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Shadow Milk watches the thief of his souljam slam his staff into the ground, the eye held inside glaring at the beast alongside the eyes of thousands of cookies behind him.
Faeries cheer as silver wood reaches up towards the inhuman thing chained down before them, deceit having long been revoked after the king of the Vanilla Kingdom tricked him once more. Those closer towards the climbing bark, who get to watch the fear in his eyes and the useless flailing as he’s immobilized taunt him for it.
“Finally gone for good,” some mutter.
“Hope this hurts, beast,” others hiss.
Sharp silver digs into his neck as the roots carelessly slice into his dough. He can not scream, for his vocal cords are rendered useless before he can even think of it.
He looks at Pure Vanilla, at the only man who ever tried to understand him. He had done something wrong. He doesn’t know what, because no one ever tells him when he’s wrong. No one wants to help him to get better. Looking at his face now, glare unwavering and resolute in his torture of the beast, he glares back.
Of course it was all a lie! No one in the history of cookiekind has ever been merciful to him and he was a fool to think they’d start now! And now, when he’s sealed this time, not even half of knowledge will be lost.
This time, he will have nothing worth breaking him out for.
The tree finally fully embraces him, and him alone, to the chorus of a thousand cookies cheering.
The chains don’t let him move from the floor, he can’t talk to himself with the pitiful state his throat is in, and this time, he has no siblings to pretend care about him from the forced proximity.
He weeps, staring at the infinity that awaits him.
Bleary eyes crack open, the only remnant of his nightmare his fluttering pulse and a wet pillow.
Distress slowly ebbs away to disassociation, realizing he’s in a guest room in the Vanilla kingdom. Despite the creature he is, Shadow Milk is a logical beast. His brain never fully quiets, which allows for the eyes in his hair to act as 24/7 security cameras. Even if Silly Nilly wanted to, he’d be hard pressed to sneak up on the Beast of Deceit!
Not to mention the terrible state his room is in. It’s no surprise that the floor stays littered with crafts and tossed ideas despite how often Shadow Milk promises to pick it up. Any chance he has to trip that holier-than-thou king, to give himself even an extra second to react to a threat, he’ll utilize.
Locked doors, puppeteered rabbits guarding his window, shadows everywhere for him to escape to. His unconscious mind is illogical.
‘Pure Vanilla won’t trap him back in that silver hell,’ Shadow Milk promises to himself.
‘I won’t give him the chance to.’
With that reassurance, like he’s reassured himself all the nights before, his pulse finally calms down. Shadow Milk wipes the remnants of tears away and gets out of bed on his shaky legs. Seems the adrenaline hasn’t fully dissipated, then.
He sighs, unconsciously rubbing at his neck from under his leotard, a tiny nervously tic he acquired after his decapitation. He should probably ask Pure Vanilla for night clothes. The beast could probably sew some up himself. Knowing how loose the garments the ancient sleeps in are, he’d at least have to add a turtleneck to whatever top he gives Shadow Milk.
He floats towards the door, avoiding all the traps of papers and plushies on the ground and the inconvenience of trying to walk on wobbly legs like a pathetic fawn. Delicately, he twists the lock on the door, turning the knob to exit his room as quiet as the night air.
Shadow Milk closes the door behind him to ensure any of the midnight staff passing by don’t raise hell about the wild animal roaming the castle. He flinches at the soft click, but hears no one approaching to hurt admonish him, so continues on his trek to the kitchen.
Even in the halls, kept pristinely clean and free of hazards for their beneficiaries sake, Shadow Milk refuses to take a step. Without his shoes on, the nasty stumps he calls feet would likely stain the velvet. What an ugly sight it’d be, for Shadow Milk’s presence to be so evident.
That’s probably why he’s kept in the furthest guest room, close to his thief and away from other people. That gnat wants him paranoid and isolated. Ripe for the pickings. Is this revenge for Truthless Recluse? To keep Shadow Milk trapped in the castle, giving him false hope that someone, anyone, would care enough to love him, give him a healthy dose of Stockholm syndrome just to take joy in watching it all wither away under the roots of the Silver Tree.
He needs something to get away from these thoughts. Once he finally makes it to the kitchen, Shadow Milk rifles through the pantry and fridge like a man starved, even when anyone will tell you he doesn’t need food to live.
Nothing seems to catch his fancy. A leftover piece of vanilla cake, some salami, a jar of peanut butter, blah blah boring! Of course that ancient would have the appetite of an old geezer.
There’s one last pantry by the back easily unlocked with the flick of deceit’s wrist.
