, the more in-depth the emotional and mental comprehension is. At present, with my experimentation, I have only been able to incite and feel the aftereffects of emotions in the subject, but it is possible that, with more time and exploration, two owners of souljams may be able to share sight and vision, perhaps even physical feeling. Further looking into the subject is required.'

        That certainly struck a chord within him. It would make perfect sense for such things to be true, and if they shared a souljam that had been tainted with each other for longer periods, it would be perfectly coherent with everything going on. The only problem was how they emotionally resonated with each other. Pure Vanilla had been trying to form a distaste for Shadow Milk, and just hours ago, the latter had been crying that he hated him with the entirety of himself.

        It was clear: no book held the answer to his questions. The only answers to it all could not be voiced by paper and pen, nor toyed with by professors and scholars. The only way he could seek the answer was within himself and his counterpart, through the lapis-blue gems that sat upon their chests, the culmination of their beings that spoke in languages rendered incomprehensible by words.

        The only answer to why Shadow Milk was tortured before the eyes of his counterpart could only be answered by Truth. It was only if Shadow Milk atoned himself before Pure Vanilla and exposed his soul that even a slight dent could be made in the question of 'why', Pure Vanilla concluded. How he could force a screaming, sobbing wretch to have a heart-to-heart in the pits of purgatory, however, was a predicament in itself.

        The evening had long come to dull the glass windows and glorify the oil lamps warming the atmosphere by the time Pure Vanilla had finished reading, and he stretched his arms with a resounding crack that disrupted the sheen of dust that littered the place. He stood up and reverently placed the old tomes where they once rested, and slowly made his way back to his bedroom.

        Reading would not be considered laborious for most, but for an old soul with worn eyes and worry coursing through his failing joints and tense scars, it was a chore. Enough to tire him out to the point where he didn't notice how his hair had grown oily, how his hair matted at the back from rubbing at the seat of the chair, and how his eyes blurred further from strain. His feet dragged on the soft carpets that trailed around the castle, and his almost permanent smile was replaced by a neutral frown.

        It was real. Being tired was real, and being exhausted was normal. The creak of his door greeted him like an old friend as he stepped into his cold, empty chambers, flicking on the lights and sparing the little trinkets and decorations that made it feel like home an appreciative glance. Things from faraway lands that the other ancients had gifted him when times were good, before he'd devolved to match Shadow Milk's madness. He stepped to the closet, picking the same old nightgown that had holes and frayed edges from use.

        And as he sat on his unmade bed that he hadn't cared to make in the morning, he took a moment before he had to return to the sickness that awaited him in sleep. He looked around at what he knew was real, thanked the soft and worn sheets that smelled like home for not strangling him in rest, thanked the mellow autumn air for not punishing the lands with harsh winter yet, and most of all, those who had put a lifetime's work into the simple garment that protected his holy flesh.

        And with that, he bid the waking world farewell. Shuffling into a comfortable position and arranging the blankets to only cover what he wanted them to, resting his head upon the thin scrap of a pillow, and biting his lip in anxiety as he worried about what dreams would bring today. Exhaustion pulsed behind his eyes and in his temples, and crocodile tears of sorrow teased at the corners of his eyes where tears of ichor and angel's blood would pour in sleep.

        And as his eyes shut and beckoned the twilight that was cruelty to engulf him, he was brought back to the Hell woven exclusively for the idols of Truth and Deceit. As Shadow Milk's neck strained to give out under the harsh grip of silver, Pure Vanilla briskly made his way from the corners of eigengrau misery to the front of the cage where he had wept just a day ago.

        Shadow Milk opened his eyes, loopy gaze falling upon his golden-clad form like a madman. His pupils contracted as he twisted his lips in a snarl to show his rapidly yellowing fangs, fishing a scream from wherever his body still had energy.

        "LET ME DIE IN PEACE, YOU IDIOT! QUIT TAUNTING ME, QUIT BRINGING THAT HOLIER-THAN-THOU FROWN TO MY HELL! THIS IS MY HELL, NOT YOURS TO INTRUDE O-"

        His voice broke mid-sentence, a hoarse groan replacing what should have been the end of a word. He shouted despite the torturous contraption jutting out from the flesh of his cheeks, blood and drool dripping from his pained and twisted grimace. His eyes were bloodshot and ridden with insanity, and no better was his body's condition.

        He no longer strained and twitched in his binds. His arms and legs were limp, bent in places that did not naturally bend, and infected wounds gaped and festered around slivers of shattered and splintered bone. His claws were all broken off, and some of his nailbeds were replaced by raw skin that festered and thrummed with heat. Insanity plagued his eyes and tainted the blood that wept from crimson wounds, and that foul blood stained and clung to the pale surface of his souljam that still clung to his chest.

        Pure Vanilla did not balk or shrink at the shouts, and didn't comment on how Shadow Milk's rant had become only the choked gasps and pants that he could manage with such tortured vocal cords. He reached a hand through the bars of the white-hot cage again, his hand curling around the blood-stained and bruised skin of his counterpart's cheek.

        Shadow Milk's ragged panting accelerated at the touch, the corners of his lips quirking momentarily out of the screaming desire to prove his hatred and ire for the illusion before him.

        "You don't need to yell. I should hate you, I shouldn't be coming back again and again, expecting to be spared the consequences of compassion. And yet here we both are, caged inside-out." Pure Vanilla's pale lashes fluttered as he spoke, lids closing gently as if they would save him from the conviction that he signed himself up for.

        He slowly breathed in and out, unable to stifle the worried clench of his fingers that grasped at powder-blue flesh.

        "Prove to me that you're worth saving. Prove to me that you're worth more than screaming at the demons plaguing your presence to let you free; prove to me that it's worth my life to pull at the strings of fate and play with what I shouldn't. I hate you, Shadow Milk. My life has atrophied and rotted at your hands, and you haven't once asked me why I'm here. I know you'll never care, but I do."

        A sob cut off the last sentence as his eyes squeezed closed tighter, tears burning at his sun-kissed skin and tainting his virgin heart. He wanted to curl into himself and hide; he wanted to seal his mouth shut and never speak again.

        "I have found my truth as to why we're rotting in a personal hell for the two of us, but will you admit your truth to me? Will you give up your worthless pride and rebuke the hatred you've grown alongside?"

        They both went silent, the only sound filling the abyss being the dripping of black blood onto the cage floor as Shadow Milk's dilated pupils gazed into Pure Vanilla's closed eyes. He choked out a garbled and wet sound, begging his body to speak. To move, to scream, to beg he who once begged him for freedom. He could only gasp and choke on his putrified blood and spit, he could only look on in horror as his savior cried and begged for a reason.

        There was no answer. Not from the eternal shadows that mocked Shadow Milk with their untamed belligerence when they came up to tear at his flesh, not from his own throat, who couldn't squeeze out any sound that wasn't a sob or a groan. He shook as he gazed upon the weeping angel on the other side of his cage, unable to even express how much he hated himself for damaging his throat beyond speech.

        Pure Vanilla did not respond to the silence. He only sat there, silently crying and holding Shadow Milk's cheek as if he'd turn into a corpse and ragdoll if he were released from his gloved grip.

        This was not solace. It was not understanding, and it was not realization or mercy. It was simply a shared comprehension of frustration, of hating that which was beyond one's control. Neither of them spoke in the darkness for a long while, until Pure Vanilla's rosy, bitten lips parted to let forth a soft, resigned whisper.

        "Please. I want you to need me like I need you to, I want you to wish you were fixable like I do. Why can't you see past ideals? Why won't you talk to me?"

        And still, there was no answer. Only sobs, enraged gasps, and drawn-out, gravelly groans. Shadow Milk's frustration saw no end as tears fell from his strained, painful eyes, despite nobody knowing the last time he had even ingested enough fluid to cry. He hated how drool and blood still trickled down his chin, how he was forced to kneel and take a beating until he couldn't struggle anymore.

        And as long as speech couldn't voice his ideas, animalistic cries could. His eyebrows wrenched the dried, flaking skin of his forehead, twisting in agony as his wide-eyed gaze burned into Pure Vanilla's still closed eyes. His lips peeled back as he screamed long and loud, his throat grating against itself in his final attempt to communicate.

        Being so close to someone screeching so loudly hurt Pure Vanilla's ears, but he had long grown used to that banshee-like cry. He knew those sobs and gasps by heart, and he cried more tears of his own as he opened his eyes to meet the panicked, frantic gaze of his counterpart.

        When one hears a banshee's screech, there is one rule to always keep close to your heart: that when a banshee cries, it is not because they pose a threat. Be cautious of them, not because they cry, but why they cry. It is the reason why they scream so desperately, why one must be afraid.

        But nobody told Pure Vanilla that, and he knew no better than to stand before Shadow Milk and weep before morning came to steal him away.

Notes:

I think this is the longest chapter yet, so enjoy! Writing this fic has been so fun and immersive; these two interest me so much. I'm excited to see where this takes Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla, and how fucked they both are by the end of their gay little journey.

Shoutout to my raggedy ass computer who's probably closer to death than Shadow Milk right now... the keys squeak, and it's so old it can barely run a game of Kahoot. It's carrying us all through this, though, so I'm not complaining.

Chapter 10: X. Making all the vales rejoice.

Summary:

        It was pathetic, really. All he could smell was rot and blood, all he could taste was his decomposing teeth. He hadn't seen the sun in what must've been 10 years, hadn't been able to move in ages.

 

And that was okay, because he'd given up. He realized long ago to stop fighting, and to simply let the pain and suffering come back each day. Because delusion or not, at least pain let him feel something.

        As chance might have it, a little birdie happened to catch White Lily up on the status of the Vanilla Kingdom.

        It started with a worried servant confiding in her sister about the former king's poor health, when a child who was supposed to be in bed overheard. The child told their friends at lunchtime, and a supervisor overheard and told her friends while she was out at the market; all the while, a particularly nosy fruit vendor lent his keen ear to the gossip mill once more.

        And by that vendor's skilled claws, that certain rumor happened to reach a very indiscreet Silverbell Cookie, who obviously had to tell White Lily. She feigned mild concern as the younger cookie tripped over his words and wrenched his hands, but as soon as he left and thanked her for her time and concern, she had to do something.

        She wrote a schedule detailing all that would have to be done in a day and gave it personally to the Faerie Kingdom's second-in-charge, and made arrangements to be taken to Crispia by airship the following day. If anything, it was more of a curse than a blessing that Silverbell had to confide in her of all people, given how much she had to tell Pure Vanilla when she would eventually show up on his doorstep.

        White Lily packed her things, all the while rehearsing what she was going to say. Scribbling down conversations and reading them aloud to conclude that she sounded absolutely idiotic, only to do it all again. First, it was too rude, then it was too vague, and then it was too many things at once. It was only late into the evening, when not even owls dared to disrupt the silence, that she gave up and decided she'd wing it when the time came.

        The travel that came just a few hours after she'd managed to fall asleep was no less grueling. She had never been one for rides and vehicles; even the top-of-the-line aircraft she sat in now didn't fail to make her stomach twist and her palms sweat with nausea. She was not a stranger to the two, however, as they were also responses to stress and anxiety, two things that White Lily knew like a second nature. It was nothing she couldn't stifle with a firm bite of the lip and a deep sigh.

        And as she was dropped off near a rural village just a few kilometers out of Castle Town, the grasses of the mainland and the life that thrummed within it greeted her, licking at her ankles as if she were an old friend. Nobody came to greet her as an esteemed ruler or a beloved friend, and she walked along old dirt roads in silence, only broken by the calling of magpies and the song of the wind.

        As the roads filled with life and more modern houses and duplexes, she knew that she was coming home. Not because the Faerie Kingdom wasn't her domain, but because it did not carry the warm candlelight that was Pure Vanilla. Even as she nodded to locals and smiled for no other reason besides being polite, a seed of worry writhed in the pits of her stomach and clung to her with warped tendrils.

        Maybe this was a bad idea. But even more so, it was too late to go back, as she had already come to the main avenue leading to the castle gates and stalled for time by slowing her exceptionally brisk pace to a lax amble. No guards greeted her at the golden gates of the castle, only a parliament of seven magpies that peered down on her and blinked with a mischievous wit before hopping off the gates and flying off.  It was odd-- usually, no matter how social matters were, there were always guards.

        With great hesitation and just five minutes of awkward waiting to see if anyone would come to get her, White Lily decided to just go in. She must be one of the people allowed in the kingdom without authorization, and if what she'd heard from Silverbell Cookie gave her anything to worry about, there was certainly an important reason to be here.

        But just how, she wondered as she traversed the tan and cream hallways of the castle, would she break the ice with Pure Vanilla after barging into his country and castle?? Especially leaving things as they were the last time she'd seen him, there was no good explanation for anything right now. Despite herself, she continued to make her way to the study where Pure Vanilla would often labor away at his desk by candlelight.

        And as she sighed and cracked the door open, peering in like a tentative kitten, there he sat... not there. The desk was empty, and the air smelled just faintly of spiced vanilla, nearly indiscernible under the scent of emptiness and dust. Dust gleamed just lightly on the surface of his wooden chair, only just visible in the low light.

        That was just slightly worse than if he were there. Barging into his home was one thing, but having to go to his bedroom..? Ugh. It was far from being cruel or mean, but it was certainly just a little intrusive and walking the line of socially unacceptable. White Lily did not think herself to be rude, but Pure Vanilla would certainly feel some type of way.

        And feel some type of way he did, when a worried-looking White Lily Cookie knocked on his bedroom door, sheepishly smiling and taking a step back when he opened it.

        Of all things, Pure Vanilla did not expect anyone to come to his quarters so early-- what time was it, anyway? 12:43. Oh. Maybe not so early, but it was early by the sleeping-in schedule he'd made for himself the last few months. He'd only woken up an hour or two ago, and he'd only spent his waking time staring at the wall and contemplating his sorry life. Such tasks were very important, important enough that he hadn't thought to brush his hair or change his clothes until someone knocked at the door, and he didn't feel like getting dressed.

        "White Lily Cookie? Why are you here? Oh, I don't mean that you're um, you're unwelcome, but why..? What brings you here?" Maybe tripping over his words and pulling at his (rather matted) hair didn't help either. Who cared? He was a wreck anyways.

        He expected a scoff or a passive-aggressive 'you've seen better days', but the hit never came. White Lily's tender features only softened in a sympathetic smile as she opened her veiled arms in an offer of a hug. She was always quiet-- some days it was because she couldn't bear to speak, some days she was too lost in thought to speak, and now... now, there was simply too much to say, and it was better not to speak at all.

        Been there, done that, is what that smile must've said. Nonetheless, Pure Vanilla ambled forward, resting his forehead on her heavily cloaked shoulders, loosely holding her in his arms. He didn't care if she hated him and wouldn't voice it out of sympathy; he needed touch. He needed something beyond suffering and living as a corpse.

        A gentle and familiar hand stroked the back of his head, flattening the raging knots at the nape of his neck that Pure Vanilla never cared to tame. They didn't speak for a long while, only sat in a tiredly half-hearted embrace that dared to speak that which neither of them wanted to voice for comfort's sake.

        White Lily's barely craned head leaned into the crook of Pure Vanilla's neck, her lips gently grazing his wheaten skin as she broke the less-than-peaceful silence. "What can I do to help you?"

        The latter could not help the sadistic laugh that tugged at the corners of his lips and crinkled his tired eyes. It was breathy, his useless voice not tainting the sound. "Oh, dear," he managed, rubbing her back before pulling away and straightening the rumpled nightgown that clung to his body. "You're still as naive as when we were kids. How about we leave that talk here and go to a cafe?"

        She shook her head, gently punting his shoulder and offering another sympathetic glance before awkwardly shuffling back and scratching her forearm where an off strand of golden hair had tickled the wrong way. "And you're still too good for problems, 'Nilly. But whatever."

        Nilly. What a nice nickname, not like someone else hadn't given it to him already. Regardless, he gave her one last run of banter before voicing his need to get dressed and look presentable, closing the door and rushing to his dresser, staff in hand. Brushing his hair top to bottom, not caring if it hurt, tossing his pajamas on the floor. That was a problem for a future him.

        With a swat to the drapes of his robes that would hopefully stifle day-old wrinkles, he opened the door and smiled when White Lily hadn't left from where she had stood before he closed the door. Dipped his head in greeting, gently twisting his white-clad fingers with her own, not missing a beat. This was versed; he knew that no matter how he protested, she'd still hold his hands and pry into darkness that didn't need to be dispelled.

        The walk was pleasant, for the first time in forever. Walks had been something to keep him feeling alive, never something simply for enjoyment. And that's why, as White Lily pointed out, ugly baby birds and clouds that looked like horses to cheer him up, it did work. It was not just the destination and promise of a little treat that made it fun, but companionship.

        Idle, easy chatter. That was what he'd needed; it made things so easy to just put things behind you and live on. And as they sat on a patio and shared a pitcher of iced tea, that thought crossed his mind: 'I'm so glad to be free of worry.' And what did that thought prompt? Well, an accidental stumble back into the hazy abyss that plagued the back of his mind for months. 

        All of a sudden, he conveniently didn't feel well and figured it'd be best to go home. White Lily obliged to his half-hearted excuses, only casting a few skeptical and worried glances before taking his hand lightly as they came back the way they'd come. Hundreds of years ago, when they'd first grown close, she'd told herself it was to help him navigate due to his blindness. If the steady click of his orchid staff said anything, it said that she was a bad liar.

        And as he guided her back to his bedroom in the late afternoon and took a seat on his bed, he insisted she go for dinner in the hall herself. That he was exhausted from the sun and the walk, and needed to go to bed early, but she was welcome back in his room whenever. Her hardly masked worry only reared its ugly face as he spoke in a slow pace, her hands curling in on themselves and her eyebrows knitting together as she halfheartedly agreed to go eat.

        She didn't offer to get him food; it was a long-running joke that nobody could make him eat when he didn't volunteer to, and she didn't feel like bickering after a long day. With a solemn, tense goodbye, she shut the door and went off by herself, only a bit awkward in a completely different country no longer full of people she knew.

         While White Lily went off to eat, Pure Vanilla didn’t waste a moment going to bed. Even if it was only 6, he was tired. Sleep didn’t bring rest anymore, but it was worth a try to at least rest his body. He didn’t care to take off his clothes, leaving his nightgown in the lump it’d been thrown into that morning.

         His body rumpled into a less-than-comfortable position, and he fell asleep.

         And in sleep, Shadow Milk still was there. He was still forced to kneel and spread his broken arms apart, still drooling and bleeding all over himself. Pure Vanilla didn't need to say anything as he approached, kneeling and sitting in silence with his counterpart. The silence ticked by to the beat of a funeral march, neither of them speaking.

        A quiet, hoarse whisper that could barely be called speech came from the beast. "I'm going to die," came his barely recognizable voice. Gone was his grandiose bravado, theatrical guise, broken down to monotonous apathy. "Go away."

        At first, Shadow Milk would bite the hands that came to break him, cursed and rebelled against the void that endlessly punished him. It didn't take long for him to give in to obedience, a striking and stark reality tearing apart his dreams and mind. He'd never get to finish that play, never finalize that draft for his choir, he'd never get to treat his minions to a feast again. He would never be able to tease and poke at the god that knelt before him again.

        "No, you won't." Pure Vanilla whispered in kind, matching his counterpart's faint whisper. "I'll find a way. I'll read every book there is, I'll ask people until I can find out where you are, I'll figure out how to save--"

        Shadow Milk cut him off with a wheeze and a frown. "No." A timer had long been put on his delicate body that Dark Enchantress carelessly crafted for him, and it was running out. Tears constantly pricked at his eyes, a lump wedged in his throat that wouldn't dispel until he was granted the release of death. He would never get to apologize for everything pressing on his shoulders, and he knew. "There's no saving me. Don't waste your time."

