Chapter Text
The forest was impossibly cold.
The winds swirled lazy, the snow falling gentle from the familiar sky.
Shadow Milk walked, careful, with hands to his sides, claws flexing lazily at the air.
To where, he was uncertain. But he knew he had to get away. To run away—what he did best.
Although, Shadow Milk didn’t quite call it running away, simply allowing his enemies to tire of him, eventually disappearing altogether.
They all did, at some point. Nobody ever dared to stay.
They didn’t need to, as someone like Shadow Milk thrived in the dark, alone, in silence.
Abandoned, he thought deemed more accurate.
It was better that way, he reasoned.
He did not need anyone to stay. He did not need companionship. He did not need warmth, that he so desperately craved for.
It was better that way.
He’d long grown tired of being in the light, Cookiekind’s guiding star whose hair reflected the heaven’s stars, whose virtuous duty reflected the Witches themselves.
He’d grown long tired of giving answers, his truths, to only then be blamed when everything went wrong. When the knowledge he gave was wrong. When the answer was not the one they wanted.
“Liar!”
“Monster!”
If Shadow Milk still had the energy, he might’ve stifled a laugh, or even a snicker—a mockery towards the fallen Cookie whose glory had once settled disputes between nations.
Whose Knowledge was the foundation for academies and all magic.
A Cookie who was no more. Changed by the cruel claws of time itself, molded slowly into something unrecognizable.
A Beast.
A monster.
The price for his sins—but for which he could not tell.
His lies protected innocence. The gentle flame that was Cookiekind that threatened to go out at the merest gust of air. His lies protected them, shielded them from inevitable harm when the truth became too much to bear.
And yet, the Witches punished him.
Their wisest and most devoted Virtue.
Shadow Milk scoffed.
His deceit, trickery—although it hadn’t always been trickery at first; back when his actions lacked malicious intent.
When he simply desired to guard, not destroy.
Not change.
Back when he poured and poured his heart to its full extent into what he loved. Back when he still loved. Back when he was whole.
He was never made for love. It was inevitable. A mere matter of time before he realized what a cruel world he was ordered into guiding.
The strange heaviness that had once held in his chest seemed to fade, replaced with…
…Nothing.
Not anger, not fear—pure stillness.
Uncomfortably unfamiliar.
He wasn’t mad, but he should have been.
He didn’t cry out from the blinding pain spread across his entire dough.
He simply did nothing. Stood in his own eternal restlessness.
What was there for him to feel anyways? Apart from hatred—the only thing he knew? The only thing he grew to accept?
Not happiness.
He hadn’t felt true happiness in a long time.
Hies lies never truly made him happy, despite what he told himself. Entertained—maybe. But never happy. Never fulfilled. His heart was still void of that warmth that only came from real joy.
Not sorrow.
Yet he should have been sorrowful. It should’ve pained him to see himself fall so far, dig a grave so deep that not even the Witches could pull him out.
It felt good, to feel nothing. To be nothing.
Smaller, weaker. Perhaps it was liberating.
Perhaps he should have done this a long time ago, instead of letting himself go bit by bit, allowing himself to become destroyed—forgotten—a remnant of what used to be and what would never heal.
Shadow Milk let out a shaky breath, the chill of the forest creating a small cloud of air as he exhaled. He looked down at his hands. The frost had woven them together, numbing the senses in his fingers all the way to his palms.
Had it always been this cold? Perhaps it was simply him, his very being enhancing the growing chill. Feeding it.
He snapped a finger, intention of weaving a portal with whatever mana he might have left.
Small flickers of Dark Moon magic sputtered around his fingers before dissolving into air, as if they’d never been there in the first place.
Shadow Milk was powerless, a sad sight to see. Perhaps pathetic.
He studied the fingers a moment, creasing his brows in curiosity as he took in the small details. The way his blackened claws pointed and curled. The way his hands were much paler than the rest of him.
Slowly, he brought them up to his face, tracing over the deep blue scar embedded around his right eye. He traced it gently, shuddering as the cool on the tips of his fingers brushed against his face.
The scar had healed, sure. Long lost the ability to pain him.
But the feeling still plagued him.
The feeling of being helplessly tied down and marked for his sins. The feeling of his face slowly being torn open so cruelly, by the same hands that had baked him with so much love—so much reverence.
The pain had burned within his very soul.
That feeling does not simply just leave you—it ruins you. It lives with you. A constant reminder of your shortcomings—your failures. What you should have done better.
What Shadow Milk should have done better.