‘It’s probably some baking materials,’ Shadow Milk rationalizes to keep his hopes low. No risk of disappointment if you never expect anything!
But instead of flour and grain, the cabinet doors open to hordes of alcohol. Wines from the Hollyberry and Faerie Kingdoms, rum and gin from Dark Cacao’s Kingdom, Beer from Golden Cheese’s, and miscellaneous bottles and cans. Probably remainders from previous pasta dinners or alcoholic desserts.
The cream of a door sounds in the distance, and Shadow Milk freezes.
‘Can’t be a guard, they’re not permitted into rooms,’ he reasons.
‘Can’t be Pure Vanilla, wrong side of the castle.’
As steps get closer, he can’t bring himself to move, indecision and fear pounding in his head; an intoxicating paralytic.
But who rounds the corner eventually shows himself to be no threat. Just Black Sapphire in his nightly patch and gown.
“Master Shadow Milk,” Black Sapphire whispers, bowing his head in acknowledgement.
“Pardon my asking, but why are you out so late?”
“I could ask the same of you,” the beast retorts, buying some time for his heart rate to die down.
“I’m getting a glass of water,” he drawls, looking over to Shadow Milk, who looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Metaphorically, of course.
The master of deceit huffs at the unimpressed eyebrow raise from his minion, going to grab whatever’s closest and shutting the liquor cabinet.
“Just having a little drink to ease the nerves. Get the creative juices flowing. Been stuck in this terrible creative rut, I swear! This horribly bland kingdom is just awful for my craft!” He whines, wiping away a fake tear.
“Whatever helps, sir,” Black Sapphire concedes. Must be too late at night for him to argue like usual. Shadow Milk watches in silence as his son minion pours a cup of water for himself. Lukewarm tap water, nothing like the milk springs of the spire, but it seems the radio host adapted fairly quickly.
“You know,” Black Sapphire takes a last sip before putting the glass down to face his dad master.
“Candy Apple and I wouldn’t mind talking to you if you needed it. It doesn’t matter the time of night or day. Well, it doesn’t matter for me. She might throw a fit if you wake her up though.”
“Witches you sound like Pure Vanilla,” the beast grumbles.
“Thanks for the offer, kid. Doubt I’ll take it, but who knows? With how the days drag on in this drab place maybe it’ll be sooner rather than later!”
He ruffles the already bedraggled hair of his minion before he sends himself back off to bed, purple slippers sliding back from whence they came.
Shadow Milk brings the bottle to find out what he picked up. He got an aged jar of Hollyberrian wine, so probably the best option from the cabinet. Might as well enjoy it with the only beauty this kingdom has.
He meanders back down the hall before a picture captures his attention. Gold plated wood frames a picture of Pure Vanilla coming home after defeating Shadow Milk. The beast snarls. What, did he have this commissioned? Is that what he thinks of him?
Whatever. It’s a stupid thing to get angry over. Shadow Milk made his shitty bed, might as well lie in it. Of course people would celebrate even the temporary defeat of a scourge such as he.
He pops the cork of his bottle with the claw on his thumb and flicks it at the photo. Hopefully it stains something.
The rest of the way to his room goes quickly as he takes a few swigs from the jug in his hand. It’s pleasantly strong, so at least his thief has good taste in something!
Shadow Milk makes it back to his room, slipping through the door and closing it behind him. Slithering through the air, he makes it to the balcony he was permitted to sit in the rocking chair overlooking the kingdom.
His rabbit guards look over in concern, but stay at their posts. Their puppeteer groans as he plops down in the cushioned chair, cradling alcohol in his lap.
His thoughts don’t bother him anymore. Quieter with every swig from the bottle. At some point, he lost the ability to keep the head on his shoulders upright, so he just stares at the stars with a silly straw in his mouth connected to the jug.
Maybe he could’ve been an astrologist in another lifetime. He loved mapping the stars as the Fount, teaching kids of the myths and stories behind certain constellations, and teaching sailors patterns to follow. He takes another sip. It feels nice to be small without having to risk getting hurt. In the sea of stars, the universe would covet him like all her children. What would his constellation look like? Tiny but well-known? Big and forgotten? Would Moonlight even remember their talks—even bother to hang his legacy up in the sky when he’s done?
Another sip.
Shadow Milk doesn’t know. Too drunk to care. He ought to thank Hollyberry later, for giving this to the Vanilla Kingdom. He can draft up a letter tomorrow. For now the owls coo to him in the night, and he can close his eyes and pretend that the world has stopped for him.
He thinks he hears something, but it’s probably just one of the rabbits dropping their banner.