        It brought Pure Vanilla to tears again. Suffering was something he'd faced his whole life, and he knew in depth the pain that Shadow Milk tried to fit into a sentence. The will to die, the hope that more pain would stifle pressing emptiness until he could feel something whole again. His hand glided to his souljam as he kneeled before the cage, silently. Something whole, what a funny joke. 

        A voiced tickled at the back of his mind. 'Wake up' was only uttered in a soft voice that sounded timid at best. He tried to gather his thoughts, to say something to the miserable situation before him, and still, the voice beckoned. And soon enough, it got its wish; Pure Vanilla's pale lashes parting in dismay, tears falling forth as he tried to focus in on what was before him.

       None other than White Lily hovered over him, wispy and pale hair framing her face as she worriedly looked down on him. "You're crying." Her lucent eyes filled with sympathy as she sat beside him, tilting her head in interest. "Can I lie down with you? You don't need to push me away and suffer in silence."

        Yet again, he laughed at her kindness. She thought she knew his inner workings just because she'd known him since they were young, she thought that his worries were solvable by a simple hug and a whispered half-assed comfort. Even as she shuffled beside him, opting to get in his space rather than anywhere else on his needlessly king-sized bed, touch brought him no solace.

        They had long been close, the type of close where physical touch came naturally and conflicts would pass easily for the sake of friendship. Pure Vanilla had grown intimate with White Lily's flaws and oddities, and vice versa, and neither minded.

        And that is why, as Pure Vanilla opted to stare at the ceiling instead of falling asleep, he asked the question on the tip of his tongue that had sat there for ages. He didn't care or want to know why she came here; he didn't need that. He needed answers. "White Lily," he muttered half-heartedly. "Tell me where you took Shadow Milk."

        She turned to face him, a sort of horror contorting her face that was not fear or anger, but... something more. She looked away sheepishly, all of a sudden feeling like she'd crept too close to him under the covers. "He's not your problem anymore." Her words were simple, just slightly passive-aggressive. She had seen enough of the Five Beasts for a lifetime, the Beast of Deception most of all.

        Worry bubbled up in Pure Vanilla's chest as he bit his lip, barely restraining his ire and exhaustion that had gnawed at his sense of self for months. It wasn't her fault, he told himself. How would she know what was going on? "You don't understand, please... Just tell me, tell me where he is. It is my problem."

        She smiled at the irony, bittersweet nostalgia running laps in her head. He'd always been persistent, but it was always in the interest of the greater good; never for the benefit of a wretched monster made of lies and hatred. Internally at war with herself for a few moments, she spoke despite herself. “Fine… He’s in the Silver Tree. What else could we have done..?”

         Pure Vanilla recoiled, jumping out of his lying position and sitting upright. His hands gripped the sheets in them, knuckles white. Images of the bound and screaming, sobbing beast flashed through his mind, the scent of raw flesh and tears too vivid to have been false. "You- Are you serious?!? Why would you do that? I can't..." He trailed off, reaching after scattered thoughts scared off by anger and shock. He settled for a cold resolution of disgust, his face twisting in a mixture of sorrow and disbelief. "And you dare to call him the beast here?"

        White Lily, fatally honest to her end, gritted her teeth and matched the energy, disappointed at herself for playing along with his shouts of disbelief. "What else was I supposed to do? He hurt you, you've still got the scars to show for it! I'm just following in Elder Faerie's footsteps, do you think I wanted this either? You've lost your mind, Pure Vanilla!" The covers felt too hot, and her heavy robes felt like a straitjacket as she sat up and met Pure Vanilla's eyes. The latter's gaze was nothing short of insane, deeply troubled by something she'd never seen before, something that hurt to be subject to.

        A lump in his throat choked Pure Vanilla as he processed her words, a slight waver and crack to his tone as he carried on. "Even if I have, I left the scar for a reason! Please, just let him go free. You haven't seen what it's done to him." He clutched at his souljam, begging that the whispers of the old, vigorous Shadow Milk would drown him in their saccharine lies. Begging that he'd see fight in those dull, soulless eyes again.

        White Lily sighed, hoisting herself up from where she once lay, dusting off her robes with an angry swat, and grabbing her staff. "I don't know what to do. How am I supposed to trust you, how am I supposed to trust him?! What do you know that I don't? The Witches would kill us, are you stupid?" Sweat warmed her body as her hairline was wet with it, the heavy and warm scent of vanilla smothered her and reminded her of who... no, the shell of who stood before her. 

        Pure Vanilla's scowl turned angry and pessimistic as his hand fell from where it stroked his souljam, his chest heaving with a twisted groan. "Do you think the Witches even care? Look at all the evil in our world. If they really cared, they'd seal away--" He paused. Love fights fair, and fair was anything but mentioning that name that lingered in the back of his mind. "That's not the point. Please, just give me a chance. It isn't right what he's going through, it's inhumane."

        And truly inhumane was the nature of Shadow Milk's punishment. He'd died once, and pain was not unfamiliar. What was unfamiliar, however, was how the Tree treated him the second time around. Before it had only been starvation, chains, and the less-than-pleasant company of the other beasts, but this? It was different. He'd never been brainwashed, beaten till his muscles couldn't pull his weight anymore, degraded so severely in all his life.

        But just as he'd been taught by the darkness, he deserved it. Pure Vanilla was only a wolf in sheep's clothing, and it was only a matter of time before he showed his fangs. His friends were gone for good, and the Herald of Change, the sweet Bringer of Happiness, the steadfast Saint of Volition were all dead, only alive in his memory. Nobody was coming to save him. He was going to die, and hope was only a form of delusion.

        He should have died when he had the chance. He should have let his minions live normal lives; he should've said goodbye to his friends instead of spitting sarcasm like a fountain. He should have seen it all coming.

        For once, the Fount of Knowledge did not know all. He didn't know that, after his crumbling body gave up and his soul stayed bound to the Silver Tree, if he'd ever see the sun again. If he'd ever smell his favourite food on a stove, scratch behind a cat's ears, or see the real Pure Vanilla again.

        He'd given up, he'd told that to the shadows that betrayed him and sunk into his rotting flesh such. 

        It was pathetic, really. All he could smell was rot and blood, all he could taste was his decomposing teeth. He hadn't seen the sun in what must've been 10 years, hadn't been able to move in ages. 

        And that was okay, because he'd given up. He realized long ago to stop fighting, and to simply let the pain and suffering come back each day. Because delusion or not, at least pain let him feel something.

Notes:

LAMBSONG HAS REACHED 10 CHAPTERS AND 1K HITS-- YIPPPEEEEE!!!

Thank you to everyone who's read, binged past 11 PM, or stayed for the journey with me. Nobody has paid me to write a fanfiction that's almost as long as a novel, and nobody is paying you to keep reading. It's pure chance that any of you have come across this, and to that, I'm grateful.

Thank you again, everyone, for your continued support and love. I will not disappoint!

Chapter 11: XI. And what shoulder, and what art,

Summary:

        He stared in paralyzed fear, flattening himself low and cowering like a tyger. He couldn't move, bite, or flare out his hair like he could before. His joints ached with infection and shattered splinters of bone, and his head spun fuzzily from headache and malnutrition. He only continued to look on with dull eyes as Pure Vanilla leaned sadistically in, his warm and ungloved hands tracing Shadow Milk's warm wounds. His cherry lips opened, voice dripping with tainted sugar. "Do you really think I'd save you for the fun of it?" His head came in closer as he stooped forward to torment Shadow Milk further, his softly curved nose almost brushing the beast's own pointed nose.

 

"I'll never forgive you, Shadow Milk Cookie. I'll fix you up, keep you healthy and fed, only to starve you and beat you again. This time, I'll be the one to exact my vengeance on you." He sneered as his hand clenched at the beast's sore shoulder, short fingernails managing to dig into his tenderized flesh nonetheless. "We'll both live forever. You'll learn your lesson, but you'll never be allowed to show the world that. We're both cursed with immortality, and you'll learn why that's a curse, fool."

        And after ages more of torture, there was a blinding light. Not the soft light of tanned skin and gilded robes, but of burning conviction. A different light, a light that called itself a savior to the pitiful wretch bound in darkness, daring to call itself heavenly.

        After so long soaking in sin and delusion, heaven's scintillating light burned at his slitted eyes. Shadow Milk would recoil if he could, his pathetic, withered muscles twitching in his restraints as his mismatched lashes squeezed shut. As much as the darkness tormented him, he wanted it back. He wanted a reprieve from the horrid vibrance that tore at his pale flesh.

        And from that sliver of heaven came two harbingers of ill fate, two false prophets wearing halos of horns-- Pure Vanilla and White Lily Cookie. 

        The sight of it all was utterly confusing, but even more so was the concerned frown etched on the fairer of the two's face, her robes fluttering after her like hands begging to be granted an anchor. Pure Vanilla looked tired, the bags under his eyes accentuated by the light that framed him like a sibyl. Most infuriating was the sight of the wretched woman who timidly followed after him, looking pure as a child. What a joke.

        And as their almost ghostly figures approached him, Shadow Milk groaned. The light bleeding into hell burned at his rotten flesh, his long-unmoving lips quivering in a wish to mouth shouts and curses.

        His pained eyes cracked open, just enough to get past the constant blur and see a pair of pastel eyes watching him. Full, rosy lips spoke, but it sounded too loud and too silent all at once; noise was unbearable, and yet he couldn't define a single syllable that the man before him exchanged with his captor.

        He was too tired to read the room. They were probably just here to take his souljam and dump the corpse somewhere e--

        A chain unwound from his wrist. Chains slipped away from the sore, dark marks on his skin, decomposing and rashed skin clinging to the cold metal as it peeled away. Red-hot with infection, he felt the coldness of darkness and the stillness of the air around him. He didn't care. Fighting was useless.

        The next hand was undone, and his burning meat simmered with pain and ache as the cold air assaulted his tender flesh. He winced minutely, his head still hung by chains and ropes. His eyelashes were heavy, and his dilated pupils didn't flicker to the white goddess that undid the sin binding the devil's vessel.

        One by one, the copious layers of metal, lock, and rope slid away. Each time, there was some sort of rub to a patch of skin on his bony back that must've been some sort of comfort. It was hazy, and Shadow Milk would never dare tell the hand that soothed him that its touch burned against his jutting spine.

        And when the last bind on his chest was undone, he fell. His arms didn't splay out to hold him, and his breath didn't catch as he went limp. Perhaps it was because he knew that a firm pair of vanilla-scented arms would see him, or because he didn't care if the fall dug his broken ribs into his lungs and let him finally die.

        A soft voice puffed at his tattered, once-pointed ear, a soft, almost saccharine tone smoothing over his frayed mind. His head lolled to the side and found itself upon a firm shoulder, his jaw slipping open as a sound akin to a death rattle rumbled in his chest. Shadow Milk curled into the warmth, not knowing why or how he had deserved comfort.

        He stank like a corpse, his chin was crusted in old blood, and his various wounds leaked pus and other obscene fluids needlessly. He almost felt guilty, wanting to claw his way out of a soothing embrace for fear of dirtying the white robes that framed his meek form. Along with white fabric, liquid locks of golden hair bled down from above, cascading around a soft face that twisted with agony that came from simply gazing upon the limp mess that was the pathetic beast of lies.

        Pure Vanilla spared White Lily no mind as he looked down at Shadow Milk, who finally sat at rest in his hold. His eyes were vacant and glazed, but he was alive. In his scarred arms, he held a conniving monster, who, at his core, was lost. A poor thing that was not misguided, but left with no guidance at all.

        As he cradled Shadow Milk's head and enveloped him in a sacred hold, he simply looked to the guardian whose job was supposed to keep him sealed. Guilt festered in Pure Vanilla's heart as he looked pleadingly to White Lily for guidance, for anything. A place to go, a suggestion, words of affirmation, anything. As powerful as he was supposed to be, he was only inhuman.

        She looked away in shame, her simple flowing dress catching the meek rays of light that came from where they'd entered. She drew in a sharp breath, her voice cracking as she was about to speak... and she held it. She looked over at the idols of Truth and Deception with an unreadable emotion that was surely negative, and parted her lips once more. "Just take him to the, take him to the guest room you'd been staying in." She frowned, delicately arched eyebrows wrinkling the skin between them. "As much as I don't want you two to be my problem, uhhm... You're in my kingdom, so just, just stay lowkey. Please."

        Pure Vanilla nodded, gently shifting his grip on the ragdoll-like Shadow Milk, doing his best to avoid where his torn robes fused and stuck to leaking wounds. He slid his soft hands, clothed in now bloodstained, off-white gloves, keeping a firm hand under his bony spine, lifting him in a bridal carry. He winced, both at the obsolete weight that still clung to the beast's bones and the lifeless wheeze that came from him when he was shifted.

        Pathetic. A pitying glance from White Lily as she led Pure Vanilla down an unpopulated back road, walking quickly and without regard for her old friend, who struggled to follow with the weight of one and a half people. If you asked Shadow Milk, the two of them combined would only make one, but that didn't matter. 

        White Lily kept her eyes on the ground, biting the inside of her lip raw as she listened to the uneven steps of her companion behind her. She should have learned from Pure Vanilla that compassion only begets suffering for those who carry its double-edged sword, but she couldn't help herself when it came to the latter. She couldn't help holding his hands a touch too long, overextending her kind words when they weren't needed, and most of all, jumping right in with him when he'd started digging his hole. 

         And that’s when, as she discreetly led him to the guest room that still faintly smelled of him from the last visit, she didn’t blame herself for once. She blamed the pale, hardly breathing tyger that seemed at rest in Pure Vanilla’s hold. She would never be so kind to him again, and if opportunity ever arose, he’d be dead and hung on the Silver Tree for his equally wretched friends to see in his rotting, twisted glory. She shook her head and watched as Pure Vanilla stopped by the door to his room, the soft sound of footsteps rising over the cold nighttime air.

         Pure Vanilla gently ushered the frazzled White Lily out of his doorway, practically watching the thoughts in her head spiral. He tilted his head, his knotted and tussled hair swaying with the motion. “It’s okay. He can’t even move by himself, nothing will— nothing can happen.” He looked down at Shadow Milk’s face, which looked significantly younger now that the stress of consciousness and the burden of torture were lifted. The gashes in his cheeks and ears did nothing to make him look nice, but to look normal in his situation was a pipe dream.

         White Lily didn’t speak, only nodded and closed the door behind her as she turned to leave. Pure Vanilla only stood in vigilant silence, the unmoving air being the only thing accompanying the wheeze that came each time Shadow Milk breathed in.

         Pure Vanilla was a healer and knew quite well what a broken rib sounded like. Crackling, the unconscious stalling of breath when his swollen midsection couldn’t accommodate any more air. To see Shadow Milk looking like a defeated pit dog was bad, but to know he couldn’t help was worse.

         Light Magic and Dark Moon Magic did not go together. Like potassium in water, the two were fine on their own, but volatile together. Pure Vanilla could no longer heal a wound with a brush of the hand and a small incantation, and so he’d have to revert to the old ways of traditional medicine. Herbs, bandages, therapy, and specific foods.

         But before a single oozing wound could be cleaned, a bath was needed. He couldn’t soothe the festering infection that still clung to cloth and pus— he’d have to give Shadow Milk a sponge bath at the least. He knew the beast would probably be caught killing himself by hanging on a telephone wire before getting a bath from Pure Vanilla, but nothing could be done to change the circumstances.

         And as Pure Vanilla looked down on the unconscious face of Shadow Milk, he apologized a million times under his breath. He gently laid the limp beast down on the (inappropriately colored) white bedsheets, making sure his neck was supported before carefully gliding a hand down to find the raggedy tie that bound Shadow Milk’s pathetic robe together.

        A movement nothing short of sin and impurity, he tugged at the fabric. The robes that stuck to the sweat and pus-soaked jester parted to show lacerated pale blue, complemented by the necrotic oil cysts that were almost indiscernible from the black robes that parted to show them. Pure Vanilla moved reverently, silently shedding tears as he unclothed Shadow Milk. He did not proceed with the desire to defile or scrape his nails with no need- he only treated the beast like the god he should've still been, with gentle hands like those of a pleb taking food from a kind passerby.

        When Shadow Milk was brought down to only his bare flesh, Pure Vanilla left him to lie on the white sheets for a moment, going to the adjacent bathroom to find a sponge, gauze, disinfectant, and whatever else he needed. Whatever he could find, he was fortunate to come across, but it must've just been White Lily, considering Pure Vanilla's nature as a healer.

        Things were neatly lined up on the counter as lukewarm water ran, and a shallow pail was filled with it, a small sponge floating around carelessly. Pure Vanilla laid towels about in thought-out places before nodding, peeling his tainted gloves off, and going off to get Shadow Milk. The jester didn't squirm or move as he was picked up and laid down in shallow water, his limbs limp.

        A particularly deep gash ran down the entirety of his left forearm, a thin layer of fat splaying out, revealing veiny, gangrenous muscle. Crusted fabric threads clung to where the robes must've been ripped open to create the wound, festering in a particularly disgusting way. Pure Vanilla regarded the neutral look on Shadow Milk's face, burning it into his mind before grabbing the wet sponge to clean the edges of the wound.

        Shadow Milk's eerie, bloodshot eyes rolled in his head as his eyelids peeled open minutely, an airy whine dragging at his throat as he looked down deliriously. He looked completely out of it, barely coming to grips with his consciousness. His thoughts flickered frequently between hazy sleep and ambiguous consciousness, the only thing his mind being able to comprehend being that touch was unwanted. Pure Vanilla jumped and quickly turned his gaze back after dabbing carefully, apologizing in a frail, whispered tone. 

        For what must've been two hours, he cleaned every little open wound on Shadow Milk's body. He ran his palms over the few patches of untainted periwinkle skin that remained, muttering praises and apologies as he worked. It was almost unconscious, the way he tried to soothe the poor beast with what sponges and gauze couldn't.

        The whole time, Shadow Milk absently whined and rolled his head from side to side, fingers twitching whenever pain registered too strongly. He was certainly not lucid, but he was still in pain; anyone would've known. First, it was the burning blaze of infection and dehydration, then the dull and warm agony of water and his body consuming itself, and then the bittersweet cold of antibiotic salves and linoleum beneath his scarred soles. Water was put down his throat, dribbling down his chin and chest in the process. Water felt so unfamiliar after so long.

        And when he was laid to bed after being wrapped in a comforting white embrace, his eyes rolled out of his head to see Pure Vanilla looming over him. Shadow Milk violently twitched at the sight of his counterpart looming over him with cold eyes not unlike the Recluse's, trying to scramble away like a beaten circus animal to the corner of the bed, the floor, anything. He would growl, snarl if he could, bite if his teeth weren't one firm apple from shattering into orange shards.

        He stared in paralyzed fear, flattening himself low and cowering like a tyger. He couldn't move, bite, or flare out his hair like he could before. His joints ached with infection and shattered splinters of bone, and his head spun fuzzily from headache and malnutrition. He only continued to look on with dull eyes as Pure Vanilla leaned sadistically in, his warm and ungloved hands tracing Shadow Milk's warm wounds. His cherry lips opened, voice dripping with tainted sugar. "Do you really think I'd save you for the fun of it?" His head came in closer as he stooped forward to torment Shadow Milk further, his softly curved nose almost brushing the beast's own pointed nose. 

        "I'll never forgive you, Shadow Milk Cookie. I'll fix you up, keep you healthy and fed, only to starve you and beat you again. This time, I'll be the one to exact my vengeance on you." He sneered as his hand clenched at the beast's sore shoulder, short fingernails managing to dig into his tenderized flesh nonetheless. "We'll both live forever. You'll learn your lesson, but you'll never be allowed to show the world that. We're both cursed with immortality, and you'll learn why that's a curse, fool."