It haunts you until your very last breath; welded into your very being.
He grazed the healed dough slowly. He knew it would never truly heal. Never really smoothen out, no matter how much time has passed. A permanent, ugly reminder, of the Beast he was.
Of what he could never be again.
He let his mind wander for a moment.
Where had he gone wrong? Where had they gone wrong? His friends. The virtues that shared the burden of being perfect on each of their shoulders.
Mystic Flour Cookie—the one who silenced herself into apathy when Cookies became too demanding.
Ungrateful.
Burning Spice Cookie—who relished in his destruction, having lost the ability to hope for change once everything became repetitive.
An endless cycle.
Eternal Sugar Cookie—the one who distanced herself from the world, only to form her own.
False paradise.
Silent Salt Cookie—the fallen warrior waged into deafening silence, blinded by built up resentment. Maybe towards the Witches. Maybe towards the other Beasts.
But weren’t they all? Consumed in hatred and loathing until there was nothing left?
His mind went astray again, wandering to his other half; the revolting other piece of his soul, Pure Vanilla Cookie. Just the mere thought of his other half disgusted him.
The way he dared to speak to Shadow Milk in that light voice. Dared to offer him companionship, as if he saw the Beast as some broken Cookie, in need of his aid, and not like the true monster he was.
Please, let me be your friend.
For a moment, Shadow Milk considered. Truly considered. Allowed the mask to slip off for a fleeting moment.
Companionship meant allowing another into his heart. It meant keeping the mask off. It meant allowing himself to be vulnerable. Safe.
Understood.
It was foreign to him, like a child opening its eyes for the first time to peer wide at the sudden novel word. Unfamiliar.
Deep down, deeper than he liked to venture, something in him had wanted to reach out to the light that had stood in front of him, to grasp it tight and never let go. To embrace the warmth that came along with—instead of the familiar chill of the dark that he had grown so used to.
It was almost more welcoming than silence; than the hollow of his own heart. He truly considered it. To hug the blinding, welcoming sun.
But Shadow Milk’s walls were built too high, unwavering in their relentless nature to become impenetrable. He could not let them down—he refused to. Should they show even the slightest cracks, he simply built them higher—reinforced them, like a blacksmith honing his steel. He created a cage around the void he called his heart. Basked in poison, enveloped by thorns.
Fool.
Pure Vanilla was a fool for believing something like Shadow Milk was salvageable. Deserving of warmth. Needing of kindness. If he had the energy, he would have laughed. Would have mocked Pure Vanilla Cookie’s oh so holy name.
Pure Vanilla. The name tasted poisonous on his tongue from the first time he’d uttered it.
His replacement. The half the Witches liked better. Loved and adored. Revered. One of Earthbread’s saviors. Everything Shadow Milk used to be, everything he used to stand for. The healer’s very existence reminding Shadow Milk of his sins, a final mockery from the Witches.
Pure Vanilla was supposed to be his.
The edges of his mouth twitched upward; the ghost of what would have been a smile curved on his face. History was bound to repeat itself eventually.
Shadow Milk curled his fingers into a fist, claws pressing soft crescents into blue dough.
He inhaled, slow and shaky, then exhaled, repeating the action a few times as his breaths came out more controlled. He needed to be grounded so he would not spiral. So he would not let his thoughts consume him.
...
He was tired, he realized.
His legs grew weaker as the weight of his own body became too much.
The sun had not quite set yet into proper darkness, a cloudy white expanse peering back at him instead. The wind swirled around him softly. The air was thin, the trees, void of leaves and blanketed in snow bent over the entirety of the forest. The scene might have felt peaceful. Or better yet relaxing—if the cold did not bite so mockingly into his skin.
Shadow Milk glanced around. It was quiet, empty.
Not truly unusual for Beast-Yeast. Yet it felt as if another presence lingered near him, one he could not quite distinguish.
This presence, he realized, had been following him for quite some time now, as if whoever or whatever it was did hoped to catch him at his lowest. Something that did not care for the dangers of a Beast.
...
He was still tired.
Still unsure of where he was going.
It was not the kind of fatigue that sleep could mend. It was something more. Deeper.
Buried over the eons.
Time wasn’t something that concerned himself with anymore—having simply lost count how many years he’d been alive at some point. It was the curse of the ‘blessing’ that was immortality.
Young doughs used to ponder to him about immortality; used to speak so highly of it, as if it were some gift. Some thing to be envious of.
Fool Cookies.