“Shadow Milk?” A quiet voice asks, rustling coming from the room behind him. He doesn’t even bother turning around, fear so deliciously subdued in his mind even the proximity of his cruel usurper doesn’t alarm him.
Grunts come from his room as the ancient trips over all his traps. Nice to know that they work, at least.
Nice until a hand grips his shoulder.
Black claws slice at Pure Vanilla’s outstretched hand, which is immediately retracted and cradled towards the healers chest.
“Doon’t…touch me,” he growls, hair bristling at the unwanted closeness.
“Apologies, Shadow Milk. I didn’t mean to scare,” Pure Vanilla concedes. He moves to further himself and the beast, even while they continue their staring contest.
“I wanted to check on you. I heard some noises in the hallway. Do you know—Witches, Shadow Milk, an entire bottle?”
“If you…you want to criticize my life choicesss, maybe go do it to someone…who cares,” the beast slurs.
“I care, bluebird,” Pure Vanilla says.
“I know you’re struggling to adjust to safety, because c-“
Shadow Milk barks, “buzz off with your ‘safety’. As soon…as I’m not your little white elephantt to parade around…you’re gonna learn I’m just a drain on eeeverything you hold dear. You’re gonna get bored, then you get angry, annd then I’ll be sealed. You’re going to…seal me, Nils. You’re gonna seal me and be happy it hurts.”
The ancient, for his part, is absolutely dumbfounded. He blinks owlishly at the beast as his mouth opens and closes in search of a response. He looks like a fish. Shadow Milk chuckles at the mental image.
“Is that really what you think this is? Is that who you think I am?” The ancient asks, voice taking an upper lilt in the utter confusion Shadow Milk’s rant had left him in.
“That’s whatt it’s gotta be, right?” He shrugs. “You wwant me to believe you’re different? Thaaat you’re not…just a vulture waiting for me to falter and drop ddead to get my souljam?”
The ancient shakes his head. Shadow Milk huffs and looks away, tears in the eyes of his hair. The beast slouches in his hand-made rocking chair, seated against hand-sewn cushions, gripping a jug of the only thing on the balcony he hasn’t made himself.
Pure Vanilla has seen cookies like this before, when he was just a healer in the Raisin Village. Cookies who refused his help, playing off fear as pride. Cookies who had to grow up too fast, grow up alone, and had to fend for themselves. Self sufficiency became a necessity, and anyone offering help became a threat.
Even with the familiarity of Shadow Milk’s struggles, the ancient is going to have to work far more to help him than the mortal cookies long gone.
When they were one, for just a moment, he got to feel all the beast felt for eons. His nightmares of the spire aren’t just his own. Visions of his kingdom mauling his closest disciple, dragging him to a guillotine, witches biting into cookies and offering him broken off limbs, years and years of no one coming to help him.
It was one of those very same nightmares that shook him awake tonight, where he watched himself seal his other half away as he struggled and flailed in desperation.
The sight had sickened him, woke him up in disgust of his own actions, no matter if they were fake.
Shadow Milk rolls his head back over to lazily stare at the ancient.
“Hey Nilly~,” he slurs.
“Wheen you do finally…get tired of me, just finishhh me off, won’t ya? Better tthan getting sealed…again.”
A quick rebuttal finds its way onto Pure Vanilla’s tongue, a reassurance that the beast isn’t an ailing dog to be put down or a threat to be neutralized, but the bottle Shadow Milk was holding falls out of his lap, shattering on the concrete.
He fell asleep. Of course. Poor thing, always working himself to the bone. Pure Vanilla’s staff sweeps the glass to the side so he can walk over to him and pick him up off his chair.
‘He’s so beautiful, for how lowly he thinks of himself,’ the ancient notes, looking over the sharp tooth poking out of his other half’s jagged maw and the eyebags pressed into his sensitive dough.
Shadow Milk is frighteningly light, which the healer finds out after bringing him into a bridal carry. He’ll have to bring Shadow Milk to his meals, then. Maybe it’ll build some trust between them as well.
A small smile blooms on his face at the thought, hauling the beast back into his room, petting his rabbit bodyguards’ heads after passing the doorframe.
Pure Vanilla takes extra care not to trip on all the hazards of Shadow Milk’s floor, not wanting to jostle, or, Witches forbid, wake him.
His bed is a mess, and when the ancient lays him down on the soft cotton, he notices his pillow is wet from tears.
“Poor thing,” he coos, bringing the blanket up to his other half’s chin.
“Sweet dreams, Shadow Milk. One day you won’t have to fear anymore.”