        Everything spun with nausea as Shadow Milk shuddered and convulsed, the vision of the sneering, cruel healer warping into something soft and warm in dim light. The hand that just bruised his arm was now soft, thumb moving in small circles. Shadow Milk forced himself up in a deep fright, finding himself unable to push his captor away due to a heavily bandaged arm. He backed up regardless, shrinking his form despite the burning pain that came with each push and pull of his weak muscles. 

        His once sleepy and loopy pupils constricted with reality and fear, his meek frame wracked with horrified shivering. "NO! Get away, get awaygetawaygetaway, you gotta go, please pleaseplease, GET OUT!" He choked on his foamy spit, coughing before continuing to try and scare off his soon-to-be tormentor. He didn't care for the muttered apologies and affirmations that were drowned out by his hoarse yelps, only his own voice. "I promise I'll be good, I can be good, PLEASE! What did I do wrong? Tell me, I'll stop, put me back, I don't wanna, I don't--"

        A firmer grip on his shoulder. Shadow Milk recoiled and shut his eyes, expecting a hit... but it didn't come. Pure Vanilla's tender voice waited for the silence to reclaim its authority before filling the room, sonorous and patient. "I'm not hurting you, dear. It was a nightmare. You're awake, it's okay. Please don't breathe that deep, I don't want you to worsen your ribs... Can I touch you? It's okay, I promise. It's okay."

        Shadow Milk didn't respond for a moment, his clenched fists shaking in front of his chest where, despite everything, his souljam still sat. He cowered for a very long moment, minutes passing him by as Pure Vanilla watched. Patient, ever-so-tender in the face of Shadow Milk's spiny, erratic unpredictability. He finally swallowed and nodded, a shaky sigh leaving his mouth as he bowed his head.

        Pure Vanilla's hands were not covered by gloves- his calloused but soft hands gently dragged against Shadow Milk's thin and bony cheek, his thumb moving over the same spots in a spiral. It was predictable, it was controlled. The beast didn't look up for a long while, too stunned to move or flinch. He drifted back out of consciousness silently as Pure Vanilla soothed him as if he were a tender child. For the first time in ages, it didn't hurt. 

        Pure Vanilla was methodical in how he touched Shadow Milk, careful, almost reverent. He spoke comforts and praises like mantras, his voice soft like a lamb's loving nuzzle. He sat kneeling at the bedside until his beloved tyger went limp in sleep again, still whispering affirmations in a low drawl that would put even the most abrasive, harsh beast to sleep.

        When Pure Vanilla followed Shadow Milk into sleep, he still kneeled before his counterpart, as if he himself were an offering. He would give his own flesh, torture himself, willingly walk to the deepest pits of hell if it meant he could heal his counterpart. 

        But even in wistful sleep, he knew. He knew that necrotized tissue was gone for good, and that mental wounds so deep as Shadow Milk's would never heal. He would help, he would give himself up as a crutch for the Beast of Deceit.

        After it all, would either of them even be the same? Would Shadow Milk still be the brash, jaded, and witty performer he'd been for ages, would Pure Vanilla still be a selfless and kind being too good for the world that carelessly sat upon his shoulders?

        Perhaps time would tell, but for now, they were bound in darkness for the first time together. It was an interlude, not to waking up to greet the sun, but willingly closing one's eyes to embrace sunset.

Notes:

Finally back after a short break!! I've run through my draft during my little rest, so now everything is set in stone in terms of direction and underlying themes. It brings me a whole lot of peace of mind to know I'm not just entirely winging most of this, as much as I hate planning things.

The whump is done for now, the next while will be focusing on how the two of them heal as individuals, and together. Thank you all again for sticking with me, expect regular updates from now on! Happy reading, all :3

Chapter 12: XII. Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

Summary:

        Touch like that was revolting. The Great Beast of Deception was no pet to be coddled and comforted; he was a tyger with flesh scarred by heaven's inconsolable wrath. He did not need soft looks or for his self-punishing claws to be removed from his meat, he didn't need the sacrifice that came in the way of tears glistening over half-blind eyes.

His revolt was only pushed further as the man who'd stripped him bare leaned into the tub, dirtied by scabs and black blood, to gently press a kiss to his flesh that still leaked fresh blood. Pure Vanilla looked up, seeming like a startled lamb as tainted blood painted his lips like cadmium red, ignoring how it grotesquely dripped down the curve of his rosy lips. "Oh, I'm-- No, I shouldn't do that to you. I'm sorry, just, just forget that happened. That was rude."

        When dawn cast her ephemeral light upon the Faerie Kingdom the next morning, the blinds in Pure Vanilla's guest room pitied the quiet sunlight and let it in to shine lightly down upon Shadow Milk and his accomplice. The beyond-exhausted beast did not part his eyelids to humor the scintillating light, but his counterpart did.

        Gently stirring and rubbing the crust from his eyes, the worn healer shuffled to sit in a hunched position. His careful movements were halted as he rearranged himself to get ready to leave the bed, not by a tangled blanket or a tug on his clothes, but by the gentle presence of a wrapped arm clinging to his side.

        Pure Vanilla moved the blankets aside to see, softly sighing in relief as he saw Shadow Milk's bandaged arm slung over his torso. It was a simple thing, but it was the fact that Shadow Milk, even in unconsciousness, was trusting enough of Pure Vanilla to reach out to him for comfort within his nightmares. It was comforting to see the beast do something inherently human, but just like the dawn that handed her reign to the morning, it could not last.

        Pure Vanilla stood up after gently moving aside Shadow Milk's arm, hoisting himself to his feet with a groan as his body snapped and cracked in places that really shouldn't. The early morning greeted him by selfishly peering in through the windows, lighting up his unchanged clothing in its glory. For a moment, the healer thought he was back home, looking to the back left corner of the room in hopes of seeing his closet. In the silence, there was nothing, only white wallpaper. 

        He frowned, unsure of what to do. He could go for a walk to clear his mind, get breakfast, or look for a garden with birds to tend to. Such thoughts were useless, as he knew where he belonged. He knew that no matter how many thoughts he entertained, the immense burden that slept in his borrowed bed was his duty. Nobody else would come to adjust and change his gauze, nobody would come to rinse his tender, burning wounds with saline. It was a duty, both as Shadow Milk's counterpart and as a healer.

        And so he turned away from the door, the glimmering windows, and the shiny floorboards, disregarding it all in favor of going to wash his hands and retrieve things. He brought a small bottle of saline, cleaned his hands thoroughly, and additionally, a hair tie and a heating pad. He could take care of Shadow Milk, but he preferred going the extra bit to make sure he was comfortable.

        He ran over each little bandaged injury, graciously replacing bled-through gauze, wiping them clean with damp cloths, and disinfecting them to the best of his ability. Shadow Milk winced and whined in his sleep, the exact state of his consciousness still ambiguous. It was tender, both his oozing wounds that twisted around off-white bones, and how silently resigned he was to his treatment.

        As much as Pure Vanilla wasn't the bedridden, feverish half of their whole, he was just as caged as the beast. Each day, he'd repeat the relentless routine that had to be sustained to keep Shadow Milk stable-- Wash wounds, get food, force water down his throat, tend to injuries again, and go to bed. It was slow and repetitive, grueling and miserable.

        As mentally unwell as Pure Vanilla was doing, taking care of the beast in a place that wasn't his home, Shadow Milk was always doing 10 times worse. He'd sob on end for hours in sleep or when he was awake, and his mood would fluctuate at the drop of a hat. Some days, he'd lash out and weakly insist he didn't need care, and other days, he could be found in the kitchen, emptily searching for food, muttering something about needing to stay awake.

        Pure Vanilla didn't dare pry. He kept his touches mechanical and distant, telling himself he was a healer and nothing more —neither a friend, nor a companion, nor someone who cared. Every day, when he'd apologize on loop for needing to strip Shadow Milk to assess his wounds, he would treat the beast like a god, not a monster.

        Gentle, whispered touches, the steadiness of Pure Vanilla's warm and hushed voice at his tattered ears; it was the sole reprieve that Shadow Milk had. Sleep brought twisting, wretched beasts of fang and claw, and consciousness brought back the searing pain of each festering gash on his body.

        But in the end, he was healing. Patches of skin wept liquids that dispelled the dead blackness that peeled at his flesh, and his mobility was slowly, slowly coming back. Each day, he could move his wrists a little more, shift in his bed without screaming at the tearing sensation in his muscles with each shift. Pure Vanilla noticed and would always bathe him in praise for little things like being able to eat by himself, or standing up for even just a moment without support.

        As much as he'd rejoice to see Shadow Milk do something besides cry, Pure Vanilla needed breaks. He'd only go for short walks on most days, but sometimes he'd take the way to White Lily's abode because he'd 'lost track of time'. He was a bad liar in the end-- if the way he'd collapse beside her on her couch and reach for her hands said anything, it was that he was there on purpose. He'd rant about his worries of the outside world he hadn't indulged in for months, his health, anything. He had too many problems just to pick one.

        While he was off sobbing into White Lily's embrace and perpetuating the issues he had full power over, his parallel was left out of control; in silence, with not a soul he could reach out to for comfort, nor a shoulder to lean on when his legs couldn’t carry him beyond the bedroom. All he had were the sheer white blinds, the bandages that masked his injuries, and the silence. And in the silence, he already knew where his caretaker was off to-- where else would he go besides White Lily's home? Such cute friends they were.

        And after the second time he went off, saying it was only a walk, he came back to Shadow Milk looking sullen, almost apologetic. The jester quirked his eyebrow that still lifted, his hoarse voice creaking with a bit more life than usual. "You're sad. What is it?" Pure Vanilla dipped his head in acknowledgement as he turned his eyes away from Shadow Milk, going to the spot near the bed where he'd begun keeping medicines and bandages. "You need a bath again, I'm sorry. I know it's not fun, just-- please don't fight me."

        What could Shadow Milk do, anyway? He only nodded, scowling as he shuffled himself into a straighter position to be carried. He winced and instinctively tried to push back as he was lifted into Pure Vanilla's noticeably shaky arms. Even though the latter's touch was soft and tepid, it still ignited a dull pain beneath his skin, where bones with barely any padding left to protect them sat. He could feel the way his counterpart's thumb curiously stroked over the jutting humps and dips of his spine-- it hurt.

        He was stripped of the white-and-gold robe that Pure Vanilla had lent to him, down to the shameful sight of meat and bone. He curled in on himself before being guided to sit in the tub, closing his knees tight together and gripping his forearm with a weak but punishing grip. Most of his nails had been torn out in the Tree, but those that remained still caressed his skin with a sick beauty that teased out crimson drops of blood. 

        Pure Vanilla removed his robe, gently chuckling and saying he didn't want it to get as soaked as it did from bathing Shadow Milk last time. His wheaten skin was bared, and horrid, stretching scar tissue still clung to the arm that had been mauled so long ago. He seemed so fine with showing the scar that should've dirtied his pristine skin, and the culprit hated that. He hated that done that, but at the same time felt so pleased with himself that he'd left something with the world that wouldn't go away with time. It was a sick and twisted happiness, but it was happiness nonetheless.

        First, it was the sponge and the warm water. Apologies as Shadow Milk hissed and turned his head away, soft strokes to patches of skin that were miraculously untouched by the wrath of consequence. Pure Vanilla seemed so focused on the wounds that showed themselves with hideous pride that he didn't notice how Shadow Milk quivered like a cat faced by a barking dog, how he could only dig his claws into his flesh in hopes that the pain resulting from the action would cancel out the burn of clean water washing away old blood.

        Then he was sanitized and disinfected like a piece of surgical metal. Precisely, but not lovingly. Fluids were wiped away, wounds were packed carefully, and-- a pair of pastel eyes looked up to see bleeding crescents in the beast's forearm. His eyebrows wrenched in almost saccharine apology, one rough hand sliding up Shadow Milk's side to find his neck.

        Touch like that was revolting. The Great Beast of Deception was no pet to be coddled and comforted; he was a tyger with flesh scarred by heaven's inconsolable wrath. He did not need soft looks or for his self-punishing claws to be removed from his meat, he didn't need the sacrifice that came in the way of tears glistening over half-blind eyes.

        His revolt was only pushed further as the man who'd stripped him bare leaned into the tub, dirtied by scabs and black blood, to gently press a kiss to his flesh that still leaked fresh blood. Pure Vanilla looked up, seeming like a startled lamb as tainted blood painted his lips like cadmium red, ignoring how it grotesquely dripped down the curve of his rosy lips. "Oh, I'm-- No, I shouldn't do that to you. I'm sorry, just, just forget that happened. That was rude."

        Shadow Milk only watched dazedly as his blood beaded at the lips of another, simply humming and looking down in shame as the fresh cuts were cleaned again. His caretaker softly sighed, his hands still shaking as he broke the newborn silence. "I wish White Magic wouldn't hurt you. I'm sure you don't like this either."

        No reply. The beast was cleaned, bid farewell, and sent off to sleep in silence.

        The next morning, he was restless. His limp hair knotted at the back of his head as he sat up, thinking. He needed something to do; he would not become a prisoner once more. Not to the Witches, not to White Lily, not to Pure Vanilla. He wanted hobbies again; he wanted the freedom of good health and a home that was his and nobody else's. In his silent contemplation, he set his slitted eyes on a silver gramophone, dusty and shoved in a corner, just like him.

        "'Nilly." His voice was weak, but it reached the person in question, who had sat at a vanity in the bathroom fixing his hair. He turned his head candidly, setting down his hairbrush with a soft click. Shadow Milk didn't grant him the pleasantry of asking after what Shadow Milk had called his name for, speaking slowly but with a balanced calm. "Nice music box. What kinda records do you have?"

        The man in question tilted his head, following Shadow Milk's gaze to the dusty, silver thing that sat far away in a corner upon a table equally coated with dust. "Oh. It's not mine. Did you want me to find something for you? I could go to the Kingdom's library and ask..." He wrung his hands as he spoke, stepping a bit closer to better hear the beast's softened voice.

        "No, I'm just asking for fun." Shadow Milk lazily rolled his eyes, snorting as he did. "Go and get me some jazz. I like Sir Duke." His words were simple, but firm, not unlike how he'd order around his minions back in the day. Pure Vanilla tilted his head politely in confusion, nodding nonetheless. "Oh, um. I don't know who that is." His spiced vanilla scent still clung to his robes, wafting over to the bedridden beast, who got a good whiff of it when he'd snickered before. "Doesn't matter. Just go."

        He obediently did exactly as he was asked, promptly heading out with his orchid staff and the topic fresh on his tongue. Music was a massive cornerstone of faerie culture; surely they'd know everything about music. The library was massive, and equally massive was the section dedicated to sheet music, instruments, and records alike. After searching for a librarian and asking for help on the matter, Pure Vanilla brought back two records: Staples of the Roaring 20s and, of course, The Essential Duke Ellington. Hopefully, the young faerie with glasses at the library knew what she was talking about.

        And sure enough, after Pure Vanilla returned from his side quest, Shadow Milk's thin eyebrows arched in glee as his claws eagerly scraped at the record's covers. His sharp features softened with an almost-sincere smile, muttering something about a caravan.

        As the record was placed on the archaic old gramophone, a bright and recognizable but unnamable latin swing (to most) played quietly, the static accompanying it filling the room with a domestic little touch. The beast, who sat in his bed as if it were both a throne and a prison, easily rapped his fingers on his bony thigh in beat, a pleased smile curling his thin, cracked lips.

        It was simple, it was something small and normal for every cookie on Earthbread. But to Pure Vanilla, who hadn't seen his other half smile genuinely in at least 3 years, it was moving. To see life and vigor pull at the tendons that visibly tugged his fingers, to hear his gravelly voice hum along with the piece, to see him alive was a blessing that moved him to tears.

        Pure Vanilla approached quietly, going to his knees at the bedside and bowing his head. His voice cracked with the lump that nearly choked him, a bittersweet laugh ringing out as he wiped his tears. The snark that returned to how Shadow Milk spoke to him, how his stubborn nature slowly interjected itself into each conversation and remark, it was touching.

        Shadow Milk cast a pitiful glance down to the bedside, stroking Pure Vanilla's frizzy hair with a clawed hand. His eyes, with bags that were the dark purple of sunset, curled slightly in a smile along with his lips. "Shut up. This is the part where it goes to a regular swing. I can't hear."

        It was real. The tears, the half-assed comfort (could it be called that?), his presence.

        The real Shadow Milk was there.

Notes:

I genuinely don't know what to put for this A/N help

doomed by the narrative toxic yaoi creatures

Chapter 13: XIII. And when thy heart began to beat,

Summary:

        And behind them, the beast's eyes became daggers and his claws became rakes as he watched.

He watched those same insincere comforts fall on the ears of another. He watched a tender embrace that he'd never know, he watched affectionate pleasantries fly about that he'd never be allowed to catch.

        Long after the records ceased to spin under the needle that permitted them to sing, the air went stale with silence, and evening bid her farewell to let midnight quiet the Faerie Kingdom. Chattering teens went home to sleep, elderly couples meandered home in the silver starlight, and birds chattering from the trees all went quiet.

        The silence between Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk was an odd kind-- the healer's hands lost their mechanical, methodical touch, only to be replaced by a timid kindness that wormed closer to Shadow Milk each time the beast tossed or whined in his sleep. As the jester had so confidently declared years ago when the lands twisted to each of his lies, he did not need sleep. Primordial cookie gods did not need sleep.

        While Pure Vanilla watched him writhe and twist like a serpent being gripped by the jaws in what should've been sleep, his blind eyes did not need to look into Shadow Milk's soul to see why he never slept. It was in how he'd beg for coffee, pick at his bandages in hopes that pain would keep him awake, that he saw the truth hiding behind those actions. At his core, the beast believed that nightmares wouldn't flaunt their horrifying half-truths before him. He was so desperate for escape that he'd deny himself what he needed out of fear.

        As much as Shadow Milk would never admit fear or a need for comfort in his waking hours, his subconscious that leaked out in sleep said quite enough. More than a few times, his clawed, cold fingers would end up holding Pure Vanilla's arm in an almost bruising grip as his eyebrows knit and his thin lips twisted into a grimace. Most times, it would leave red marks that quickly faded once rubbed a bit, but on nights when his nightmares would leave him choking on the cool, dusty air and scrabbling to tear the blankets off, a few scratches would be left in his wake.

        It was on one of those nights, when he'd ripped a sheet for fear it was a chain around his ankle, that his hazy and incoherent thoughts took him out from the comfort of soft sheets to the unheated and harsh wooden floorboards. In his panic, he hadn't stopped to think about how he couldn't walk more than three shaky steps without a support, and promptly fell to the floor with a bitten-out cry muffled by the bite of a lip. The resulting sound woke Pure Vanilla, who kicked his lean legs off the side of the bed with a hit of anxiety.

        Shadow Milk did not have the energy to conceal his pain. His head bowed as his thin hair fell around his face, split ends just brushing the floor. His legs, with open wounds seeping fresh blood into his bandages, spasmed. He curled in on himself, unaware of how Pure Vanilla got down to the floor himself, only realizing he was there when unkempt locks of sapphire-blue hair were tucked behind his ear, followed by a whispered comfort.

        He flinched, his lips twitching and resisting the urge to pull the defiant snarl and show of teeth he was so used to. Instead, he recoiled, the feeble muscles in his arms only being able to drag him slightly back. His head pulsed with pain that sat deep in his skull, temples throbbing painfully with each pulse of his rotten heart. "No, no, no... Go away. I don't wanna hurt you."

        Pure Vanilla took his hand back, gripping his souljam and taking a step back, not wanting to suffocate the vessel of deceit with his presence. "You fell, I can't just go away. Are you okay? I smell fresh blood, here--" He reached out for the towel that had been draped over the bedside table for the last few days, searching for a spot that wasn't yet dirtied by blood or other gross bodily fluids. Shadow Milk only dragged himself to the corner further, wincing as his limp legs dragged across the cold floor. "Stop it, your smell makes me sick, I, I... It's too cold in here."

