Chapter Text
His eyes hurt. His head hurts. His stomach hurts, throat hurts arms hurt legs hurtlungshurt EVERYTHING HURTS!
He shouldn’t ever have had to deal with this pain. He is a beast! A legendary cookie holding the Soul Jam of deceit! The ultimate play write of all of Earthbread! The master of Lies! The Fount of kn-
no…. no, he was not that….
Wait, how did he… get here? Even better question, where is he? He remembered being in his spire, that edifice of the things that weren’t, lies and deceit. Hallways and stair and doors that opened in on themselves, that lead in and out at once, thresholds meaning nothing. Floors were ceilings and ceilings were walls and walls were twisting and winding and stairs had no right way to use them. No side was up but there was always a down, only so gravity could bring them crashing down and crumble any poor sap that dares enter.
He saw how those disgusting GNATS kept running, fighting through the spire. He saw how his minions were defeated, paralyzed tarring them selfs apart just as much as the little invaders did. He saw Pure Vanilla cookie’s memories. He saw how he fell into delicious doubt. He saw as their existences intertwined, how they melded together. He felt it!
Then something changed. Like a bell braking a mirror. Like tuning forks in a beehive. Like nothing he’d ever heard before.
He felt how he lost control of his power, how it was overtaken. He felt the blinging light sear his skin. He felt his eyes struggle to open against the truth of Pure Vinilla cookies’s ascension. He felt rage and disgust and pain and betrayal and emotions he could not and would not name as he fought, and clawed and casted and shot. He felt it as he could not keep attacking, the exhaustion threatening to close his eyes as he struggled to keep his body up, to force out words. And he felt as the man he hated asked to be his friend.
Then he realized someone was screaming. Then he realized it was own voice. Then he realized his portal wouldn’t work, not fully. His minions were able to run, but they didn’t. Still, he tried to open it just a bit wider, just a bit longer. Then it dawned on him that he could no longer control it. He realized that he would fall unconscious. The lasting he saw, felt, and realized was the floor smashing into his nose.
Now he’s here.
Where is here?
It’s dark, comfortable with the curtains closed and a door at the end of the room shut tight as if to stand sentinel against the light. He’s also in a canopy bed, those curtains drawn too, but they’re thin so they didn’t do much. His eyes hurt. His head hurts. He’s too warm, feverish even. Not like beats can get sick though so it’s nothing.
He feels filthy. He feels itchy. He feels like water left to be contaminated by the sun. His vision ripples like the frothy tide of the sea. How long was he here?
There’s a dresser on the right, gold, white, and beige with insufferable gaudy waffle trimming, taunting him to stand. He needs to wash, to stand, to do anything except lay here in this bed, pinning him down like a thousand layers of brick, trapping him under the weight of this moment. He needs to move he needs to get up.
Everything hurts. He’s gonna vomit. He tries to move and his body listens, just for his pain to scream and jeer and mock him for daring to move. For being in such a position in the first place. Jam boils as he tries to move again, blazing sugar boiling in his head. Like his very brain is broiling in his own skull. bubbles popping in his head. He reaches up to the ceiling, wishing that his body would allow him to sit up, to stand up.
He manages to sit up against the back board, entire body sputtering. From here, he could see more of the room, shrouded in darkness as it was. Besides the dresser, there’s a mirror at the far end of the room also on the right. A wall directly on his left along with a window, only the slightest amount of light oozing from the side of the curtain. On his right there’s a little night stand with a dinky little chair between it and the dresser. Well, the chair is well made, even slightly ornate, but the placement was made by someone who clearly didn’t know what they were doing.
The chair is bothering him, if he could only stand up to move it. If he was gonna be stuck in a room without his say so, he at least wants it to be a room with decorum, not this hovel! He would not tolerate it.
Everything is bothering him, to be fair. Just a bit too hot, just a bit too stuffy, too empty, nothing between him and that door starring him down like he did. He can’t languish here. He needs to get up. Everything hurts. So sore.
He weakly cackles, his throat daring to tear open. Look at him! A beast! An immortal! Unable to move because of some messily pain! He should be able to get up, tare this room to shreds. Tare whatever building he’s in to shreds! Get up!
His legs feel like warm gummy, sticky and sluggish. They probably wouldn’t be able to hold up a crumb, much less a whole cookie. Like a cake hound carrying a crown, like the witches putting him away behind metal and bark, everything is heavy. He tastes sliver. His vision swims with thousands of little dots.
Wait
He can just float over! He never really walked anyways, why now of all times would he try to? Just focus inward, grab at your strings and hoist yourself up. Just focus and do it. As he closes eyes, he starts to float ever so slightly. Then he raises a bit higher. And then a bit higher. And a bit higher still. Just a bit mo-
Pain rips into his sides, eating his ribs and drinking feverishly of his jam. It runs up and down his sides and only deepens, sinking into him. Teeth rip into his stomach, acid leaking through. He lashes out and try’s to cast a spell. Some ball of magic to rip that chair asunder. If he couldn’t move it aside, put it somewhere with any sense to it, he would blast it to bits! It didn’t matter he didn’t have his staff, he just needed to hit something.
