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From the edge of his bed, Dark Cacao admired the view. The stars twinkled brightly in the night sky, clear of clouds, as the moon illuminated the land, casting shadows away. The untouched snow glittered under the moon’s glow, and the nearby woods beckoned him to take a look.
He forced himself to stay seated – to ignore the urge to stand up and search the forest until every square inch was thoroughly examined. His hands gripped the fabric of his night robe, his fingers curling into a fist, trying to block out his thoughts.
It was like a siren’s song, yet his resolve never wavered.
It didn't matter how much he wanted to go to the woods and search for the one thing that kept him going. His eyes wished to see the familiar, jam-colored eyes, eating away at him and threatening to consume him down to the very last drop. His arms craved to wrap around the body made from his own dough and cradle it close to his chest, keeping it warm and away from the cruel hands of fate. His nose wished to take in the familiar scent of chocolate powder and feel the soft icing tickle his face.
Yet, he never did.
He made a promise, one he planned to keep.
No matter how much he ached, his son came first.
Only when the moon was high, and all the kingdom’s citizens fell into slumber, did the king allow himself a moment of respite.
His hands relaxed their harsh grip, the silk of his outfit falling over his thighs without many creases. Carefully, quietly, Dark Cacao pushed himself up off the bed, his steps light as he approached the glass window. The floor was cold under his bare feet, and the silence hung in the air, simply waiting for him to break it.
Nevertheless, he was completely silent as he stared toward the outside world. His hair was loose and hanging off his shoulders, and he lacked his crown and was stripped of his armor. His arms hung uselessly by his body, empty and lacking any sort of weapon.
In that moment, he was not a King – not the ruler of the Dark Cacao Kingdom with hundreds – if not thousands – of men under his command.
He was just Dark Cacao Cookie. A weary and burdened man who only wanted one thing.
He was vulnerable.
Tentatively, he looked up at the stars, examining each and every one until his eyes snagged on the brightest one. It looked like a beacon – one that would bring hope – calling for his attention, begging him to look its way.
He didn't look away, entranced.
Instead, he moistened his lips, staring up at the twinkling light with a world-crushing hope, and his hands tightened into fists until he could feel his nails biting against his palms. A lump formed in his throat, and with a punch-out breath, he broke.
First, it was a single droplet. Then another. And another. In mere seconds, tears streamed down his face as he begged the witches – fate, even – for the one thing he could not live without.
“Please…” he whispered into the silence, his breath fogging up the glass, “Please, bring my son back to me…”
He knew his son would not magically appear in front of him, so all he could do was hope, pray, that his boy would come back to him safely.
His eyes slipped shut, and he carefully pressed his forehead against the window, the cold of the glass like a balm for both his head and mind.
He would wait. No matter how long. Weeks, months, years, witches, even centuries could pass, but he would not waver.
He refused to.
He had to keep his promise.
His son deserved that much.
Maybe when he returned, he could tell him how proud he was.
Hope was a fickle thing.
It grows and grows, lifting the weight from your shoulders, but sometimes, in a cruel act of loathing, that hope turns into despair, and suddenly, the weight becomes suffocating, crushing you and sapping you of all your strength.
Other times, that despair simply stands by, watching from afar without making a single sound. The hope inside blossoms, like a flower in the morning sun, as the lingering cold dissipates into warmth, but nothing lasts forever.
The leaves change and fall, the plants and grass die, returning to the bitter nothingness of winter. Like a predator eyeing its next meal, the cold sets in, nipping away at the dregs of life in its path.
Yet, we still hope for the warmth of the sun, the sounds of laughter and joy.
The first snowflake falls, and the predator pounces.
Despair conquers hope.
The world fades to bleak grays, and suddenly, nothing matters.
In the cold, unforgiving snow, a young man stared up at the brightest star, breath ragged. Jam quickly seeped into the snow, tainting it a bright red that kept expanding – spreading. No amount of pressure could stop the never-ending flow, coating his hands with the slick liquid.
The world around him was quiet, as if they were already mourning, already aware of what was to come.
His head spun with the blood loss, and all he could think about was how he was going to die there. He was going to die in this stupid cape surrounded by nothing but trees, all because he was too much of a coward to return home.
Oh, witches.
A bitter laugh left his lips, the sound borderline hysterical, and salty tears escaped his eyes.
This wasn't funny, yet he could not stop his own laughter.
Lying in his own blood, he wondered whether he had finally gone insane, but his laugh was cut off as black spots filled his vision.
A smile, one so soft and so uncharacteristic for such a moment, grew on his face. Right before his world went black, a weak whisper pierced the silence of the night as the young man stared at the brightest star in the sky.
“I… love you, appa…”
His heart stopped.
The world mourned.
A father slept, unknowing of his poor son’s fate.