He had tried to kill himself—once. Inevitability. Maybe more than once if he was truly being honest. Drowning, starving—even having his head cut off!
He tried and tried and tried until it had proven pointless.
He wouldn’t die. Couldn’t die. The scarring served ugly reminder.
“Master Shadow Milk Cookie?” Candy Apple’s voice echoed through the wall of Shadow Milk’s bathroom, causing him to freeze, briefly startled, before swiftly pulling down the sleeves of his suit, his usual cheshire grin slipping into place. The door creaked open gently, revealing the youngest of his two minions in the doorframe.
“How shall I humor you, dear Candy Apple?” despite his smile, the words came out strained. Masked under truth. Candy Apple Cookie’s usual wide eyes and grin had been replaced with a look of worry, her fingers trembling at her sides, like a small child in fear of getting in trouble.
“A-are you alright? Sapphy told me—”
“I've never been better! Say, hadn’t I set you up with a task earlier?~”
A lie.
One they both knew very well. It served as warning to Candy Apple to not press further. That he was fine. It wasn’t enjoyable for either of them when Shadow Milk lashed out for being pushed too much. For being asked too many questions.
For a moment, Candy Apple’s concern deepened. Her brows furrowed lower, her expression sullener.
She wanted to know.
To help. But Shadow Milk’s words warned her to not—and Shadow Milk’s words were law.
Slowly, the usual grin she had on her face returned as her face lit up once again, as if it had never been dark in the first place.
“Of course! I will not disappoint the great Shadow Milk Cookie!”
Candy Apple quickly bowed, letting out a high giggle before leaving, shutting the door firmly behind her.
A heavy sigh escaped Shadow Milk’s lips, the claws that had been digging within his palms loosening.
Slowly, he pushed the sleeves back up, revealing the scar lines that swirled around his arms, revealing the indigo-colored jam that was currently seeping out from them; like an old water faucet that leaked slowly onto the ground.
There were old scars, and newer ones. Fresh ones.
He said he wouldn’t.
He swore—no, he promised.
And yet he did. Again.
It was pathetic. He believed he was above this—he should be above this!
But he wasn’t.
The scars only multiplied. It was simply in his nature to be relentless. Unforgiving. Especially to himself.
Shadow Milk grimaced at the memory.
Another insignificant shard of the past. Another reminder.
He inhaled sharply. A new smell had spirited within the forest air, gone as quick as it had come. It was sweet and airy—too sweet for such a forest.
He curled his fingers again. Not tight. Not pressing. Just…holding.
He was tired, aching. The pain was catching up to him again slowly, as if his thoughts were delaying it. He trudged slow to the edge of a shallow river, before finally letting his knees sink to the ground with an echoing thud. He winced.
Was he really so weak?
Shadow Milk’s eyes trailed down to the gleaming water in front of him, the atmosphere of the forest giving it a glowing presence. The river was calm—peaceful.
He bent over the water, getting a better look at his reflection. What he saw disgusted him.
A Cookie stared back at him, whose hair had been severely unkempt, dirt and snow stuck in between the blue and black strands, the eyes within them frosted shut.
Their once smooth attire had been torn, revealing patches of his blue dough in multiple areas—most notably on the side of his torso, where a large hole had torn through. The cloth and dough alike had been stained by a deep sticky indigo, wounds reflecting back against the skin. Their eyes were sunken and red, a shadow cast over the once bright azure colors that lay beneath.
The sight was pathetic, disgusting, despicable. How could one let themselves fall so far?
He frowned, eyes narrowing at the sight once more.
...
It was him. It was his reflection that blinked back at time, barely alive, holding onto his last breath of life.
He would have been sorrowful if he still cared. What did it matter? It did not to him—not anymore.
The presence from earlier suddenly grew stronger. Closer. Dangerously close. Immediately, Shadow Milk’s head snapped backwards without the rest of his body, like the head of a doll, a result of his decapitating. His eyes narrowed sharply, scanning the area quickly.
His eyes landed on a rather frightened Cookie, whose eyes had widened in faint shock at the sight of Shadow Milk’s neck. Light blond hair cascaded down their shoulders gracefully, their curtain bangs covering the sides of their face, perfectly framing the structure of it. They were not dressed for the forest’s weather, merely dressed in white robes, cut by elegant gold trims.
Pure Vanilla Cookie.
Slowly, Pure Vanilla’s gaze softened as a smile gently spread across his face—warm despite the cold. Compassionate despite the monster that lay before him.
He stepped closer. He didn’t press or intrude, just came closer.
“Hello, Shadow Milk Cookie.”
