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The young shepherd sits atop the hill in his lonesome, with nothing but obedient sheep for miles. They go where here leads them, eat what he feeds them, do nothing but heed him. No matter how adorable the little lambs are as they play in the field, they don't make the best company. They cannot talk back to him, they cannot question the knowledge of someone far more evolved and wise. He wants company. Wants someone who understands and cares about what he says and does beyond the area that benefits them, and so he hollers
"WOLF!"
In come running the guidable men, not so different from his sweet sheep despite their pride. They look around in panic, in confusion and in fury as they realize the shepherd has fooled them all. The rush of feeling is addictive. He keeps deceiving them over and over again, until nobody else comes when he cries out. Until it actually mattered. That's how the tale has been recorded and retold for ages.
The dark furry beast swallowed all he loved whole. He was left all alone, no gullible sheep or foolish peer to be seen as he cries. No one listens to his side of the story as he's locked away for loosing the sheep. Locked away for not being believed. Locked away for not receiving help. Locked alone for being lonely.
Outside the circle of acceptance is the only place you can see the stupidity of it all. People seem to discard each and every soul they shatter. Anything that cannot be "fixed". No one questions why the patient ones snap or the brilliant ones burn out. No one reaches out to help the compassionate as they suffocate under the strain. No one bats an eye when the joyful and the innovative give up. They simply shove them all in a box, out of sight, and replace them with the younger, the stronger, the less tarnished.
Everyone sees the new shepherd as perfect. He is kind and generous, humble and sweet, most importantly, he is "truthful". That's what the fools believed anyways. HE could tell. Could see the cracks. Would LOVE to crawl into them, make them wider make him BREAK, watch him fall. Would he understand?
He approaches the holder of his cleaved soul in memories and dark moments. The sharp angles of his new form hidden under a sheep's soft fleece, the bitterness in his voice concealed within the light of truth. It's been so long since he's had someone to talk to. He will not long for what he can never have. Once his soul is whole once more, the delusional shepherd will crumble; leaving him in his spire with unparalleled power With no one but obedient minions for company.
The prison walls quiver and loosen around them. He can feel the corrupted eyes and tendrils of his new form take solid shape again. He raises his spire again, gathering his weavers, workers and loyal lackeys. With the trap now set, there's nothing to do but wait for his sweet lone lamb to fall right in.
The truthful shepherd steps into his realm, bringing a sweet vanilla scent with him. There are more actors on this upcoming play than he originally planned for, but what is an actor if they cannot improvise. He watches as the object of his interest bids goodbye to another one of those ancient "heroes", the tainted betrayer they somehow forgave. She was his jail mate's problem to deal with, but he takes note of that affectionate moment, nevertheless. Each detail and connection is ammunition for bringing down his soulmate. Could another rotten soul find tenderness as she had?
The tear and wear on the hero of truth was evident. To him, more than anyone else. Another shepherd that's seen his herd perish, helpless in the face of disaster. It doesn't take much to break him, to pull the wool off his eyes and show him the deceit that makes up the world's truth. He falls into the role of "Truthless Recluse" quite easily. Shadow milk sprinkles the stars he used to love so much along his new companion's dark clothes and robes him in his blues and old golds. No longer does he bear the weight of the soul jam, replaced by a gold embroidered key above his heart.
Truthless Recluse is quiet. Far from docile but devoid of his usual warm chattering. He stays in the room given to him; doesn't throw a tantrum, doesn't try to break out or break the furniture, doesn't even throw out the little plush version of Shadow Milk. He keeps it sitting proper by his bed, Caring nature not lost to despair yet. Would he cradle the real thing with the same compassion? It's been so long since he's had both halves of his soul so close. So long since he last felt even close to whole
The pesky background characters his silly soulmate brought into his home simply won't give up. They reach out to his favourite puppet, dragging Pure Vanilla away from him, trying to tear him in half again, But Truthless Recluse seems to resist. They are one. A whole soul of deceit. His realm, his powers, his thoughts, his very being bare to the quiet shepherd. His soulmate forever by his side. Together, they shall feel neither loss nor loneliness ever again.
He watches, helpless as his whole world lights up in shades of cream and gold.
Pure Vanilla stands before him, in all his sweet divine glory, more radiant than ever with that ridiculously luscious hair of his. He's talking, but all shadow milk hears is static. His heart racing as if throwing itself against the confines of it's cage could somehow delay the inevitable. He was going to lose. Lose his powers, lose his body, lose his freedom, lose his only companion, lose half his SOUL.
To his absolute bewilderment, Pure Vanilla reaches out to him. Speaks like he cares, like he isn't going to bind him and imprison him alone in the dark for another millennia.
Not that Shadow milk believes him of course. Everybody lies when it benefits them, he knows that better than anyone. Afterall, who could love a tainted fool, discarded even by his own makers upon the first stumble out of line.
He cannot break character in front of all these pests. He allows the disbelief and agony to bubble up and erupt as over exaggerated anger. He grabs his two minions and jumps out of the scene, because despite everything, Shadow milk will not lose even more lives that look to him for guidance and protection.
Shadow milk fashions himself a tranquil starlit field in the comfort of his now much brighter realm. Here, there's no one to fail at impressing. Shadow milk senses the presence of his warmer half before even seeing him but doesn't have the energy to pull his mask back together. He sits, a sheep in a wolf in a sheep's clothing, bare before the gentle shepherd.
Pure Vanilla cradles him in all his fractured glory. Runs a hand through his hair and watches as the little eyes flock to him, joy and desperation evident in their puppy like behaviour. Pure Vanilla doesn't demand he act or look a certain way, doesn't push him to conform or put on a mask. He simply sits there and shares the weight of Shadow milk's emotional wreckage, so that he may breathe easier under it.
And for the first time in centuries, the two shepherds get to sit and enjoy looking at the stars, free from all burdens, no longer alone.