More pain. Whole body aches and spasms, his entire, body, existence, was cramping. Where is his staff? He needed his staff!
…Not sure how he missed it. It rests against the wall right next to that threshold he clearly was not met to cross. Or for others to cross. All the same to him. The other side is brighter now, still dark, but nevertheless brighter. Whoever put him here, they must have lit some candles. When? He would have heard them.
HOW LONG HAS HE BEEN LAYING HERE?
A chill dashes up his spine as his tendrils bristle and drip. His eyes shut tight as the thought rings in his head like an alarm bell in a cavern. He needs to get up. He needs to run. He needs to destroy. He needs to get beck to the spire, to get back to his home, to those little pawns that listened to his every whim. His minions that would listen and respect him and adore him, care for him. He couldn’t stand to see his foolish mistake hurt them. Are they oka-
Functional.
Can they still serve him? Will his puppets still dance? He needs to get beck to them! Why wont his legs move! Get up! You’re a beast, why do you care about pain!? Just stand! His breathing quickens as his body warms and anger reaches a fever pitch. Arms tense as he braces, pain thrumming through him with ever movement, every tiny adjustment. He pushes himself off the bed.
“OW!” He lands squarely on his forehead and he feels something in his neck crack. “That’s gonna hurt in the morning” he remarks to himself through a dry, windswept and spice dusted desert of a throat. Hey, at least he still has a sense of humor. Pure Vanilla hasn’t taken that. His mask is not cracked.
He lay there panting on the wooden floor, his breath fogging up the polished ground. His stomach hurts. His neck hurts. His arms, his legs, his head his eyes his lungs hishearthis- EVERYTHING HURTS! Why did he try to get up? He knew this would happen! But he could not, would not stand to stay in this blasted room where some imbecile didn’t know the first thing about decoration. He would not allow himself to not get up and get out of here, to get back to his spire, to get back to his minions, to to to…to…
…where is he?
The window is now further away. Why did he do that? He could have clawed out the window, jumped out, even! What ever got him out of here and closer to his monument of lies! He weaned to go home. He didn’t want to be here! His throat is tightening, he feels like jelly left out in the sun, like he was being boiled from the inside, like he ate a bag of hot coals. Searingly hot tears well up in his eyes and his tendrils lose their shape and he he he-h-heheHeHEHAHAHAH
“HAHAHAHAH,” he couldn’t help but laugh! LOOK AT HIM! He feels like he’s melting, going limp, pain still there, laughing at him. His body convulses as he tries to curl up, to anchor himself. His chest is heaving. Eyes are simmering in his skull. That traitor! He’s the one who did this! Pure Vanilla Cookie needs to pay! Why couldn’t he just stay who he was!? Why could he not be there to understand??? Pure Vanilla fell just like he did! Why didn’t he understand!?
He would make him understand! He said he did, and yet he had to go and be all truthful the PATHETIC FOOL! HE JUST NEEDS TO CRUMBLE HIM! To brake him apart an-and and rip and crack and take and burn him in the oven! And then he would drown that goody little truth-shoes in the Yogurt River so he may finally understand!
He couldn’t stop laughing! It was so disgusting it was almost funny! His stomach was a thousand churning oceans. The tears are faster now, stinging like hot magma on his skin. They roll down like- tears? Te-tears?! He’s crying? When as the last time he did that!? The absurdity of it snaps him out of his spiral. His mind is far away from clear, but is at least comprehensible now.
His breaths slow a bit. Then a bit more. Then just a bit more. It takes minuets, slow painful minuets with this lungs feeling like they were going to burst. His insides were a used rag left to bake in the sun.
Sprawled out, well as sprawled out as he could be with the bed on his left side and the nightstand on the other, he contemplates what to do. Should he try to get out the window? He isn’t sure if he is still basically immortal and he doesn’t want to test it. Witches, this room is badly designed.
Shadow Milk cookie grumbles to himself. Uhhggggggg, if he’s gonna obliterate whoever put him in this place, he’s gonna need his staff. To get his staff, he needs to get to the door. To get to the door, he needs to walk over there. And to walk over there, he needs to get up.
The nightstand, to his side stands suddenly as a beacon. A waypoint of which to start to escape this labyrinth of what he could only assume wast revolting truth.
He lays there mustering up the strength to stand. Then he has an idea. He just needed a distraction. If he could just find something to stop the constant aches! His breathing quickens slightly. He just needs to pretend he’s fine and he will be. “Fake it till ya’ make it,” he sputters, whispering to himself.
