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He was a pathogen, a tumor, a fragment of memory that he could never excise.
Though Truthless Recluse was, in essence, Pure Vanilla, Shadow Milk found him far more comfortable to converse with than the original. No saintly platitudes, no foolish composure, no blind sacrifices. Truthless Recluse showed him that even Pure Vanilla, when pushed to the brink of despair, could manifest the instincts of a wild beast.
The biting insults. The glares filled with resentment. The actions that grew increasingly violent. Pure Vanilla would never do such things, his innate holiness forbade it. But Truthless Recluse was different. He was the ego, the most rotted part of the soul that surfaced as he grew indifferent to the world. His personality felt rewritten, reacting in ways that far exceeded Shadow Milk’s wildest imaginings.
Seeing a being once deemed holy being swallowed by despair and lies filled Shadow Milk with exhilaration. His meticulously crafted play was finally bearing fruit. Truthless Recluse was not just a puppet, he was living proof that even gods could be drowned in pessimism.
Belief was something Pure Vanilla had lost. Deep within his heart lay the ache of betrayal - conjured by Shadow Milk’s lies - and the crushing disappointment in those he once called friends. Truthless Recluse had asked many times if there was anywhere else that would accept him. And of course, with the mindset of "keeping Pure Vanilla imprisoned by his side forever," Shadow Milk had humbly replied:
"No. Aside from me, no one remembers or cares for you anymore."
So, be grateful for that.
His sweet Truthless Recluse. His darling Truthless Recluse. He was the most magnificent puppet Shadow Milk ever possessed, far surpassing anything he had envisioned. If Candy Apple and Black Sapphire were loyal servants, then Truthless Recluse was a toy, a play, a masterpiece written by Shadow Milk himself.
A living, breathing masterpiece so beautiful that even his servants grew envious. Oh, Shadow Milk noticed. He saw Candy Apple’s irritation. He saw Black Sapphire’s disdain. He knew it all. It was just that holding such a masterpiece made him want to flaunt it to the entire world, to let all of Earthbread know.
Even Pure Vanilla is a puppet in Shadow Milk’s hands.
Ah... had he mentioned Truthless Recluse’s violence yet? Perhaps not. Very well.
Truthless Recluse had nearly killed him, several times. Shadow Milk hadn't anticipated that mundane objects in his eyes would become lethal weapons in the other's hands. A pillow, a fork, a tiny scrap of metal, or more simply, his own healing powers.
Suffocation, burning, drowning, slashing, cutting, there wasn't a pain Shadow Milk hadn't tasted at least once. Thanks to Truthless Recluse, he experienced all of it within a mere two months. Two months, and he had been assassinated over ten times. But every time was the same, he would hover on the brink of death, only to miraculously survive.
Disappointment upon disappointment. Pain upon pain. Each failed assassination fueled the other's resentment. Why wouldn't Shadow Milk die? Why could he exist so nonchalantly? Why was he still allowed to breathe while no one strangled the life out of him? Oh, how Truthless Recluse loathed him, hated him to the very marrow of his bones. Every minute spent in that tower was an agony, a shackle binding him within a cage of lies.
A shackle that Truthless Recluse - or rather, Pure Vanilla - would likely never forget.
Unluckily, his violence came with a "bonus": Shadow Milk’s depravity. Truthless Recluse could swear that every time Shadow Milk nearly died, the jester laughed, moaned, and begged him to be even more brutal. When Truthless Recluse intentionally used healing magic far beyond the norm, wishing for the power to mutate Shadow Milk’s flesh and erode him from within, Shadow Milk simply "enjoyed" it with indifference.
He gleefully recounted it as a sensation caught between pain, pleasure, and... comfort. Pain, because cells were forced to regenerate faster than intended - even if standard healing worked similarly. Pleasure, because the brain had to find a way to soothe the agony to keep him from a pathetic death. And... comfort. It was simple, if a wound was bleeding out and then healed completely within seconds, it was the most wondrous feeling in the world.