His voice was light, caring. Too light for what they had just gone through perhaps just days before.
Something stirred within him. Not rage, not even anger. It wasn’t that familiar nothingness either. Whatever it was, it held heavy in his chest—like a backpack slung over him for too long.
Pure Vanilla was here. In front of him. The one who had betrayed him, lied to him, made him believe in a false dream. Liar.
“Leave, you shouldn’t be here.” Was the only thing he could manage to hiss out. His voice was cracked and dry, like something long forgotten finally coming back to life. He barely had the strength or even will to argue. He was exhausted.
Unfortunately, Pure Vanilla seemed to not grant him the mercy of departure.
His smile did not waver, despite Shadow Milk’s words. Instead, he stepped closer.
Never pressing, simply approaching.
“I am not going to leave you, Shadow Milk. I don’t wish to. Not now, or ever.”
Such fragile words—such empty promises. It was almost funny, how the Truth was always more deceptive than Deceit itself.
After a breath of silence, he snapped his head back into place with a soft click, standing to face the healer again, like he had all that time ago. He trembled pathetically under the weight of his own limbs.
There was a glow in his pale yellow-blue eyes. Subtle—maybe like a glimmer. The kind that reflected unyielding hope.
The kind the Fount of Knowledge used to carry in his eyes before his light went dark.
Shadow Milk sighed.
“Why do you hope for me? Why do you persist?”
“You act as if I am something worth saving. That I can be salvaged. That there’s still light in me that you can manage to find and strengthen.”
His voice was low, barely a whisper. The words came out less intimidating than he’d liked. Shakier. Uncertain.
And unfortunately, Pure Vanilla seemed to always have an answer.
“Because I know you can change, Shadow Milk. I know you can be more than the monster you deem yourself to be.”
Hah. How revolting.
”You do not know me, fool. Not one soul does or will. Give up your fantasies, Nills.”
Pure Vanilla shook his head.
”It is not fantasy, Shadow Milk—it is the Truth of what I believe. I wish to help you. Please.”
Nonsense.
Shadow Milk took a step back toward the edge of the river, his clawed fingers curling inward into tight fists.
He was not angry. He was not.
Pure Vanilla responded by taking another step forward, his white laced-up boots crunching softly in the snow.
Drops of blue stained the ground, slow. Mocking his weakness.
Pure Vanilla’s brows knitted together, as he noticed the jam that dripped from Shadow Milk’s fists.
“Give me your palms.”
It wasn’t harsh, nor commanding.
..Just stating.
Hoping Shadow Milk would agree.
After a moment’s passing, Shadow Milk extended his jam-stained palms to Pure Vanilla, who took them in his own gently.
Pure Vanilla Cookie’s hands were warm, despite the cold of the forest. A soft golden light trickled from his fingertips, into Shadow Milk’s palms. A strange sensation buzzed through him. It was cold, yet burned in an almost familiar way. It felt like a tight embrace, a warm ruffle through his hair. Like safety.
Soon, the bleeding ceased and the cuts healed like new—as if the dough had never been torn at all.
Pure Vanilla let go, allowing Shadow Milk his space.
“Thank you for letting me heal you.” He whispered, the warm smile returning to his face.
Why had he allowed Pure Vanilla to heal him? Shadow Milk did not need healing, and he made that abundantly clear. Why did he allow Pure Vanilla the satisfaction of knowing that Shadow Milk was the weak one now?
He…was not angry. No. He was not.
Suddenly, he felt arms wrap around him slowly, rubbing circles around his back. Pure Vanilla had pulled him into a tight embrace for Witches know why.
Shadow Milk tensed under the hold—startled; almost fearful—not quite returning the affection.
He hadn’t ever been held like this. Not once.
The comfort he found in it was strange. Not necessarily uncomfortable, just…unfamiliar. Like walking through a corridor of a place you’d soon call home.
The danger bells in Shadow Milk’s head signaled him to run—to turn back before Pure Vanilla got the chance to betray him.
To Run from the warmth. Hide from the sun.
He needed to run.
..
..
He couldn’t.
Not when everything he had ever longed for stood plain before him.
Shadow Milk would not return the warmth, but he allowed it. If it meant Pure Vanilla wasn’t staring at him with those gentle eyes of his. The eyes that Shadow Milk hated how easily they made him so tired. How calm they made him feel. Safe.
“You’re so cold…” the other whispered. “You’re so cold…”
“I want to help you, Shadow Milk. Would you let me? Please.” It was said with a quiet, almost pleading tone if one listened close enough.