        His eyes were feverous, not narrowed into slits like usual. Sweat lined his sharp brows, his arms visibly quivering as they carried the weight of his meek body. Pure Vanilla internally facepalmed, his patience dissipating as he looked down on the shivering beast. Even after all his efforts to keep Shadow Milk in good health, he just had to get sick. One thing after another, there was always a reason why he had to stay behind in this prison of caretaking and cleaning.

        He lifted Shadow Milk the same way as always, a hand under his knees and a hand under his back. Shadow Milk stiffened quickly, growling as heat pressed at his temples and dripped down his neck and sides. Tears pricked at his glassy eyes as he bit back a bitter sob, a clawed and clammy hand reaching to cover his eyes. He spoke silently, as if anything above a whisper would tear his throat to bits. "Don't move too fast, it's... It's too much, it hurts. I'm sorry, just leave me on the ground, I don't wanna bother you..." He trailed off into choked sobs and whimpers, the man holding him only looking down with a pained expression on his face.

        Pure Vanilla only muttered soothing nonsense into the shell of Shadow Milk's ear, feeling as if he could cry himself. "Shh, shh. You're okay, I'll get you something, it's alright. There's no need to cry, it's only a fever."

        It did nothing to console the miserable Shadow Milk, who twisted around in his counterpart's hold, bitterly gripping onto pristine white robes and burying his face in the soft folds of the golden-and-white fabric. "This is so pathetic, I'm an embarrassment. I miss my spire. I miss my minions, I..." His quiet pleas devolved into heart-wrenching sobs. Pure Vanilla paid no mind to the useless comforts he sang like incantations, not even sure if they brought any comfort to the poor thing in his arms.

        He couldn't stand the pained, weak sobs that shook the beast's wiry body, sitting down on the bed, with Shadow Milk still in tow. Hearing the beast cry for things he couldn't give, pray for people he wasn't-- it reminded Pure Vanilla that he would never truly be anything that Shadow Milk wanted. "Bluebird, shh. Please, stop crying, it's okay. I'll give you anything you need, just--"

        And with that, the cries ceased.

        Shadow Milk, who'd had obedience beaten into each bone and sinewy muscle in the Silver Tree, learned to listen when he was told that he was crying too loud, or that he was struggling too much. He looked up with teary eyes, a clawed hand sealing his mouth with a shaky grip, muffling his sobs. He promised himself he wouldn't cry again, wouldn't make such an utterly pitiful and disgusting scene of himself again. He bowed his head, his forehead falling just below the sky-blue souljam clasped upon golden robes that taunted him with their purity.

        Pure Vanilla could only watch, feeling as if he'd just skinned a lamb with a rusted knife. Even as Shadow Milk's sobs and wishes for the past devolved into unconscious twitches and sighs as he slipped into sleep, it brought him no comfort. He did not sleep that night, only sat upright in vigil, telling himself that he needed to for Shadow Milk's sake.

        In the morning, he laid the beast atop his own pillow instead of the clawed-up, blood-stained one that was undoubtedly Shadow Milk's own. He walked out of the guest room, his staff clicking in time with his footsteps. He scribbled out a small note and pinned it to White Lily's bedroom door, informing her that he'd be leaving with Shadow Milk in tow the next day. He stopped at the library, returning to records he'd borrowed the previous day, and returned to the room.

        Shadow Milk was still asleep, and Pure Vanilla didn't dare wake him up. He wet a cloth with cold water, wrung it out, and put it over his head, standing in reverent silence, taking in the sight of the calm beast for a moment before smoothing a thumb over his cheek and mumbling, "When you get better... I hope you'll let me be there to see it." He briskly turned to run himself a bath for the first time in ages, not noticing how the beast's nictitating membrane slid open in keen acknowledgement of the passing remark.

        Since they'd been here, Shadow Milk was the only one to use the bath. Pure Vanilla was okay at masking the way he'd grow dirty without bathing or cleaning himself, and he seldom gave himself the simple pleasure of a long, hot bath. It was almost unfamiliar how steam gathered in the bathroom and clung to his bare skin, how his robes pooled at the floor like liquid as he stepped out of them and into the water, carefully tying his hair in a braid to keep it dry. When was the last time he'd even tied it up like that? Who knows.

        He must've sat in there for at least an hour, only picking himself up with a deeply contended sight, quickly frowning when he looked down to see the amount of debris lingering at the edges. Hair, bits of string, dirt, other things that he didn't want to even question how long they'd clung to his skin and robes.

        As he dried himself up, he took a moment to collect things he'd need to take care of Shadow Milk in transport back to Crispia: bandages, disinfectants, usual toiletries, whatever else would be useful. It was all placed in a bag that he moved to the bedside as he left the bathroom, sweat and the scent of lavender soap still lingering around him. The bath put him in a noticeably better mood, and he took the bold step of shaking Shadow Milk's shoulder gently, asking him to wake up.

        He did just that, grumbling and pawing at the cloth on his forehead. "..." He didn't speak for a moment, his thick tongue sliding over his teeth in an almost predatory manner before he spoke in his sleep-ridden, husky voice. "...What?"

        Pure Vanilla sat down near him, twisting and facing the beast with a hopeful smile written on his face. He placed a hand over Shadow Milk's thigh, which was under the blankets, worry worming at the back of his mind as he still felt bone under the blanket. No matter how much he helped the beast eat and drink, he was still two pounds away from being a skeleton. It was slow, but he was getting better. "We're leaving to go back to the Vanilla Kingdom in the morning tomorrow... I'm sorry for the short notice. We can't overstay our welcome here."

        Shadow Milk bitterly growled, his head limply falling back on the pillow that wasn't his. "You're taking me back there...?" His eyes dilated as he spoke, realizing the gravity of it all with each word, recalling his last little visit to the Kingdom. "I'm sick. I don't-- I don't know what to say. Please. There's nothing left for me anywhere." He wanted to cry out and return to his spire with a flick of his old cane, he wanted to endlessly chatter with his minions, he wanted to torment the other beasts-- he wanted to go home.

        The scent of soap and the heat still radiating from Pure Vanilla drew him in unconsciously, his feeble body curling in as he half-assedly lent an ear to the explanation that followed. Pure Vanilla swallowed, gently rubbing his thumb in circles on the beast's thigh. "This isn't where I belong, it isn't either of our places to feel welcome here. A change of scenery will be good, just trust me. You'll be better soon."

        As much as the beast wanted to have the liberty of being physically able to handle magic again, to perform plays and numbers without breaking a sweat, he didn't know if he could trust anyone anymore. Since he'd been sealed and stripped of all that was him, he'd begun to worry if he truly knew anyone without having eyes hiding in the shadows to see them when they weren't looking. After all, every person is an actor outside of the walls of their own homes.

        What he didn't know was that his legacy of deception and insincerity still carried on. He never believed that his minions picked up on Dark Moon Magic as easily as he'd wished, but the searing purple eyes that blinked slyly in the corners of White Lily's bedroom said otherwise. Though they were not the sinister ultramarine of the Master of Lies himself, their slitted pupils were familiar to anyone who'd encountered a particularly gossipy performer before.

        And what did those eyes see, peering out from the shadows? They saw a particular garden of the Silver Tree, emerald robes trailing behind her and whispering along the floor, the scent of poisonous lilies clinging to her like perfume.

        In her soft hands, she held a piece of paper, and upon that piece of paper were words scrawled in a familiar cursive that needed no introduction to her keen eyes. Those words were simple, but said quite enough. 

        White Lily Cookie,

Thank you for your kindness in providing me a safe space to tend to Shadow Milk. He is doing well, and we will be leaving the Faerie Kingdom tomorrow morning to return to my Kingdom. I'm sure you'll be glad to have us out-- the suite I've borrowed will be cleaned to minimize inconvenience caused to you.

Pure Vanilla Cookie

        Her face twisted in a conflicted expression, her fingers relaxing to let the note fall to the floor. She sighed, rubbing her head. "It's not my choice to make, but.. How can I be sure he's handling it alright? Ugh..." Her words were gentle in tone, but she sounded almost like an old man's equally aged wife as she paced the vast inside of her quarters, footfalls quiet but firm. She muttered for hours, simply fretting. Such was just the nature of White Lily Cookie.

        The eyes under the bed and in the corners curled into crescents, full of personality and sinister schemes before blinking one last time, not appearing again afterwards. White Lily was none the wiser, too worried with finding a book to drown out her thoughts with.

        Just before dawn, she woke up, briskly rushing herself to Pure Vanilla's guest room in hopes of catching him before he took off with Shadow Milk. The Kingdom was as familiar as the back of her hand, and even in the low light of dawn, she had no problem sprint-walking over to knock at the door.

        Three timid knocks, no response. A worried call of Pure Vanilla's name, no reply. She sighed shakily, internally apologizing as she twisted the ornate silver doorknob and peeked inside in hopes of finding her old friend still there.

        And there he was... standing before a half-naked Shadow Milk who covered his face with a clawed hand while sobbing, stretching his arm out as the healer methodically wrapped gauze over a crusty, black-edged wound. The light of a lamp illuminated the room, and the silent, cold morning air held still. The warm yellow light illuminated the silhouette of Pure Vanilla, whose closed, cream lashes and glossy golden hair painted him in the image of a god.

        She only tapped on the doorframe with a chewed-up nail, looking away from the sinful sight of Shadow Milk. "Pure Vanilla, why didn't you answer the door?" She looked onwards as he continued with the work of changing the beast's bandages, not once looking up to meet her eyes. He hummed quietly, only speaking up after the bandage was thoroughly covering the wound. "I can't just leave him with a bandage dangling down. What is it?"

        Her crimson eyes watched him smile at the beast and give the fresh bandage a gentle pat, sharply watching him chew the inside of his lip. It was one of the little things he'd done since childhood to comfort himself when he was worried or anxious, and she knew. She only nodded dutifully, gesturing for him to follow as she stepped halfway out of the doorway. He did as she suggested, following candidly with a tried gait.

        She pulled him into a hug when he was within arm's reach, digging her face deep into the crook of his neck, drawing in the warm scent of vanilla that accompanied him wherever he went. Her nimble fingers traced over the embroidery of his robes tenderly before she spoke, almost entirely muffled by the hair and fabric in her face. "Please, be safe. Come to visit me more often, too. I'll miss you."

        Something in him was absent as Pure Vanilla blankly stared outwards for a moment before shaking his head fondly, combing fingers through her hair as he spoke. "I'll be okay, don't worry. I'll come back as soon as I can, Bluebird."

        And behind them, the beast's eyes became daggers and his claws became rakes as he watched.

        He watched those same insincere comforts fall on the ears of another. He watched a tender embrace that he'd never know, he watched affectionate pleasantries fly about that he'd never be allowed to catch. He was a wretched beast, and as much as he worked to redeem himself, he knew he'd never be above... this. A poor wretch that could only be called a waste of time.

Notes:

I feel like I'm going to start regretting using numerals for the chapters very soon... It gives a bit of personality, but if I'm bad at reading numerals, everyone else must be too. If you asked me to write 4, 5, and 6 in proper order at any given time, I would fail. Completely.

Mysterious purple eyes that have a connotation with shadows?? I wonder where those could be from... Definitely not a very vague but recurring outside force keeping the story moving.

Chapter 14: XIV. What dread hand, and what dread feet?

Summary:

        Something minute changed in Shadow Milk's expression for a short moment, his pupils widening and his claws twitching in a flash of anger. He felt sickened and enraged by that kindness; it fed the anger constantly within him like coal to a fire. Within a moment, it was gone, the jester left to question the erratic compulsion to hurt. He ignored it, opting to cover his half-snarl by turning it into a grin. "It's... this is weird. I haven't had friends in a long time." For once, his lips didn't weave a lie.

His confession was met by a fond rub to the back of his hand alongside a warm smile. Pure Vanilla got to his feet easily, taking his staff in hand and facing Shadow Milk until the last moment. "I know. I can't say any different for myself... We'll learn together, okay? Just sit in here for a moment, I'll go get us something to eat. I'll make sure to get something light for you

                Surprisingly, the airship ride back to the Vanilla Kingdom was calm. Shadow Milk's fever went back to something relatively serene, only showing itself in how he'd curl up in his seat and bow his head while lowly whining. He wouldn't contest being touched or fretted over; he'd only narrow his eyes and flinch a bit if a particularly sensitive spot was touched. 

        Pure Vanilla delighted at the progress-- Shadow Milk hadn't been one for much chatter after being retaken out of the Tree, so his silence wasn't unfamiliar or concerning. As much as he expected the beast to continue refusing care and threatening to vomit and bite the whole ride home, it was just as surprising to see the jester sitting with his claws quaintly folded in his lap, staring forward and off the railings with a tranquil gaze.

        Shadow Milk only complained about his nausea and temperature a few times, opting to cling to the consistently warm and soft robes of Pure Vanilla for comfort. He was relatively monotonous the whole trip-- not even complaining about the bumpy landing or sickeningly sweet winds that blew the grasses of the Vanilla Kingdom that he would've certainly complained about a year ago.

        He was walked to the castle slowly, his counterpart's pace slow and leisurely. Pure Vanilla barely focused on the beast the whole walk, looking over his kingdom with the proud, contented gaze of a veteran returning after war. He stopped a few times to point out flowers or places he liked to Shadow Milk, who mustered a few weary smiles before continuing to trudge forward with a slight limp, awkwardly.

        Pure Vanilla assumed the limp would be permanent, judging by how severe his injuries were. He was getting much better, yes, able to walk a block by himself before asking for help, but he was still completely incapable of doing something himself. Firm scar tissue bound his arms and legs and kept him from the dexterity he'd prided himself on as a performer, and twisted and misaligned but healed joints would never allow him to be active for long periods again.

        And even as Pure Vanilla brought the beast to the medical wing, fussing over his wounds and gently rubbing creams into scars and joints, he seemed oddly accepting. Shadow Milk would occasionally wince or squirm when the changing of bandages hurt, but he wouldn't cry as he did a day ago. He'd look down on the healer's work with an analytic gaze, sharp pupils tracing each movement, lips still and mouth silent. Pure Vanilla assumed it must've been from fatigue from the 8-hour ride home, as he felt quite the same. 

        When the beast was escorted back to the former king's quarters, he didn't make jabs about being imprisoned again or being restrained, only followed with a pensive look on his face as he followed his counterpart with relative ease. Pure Vanilla flicked on the light and sat on the bed with his usual soft smile intact, beckoning Shadow Milk to do the same with a pat to the bedsheets. The beast listened, his face flat as he avoided eye contact, his eyes detached with fatigue, but his body language still suggesting he was listening.

        The idol of Truth spoke up, fiddling with the ends of his robes as he murmured in a soft, comfortable tone. "I'm proud of you for making it here okay." His legs lay over the edge of the blankets and bedsheets, idly kicking back and forth as he continued. "Originally, I was very worried when you began to run a fever, I-- well, you're not better yet, but that's besides the point; you're making a lot of progress."

        His eyes shifted from the ground to Shadow Milk's hands that peeked out from the borrowed white robe he wore, a beautiful contrast to the golden accents on the sleeves. "I've never had a patient as wounded as you, and yet you recover so quickly! I'm nothing short of relieved. I truly believed that you were going to..." He paused. He was already talking enough for the two of them, embarrassment wriggling in his chest as he cast a glance at Shadow Milk's downcast eyelashes, his sharp features taking a bland and bored look.

        The beast looked up, blinking absently before awkwardly nodding, waving a clawed hand dismissively. "Yeah. I know." Pure Vanilla's expression turned a bit somber as he reached out for Shadow Milk's hand, sincerity dripping from each movement like sweet syrup. "I'll be here the whole time, Shadow Milk. Whatever you need, just ask me." As much as a commonplace comfort it was, he meant it. Pure Vanilla would never lie.

        Something minute changed in Shadow Milk's expression for a short moment, his pupils widening and his claws twitching in a flash of anger. He felt sickened and enraged by that kindness; it fed the anger constantly within him like coal to a fire. Within a moment, it was gone, the jester left to question the erratic compulsion to hurt. He ignored it, opting to cover his half-snarl by turning it into a grin. "It's... this is weird. I haven't had friends in a long time." For once, his lips didn't weave a lie.

        His confession was met by a fond rub to the back of his hand alongside a warm smile. Pure Vanilla got to his feet easily, taking his staff in hand and facing Shadow Milk until the last moment. "I know. I can't say any different for myself... We'll learn together, okay? Just sit in here for a moment, I'll go get us something to eat. I'll make sure to get something light for you so your fever won't worsen." His kind words and consideration fell on empty ears, the owner of which stared out the sliding door with a keen look, like a tyger chasing prey.

        As Pure Vanilla went off to fetch dinner, singing a song like a naive child, Shadow Milk narrowed his eyes at the spot he was looking at, a pensive hum leaving his mouth as he looked on. A familiar smell lingered in the air-- that of warm red wine, deceptively sweet-smelling grapes, and syrup that tickled his throat in a way that sickened him with its sweetness. A bush just outside the door quivered with movement, a pair of ruby wings fluttering in protest as the teen attached to them struggled to gain their footing.

         A similarly sinister man followed, a knowing smirk plastered on his face as he leisurely strolled to follow her clumsy footsteps. The two seemed to banter for a moment, their words inaudible behind the panes of the door. The younger of the two, a girl in her older teens with a fluffy dress and pointy fangs, rushed up to the door, a sharply clawed finger tapping upon its glass. She frantically pointed a finger at the monster, still sitting on the bed in white robes, who apathetically slumped and stared on in mild disbelief.

         The taller of the two gave his microphone a bombastic spin, sneering at the younger girl before waving a puff of magic at the lock on the door, straightening out his suit and casting a weary but curious look at Shadow Milk, who watched with sharp eyes. They all knew each other, and there was no denying that.

         And that was why it was so familiar, how they entered the king’s bedroom in reverence of Shadow Milk, the two of them taking to their knees before him. Black Sapphire’s facial expression oozed a mature sense of relief and comfort at the sight of his Master, and Candy Apple trembled with tears of joy as she barely contained herself. The Grandmaster of Deceit gave a smile, kicking his feet off the bed. He shuffled forwards, ordering them off the scratchy carpet.

         Shadow Milk never called the two his kids; he figured his treatment of them was too shameful to be considered that of a father figure. But as he opened his arms with a fond smile and the two gladly accepted the embrace, it was a protest to just what their relationships were at this point. No servant would be brought to tears at the sight of her Master safe and sound, and no Master would hug his attendants and tenderly nuzzle into the folds of the clothes he had handmade for them so lovingly.

         Black Sapphire’s touch was tender, as his keen eyes had long seen the prominent bones in his Master’s wrists and back. Candy Apple was none the wiser, clinging to her Master like a kitten in water. Shadow Milk’s expression was something unfamiliar, almost unsettling in nature- his lips curled in a smile that was not scathing, but soft and tender as his crested nose nudged into the nape of her neck, his hoarse voice softly offering comforts and reassuring words. Black Sapphire was held by their Master’s unoccupied arm, claws rubbing gentle circles against the minion’s pale amethyst skin. 

         The hug didn’t last too long, as Master Shadow Milk soon pushed them away with a bittersweet smile that still crinkled his eyes and poked his fangs through his lips in a slightly endearing way. His pupils were widened with affection, and yet, he still had to push them away. “You’re both morons.” He said with a huff. “‘Nilly will be back soon, go back to being creatures of night and apostles of Deception or whatever.”