He never expected that Shadow Milk could thrive after consuming such a massive amount of magical energy. He didn't die from the rapid recovery. He didn't die from the magical build-up. Shadow Milk was something Truthless Recluse couldn't fathom. And he began to think, perhaps, just perhaps, everything he did to free himself only deepened Shadow Milk's fascination with this play.
So, what if he stopped reacting? Would Shadow Milk lose interest? A good question, truly. But unfortunately, his captor was a master playwright.
No reaction? Shadow Milk would find every way to make Truthless Recluse react, again. From illusions of old friends to "sweet" whispers in his ear, and the flickering silhouette of a woman named White Lily. Oh, heavens! White Lily was the fatal weakness of Pure Vani—no, Truthless Recluse. It was a discovery Shadow Milk made early in his project to keep the King forever. Her words and actions always affected him more deeply than anyone else. Truly... a fatal flaw discovered by Shadow Milk was bound to be exploited.
At first, he hesitated. The desire to touch, to share, to confide in the old friend mirrored on his face. Then it grew extreme, worsening by the day. He tried to force himself not to believe, not to hear, not to see. But how? Truthless Recluse (was forced to) stay by Shadow Milk’s side at all times, and thus, the illusions haunted him for hours on end. A difficult problem always requires time to solve, and he realized that instead of solving the problem, he should eliminate its source.
Patience is a virtue. Before becoming what he was now, Truthless Recluse had practiced it countless times. He could maintain this apathy. He could endure this growing loneliness. He could withstand this rising anxiety. He could handle Shadow Milk’s dissatisfaction-
Shadow Milk’s dissatisfaction?! Oh, God!... Ahem!
The plan was half-successful. Shadow Milk was indeed frustrated by the cold indifference. A week without hearing his voice, without plotting his murder, without the illusions whispering in his ear... it was heaven. It was peace. Or so he thought.
He forgot that Shadow Milk was a playwright, a master dramatist, and a brilliant actor. Truthless Recluse forgot that he was Shadow Milk’s favorite toy. He forgot that Shadow Milk was, at his core, a depraved monster. Who would have guessed that simply for not responding to his words, Truthless Recluse would be raped by Shadow Milk?
He would always remember the sensation of his mind screaming in fury, resisting the stimulation below, while his body responded fervently to the jester’s touch. Despair seeped into his blood, etched into his heart as he was forced to climax. It was slimy, warm, a sensation of both perverted pleasure and agonizing heartbreak. And no. The play didn't end there. It went from bad to worse as Shadow Milk began to "prepare" himself.
A warning. A wordless statement. Silence. Actions expressed everything. He knew what Shadow Milk intended to do. And Truthless Recluse could do nothing but watch in terror. Like a true puppet. For the first time since his hellish tenure in the tower, Truthless Recluse cried, sobbing as Shadow Milk forced himself inside. Hot, tight, constricting, every detail sharpened as he was invaded inch by inch.
Cries mingled with moans. A chaotic symphony of pain and ecstasy. The taste of hopelessness on his tongue, in the corners of his eyes, and in his heart. Every place Shadow Milk touched became a dead zone, a place Truthless Recluse wanted to sever and discard. The "sweet torture" - as Shadow Milk called it - lasted for hours. There were times he fainted only to be forced awake. Times when Truthless Recluse had nothing left to give, yet Shadow Milk kept thrusting. Semen mixing with secretions, a sickening warmth.
When the torture finally ended, Truthless Recluse felt a sharp pain in his groin, his face a mess of tears. And even worse, something he only noticed moments later: Shadow Milk had used no protection whatsoever. A cage, a rein, a loathsome collar tightened around his neck. And every time Truthless Recluse tried to remove it, Shadow Milk only wound it tighter.
"Did you enjoy the play I staged for you? You should feel lucky to witness what others cannot."
Before Truthless Recluse's eyes was a sea of stars, white and beautiful.
O Witches, if You truly exist, please kill me here and now.