He takes his time to sit up. Progress. Slowly, he then puts one leg behind himself. Then he does the same with the other. Now he is on his knees. The dresser is just slightly too tall. When he got his strength back, he would need to personally burn this dresser.
Now, here comes the not-so fun part, the one that he knew he would have to do. But a bit of pain never hurt him! Plus, even if somehow he did actually get affected by a bit messily little pain, he has an actor. It was his job to pretend! Plus, he’s gotten this far, no way on earthbread he would chicken out now.
The best medicine is more pain. He gingerly lifts up his right hand and sticks out his thumb. Carefully, it approaches his face like pray unsuspecting of its soon-to-be-corpse status. He opens his mouth, serrated teeth ready to hunt. The take his thumb and places it delicately between his upper and lower jaw. Just bite and pull. Bite and pull.
Here goes nothing.
———————————————————————————————————
Pure Vanilla cookie feels something crack.
But, he knows nothing happened. His experience as a healer and as a fighter has thought him an array of things, one of which being what it feels like to have broken bones. This feeling is not the same, he does not actually sense the fracture in his finger that he very much felt. His body warms ever so slightly and then it starts to hurt more, like a dam slowly being lifted. The pain does not show on his face but he does get visibly warmer, ever so slightly which is really awkward for many reasons. Both socially and quite literately uncomfortable for his body.
One such reason being that this is his first public address to the Vanilla Kingdom since his return from Beast-Yeast.
He stands on a stage in the town square, cookies of all shapes and sizes stand to hear his speech. He felt the pain increase slightly as he plants his hands on the podium, speech starring at him, daring him to start speaking. It has been harder being in public since The Spire’s fall. The rubble of the incident sticks in his mind.
Ever since he “stepped down” he has endeavored to be nothing more than an ambassador. However, most of the changes he made were just scaffolding, never actual change. Then he has been adventuring and fighting beasts and he never was able to truly enact anything till now. It was eating away at him the entire time, in fact. He was relived to see his people.
“My dear and loyal subjects,” he starts. It feels weird in his mouth as he vowed to share more of the power of the kingdom with the people. “I know you may have many questions regarding my well being after the most recent push into Beast-Yeast, but I ask, how is your well being? Despite my return, I have not been able to in the recent months, council the public.”
“I intend to further endeavor to share the power with the people. As you can imagine, this is quite vexing without the input of the people.” He speaks in a jovial tone, as to embody not a ruler, but a friend asking for advice. His thumb still throbs like a second heart.
“And so I ask you, how do you want this kingdom to move forward? Time is indelible, we all one day will go stale and crumble, so it is important we build a stable future for those after us. Please, do not be afraid to introduce ideas you all believe would further the kingdom.”
He takes a deep, reassuring breath. The pain is starting to subside, even still it bothers him. “Please, do not fear that your ideas do not matter, as this will only bring us closer to the truth of our next step. The newly refurbished Chamber of Audiences shall hold formal discussions every Tuesday and Thursday along with the all day audiences. Eventually it will become the entire hall of advisors that takes audiences rather than just me.”
The crowd’s silence is deafening. It is no that the crowd does not respond, infect they seem quite agreeable, he just no longer can handle eyes on him. Pale blue hunts him still. “Along side that, I have appointed extra advisors to my hall. These cookies are not nobles or of wealth but of the public. Worry not, for your voice will crescendo in power in the times to come!”
The crowd roared with excitement, a cacophony of joy and adoration. Among the cheering, there was jubilant discussion of mobility and wealth. Still there were those still select few who did not cheer. They stood detected or even mad, gone under the radar of the public, but not Pure Vanilla cookie’s watchful gaze. Despite his calm demeanor, he never once let his guard down. Beast-Yeast thought him that. They were mostly nobles, though there were some farmers and merchants as well.
This worried him, but he dared not show it. He waits for the crowd to die down be making the a proposition, the trial run of the future and crux of this appearance. “Now, as part of this initiative, you all may ask questions till the sun comes down. I have open ears and a ready mind.” The crowd buzzes with curiosity as hands raise and questions fly.
Most of it is incomprehensible but he picks out a few of the most pertinent questions and waits for the crowd to settle down. The hand of a farmer rises and he asks. “Will I get a larger farm?”
The modern sage of truth replies. “That I do not know, but what I do know is that you will be able to request more land, as may the rest of your occupation. Our goal is to unify the community and allow all to propose, study, and debate.”
The farmer seems satisfied with this answer and nods appreciatively. A merchant speaks up. “Could I become a noble? Could I decide laws?”
“In this system that you all will help create, if you truly want that to be the case, for mobility to nobility, or even a complete rework of the law drafting and voting system, it is certainly within your grasp!” Again, the crowd cheered and roared. He was proud of that nobility line. He spent all night writing that. Just in case.