         Candy Apple frowned and gave a miserable yelp as Black Sapphire tugged her back by the collar, smiling teasingly at her before bowing and giving Shadow Milk a wink. “We’ll be back at some point, Master.” His wings fluttered as he dragged his accomplice back out the door with him, a swagger in his step that had never changed since he was young. 

         As much as Shadow Milk covered his affections with sarcasm, he couldn’t help but wish they were with him. Pure Vanilla was nice and all, but he didn’t know the Beast of Lies like his attendants did. They knew exactly what he liked for dinner, knew how to amuse him and keep him happy, and they were just… familiar. As he watched them both slink into the shadows like he once did, it brought back memories of simple days. Days when he’d run them over the history of theatre, rehearse shows with them, and let them squabble while watching with a delighted snicker on the tip of his tongue.

         Shadow Milk only realized he was lost in a spider’s web of reminiscence until the door to the quarters opened, bringing with it the heavy and rich scent of fresh bread, spiced tea, and something sweet. He turned his head to see a foolish king, none the wiser to the trespassers in his room mere moments ago, carrying two trays of food that looked surprisingly good. The beast leaned over with his thin eyebrows arching in mild curiosity, then leaned back onto the bed, expecting to be served.

        Pure Vanilla gave a soft laugh, sitting down at the dusty chairs that surrounded an old fireplace that looked like it hadn't been loved in ages, all a few feet from the foot of the bed. He tilted his head, waggling a finger. "Come, now. I'm not one of your servants; we can eat together." Shadow Milk's expression returned to a neutral scowl at the mention of his minions who had left all too soon, a remorseful grumble leaving his lips as he heaved and got to his feet.

        Walking still hurt, even if it was just a few feet. Once he had a handle on his magic again, he'd be able to mask his limp again by floating and using illusions or skirts to make it look like he was using his feet. Shadow Milk was a master of illusion, after all. As he flopped down in the oddly pristine chair that mirrored the one his own parallel sat in, he gave a curious look to his hands. They had long been what he used to execute magic of all sorts-- maybe a little exercise wouldn't hurt.

        When Pure Vanilla watched the jester's hand reach out, he anticipated him to be reaching out for bread or a biscuit. When those sinister claws flicked in the direction of the fireplace and it roared to life with azure flames, a slight grin pulled at the corner of Shadow Milk's mouth as he watched. It quickly disappeared, however, as he turned his pinprick pupils to the silver dish full of treats. He chose a quaint little biscuit, staring at it with ire before eating it all in one bite.

        Shadow Milk was being odd, to say the least. He had gone quiet for the last few hours, and although it was entirely plausible that he was tired from the trip or anxious in a new place, he did not explain his behaviour. His wounds were healing inexplicably well, and his fever seemed to have died down, so what could it be now? The more Pure Vanilla got to know the jester, he got intimate with the fact that he was a fickle thing if nothing else. Bristling with anger one moment, silent for the next hour, and finally, bustling with theatrics and snark the next. The king had grown up on routine, and to have something so unpredictable living with him was certainly an adjustment, to put it lightly.

        Their meal was uncomfortable. Shadow Milk's eyes stared emptily at the fire as he idly chewed on bread and sipped on tea, his posture slumped and improper. Pure Vanilla didn't question and let him be, simply biting his tongue and eating his share quietly and with gusto to get it over with; eating was never fun, and having an oddly silent beast in the room didn't make it any better.

        With a resolute sigh, Pure Vanilla got up, making sure to only do so when his companion had finished eating. "You seem really tired... Here, I'll check your bandages once more, and you can go to bed, okay? I'll go out to tend to the kingdom while you're asleep so you can have the place to yourself, too." His words were soft, and only met by resignation as Shadow Milk wormed out of his borrowed robe, sticking his left arm out as usual. In any other case, it would've been concerning how compliant the beast was being, but Pure Vanilla took it as a sign that he was letting himself be cared for as he checked for blood or discoloration, humming in satisfaction and giving the beast a gentle pat on the shoulder before moving to look elsewhere.

        And after making sure the last major injury was faring well and healing, he stood up and filled the silence as Shadow Milk replaced his clothing. "You're still doing well, I'm proud. You've been struggling a lot less, so the inflammation in some of your worst spots is considerably better... Thank you for giving me a chance." Shadow Milk looked up with a profound smile, slight but meaningful. "It's good to be better, 'Nilly." His smile deepened as the latter offered an arm to assist the beast to his bed, linking arms and slowly ambling to the bedside. 

        He was laid down and asked if he was comfortable before Pure Vanilla explained where he'd go and what he'd do before coming to bed, claiming it was for Shadow Milk's peace of mind. He didn't really care, but it was amusing nonetheless, and the sweet, rich timbre of the healer's voice was more pleasing than he'd like to admit. It almost lulled him to sleep, but he wouldn’t let that happen- he still had things to do.

         The beast bid his keeper goodnight in kind, waiting until the light turned off and the door clicked shut to stare at the roof. One might imagine he was pondering his existence or plotting something mischievous, but he only looked onwards with dilated pupils to meet eyes of royal purple that festered in the shadows. Darkness was once his domain, absolute; it was nice to see it reclaimed by someone who knew what they were doing.

         That someone turned into two somebodies, as a pair of eyes lit up just beside Shadow Milk’s face. It would’ve been fear-inducing if he didn’t feel the tickle of soft, cream-colored hair tickling his cheek. “You both can quit the theatrics, now. Come out.” The servants who twisted in the shadows obeyed his word, both of them standing in leisurely silence by the bedside. If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t be able to see the two, but Shadow Milk was blessed to have eyes as keen and sharp as the tyger’s, scathing in both dark and bright. 

         He didn’t move from his lying position, only turning his head and propping it up on a curled fist as he spoke. “I need you both to do something. Prove to me you both haven’t gotten rusty in my horrid absence, mmh?” Black Sapphire perked up dutifully, nodding and smiling politely while waiting for orders, reaching out to kick his partner in crime’s shin for fun, and acting as if he were innocent. Shadow Milk missed none of it, watching with nostalgia pricking at his eyes before speaking again. “You pair are to go to the craft store and get me some blue and black fabrics, as well as sewing supplies. I also need a corset and a fluffy underskirt. Deliver them in silence and provide an alibi if needed. Got it?”

         Candy Apple eagerly nodded, leaning in to her master as she delightedly fluttered his wings and showed her sweet little fangs in a devilish smile. “Making a new disguise, master? You better be using it to escape this stinky old grandpa! Oh, I’m so excited to see what your oh-so-skillful hands will make!” She tittered eagerly, only stopping when her Master didn’t explain, only waving a hand dismissively. The older of the servants nodded, not daring to pry into Shadow Milk’s flippant behaviour.

         And then it was dark.

         And in that darkness, there is a stage.

Notes:

Genesis.

Chapter 15: XV. Tyger, Tyger.

Summary:

How sappy. The great Beast of Deception would never be lulled to sleep by lazy mutters of stories and novelties. “The only thing I want filled is my ears so I can’t hear you anymore.”

But even as he wove lies like a second nature, it was obvious how easily he was quelled by gentle touch and quiet praises.

        Pure Vanilla did not come to bed until late that night. When he'd managed to bring himself back to the bedroom, he didn't care to turn on the lights and get changed into something more comfortable; his hat was taken off, and he flopped down on top of the sheets, and that was all. He shuffled a bit closer to Shadow Milk than he should've, and in his tiredness, he did not once notice the two bags that sat by the beast's side of the bed, full of fabrics and frills and tucked away just behind the bedside table.

        The healer slept like a rock, only to wake himself up at the crack of dawn to take care of pressing matters that had been left to fester in his absence, much to his dismay. Unbeknownst to him, Shadow Milk hadn't slept at all that night, a true performer at heart- closely timed breaths, well-placed murmurs, some twitches and growls every once in a while, all crafting the perfect image of a sleeping beast. Once Pure Vanilla muttered useless goodbyes and praises to his (seemingly) asleep form and left, he cracked an eye open. 

        Sliding out from other the covers like a sly fox, he stretched his aching limbs, a pleased smile twisting his lips as he spotted the supplies his minions had so dutifully brought him. Kicking the bag over to himself, Shadow Milk leaned over with deft hands that quickly took all the items out and laid them on the bed. His sharp eyes appraised it all, nails rapping on his cheek as he thought on just what to do with it all.

        Two big swatches of luxurious satin, blue and black, sewing needles and thread, pincushions, elastic and lace, a lavishly embroidered black corset decorated by sultry lace and ribbons, all tied together with an almost absurdly frilly underskirt that would've reached down to just around his ankles. It had been a while since Shadow Milk felt like making anything, but if he wanted any chance of being allowed in public, he'd have to look like something other than a conniving, evil beast of manipulation and lies.

        And with that thought, he chose a needle and black thread, laying the fabric swatches out on the flat floor. For this disguise, he'd be a quaint and sweet but equally lascivious and flippant minx of a woman, something appealing and soft but rough around the edges. Humming happily at the thought, he got to work, enticed by the idea of being able to cover for his profound and growing feeling of apathy by going around and bullying other cookies for fun. Perhaps he'd seduce a man and break his heart, maybe he'd pull a prank and pull the sweetest face to mitigate blame; oh, the possibilities!

        Shadow Milk had long been a master of crafting and sewing. Every outfit his minions owned was handmade by him; each velvety embroidered suit, each puffy and playful dress, was all crafted by his own clever hands. The beast also made many of his outfits as well, and he had made so many things that at this point, he no longer needed patterns and stencils. The measuring tape twisted up in the bag of supplies was quite enough, and Shadow Milk took a peek at the skirt provided before roughly estimating how long the top skirt would need to be.

        To sew and cut again was like returning to an old friend. Fabric slid easily between his keen and practiced fingers, and sheets of satin easily came together in the image of a flowing, two-toned evening skirt. After cutting and laying it all out, it only took Shadow Milk two minutes to realize how much he was going to miss the old sewing machine he kept in his bedroom at the spire. Come to think of it, he just missed his spire. He had a massive bedroom filled with wonderful trinkets and decorations, an entire closet dedicated to sewing materials, piles and piles of craft things, and an old sewing machine that didn't nearly as well as the Fount of Knowledge did.

        As Shadow Milk reached for the needle and thread that his minions had brought, it felt incredibly odd sewing by hand for once. He was so used to the feeling of fabric under the foot, the gentle hum and shake of the old machine, and the way its simple mechanisms allowed him to lose his unpleasant thoughts in favor of focus. Not that he was bad at sewing by hand, but it was incredibly inconvenient. So many stitches and ways to poke oneself, so much time spent on just one seam; he missed being able to flick a switch and press a foot pedal.

        The process was as calming and intriguing as it was annoying, the beast losing patience and sitting back with a loud groan. His fingers had gotten poked more than a few times, and his back ached to no end after sitting on the floor on a scratchy carpet and bending over a pile of fabric for what must've been hours, judging by how the sun went from hitting the headboard to Shadow Milk's left shoulder and heating it unpleasantly. The beast was a sweaty, aching mess, and wanted to leave the room. He would just pick himself up and go, but didn't know if he was allowed out by himself.

        As if he heard his name being called out between the lines, Pure Vanilla knocked on the door, waiting for an aggrieved 'yeah' from Shadow Milk to come inside, a soft gasp leaving his mouth as he laid eyes upon the mess of fabric shreds, needles, thread, and other things he didn’t need to think about. His room was always pristine… “Oh, I see you’re… enjoying yourself. Got into the castle’s storage rooms, I assume?” 

         Shadow Milk regarded him with a silent glare, rolling along with the lie that had just been served to him on a platter. “Mhm.” Pure Vanilla stood in the door, not daring to even step in and disturb the controlled chaos he hoped the beast contained within it had a handle on. “Regardless, um… I was wondering if you’d like to go to the library with me? I want to see how well you’re recovering.” Uh-huh, check in on Shadow Milk. That was it.

         The beast didn’t say yes, but he folded his skirt up carefully and tossed it onto the bed with the other scraps of fabric. He ambled over to Pure Vanilla, tugging at his robes while clicking his tongue disapprovingly. “You’ve got a little nick on your robes, that won’t do.” The healer looked down to where his robes were being pulled at, and let himself be seated as Shadow Milk waved a needle and spool of thread over with a burst of magic, the shade of the abyss. “Your magic seems to be coming in well.”

         Shadow Milk hummed, threading the needle in a surprisingly quick manner. He mended the small tear easily, nimble claws tugging and pulling at cotton and thread alike, a melancholy tune rumbling his gritty voice as he worked. The smell of old wine and berries mingled with the scent of spiced vanilla that clung to their namesake, warm and rich. His eyes slitted as he focused, only spending around five minutes mending the fabric before sitting back with a tug of the thread and a pleased sigh.

         He looked up to Pure Vanilla, carefully snaking his hand under his arm and firmly linking it, standing up with a slight huff. “There. Now we can go.” The movement had become something mechanical and routine, not something kind or loving. Shadow Milk needed help walking, and Pure Vanilla needed... Well, that's not what mattered. What mattered was how Shadow Milk clung to his arm and followed him to the library.

        The beast had gone quiet for the last day, but as they walked together through the castle halls, he got out of his shell a little bit. Asking about hallways, places in the castle, and parts of the kingdom. Eventually, after idly passing on questions about the Vanilla Kingdom, he asked why they were going to the library of all places, and to that, Pure Vanilla answered, "It seems like a place you'd enjoy. The library also has some books written by the Fount of Knowledge, I--"

         He was cut off by a sharp tug to his arm and an oddly surprised look from Shadow Milk. "What? Those books are still around? I was sure they'd all be burned by now, are you sure?" Pure Vanilla met his eyes with a sort of empathetic joy for the beast, smiling and nodding. "Yes, I actually consulted one of them, trying to figure out where you were." Shadow Milk seemed genuinely shocked, continuing to walk despite seeming completely floored.

        Their chatter had passed enough time for them to arrive at the oak and stained glass doors to the library, their golden hinges creaking open like a raspy greeting as the two walked in. Shadow Milk mulled over his thoughts enough to speak as he was guided leisurely through rows and rows of tomes and encyclopedias, his gaze skeptical. "You're really serious. Which book was it? I didn't even think my writing would be comprehensible to most cookies, let alone helpful." He didn't care to look where he was being led, looking up to Pure Vanilla with stars in his eyes, listening eagerly. 

        The healer smiled fondly, running a hand along rows of book spines, tapping on one and beckoning the old Fount of Knowledge. "It's this one-- something something nature of the souljam. It told me enough what I had to know to find you..." Shadow Milk's eyes followed sharply, his hands reaching out for the almost primordial book, his monstrous claws scraping against leather and parchment, pages flipping under his hands as his pupils flitted about the text. "You don't say..." 

        Hearing of who he once was made him oddly happy, knowing the Fount's purpose had been adequately served and that, in theory, he had no reason to endure the torture of living anymore. That thought, however, was quickly shooed off as Pure Vanilla's fittingly warm and low voice chased off his thoughts with gentle murmurs of useless and forgettable topics. Shadow Milk played along, putting up with listening for a while before his legs ached from standing, and he asked to go sit down.

        As Pure Vanilla watched the beast shift from foot to foot, he considered just how sad it was that he'd ask for something so human as to sit down and rest. He granted the wish regardless, taking Shadow Milk to a familiar leather armchair, old and cracked. He brought up a chair to sit on for himself, taking a seat close enough to the beast that he could feel the slight heat radiating from his frail, bony body. "Do you want me to read to you? If there's anything specific, I promise you that my castle's library has nearly every book out there."

        Shadow Milk smiled and nodded, looking down at his hands before speaking up. He wanted to test how long the old fool would leave him alone for-- and so he asked for two old, obscure books. "I do like A Brightness Long Ago... maybe Coriolanus as well? Those were some of my favorites back when I spent all of my time either reading or writing." Pure Vanilla nodded, not even asking for authors or publication dates as he scampered off into the labyrinth that was the library.

        And outside that library, two gossipy servants leaned upon brick walls and chattered amongst themselves. You already know the names of these two, and thus, they need no lavish description.

        Black Sapphire nodded along pensively as Candy Apple peeked in the window with a sneer, her sharp and young eyes scathing like sandpaper. "I think something is up with our Master," she hissed as she picked at her long nails. "He's putting on a performance for that blind old bat. Don't'cha think?" She gestured to the beast that sat in his chair, waiting, but looking quite sinister, even in robes of pure white that he hadn't yet managed to shed.

        He would agree, their Master sure was being odd. Black Sapphire hummed and gave his microphone a lazy spin, watching its faces glimmer in the light. "Someone's using their brain for once." He snickered, pushing past their almost-sibling rivalry and getting to the point. "He's being too perfect. Master likes perfection, but... It's odd. He's healing too fast and too easily, and for that matter, I've never seen him so agreeable." In the past, the two were Shadow Milk's closest allies and friends (if they could be called that), and he would never have gone along with their whims so easily as he did with Pure Vanilla now.

        His musings were met by a grumble from Candy Apple, who kicked at a bush and flared his wings in a bout of anger. "He's never liked us as much as he likes that... that caramel-chewing, grandpa-smelling, geriatric whelp! I don't even know why Master hasn't come home yet..." Her complaints were cut off by a firm pat to the head from Black Sapphire, who gestured to her that it was time to leave. "Shh, you're bad at sneaking. I'm sure all will be okay, just... Give him some grace."        

        As a renowned host and versed performer, Black Sapphire knew that patience was a virtue, and as much as the two believed they were rotten to the core, their Master brought out something undeniably good in them. They bantered as they disappeared off into the crowds on the streets, no longer caring to gossip about the almost cheesy domestic activities unfolding in the library.

        Pure Vanilla had long since returned with the two books, sitting down beside Shadow Milk and leaning in as he flipped pages of aged ink and parchment, his voice a warm murmur against the shell of Shadow Milk's scarred ear. The beast didn't quite care for the stories, as he'd already heard them thousands of times, ages ago. As much as the papers and bindings themselves had changed, the stories within never did.

        The air was welcoming. It smelled of old papers and scented candles, and of course, a hint of vanilla. The niceties didn't last too long, as Shadow Milk soon grew restless, fidgeting with his clothes and jiggling his leg. He shut the book in Pure Vanilla's hands, moving to stand up with a huff. "Okay, okay. I don't want storytime anymore, I wanna go back and sew. You've had too much excitement for today." 

         Pure Vanilla candidly took the beast’s spindly claws in his hands, guiding him back to the bedroom as if it were his job. Perhaps it might’ve been, actually… He adopted an easy pace as he learned to accommodate Shadow Milk’s new limp, not wanting to push anything. “What are you making, exactly? I see it’s a skirt, but why?” He tilted his head as the jester grumbled, his voice returning to that resigned monotone. “I can’t leave the castle if I still look like the beast I am, I need to become something presentable. I’m making a disguise.”

         His words were odd. There was clearly something deeper, something behind that barely happy tone that seemed too forced to be real— but still, Pure Vanilla didn’t dare pry. He changed the subject slightly, distracting his fuzzy eyes by looking at the many, many windows and flower pots that decorated the halls of his castle. “I see. The beasts have become relatively irrelevant to the public as of late, but I’ll trust your judgement.”

         Shadow Milk grinned. He was trusted, Pure Vanilla really believed whatever he said. In all truth, he didn’t quite know how to feel about that fact; it had been a long time since someone trusted him, and he didn’t know if he should abuse it or not. He stuck with the latter for now, forcing a smile as he was dropped off at the bedroom doors. Saying goodbye was too much work, and so he simply waved and ushered Pure Vanilla off.

         He returned to work, eager to be able to leave the castle once his wonderful little disguise was done. It was time consuming and utterly mind-numbing, but it was worth it. His predatory eyes becoming glossy from restlessness and excessive focusing began to hurt later into the night, but he would keep working. As long as Pure Vanilla wouldn’t be in the room to lecture him, he could bear one long night. 