Hah, how funny, the sheep—so desperate to free the wolf from its cage.
“Mmm, boring! The audience is not very entertained right now, Nilly. Jeez, just how plain are you?” Shadow Milk pushed Pure Vanilla away, not fully, but enough so that their faces were close, close enough to intimidate. He grinned.
“You don’t want me as a friend, Pure Vanilla— you want to tame me. To fix me. Stitch me back together. Well guess what?”
He grabbed Pure Vanilla by the chin with sharp force, stifling a startled hum from the healer.
“You won’t”
“And you wanna know why, my dear precious healer?”
He watched as Pure Vanilla stared sorrowfully into his eyes, frowning at his words.
He didn’t continue—not yet. He allowed the moment to breathe, for the trees to lean on their barks, for the air to still in its flow.
Then, he grinned again, perhaps the most genuine one in a long time.
“Because monsters don’t change, silly. I don’t apologize, I don’t feel remorse. I destroy, Pure Vanilla—I lie. Solely because I want to.”
Finally Shadow Milk stepped back once more, the phantom of where his claws grazed the tan dough leaving faint lines of deep red.
”Messed up, isn’t it? Pretty fucked up of me to enjoy other’s pain? Oh and trust me, I do.” He whispered, enunciating every syllable as they fell from his mouth.
Somehow, Pure Vanilla did not falter at the venom in his voice—and instead smiled softly— Witches know what was so humorous to this man.
“You don’t have to do this, Shadow Milk. I know you do not wish for this. Please, I want you to let me be there for you. Let me be your guiding light.”
This time, the jester could not resist a laugh. He cackled, loud, biting; openly mocking the healer’s words. How ridiculous! Shadow Milk—master of Deceit, a monster of Earthbread’s own making—reduced to needing a ‘guiding light’! Oh how foolish Pure Vanilla was.
“I don’t want you to hope for me you gnat—I still want to kill you! I would rather the Gods tear me open again than ever receive aide from you! The thief of my soul jam! My power!”
“…Is that really true?”
“I—what?”
Another step closer, another crunch in the snow. When had Pure Vanilla gotten so close, anyway? It was suffocating—his presence, the kindness in his voice; everything about him.
Shadow Milk loved despised it.
Again, that ever gentle smile painted his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes He opened them, pale ivory lashes fluttering against those glossy eyes, gazing at him more fondly than he’d ever imagined.
“Stop that.” He hissed. “Stop looking at me like I mean something.”
Pure Vanilla shook his head this time, gently taking Shadow Milk’s wrist into his fingers. They wrapped around the dough like ribbon.
Grounding—irritating. Shadow Milk hadn’t realized how much he’d been deprived of touch until now.
“Of course you mean something. Everyone does. Even you.” Light, gentle, maybe even reassuring.
That earned the healer a roll of the jester’s eyes as he tried to pull away, only for Pure Vanilla to grasp tighter.
Persistent. Why won’t Pure Vanilla just leave him to rot?
The exhaustion in his legs returned, the weariness in his eyes uncomfortably prominent.
He was so tired.
Tired of Pure Vanilla. Tired of himself.
He doesn’t know when, but he remembers eventually slowly sinking into the snow, his last thought before slipping unconscious being at how warm Pure Vanilla felt against the cold.
…
───── ༺✦༻ ─────
The Fount set down the book he had been working on near the edge of his desk, placing his pen back in its ink bottle with a small clink. He eyes his finished work in admiration. The pristine hand writing reflected back to him, the dark ink beginning to dry. He smiled. This was his first book out of many that he would have to write.
Oh how he was so eager!
The world still felt so new, so fresh. Much like himself. The Fount of Knowledge, the virtue who held the answer to everything there was to exist. Held the truths of Cookiekind! It was all so exhilarating. He was a light, a guiding path—quite literally a fountain of knowledge!
He traced a finger along the text of the book, feeling the paper brush rough against his fingertips.
Sure, he could have simply used magic to write it, instead of spending multiple hours hunched over himself over his desk, but the Fount was an overachiever! He wanted to ensure his heart and soul was poured into the very thing he loved.
The very thing he was baked for.
The very thing that killed him.
Slowly, he sat up from his chair, pushing it back into the desk gently. He glanced around to his room’s windows, the sky reflecting deep waves of dark blue and violet, the stars glimmering brightly over the expanse.
Witches was it really this late?
He supposed having a bit of a rest wouldn’t hurt.
Just once.
What a mistake.