         Hundreds of seams, elastics, and lace appliques later, a knock came at the door, followed by a fondly frustrated sigh. It was Pure Vanilla, of course. “Oh, dear… you look like a ghost, you should’ve been asleep so long ago.” His words were soft, but as unintentional as it was, it still poked at Shadow Milk’s erratic mood. This time, it became something bitter and sad, something that reminded him of torture and dark, empty nights devoid of food or solace.

         He tossed aside his project with a sigh, taking everything off the bed haphazardly. His body screamed for sleep, and following Pure Vanilla’s well-versed and relaxed lead, he forced himself into the embrace of the bedsheets and pillows, and eventually the embrace of his counterpart as well. 

         In the dark quietness that followed, the beast dared to open his mouth and speak. “I don’t think I deserve this,” he mumbled into the sheets. A warm, flaxen hand ran up his side, a callused thumb smoothing over his scarred skin.  Pure Vanilla’s words filled the abyss that was the night, his rich and beautiful tone like the taste of a sweet tea. “Don’t worry. Silence gives you time to think, and thinking can be bad sometimes. Do you want me to fill it for you?”

         How sappy. The great Beast of Deception would never be lulled to sleep by lazy mutters of stories and novelties. “The only thing I want filled is my ears so I can’t hear you anymore.”

         But even as he wove lies like a second nature, it was obvious how easily he was quelled by gentle touch and quiet praises.

         Perhaps it was just love that he needed to become something better his whole life. Maybe he really wasn’t beyond saving yet. He made steps in all directions, and his eyes still carried a mechanical emptiness as he spoke and performed tasks, but it could be saved. 

         It could be mended by careful touches and soft words, surely.

Notes:

If you haven’t remembered up to this point, drop a kudo or comment if you haven’t yet :3 I read every single one, and I’m always grateful to everyone that has decided to spend their time binging this.

Chapter 16: XVI. Burning bright.

Summary:

        The narrator was now a performer, clearing his throat and leaning into his microphone with a knowing smirk. "And, my loyal readers... With those words, the Lady in Azure opened Schrödinger's box. What happened to those two is only up to you, and in theory, nothing happened, as we might never get to open that box."

His pointer finger went straight out to the pair in the window, a black sapphire beset by a fine gold ring glistening in the moonlight. "Even if you wanted to see what happens, I don't. Goodnight, audience."

        The next morning, when the birds called and the flowers strained for the sun, Shadow Milk's disguise was ready. Tucked away behind the nightstand in a plain, beige bag sat every article of clothing that had been handpicked to weave the image of a beautiful woman who could be seen gallivanting around with the king. Both Truth and Deceit lay asleep in a warm bed until the latter stirred with a grumbled complaint, quickly rebuking the tender arms that held him in favour of sitting on the bed's edge and staring at the clock on the wall.

        12:27. They were both more tired than either of them would admit, sleeping in so long. Shadow Milk decided this was absurd, and whipped around to prod at Pure Vanilla after deciding what he had to do for today. "Wake up, pretty boy. We're gonna go out and explore today." His claws were mighty sharp, and although he kept their points curled away, his continuous jabbing still caused the healer to stir. 

        Pure Vanilla opened his eyes with a sigh and a deep furrow of his brows, wrapping his hands around the beast's wrists. Shadow Milk did not like being touched on his chain scars, and so he hissed and stood up as he watched his counterpart wake up. The latter sat up with an exhausted huff, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Oh... Now, you mean? We've both just woken up, give me a bit..." His pleas fell on the deaf ears of an already very-awake beast, whose quick hands already picked up his bag of clothing and dug through the contents, eventually pulling out a lavish corset.

        Shadow Milk lifted the item with an appraising eye, taking a peek at the size of it before placing it down and putting his hands on his hips. "Medium, hmm? That's not too bad. I've got the perfect disguise in mind to go running around in, 'Nilly, just you wait!" His elaborate facade of life and energy seemed to finally give in to something sincere, his sharp tone brightening the room and waking up poor old 'Nilly. His white robes were rumpled with sleep as he sat up, watching his beast buzz around the room. "That's nice." His words were not insincere; just slow so 'early' in the morning.

        He watched Shadow Milk pace over to his closet, his eyebrows furrowing as he watched the flippant thing rustle through his clothes. He was about to protest and shoo him away, but that'd probably make him look bad. "What are you doing?? Don't look too hard, you deserve all you find." The beast hummed absentmindedly, speaking frantically as he picked through white and cream robes, laughing triumphantly when he found a white, frilly blouse. "You look like you wear a small or medium, this works. I'm off to get dressed!"

        Just as quick as he'd woken, Shadow Milk was off to the bathroom to change, his bag of clothing in hand. Pure Vanilla watched in mild confusion at the quickness of it all, shaking his head before getting up to take care of himself. The antique, hand-carved vanity at the edge of the room greeted him like an old friend, the many cosmetics and hygiene products upon its lacquered shelves waiting to be used in his daily routine. 

        He'd brush his long hair, wincing when it tangled, but not caring to use products to tame it. He'd then clip it out of his face, putting cream on the spots where his skin flaked with dryness, and applying concealer to blemishes and eyebags that were too prominent not to feel worried about. In all honesty, Pure Vanilla didn't know the first thing about hair or skin care; he just did what felt vaguely right and didn't worry himself with figuring out what he actually should be doing.

        This routine was interrupted just as he started to cover his dark circles by a bustling jester-- no, woman, who clamored out of the bathroom, holding an underbust and calling out for Pure Vanilla in a charmingly mature voice.

        She got closer and muttered something about needing help putting it on, and oh-- the blouse she'd borrowed was fitted for Pure Vanilla, who was a man with a flat chest. She was none of those at the moment, and from the deepest pits of dignity, the king looked down with a nod, taking the black truss in his hands, giving a helpless look at the satin ribbons and eyelets.

        Shadow Milk tutted as she watched him think, taking it from him into her own slim, fair hands. She took out the ribbon and leaned into his ear to speak, her voice a honeyed murmur as she explained it all. Pure Vanilla paid attention, of course, but if it wasn't purposeful how she distracted him with well-placed touches and side-eyes, then he was simply an idiot.

        She turned around with a hum, gathering her long, thick tresses of hair and pulling it all over her shoulder. "There. Please don't be scared, I'll let you know when you've pulled enough. I can't suffocate just yet." Her last remark was a biting joke, but it felt a little forced. Pure Vanilla was none the wiser, lacing up the ribbons and gathering the rabbit's ears in his hands once it was all finally done and over with.

        His hands grazed her skin tenderly through the taut fabric of the blouse she wore, the material stretched in such a manner that the powder blue of her skin gave the pure white a slight undertone to it. Pure Vanilla leaned over to her side, letting her know he'd be tightening it; he'd heard horror stories of women who'd sacrificed their anatomy and health for a slim waist, and he would be a fool not to be somewhat scared of strangling Shadow Milk.

        The motions of tightening it were not horrifying at all. Pure Vanilla stopped with gusto when it was tight enough, not daring to pull the ribbons an inch further than what was comfortable. Loops of ribbon were tied together in the best bow he could manage, and it was over with.

        Shadow Milk spun around and looked in the vanity's mirror, a praising hum leaving her mouth as she looked at the king's work. "Hmph! Not too bad, maybe you are a keeper." She gave him a sinister look laced with that mischief that followed her like a ring of swords before, now toned down to something tame and almost sweet. "You finish up taking care of those blemishes... eugh. I'll let you gaze upon my glory in a moment, don't you worry." Just as quick as she came, she was back off into the bathroom.

        Within 10 minutes, she was back out, spinning Pure Vanilla in circles as she flaunted herself at him. Sharp eyeliner, the shade of glittering blue goldstone tapered into sharp ends that gave her the eyes of a predator, her hair done up in a simple but alluring blue bow, skirts and frills framing her body in a way that was both too demure and too risque at once.

         Pure Vanilla regarded her with a sweet smile as he grasped his staff, moving towards the bedroom door just slightly. "What's the occasion, Lady Shadow Milk? You make me look inelegant and undressed, haha." She followed after him easily, her hips and curves accentuated by the lavish embroidered corset she'd chosen. "Well, I wanted to go and find a nice spot in your kingdom. Something unpopulated, but worthy of me." The king sighed, agreeing with her 

        She bowed her head with a sly smile as the king opened the door for her, clinging to Pure Vanilla's side like the perfect piece of arm candy. The following stroll was surprisingly pleasant and peaceful, the Lady in Azure being dutifully escorted around the Vanilla Kingdom, through gardens, alleys, and quiet neighbourhoods. It was only until they came to a rather far-out farm that Pure Vanilla remembered that Shadow Milk had literally just crawled out of hell, and froze before running a hand down her side in worry.

        He looked up at her face, prodding at where keloids and lacerations once dirtied her fair skin. "Oh no, should you be wearing a corset? I don't know if your ribs have set yet, and your legs and joints... Are you okay?" Shadow Milk pushed his hands off with an indignant snort, scowling and letting a slightly amused grin pull at her lips. "I changed shapes. This isn't the same body. I'm fine. I can walk for days."

        Oh. That made perfect sense. Now he probably looked like a freak for putting his hands all over her and poking at her waist... "Well. Um... Since you're doing okay, how about we go for dinner to celebrate a bit?" Pure Vanilla looked over to the sun, taking a vague guess at the time. "It's probably around 3:30... We can take a detour behind the castle and go into town for dinner. Is that okay?"

        Shadow Milk covered her mouth with a coy grin, giggling softly and shaking her head. "Oh dear, what a gentleman. Of course it's okay." The gentle wind blew through the area, letting her intoxicating perfume of wine and rose drift over to Pure Vanilla, who stole a glance at her before looking away towards the path, acting as if her devilish eyes didn't see him.

        As they continued home, the sharp eyes that gave away Shadow Milk looked around each secluded spot with a deep unease and contemplation, her body present but her mind lacking. She made half-assed comments as they walked, like, “This spot is rather boring,” or “Not quite worthy of my resplendent glory.” It was odd, but Shadow Milk never had a problem with picking on things his counterpart liked in the past, so it was just normal.

        Soon enough, the sun began to set, and the tender grassy fields of the edges of Castle Town turned to bustling streets full of cookies wandering around in pairs or groups, chattering and drinking without restraint.

        Pure Vanilla seemed alive and at home in the jovial streets of the evening, waving and dipping his head at every passerby who greeted him and complimented him on his pretty little minx, not even dropping the lovely attitude towards men who made nasty comment to Shadow Milk, who was always quick to bear her unnaturally sharp teeth and let her pupils slit into pinpricks before returning to her disguise as the king's sweet accomplice.

        Like the gentleman he pretended to be for now, Pure Vanilla brought her over to a small, family-owned restaurant with significantly less foot traffic than the expensive steakhouses and gourmet chain restaurants that studded the streets like stars. Shadow Milk raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at his choice, but decided to trust in him for this. It was Pure Vanilla's kingdom, after all.

        A server came out in uniform, regarding the old king joyfully with a smile and a dip of the head. "Oh, your majesty seems to have found someone to go out with this fine night! Come, I'll take you both to the best seats in the house." Pure Vanilla smiled and made some sort of boring response, and Shadow Milk gave a skeptical look as she followed her 'date' along- be sure that he was nothing of the sort. 

        They were brought to a quaint table for two right near the front window, decorated by warm lights and a view of the bustling city outside. Shadow Milk sat down with a playful grin on her face, lifting her skirt and making sure it didn't bunch and look unsightly under her legs and thighs. Her slim hands, decorated by dark, navy blue stiletto nails, reached for a drink menu, already anticipating the question that was surely coming. With a glance at Pure Vanilla, she set her mind on something, looking expectantly at the waiter.

        Sure enough, "Can I get you two some drinks to start off with?" Pure Vanilla smiled, only asking for water. How disgustingly basic. Shadow Milk closed the menu and tossed it off to the side, grinning and asking for a wine. It had been so, so long since she'd had any sort of alcohol, and she was well-deserving of a treat by now. "I'll just have a glass of Zinfandel, please." The waiter nodded, giving some stupid comment about good tastes and running off.

        Pure Vanilla leaned forward and relaxed, placing his staff so it could lean up on the table in a good position. He looked up at Shadow Milk, his newfound timid gaze not knowing where to fall on the minx's body. "I didn't expect you to ask for that kind of drink," he started. "You seem like the type to order a bottomless soda and drain the restaurant' supply of iced tea."

        The lady gasped and put a hand over her full chest, shaking her head as if she'd just been cursed. "I'll have you know I can be both refined and, well, a beast. Actually, me'n Spice used to have eating contests back before the Tree, and he lost every time!" Her eyes lit up with nostalgia, tales of days long gone rolling off her tongue easily. "I've never seen him lose at something so often before... well, except for when I dared him to try my academy's 11th-grade astronomy final. The guy's an idiot."

        The night was slow and easy. Banter passed between Truth and Deceit as if they had been one since the dawn of time, and sentiments both sweet and sad switching up at the drop of a jester's hat. Pure Vanilla ordered a hamburger and fries, to which Shadow Milk delighted in teasing him for, because, really, who goes out to eat a burger with a drink of water? He said it was to save cost, but if the way he indulged in the lady's taste for steak and wine said anything, it was that he was just lame.

        No matter the cost of her meal, she enjoyed it nonetheless, saying that, "If I could choose a last meal, this would be it. I love steak." Although she ate politely and kept her lips off the fork to prevent smudging her sapphire lipstick everywhere, her sharp fangs still dug into the cut of meat with the fervor of someone who'd starved in the throes of purgatory for years.

        Once dinner was finished and the bill was paid, the Lady in Azure, just slightly tipsy, spun Pure Vanilla out of the diner in a flurry of skirts and satin, her sinister grin turning into something more genuinely delighted as the two tumbled into the street. Stepping down on her heels in a firm motion, she stopped their grandiose spin, just narrowly pulling the victim of her whims out of the way of a pair of passersby.

        A firm tug on her lean arm and poor Pure Vanilla was sent back into her grip, clever hands finding just the right places to hold him. Their hot breath mixed as she gazed deep into his pastel eyes, smirking devilishly. Her eyes were those of the fierce beast that ran circuses and shows with a flick of his hands, but turned into something much less threatening; still sinister, I assure you, but something more tame.

        Yet nothing was tame about how she tugged her counterpart into a kiss that was brief, but still long enough to taint his lips with a smudge of a signature blue. 

        A coy laugh came from those alluring lips, followed by an "Oh, my apologies. I thought it was smudge-proof... stupid drugstore vendor." That was really all she made of herself before nestling back into the crook of his elbow and tugging Pure Vanilla back in the direction of the castle. Stunned could not cover just what he thought of that, but he could most certainly not cause a scene in public.

        And so they walked home, arm in arm like they'd known each other for ages. Pure Vanilla quivered with worry and words that he mulled over and over in his mind, and the shameless minx that was Shadow Milk walked on with a deeply satisfied smile, still with that one fang poking out of her lip like it always had. Familiarly unfamiliar.

        Similarly so was the opening of the bedroom door, and the first step into the cold, dusty air that had sat in loneliness all night. Shadow Milk took hold of Pure Vanilla's staff, snaking her sly hand up its handle and throwing it onto the bed. She then pulled at Pure Vanilla's arm in a manner that left no room for argument, her smooth voice filling the room. "Help me get out of these clothes, 'Nilly." 

        He did as he was asked, pulling at the bow on her corset and unlacing it with a fevered hand. The creased satin ribbon came out slowly, each slip through an eyelet being one tick towards the end of Pure Vanilla's sanity as cookiekind knew it. There was so much he could say, so many things he wanted to say, so many things that shouldn't be said, all painting a dreadful picture of decision paralysis. 

        The corset was undone, and the round, natural curves of Shadow Milk's body filled themselves in. Her skirt rode low on her hips, just hugging the gentle slopes of where her pelvis dimpled her thighs. The ruffles of her borrowed skirt did nothing to hide how sinfully it painted her, the heavy, slightly spiced scent of her wine still lingering around her.

        "There, you can go take the rest off, now." Pure Vanilla spoke slowly, trying to con his way into time to think. His pitiful means did not fool the beast, who had long ago mastered tricks and sleights of hand, her eyes widening to drink in every last glimmer of light that framed the angel she'd trapped in her hands. She moved forward, denying him gently. "I can? Oh, joy."

        Her hands carded sultrily through Pure Vanilla's frizzy hair that practically cried for conditioner, her nails digging into the spot just where his skull met his spine in the way that would drive any worldly man insane. The scent of deep wine and cream mingled with spiced vanilla as she encroached on her victim so predatorily, her sweet gaze anything but deceiving.

        Pure Vanilla went to move her away out of fear, but only placed a hand on her shoulder that ended up cupping the crook of her neck. Shadow Milk snickered, leaning in. Her warm breath tickled the shell of Pure Vanilla's ear like his had done so many times, her mature and sultry voice something sinful. "But will I go and take my makeup and jewelry off, Pure Vanilla?"

        He sighed, not daring to fight a losing battle. "I don't know," he said simply, leaning over to drink in the familiar scent that was hers and hers only. To that, Shadow Milk snickered, tugging at the collar of her blouse. It was enticing, like the nectar of a Venus Flytrap; Pure Vanilla was weak to its scent, giving in dutifully. Letting Shadow Milk into his home and life was bad enough; it meant nothing if he were to give in to the beast's saccharine world of lies now.

        She smiled, sharp teeth glinting under the warm light of the lamps. "It's up to you, Mr. Can't-have-an-opinion-of-his-own. Do you like women with makeup?"

       A narrator watched from the eaves of a nearby house, his eyes glinting in a sick sense of joy as he watched the two fools. He loved drama, and nothing was more dramatic than romance and everything it brought with it. He spread his wings, tutting as he came up with a little dialogue to pass the night. Oh, how stupid that old king was for never closing his blinds.

        The narrator was now a performer, clearing his throat and leaning into his microphone with a knowing smirk. "And, my loyal readers... With those words, the Lady in Azure opened Schrödinger's box. What happened to those two is only up to you, and in theory, nothing happened, as we might never get to open that box."

        His pointer finger went straight out to the pair in the window, a black sapphire set upon a fine gold ring glistening in the moonlight. "Even if you wanted to see what happens, I don't. Goodnight, audience."

        And after all the events of the night were spoken for, the Lady in Azure relinquished her disguise, returning to a mangled beast.

        He did not weep at how his heavy keloids clung to his sides once again, or how his joints burned as he lay down in the bed. 

        He had found peace, and he was beyond pleased that he had come to terms with all that was him.

        Because tomorrow, the world will find peace with him, too.

Notes:

Cataclysm.

Chapter 17: XVII. In the forests of the night.

Summary:

⚠️THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF SUICIDE AND SELF-INJURY.⚠️
READ AT YOUR DISCRETION.

 

…for the best experience, listen to Mitski or something sad as you read.

        Like every morning, the silence that crept in was nothing but an ominous prelude to whatever Shadow Milk felt like doing the moment he woke up. Stillness feared the beast, because it stood no chance against his fleeting whims and ideas. The morning light siphoning through the blinds didn't dare frame him like an angel, because he wouldn't let softness creep onto his face even in the sweetest of dreams.

        Shadow Milk's slitted eyes opened slowly as he side-eyed the man sleeping beside him, smiling to himself when he saw Pure Vanilla fast asleep. The king was known for his awful sleeping habits, so it was no surprise he was sleeping like a log at 7 in the morning, and that was much to the beast's advantage as he slipped out from under the blankets and got to his feet as quietly as possible.

        He tiptoed over to Pure Vanilla's closet and dug around for something decent, scrounging up a black turtleneck and jeans- why did grandpa have a pair of jeans, anyway? Shadow Milk never saw him in any... Well, no matter. He had somewhere to be this morning, and only decent clothing was required. 

        He looked in the vanity, narrowing his gaze and letting many more azure eyes erupt in the depth of his hair, appreciating how it bettered his vision. He stalked about the bedroom like a scheming fox, his footfalls light and his sly eyes darting around for anything that could wake Pure Vanilla, for he didn't need to know that Shadow Milk was leaving. After all, the king was adamant about not being the beast's captor. He wouldn't want to hurt his feelings after sneaking out unannounced like he had to.

        A borrowed pair of boots later, and Shadow Milk was out. He closed and shut the door with the care that he'd had to learn, forcing Candy Apple to sleep when she was a child. His slim hands turned the knob slowly, and once the door was shut and he was free, he picked up a pace as fast as he could manage.

        In this form, his body still hurts. His legs are weak, and his muscles are withered like a corpse's, but he does not care. He doesn't care for the pain that follows him around; he doesn't care for the tapestries and flowerpots in the halls, either. No matter how many eyes he had, he would never look at such corny wastes of space with an appraising or pleased gaze- all he needed to do was focus on how Pure Vanilla led him in and out of the castle and recreate that route for himself.

        It took a few awkward turns and frustrated pulls at his inky hair, but Shadow Milk eventually found his way out of the uselessly large castle and went on his way. When he asked for Pure Vanilla to show him around the quieter sides of the kingdom, what he was really asking for was a place secluded enough to meet up with the minions he knew had been stalking him since he arrived in the Vanilla Kingdom.

        He'd chosen a desolate alleyway in which no people seemed to walk for months, not even the most sentimental or secretive-- well, until he arrived. His black leather boots clicked faintly on the old pavement, the echoes of his steps disturbed cobwebs and dust that had been building for months, the darkness embracing him like an old friend. It was cold and quiet, and teeming with an off energy that followed the Beast of Lies wherever he went.

        He clung to the sides of the narrow alley, eventually leaning on a wall and rapping his slim claws on the bricks of whatever building was behind him. His azure eyes were bright in the depressing darkness, their clever pupils picking at each crevice and nook in the bricks, searching for something that wasn't quite right. His breath came in quietly, his pointed ears listening for the slightest discrepancy of twittering birds and far-off chatter.

        Waiting grew boring, and he opened his mouth to speak. "I haven't lost it quite yet. I know you two are there. You've been here the whole time." His fangs flashed in an arrogant grin as his head shifted towards a particular spot in the alley, his grin only growing as two silhouettes came into view, their features clear even in the cold darkness. The barely audible static of a microphone, the bright click of heels following bouncy steps, they were all familiar noises.

        The taller of the two gave a low snicker, bowing his head to his Master in greeting. "You smell like vanilla. Having fun wearing the king's clothes?" Shadow Milk rolled his eyes, giving a playful shove to Black Sapphire's shoulder. "...Ugh. Aren't you both supposed to bully each other? I'm not here to be made fun of."

        Candy Apple leaned in, wafting the air surrounding the beast towards herself before wrinkling her nose and jumping back in mocking disgust. Just before the snarky retort came out of her mouth, Shadow Milk gave her a warning look before crossing his arms with an annoyed sneer. "I need you two to bring me some things from the Spire. I need the keys to the performance hall, my inkwell, parchment, a thick hardcover book, and one more thing. One of you needs to go into the old Recluse's tower and retrieve the doll inside. Got it?"

        His orders were met by eager nods from the two, although a suspicious look still lingered in the depths of Black Sapphire's obsidian gaze. Candy Apple giggled and clasped her hands together, her eyes wrinkling in a devilish smile. "Ooh, are you gonna possess it and drive that old geezer mad? Tee-hee, I'm sure you have a great idea. Come on, Black Sapphire, let's go!" The latter growled at her, dipping his head to Shadow Milk and assuring him they'd be back here soon before conjuring a portal and giving Candy Apple a good kick towards it.

        Shadow Milk watched them walk off bickering, a fond and eerily peaceful smile on his lips. Picking at his nails in the following silence, he muttered to himself, not caring if anyone heard him. "Those two will be fine," he mused. "They take good care of each other." Although they scarcely showed it, it was true. When Black Sapphire would spit excuses for why he had to skip a meal to fit into his suit, Candy Apple would threaten to toss food at him until he ate it, and Black Sapphire would return the favor by doing her makeup and outfits when she wanted to look nice, saying it was because she was 'too ugly without his help.'

        It was malformed and odd, their love. It was just what their Master had taught them.

        And soon, they returned, both of them holding the exact things Shadow Milk had requested. Black Sapphire had the keys and ink, stating proudly that Candy Apple couldn't be trusted with such precious things, the latter holding the plushie and book,  eagerly handing them over to Shadow Milk with an enthusiastic grin, delighting once he messed up her hair and praised, "I guess you did pretty good."

        Black Sapphire flared his wings, handing over his items with flair, practically begging for praise. A sly smile crept up their Master's face as he watched the display, turning his nose up dramatically. "Oh, you both suck. There, nobody wins. Happy?" The two servants grumbled at him, sparks practically flying through the air as they cast glances at each other. Shadow Milk waved a hand at them, twirling the keys on his finger. "You two can go, now. Go have a good rest, I've got stuff to take care of."

        At his orders, they disappeared again. A bombastic farewell and wave from Black Sapphire, and a sappy hug from Candy Apple, who giggled and ran off to pester her partner in crime. Their shadows melted into the darkness of the alley, and once Shadow Milk was sure he was alone, he went off by himself again.

        The pedestrian paths filled up with people as the morning stretched into its later hours, although none of them noticed the beast that crept about the backroads and dirt roads, slinking about in secrecy as he made his way to the last place in the Vanilla Kingdom he wasn't familiar with.

        A dirt road turned into paved stones lined by bushes and flowers, and the verdant greenery stopped at the foot of an old, wooden gate. The gate was weathered, and it seemed to have been painted long ago, judging by the meager slivers of peeling white that clung to its roughed-up edges. The hinge and lock creaked with rust and rare use as Shadow Milk stepped past it, his boots meeting soft grass that smelled of dew and livestock.

        Adrenaline filled Shadow Milk's veins as he looked across the vast, green field that was encapsulated by those old, half-dead fences, the smell and sounds of life and vitality flooding his keen senses. Lambs and sheep dotted the vales like splotches of white paint, their leisurely calls drifting through the rich air.

         Near the edge of the rolling horizon, a familiar old cottage sat amidst rustling grass like a painting. Near it was a formidable, but welcoming old tree, with sprawling branches that housed singing birds and gnarled roots that interrupted soft blades of grass. Shadow Milk wanted nothing to do with the cottage, but he made his way towards the tree, his meek calves aching as he made his way across rolling hills and singing vales.

         Tender soil sat at the bottom of the tree, and the beast folded his legs and plopped down, a sigh leaving his mouth. He gazed at his things— parchment and ink, a plush he’d made for the Recluse of himself, an old tome he’d come across as the Fount, and the keys to his beloved stage. First, he pulled out the book, not to read, but to use as a makeshift table.

         Upon it, he spread his sheet of paper, frayed at the edges and softened with age, and then the inkwell. A small drop of rich India ink stained the page, and Shadow Milk smiled at its imperfection. He dipped a luxurious quill’s nib into the pot, recalling how he’d write his signature cursive as the Fount so long ago. 

         Elegant curves and flourishes made his handwriting his, and the words he wrote were simple, but that’s not a story for right now. Shadow Milk hummed his most favourite song as he wrote, finding peace with himself and the vales that rejoiced at his presence.

         He set his parchment down, its surface scrawled with ink and a signature that tapered off in the shape of his souljam.

         He set down the keys beside where they sat on top of the old book, and gently put the stuffed Shadow Milk beside it, mismatched button eyes and a cute little grin making it look just like him.

         As the beast stood and gave his stolen, vanilla-scented clothes a firm wipe, he took a breath. In and out, and with that last sigh, he knew he’d be nothing to the world. He thought about the people he loved, thought about who he’d been and who he was.

         With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the disguise he’d named Shadow Milk Cookie, and the Fount of Knowledge saw the world for the last time. Stars and unknown bits of knowledge that bent only to his absolute will all swelled and twinkled in the beautiful mass of his hair, and his eyes turned to something soft; something mismatched, of gold and aquamarine, something that had seen something that it dared never dispel.

         Shadow Milk kissed Pure Vanilla once, but he didn’t do it right.

         He was calm, but his curling claws shook as he looked at them and placed them upon his throat. He felt the scars of his punishment, felt the chain scars that used to define him. 

         He’d make that kiss right when he found a way back from where he was going.

         The Fount dug those dirty claws into his flesh, tearing open raised scars of old with a shuddered breath as blood welled at his fingertips. The heavy and noxious scent of metallic blood overwrote the soft tones of vanilla that clung to that stolen, old turtleneck.

         One drag of the claws, and an involuntary shiver, and a taste of sickening, warm blood bubbled up in his throat. It was not necessarily violent— The Fount had already come to terms with his decision and lived his last days in manic joy.

         Perhaps it was the delirium that made him want to giggle and fall over with a cry, perhaps it was the overwhelming joy of feeling Genesis coming for him. Tearing at his throat like a poor old tyger grew boring, and so his narrowed claws lowered to his stomach, lifting the cotton turtleneck and tracing shapes in blood over the scarred and broken expanse of his stomach.

         His thin skin, comprised largely of scar tissue, gave way easily, letting the beast cut himself down in his last act.

         Pure Vanilla never deserved him. Not because he was too good, but because he was the exact parallel. That was why it was only right that Shadow Milk and the Fount of Knowledge both bid their farewell to the world before they messed up again.

        He fell to the ground, the sickening scent of the blood pooling around him dirtying those stolen robes. It wasn’t dramatic or extravagant like he once would’ve thought to do this— it was resigned, in a beautiful way of peaceful apathy.

         The lambs eyed the shuddering, convulsing beast from across the vales of their home, their pure and beautiful eyes tainted by the Fount’s wretched sin.

         They did not come to sniff at him or paw at his body with their sweet little hooves and tender pink noses, for they were timid and unknowing of what he was doing, and why.

         One noble lamb wandered over, its ears pricked with fear and tension as it watched the convulsing wretch bleeding all over the grass.

         The Fount’s eyes were loopy and lost to the force that tore his tired soul from his body, and yet they still fuzzily gazed upon that lamb like it were his saviour.

         “I’ll come back for you. I’ll try again.”

         His gold and blue eyes gave in, and the cosmic beauty of his hair stopped lapping at his nape with whispered stories and beauties of the world.

        The Fount’s mark on his forehead remained, untainted by the vile blood that clung to his claws in clumps.

         And with him went all of the knowledge he shouldered; of love and war, of menial tasks and simplicities, of wonders that other cookies couldn’t dare hold a candle to.

         The curtain closed on his act, not brought about by the clapping and laughing of an audience—

 

         But by the song of the tender lamb.

 

         His eyes closed.

 

 

 

.

 

..

 

…

 

 

 

         And then it was dark.

 

         And in that darkness, there is a stage.

 

        And on that stage, there is a performer.

 

        He is clad in black with elegant gold, and sapphire earrings dangle from his pointed ears, the shade of a storm’s last breath. Wings splay out from his back, clawed and batlike.

 

        His full lips are decorated by white fangs, and his sharp eyes are full of mischief and pride. His lips part, and his silver tongue moves to weave a dialogue. The air smells strongly of sweet grapes and just a hint of popcorn and sweets, like this theatre was once beloved by many.

 

        He tells a story to an audience of thousands, but right now it seems there is only one person present. Poor posture in their seat, messy hair begging for a brush. Nonetheless, they stare wide-eyed, waiting for his speech.

 

        “Naïve.” His haughty tone stretches across every seat and row in the theatre. “You thought it was over. Hah— you remind me of my late Master. You think the world ends and begins with him.” He starts to leisurely stroll across his high spot on the stage, his microphone idly following him. He is not a prophet or a storyteller- he is only preaching the truth that his Master had left behind for him.

 

        “Not every story has a happy ending, and sometimes the main character has to die. Isn’t that unfortunate, now? Quit wasting your tears.” His eyes see beyond the screen that portrays him to the audience— the eyes of Deceit spread much further than that, love. “You see, my beloved viewer, a story doesn’t belong to just one person. It may have been Master Shadow Milk’s tale, but it involved many people, thereby making it a part of their story as well. Is that so hard to grasp?”

 

        He steps forward toward the viewer, a cocky sneer upon his lips. “It was a part of my tale, too. I was a part of my Master’s life, just as he was mine.” His wings splay out. “And in his honor, I’ll let you in on the tale of the one he wove his life closest to. Can you guess who that is, dear?”

 

        He gives his microphone a bombastic spin, smirking and elevating his voice to a grandiose shout. “Pure Vanilla Cookie, you moron!”

 

        The stage is gone.

 

        The darkness returns, and the curtain woven of red thread falls upon the last loyal apostle of Deception.

Notes:

And there you have it.

Here, let's brighten the mood a bit-- When I was reading out the draft to my beta reader, they sent me this video and said it reminded them of this... situation. Have fun with it.

https://streamable.com/ogtv8i

EDIT: Please don’t leave unsavoury comments on my work. It is your choice and your choice only to read, and there has been many explicit warnings both in chapter descriptions and tags about the content. It’s unnecessary and heavily unwanted. I have a hard time processing things like tone and intention, so please try to be courteous of that.

Chapter 18: XVIII. Little Lamb,

Summary:

        To any other cookie, this would be an occasion of joy, for the indomitable and wretched Shadow Milk Cookie had realized his sin and taken his life, ridding the world of himself, giving up his souljam to someone who deserved it.

 

So why didn't Pure Vanilla smile when he saw the tortured grimace plastered upon those cracked, withered lips in death?

        Waking up to an empty bed was like Pure Vanilla's worst nightmare come true. The last night he'd let his guard down, blood eagled his chest and shown his tender heart to the fickle beast, expecting to be coddled and loved. Not loving enough was a crime, but loving too much could only beget self-inflicted wounds.

        And that is why, as he rose from the tangled, dirtied bedsheets like an angel shedding its feathers, he knew regret in its purest form. Did he do something wrong? Did he say something rude or demeaning? Why did Shadow Milk run off? Such questions could only be answered by the man who had made the choice.

        Maybe he never deserved Shadow Milk at all, not because he was out of the beast's league, or because he was too good, but because he was not good enough. He had never been good enough, not for White Lily, not for his friends, not for anyone. It's why he couldn't fix Shadow Milk; it's why his friends had left him, because he needed time to figure out his priorities.

        He didn't get out of bed, nor did he get dressed. He discarded his perfect image of good posture and tender smiles in favour of a bitter frown and a hunched back. Fingers that once held a perfectly imperfect body of scars and curves rose to his hair, pulling at golden strands as his teeth gritted. It hurt, the pressing silence of the empty spot beside him.

         Nobody had ever dared to touch Pure Vanilla how Shadow Milk did, because he was ‘too innocent’, he was something of the gods and beauty that needed to be preserved and protected. He was never seen as human, never something of simple desires and emotions, never something that needed comfort or a fierce love that hurt.

         Maybe it was just a break from people that Pure Vanilla needed. His mind was a prison, and the empty bedroom that reminded him of the mistake he was even more so. The sheets were still cold and folded back from when Shadow Milk had left at some point- they were left untouched even by Pure Vanilla’s hands, who left them alone in a sort of reverent sorrow.

         He hadn’t visited his sheep in a while- perhaps they were the reprieve he needed from complicated love and anxious spirals. They always quite liked seeing him and trampling the ends of his white robes; perhaps the tame and domestic nature of it all would bring Pure Vanilla’s mind back to something of his sweet childhood. Of when times were simpler.

         Perhaps the sheep would understand. Pure Vanilla gathered himself after a near half hour of worrying over Shadow Milk and his feelings, pushing himself out of the bed and going to the bathroom to clean himself up. His feet dragged on the hardwood floors, and his rumpled and suspiciously stained robes fluttered weakly behind him.

         And god, did the smell of the bathroom break his heart. A hint of red wine and perfume, the warm scent of blueberries, and a heavenly note of cream that followed just to shatter his heart a little more. It smelled like love, like a one-night stand and an empty bed the morning after. It smelt of sorrow and missing what you never had.

         It seemed Shadow Milk had left his things behind in the bathroom out of carelessness; there, on the counter, sat a bottle of expensive-looking perfume, a beautiful sapphire-blue lipstick, and a tube of generic-looking mascara, all haphazardly strewn around. Pure Vanilla found his hairbrush amidst the mess, assuming the beast must’ve used it last night.

         He brushed his hair, washed his face, and didn’t care to use anything that would make him look particularly nice, for his sheep and lambs never cared if he looked nice or not, only if he brought a handful of grapes and oats with him. Perhaps it was sweet politeness, maybe it was utter carelessness- besides, they were only sheep.

        Reluctantly, Pure Vanilla left his room at long last, staff in hand, rumpled robes trailing along the floor in his wake. He didn't care for how the servants looked at him, for they had no good reason to look at him like he'd crawled out of their toilets in the dead of night. All he did was ignore their half-concerned, mostly rude glares, for ignorance is bliss, and that is the saying that keeps a man sane for roughly 1,000 years.

        The walk to the field was quiet. No mindless chatter to make his ear fall off, no snide jokes and remarks, no jester following him and talking in circles. It was odd, and simply, utterly depressing. The skies were light, but grey clouds lingered at the side with the promise of rain and the scent of fresh grass.

        The gate was not closed when he arrived at his field, but the sheep were loyal and smart enough not to stray beyond the fences, for fear of cruel wolves and the unknown that was horrifying enough by itself. As Pure Vanilla sauntered through and made sure to shut the gate behind him, he noticed how the sheep all lingered around the old oak near the rundown cabin— odd.

         As he walked forward to come delight in the masses of fluffy little sheep that bunched together in the shade, a particular lamb pranced forward to meet him halfway through, head-butting him with a quaint little ‘baah’ and circling his legs like a kitten.

         This particular lamb had always been needy since he was young, and Pure Vanilla smiled despite himself, reaching down to scratch at the little thing’s ch—

         It was covered in blood. Black and crusted, it clung to each curl and spiral of the lamb’s muzzle, hooves, and neck grotesquely. It looked dry, which was good, but Pure Vanilla still knelt to check over his skin and part the wool wherever blood was particularly clumped. “Oh, you poor thing, what happened?” He frowned, cupping the lamb’s cheeks and squeezing them. “Fortune is on nobody’s side today, now, isn’t it?”

         Perhaps they weren’t that different, the Virtue of Truth and this little lamb, stained with blood that didn’t quite seem to be his own. The former sighed once he was sure the little lamb wasn’t covered in his own blood, but his discomfort persisted when he began to wonder just whose blood it was.

         Pure Vanilla stood up and brushed the dirt from his knees, pulling up the ends of his robes delicately as he followed the little thing to where the other sheep were crowded. “Did one of your herd get injured? Oh my… I’d say it’s even worse that you’re covered in someone else’s blood.” He gave it a sweet smile as it paused to look around, twitching its tail before galloping off. “I’ll come back to clean you after I figure this out.”

          Who was he kidding? The fluffy little thing wasn’t paying attention, nor did he care as he pranced off before getting distracted by a moth. He was only talking to himself and hoping it would suppress the anxiety that peaked as he neared the crowd of sheep, apparently entranced with the trunk of the tree.

         He shooed a few rams and such away, pushing them aside and not caring for how they protested and ran off with disturbed calls and irritated tail flicks- he only cared for what sat beneath the grand old oak that made it clear why the sheep were there.

           It was not the tree stump, but the pool of crimson blood that bled into the dirt and dyed it deep maroon, and the contorted corpse that it all came from.

         To say this was a corpse was a falsehood— it still writhed, clawed hands clotted and with blood scrabbled at its chest, and pathetic wheezes still left its mouth as it tugged at the object embedded in its chest.

         Pure Vanilla knew this living corpse, for it was a figure praised in legend and song, someone he knew, and yet did not. Before he had time to speak or even think about reacting, its voice feebly sounded out, a low gurgle of blood flowing through its mouth. “It won’t let me die.”

         It grabbed at the shining blue gem in its chest, writhing and keening as its weak claws tore at its pale skin. A bitter lump surfaced in Pure Vanilla’s throat, and he fell to his knees with a frantic ‘no’, the ewes and rams around the pair scattering at the sudden movement.

         The living corpse turned its head, its mismatched eyes beset by deep blue bags and a sullen expression. It looked loopy, half-dead in every essence of the word. Pure Vanilla sobbed as his hands flew to the thing’s neck, his ragged breaths turning into a relieved, shaky sigh as he investigated the deep gashes.

         He put a firm hand to the thing’s neck, tears pricking at his eyes and clouding his vision as he spoke in a hushed tone. “You, you didn’t reach the carotid artery. Thank the Witches you’re weak, your claws, you… I can fix it. Please.”

         The corpse sighed and pulled its soft, tan hand away from its neck, its eyes aimless and cloudy as it stared off into nowhere. “Don’t let me live.” Its words were simple, and Pure Vanilla slumped over with a defiant laugh, clutching at his own souljam. “You said you, you said it won’t let you die. I’m trying to fix you, please, please Shadow Milk—“

         It lolled its head to the side, milky eyes drifting off. “I’m not Shadow Milk Cookie.” Its hand rose to the souljam embedded in the flesh of its chest, shakily giving its surface a lamenting caress. “Take it. You’d only punish me by entertaining your saviour complex anymore. Let me die.”

         Pure Vanilla buried his face in the Fount’s arms, his forehead meeting pale skin slicked with blood. His hands tore at dirt and grass, his temples throbbed with fatigue, and his mind spun with sorrow. “You were doing so well, you were getting better, I watched it! What did I do, what did I do wrong?!” The taste of salt licked at his mouth as tears dripped down his lips, his teeth showing as he shouted in almost delirium.

         Clawed hands raked through his pale hair, dirtying it with blood as Shadow Milk grinned wolfishly. “I was a liar, Pure Vanilla.” His breath was quiet as he spoke, the heavy scent of blood permeating the air.

         His eyes focused and met the bloodshot pastels of Pure Vanilla’s grief-stricken gaze. “Clearly, I taught you well. Take my souljam, let me die.”

         Oh.

         He didn’t know how to counter the truth leaving the Fount’s mouth, sobbing as his hand reverently trailed up his bare stomach, his calloused fingers avoiding where claws had tried to let his innards out. 

         His nails met the little corners of the Fount’s souljam, tenderly grazing against fragile skin. The souljam was why Shadow Milk— no, the Fount of Knowledge suffered so; it was why, even now, as he bled out on the dirty ground, he could not die.

         To love something is to let it go.

         And that mantra held as Pure Vanilla violently pulled at the souljam, crying out in panicked disbelief as it tore out from the Fount’s chest, leaving a deep, raw imprint in its shape that slowly began to ooze blood. The souljam was warm, and it stayed that way as the Idol of Truth collapsed on the convulsing corpse of the Fount with a bitter shriek, like a lamb calling out for its mother.

         There was no cinematic confession of love, no cup of the cheek as the Fount let out a strangled cry, slamming his weak fists into the dirt and curling his fingers, for death was not beautiful.

         The convulsing went on for a while, the Fount’s voice never once finding itself, drowned out by gurgles and coughs as blood leaked from the corners of his lips and choked him.

         Pure Vanilla kept himself pressed tight to the Fount’s body like a shivering young kitten, making himself small and curling around each twitching limb as much as possible, as if the Fount would evaporate if he didn’t hold onto him for dear life.

         He kept his ear pressed to the Fount’s stomach as he lay there for hours, listening. He didn’t know what else to do out of pure shock, numbness flooding everything. He didn’t feel anything around him, not the fading warmth of the Souljam of Deceit, not the wind, not the sheep that came back around to linger.

         The Fount of Knowledge slowly combed his fingers through Pure Vanilla’s hair as if he were a parent falling asleep with a beloved child in his grasp, his eyes shut and his breaths gradually slowing as the life slipped out of him with each ounce of blood that leaked from where his souljam once sat.

         It should have been comforting. Pure Vanilla should’ve been enjoying the Fount’s presence in his last, peaceful moments. He listened to shallow and ragged breaths, the little clicks and gurgles that everyone’s stomach makes when they’re alive and well…

         …That is, until it stopped.

         The last ounce of life left the Fount of Knowledge with a last sigh, and yet, the world did not stop for either of them. The wind still tussled the grass around them, the sheep in the fields still carelessly grazed, and the sun still moved in the sky, for grief relents to nobody.

         The sun set and took with it the warmth that once filled the ground beneath Pure Vanilla and the body, and once evening had come, all was cold and silent. The sheep went to sleep, the bugs didn’t care to sing their songs or cause a bother, and the Virtue of Truth didn’t dare leave the corpse of his most beloved counterpart to be in silence after dawn had come for the soul that once graced his now-cold flesh.

         He didn’t sleep that night. The stars still hung in the sky, the wind still carried the faint scent of blueberries and lavish cream, but he did not feel like sleeping. He didn't know if he should think, if he could think, and if so, what the Fount's end had been.

        There was obviously a suicide attempt, meaning he really had strung everyone along in a final, grand lie, so true to his nature as a beast of lies. It was all a lie.

        He should've never trusted Shadow Milk. He should have fucking seen it, how the jester ran off with his thoughts and stared into nothing, how he healed so seamlessly and effortlessly, how everything had been too perfect. He was too polite, too happy, too perfect. If his recovery was an elaborate lie, was his love nothing more than a foil to make it all believable?

        Such questions were pointless to ask, as the stiffening and pale corpse of what could have been sat completely still and unanswering in his shivering grip. Pure Vanilla lounged over Shadow Milk's body, curled into a position that would have looked natural if he weren't holding the cold shell of his other half.

        There would never be answers; everything the Fount of Knowledge had known and thought was lost to the abyss, the second his body quit running on reserves after the epitome of his soul was torn from his chest.

        To say that his death was messy and unscripted would be to spit on the headstone he'd never get, for the great Master of Lies would be nothing if not just that. The poor beast had known suffering and pain so intricately that he'd fabricated its stages and appearance perfectly, leaving no hints to his plans besides subtle remarks regarding death.

        Pure Vanilla buried his face deep in the crook of the Fount's neck and sobbed.

        He only smelled of blood now.

        It was funny, really. Pure Vanilla had struggled himself many times, and he knew just how birds of his feather would allude to the rotted face behind a mask of normalcy, saying things such as, "If I could choose a last meal, this would be it." He was the real clown for not having noticed all of the blaring red flags-- 

        Hadn't Shadow Milk said something about that before? Something about red flags looking like regular flags through rose-colored glasses?

        The irony of it all killed him, literally.

        He should have known. He could have done something; he could have told Shadow Milk how much he loved him, how he depended on the beast's joy just to have a good day of his own, how he'd never be able to live without those sarcastic remarks and quick retorts.

        The claws in his hair no longer raked down his scalp, dug in just where the nape meets the skull, soothed him like the touch of something transcending simple affection. They were still, firm, molded to the shape of Pure Vanilla's head in the early stages of decomposition.

        The flies came to feed on his torn stomach and lay their eggs upon his flayed meat, and the wind blew dust on his pale skin without a doubt.

        To any other cookie, this would be an occasion of joy, for the indomitable and wretched Shadow Milk Cookie had realized his sin and taken his life, ridding the world of himself, giving up his souljam to someone who deserved it.

        So why didn't Pure Vanilla smile when he saw the tortured grimace plastered upon those cracked, withered lips in death?

Notes:

I'll most likely be returning to weekly updates from now on-- inevitably, burnout has struck me, and so have her companions, self-doubt and excessive worry /lh /silly

I apologize for the cliffhanger; however, I assure you all that I will continue writing so you get to be pushed to a different spot of unpredictable worry over our beloved trauma queen, Pure Vanilla!

I think I might write a standalone little. Thing on a hypothetical on what happened that night in chapter 16 (wiggles eyebrows), I'll be keeping it separate to not distract from the plot and content of the whole fic-- what I'm saying is I need to get the smut out of my system.

Well, that was fun. Goodbye!

Chapter 19: XIX. Who made thee?

Summary:

         He was not like the other beasts, for he was beyond their simple and cruel ways; he was a monster in the truest sense of the word.

Incomplete was the Master of Deception, and incomplete was the world he left behind.

         They sat there under the tree until the night came, the empty shell of the Fount growing cold as the air around it did. Pure Vanilla looked no livelier than the stiffening body he held onto, his eyes as dull and dark as the Truthless Recluse’s had once been.

         He couldn’t bear to move or close his eyes, for fear had shaken him so hard that he could do nothing beyond shiver and stare. He could not move and tell the Fount that he’d come in the morning to bury him, for dread told him that the maggots and magpies would steal his body away if he left for too long.

        As much as Pure Vanilla would have liked to do something personal and caring for what was left of Shadow Milk, he knew that he would not be allowed to put the beast anywhere nice, for commoners would spit on his headstone and dig up his body to sell at the underground markets. For Shadow Milk, he would climb to the Peak of Truth's summit to scatter his ashes, bury him beneath the finest of theatres, or buy him the most lavish of headstones and coffins, but yet, he knew that all the world thought him worthy of was a grave marked only by a bushel of Milkcrown flowers.

        The finest of playwrights and performers, the master of Deception and the founder of magic and knowledge, is worth nothing more than a pile of dirt in his memory.

        Pure Vanilla lifted his head from the crook of the Fount's neck in the midst of the cold night, a fresh sob shaking him as his eyes fell upon the cold, pale face of the corpse. His skin was already naturally blue, but it was no longer the beautiful warm hue of forget-me-nots and blueberries, but the cold shade of death-- how could the sight not bring him to tears again?

        He looked over to the tree's trunk, which was miraculously untouched by the gore and blood. At its foot was a small collection of items, which Pure Vanilla knew must've been left behind by Shadow Milk. He reluctantly tore himself away from the cold, stiff body, shuffling over the blood-dampened ground and soiling his robes as he grabbed at whatever sat beneath the tree, quickly crawling back to the Fount and curling up at his side, which was still warm from the Idol of Truth's body heat, not his own.

        His shaking hands laid the items down over his knees. Pure Vanilla frowned when his eyes fell upon a rolled-up sheet of parchment, his fingertips brushing at its edges as he reluctantly unfurled it, casting glances at the Fount as if he thought the man would awake at any moment and come back to life.

        The body did not move or come to life, but the eloquent and archaic cursive written by his sharp and clever hands nearly did. Pure Vanilla found himself always struggling to read Shadow Milk's cursive —not because it was crude, but because it was so unique and refined that it fell above his tastes, and he had to squint at the loops and curls, wondering what letters they were.

        A pounding sensation gripped his temples and behind his eyes; perhaps it was from crying for hours on end, maybe it was from reading with his bad eyes in the dark, or perhaps it was both of those things, practically screaming at him to go home, have a drink of water, and sleep. 

         He still read the note, his eyes still bloodshot and watering as he forced himself to come to terms with the Fount’s last words.

“When I wake, let the Gods be kind, and lay The Truth to rest, for we have both labored ‘till our bones were bare and our bodies run ragged.

Let my legacy die out, for to be remembered is to continue living. I have paid the bounty put upon my shoulders at the dawn of my time, so let fate be kind and let me go.

For my love, who bloomed too late to live into the warm spring; do not blame yourself, for my fate was in the hands of my own. Take the old doll of cotton and fleece, and do not hate yourself for despising it as you once did.

For my son, whom I could not raise right, for I was never a child myself; hate me if you will, for I know I’ve left you too early. Candy Apple is still young, so find it within yourself to give her the love I never gave you both, for that is among my deepest regrets.

For my daughter, whom I had nothing good to teach, be your brother’s crutch, for I know that as much as you pretend to hate him, you are inseparable. Treat him kindly in my place.

Take the keys to my stage, and do with them what you will. The choir will sing only for you, the stagelights will only go on for the two most finely trained performers on Earthbread.

Let the curse of Knowledge be bound to me even in death, for I will come back a thousand times more if it should mean that this burden will be mine and mine only, as none deserve to suffer the weight of All Knowledge as have I.”

         And he was right in that his love came to fruition far too late, enough so that Pure Vanilla only dared to show it as he stayed with his other half in silence all night, clinging to chilled and stiffened meat like it was something more than that.

         The Fount knew that Pure Vanilla would eye the old plush that looked just like his disguise, not daring to touch it yet, for his hands were still wet with blood and tears, things too impure to dirty the memory of the Beast.

         And he was right in that his children would hate him for that selfish last act of his.

         “Candy Apple Cookie, are you stupid?! You cannot leave, not with my permission, not without! Do you understand-?” Black Sapphire bit out each word with venom as he kicked his accomplice back, guarding the door to her room with flared wings and a frazzled attitude.

         Candy Apple growled sincerely, doing her best to try to flit around her brother without getting pushed back. She was met with only a wide-eyed gaze and unrelenting attitude, much to her dismay. “I’m not your prisoner, the Spire is my home too! Why won’t you just let me leave?” 

         Black Sapphire groaned, lowering himself down to the younger’s level and lowering his tone to something unreadably negative as he locked his slitted eyes with Candy Apple’s annoyed and confused glare. “You’ll understand at some point, but until you’ve gained some sense and respect, you’re not going anywhere without me.”

         With that, he left, shutting the door firmly and manoeuvring himself with a flick of his coattails and a touch of bombastic flair, just like his master would’ve done. He ignored how he heard Candy Apple whining and flopping onto her bed, for he had his own grievances to sit on.

         Speaking of, he slunk through the hallways of the spire slowly, his eyes never once missing how the corners began to crack and how the carpets frayed. He acted as if he had a secret to keep as he crept reverently to his old master’s room, taking in a breath and bowing his head before pushing open the extensively grandiose doors and immediately dropping the performer’s guise the owner of the spire had taught him.

         His shoulders slumped, and his smirk fell into a deep frown, his wings drooping as he meandered over to the king-sized bed that still hadn’t been made in ages. It had once been Black Sapphire’s job to make the beds and ensure laundry was done, but since his master left, there was no reason to take care of himself or the Spire.

         As he sat on the plush sheets that barely clung to the scent of his master, Black Sapphire remembered.

         He remembered when he was young and his master first took him in, and the Beast of Lies would tell him stories of magical beasts and wizards, claiming it was because the Spire would be too dangerous for something as young and curious as him, and the young Black Sapphire would fall asleep in his master’s lap without a care in the world.

         He also remembered when he was a teenager and he’d come to his master’s room to cry. He’d cry about the way fat just barely bunched at his hips, about how he wasn’t perfect enough, about how he worried that he’d never be the flawless servant that Shadow Milk wanted.

         And every time, his master would pull him into his cold, clawed arms, a certain warmth carrying through his touch that his monotonous expression and troubled frown would never relay.

         Shadow Milk would take off his puffy sleeves and ruffles, showing Black Sapphire each stretch mark and scar, promising him that it would never matter how he looked. He’d gesture to the young Candy Apple, who still did her hair in pigtails and chewed on cups, laughing and telling the older of the two that they were both as perfect as could be.

         His master taught him everything. Though it wasn’t his own room, Black Sapphire could tie a memory to each little thing in the master bedroom. The vanity, where Shadow Milk taught him how to do stage makeup; the fabric closet in the corner, where his master let Black Sapphire pick out his favourite fabrics and patterns for his 18th birthday, and of course, the balcony, where the cold and cruel Beast of Lies would float just off the railings to get a rise out of him.

         But now, as dust collected on the shelves and the blinds stayed closed, there was nobody to gently encourage Black Sapphire to straighten his back or have a snack. There were no peering ultramarine eyes in the shadows, no short cookie who still filled the room with his explosive presence.

         And as Black Sapphire stared at his hands as he sat on the bed, he remembered once more.

         He remembered how he’d followed his master after delivering his items, lurking in the shadows and watching what his master did following his little date the night before.

         And it was when his master came to a place from his past and began writing a letter that Black Sapphire knew it was time to leave. He knew he didn’t want to see his master’s last show, because it was uncharacteristically predictable in the most sorrowful sense.

         He knew that Master’s stay at the Vanilla Kingdom was permanent, because he’d never come home to hug Black Sapphire and his sister. He had no need to take care of anything anymore, for he had worked to please Shadow Milk all his life.

         Not as his servant, but as his child, Black Sapphire wanted to see Shadow Milk one more time. He wanted the chance to lounge on his bed and gossip; he wanted the chance to see the ‘Beast’ one more time and call him dad.

         Not because he was a biological father, but because he was dad. He might not have been the best dad to Candy Apple and Black Sapphire, but he didn’t deserve to be called a beast. If the picture he kept on his bedside table of the three of them smiling and laughing said anything, it’s that he wasn’t as bad as everyone thought.

         As much as he loved Shadow Milk, he hated him as well. His master had left to end his own suffering, but the endless cycle of despair did not end the moment he took his life. Black Sapphire would have to raise Candy Apple himself, despite not knowing how to tend to a teenager, much less the opposite gender; he’d have to take care of himself and a home, and he’d have to make a living.

         “I guess living in a spire of illusions doesn’t raise you with much common sense,” he drawled as he pushed his head in his hands and growled. He’d grown up not needing to take care of anything, and now he’d have to figure out how to pay for his own life despite being past his teenage years. He’d never lived without Shadow Milk (except for when he was very young), and now he’d have to figure out how to go without.

         Grief and hatred boiled in his veins as he gripped at his hair, biting his lip until it bled, and pulling at his wavy hair until he felt a few strands give up and tear from his scalp. The scent of dust and the faint smell of his Master prodded at him, teasing hot tears of guilt and ire from his eyes and quickening his heart.

         A performer never cries. Black Sapphire was never supposed to cry. It was a problem for others, and it was shameful. “I hate you,” he seethed as he got to his feet and paced his Master’s bedroom like a caged animal, shaking his head and leaving raised marks on his cheeks when he wiped his tears with self-loathing claws.

         “You left me, Shadow Milk Cookie, you selfish, selfish beast. I don’t care WHAT you suffered; why would you leave Candy Apple and me behind? You left for months on end with no explanation, and you never even came home.” Black Sapphire whipped his head towards a portrait painted of the Master of the Spire that hung near the corner, smashing his fists beside the edges of its delicate canvas and snarling as he shouted. 

         “I don’t even know how to live by myself, I don’t know how to live a real life. So thanks for that.” 

         Shadow Milk had ended his own suffering, yes. But little did he consider those who cared about him, who he’d left behind to pick up his resentment and carry it on.

          His soulmate, who’d realized what it was like to be without what made him whole, a family that had never known anything beyond the dream-like world of the spire, and beasts that shared his suffering and didn’t care to check in on him anymore.

         He was not like the other beasts, for he was beyond their simple and cruel ways; he was a monster in the truest sense of the word.

         Incomplete was the Master of Deception, and incomplete was the world he left behind.

Notes:

This fic has come so far since it started. It's now around as long as a short novel, and has 3.5k hits. I'm proud, to say the least. Thank you to everyone for sticking around for this and supporting me as this story unfolds.

Chapter 20: A/N

I’m sorry for the lack of updates recently. I’m losing motivation and everything just feels like a lot right now.

I don’t know when this will continue updating, if it even does. I’m sorry to disappoint after so much consistent hard work, and I apologize for how I’ve let the expectations I put on myself be forgotten.

I’ll try to keep writing. No promises.