Some of those who once did not cheer have started to, mostly the common men. Only nobles still stood at stiff peaks.
Then one said noble piped up and delivered a pointed question, halfway between accusation and worry. His cream hair fluffed up around his head daring cascade over his eyes. It is dammed however by his glasses, framing his curious eyes. From them hang a thick and heavy chain so large it was more a scarf than a necklace. The cookie is dressed in one too many layers, cone trim scarf the final touch to their all to warm attire. Papers overflow out of their pockets like a frothing sea of ink and parchment. He needs to stop overworking himself, Pure Vanilla thinks. Snickerdoodle Cookie. “And what will happen to you? What would you do?” Some of the crowd nodded thoughtfully.
Snickerdoodle cookie was the manager of the royal treasury. As garish as they dressed, they were the best of the best. Books balanced themselves in their presence. One could even believe that money management was his first language. However, aside from numbers, he was quite timid. Pure Vanilla cookie was elated that he had the courage to inquire at all, not to mention his tone. He was proud that Snickerdoodle Cookie was cracking his own shell.
“I’m glad you asked,” Pure Vanilla responded, secretly relived he didn’t have to address this directly, rather as an answer than a statement. It was a bit silly of a worry sure, but nevertheless his nerves were eased. The soft, inquisitive eyes Snickerdoodle cookie also helped.
“I intend to maintain my position as an ambassador along opening a library, The House of Knowledge. To find and spread truth has been and will always be my resolve.” His tone was authoritative, but not assertive.
The crowd cheers, less celebratory and more reverent. In the ocean of people, a plank of wood floats up. A little kid raises and waves his hand, clearly exited to ask a question. Their parent pouches their hand down. The sun is starting to set, the sky melting in tangerine and peach hues. It is as if the sky is turning to syrup. He could almost taste it, sweet and subdued if it weren’t for the bitter after taste of what was to come after this. Instead a smooth, strong voice resonates.
“But what about our defenses? What will be of our guards? The technicians that work on the waffle bots? How will we stay safe?” Black Raisin Cookie interjects halfway between concern and chiding “What of the Beasts that still threaten us?”
Pure Vanilla had practiced this response, knowing she would ask something so pertinent, so concerned for the people. He made a good choice putting her on the new council. “Black Raisin Cookie, your concerns are valid. Times are unstable, but I assure you that the guard will stay in its full strength with extra rations for every soldier.”
The soldiers crowd interrupt with cheers at the joyous news. “Extra star jellies for all, and bear jellies too!” Pure Vanilla was finding his grove, the river of questions and answers flow naturally again. Witches, he missed this. “And the same will apply to all technicians of waffle bots, along with extra materials with which not only to build with, but to experiment and improve. We will be bolstered in the is time.
“And of the beasts, they do not threaten us, as they still lay in Beast-Yeast. We have no worry of them. Even if they managed to besiege our continent, the fellow kingdoms will be standing side by side by side defense. There is nothing we cannot do united!”
The truth underlying his candied words sat firmly in Black Raisin cookie’s mind. Like unseen monsters hiding just behind the trees in some unnamed forest. The underbrush was constantly disturbed by intrusive thoughts that ran rampant. Little worries that hunted in packs. His attempt to heal the Beast of Deceit will not go well. She is sure of this. Even so, she trusts Pure Vanilla cookie’s judgement.
She did not like his decision. She felt this whole thing was an unruly endeavor. She could find no reason to harbor such danger. And yet, Pure Vanilla insists on daring to help the monster. He must see something in his many eyes that she does not. She did see him once, after a majority of the injury’s were healed.
She was to keep a tabs on Shadow Milk cookie once he woke up, at least for a little while. She prayed to the witches that he would not wake up any time soon. She frowns.
Before the crowd could make their call again, a question shot through the crowd. The bullet registered in Pure Vanilla’s brain even before it was finished.
The cookie could not be seen, but he knew their voice. “But why?” They pause for grim effect. “Why are you trying to change this kingdom when it is prosperous already! This danger is unnecessary.” Horchata cookie was pointed.
They step into view. A clean cut cookie in a well tailored three-piece cinnamon infused 100 percent cotton candy suit. They were to be a judge in the courts being built. The justice of truth, they were already called.
Their sugar string hair quaft and crisp in a perfectly practiced swoop that dared not dip past his hairline more than an inch. “How is this fair to the people,” they gesture to the people around them. “To expose a time of fragility for what? This rule works, we have no need to change.”
They are direct, commanding even. They were not worried of the reactions of the people around them, who were surprisingly on board. They did not give opinions or impose emotions. All they did was speak truth. He respected them for that. Unfortunately, it also ment that they wouldn’t stop till they got a good reason. Pure Vanilla has one of those, he thinks. He’s tired. It feels like he’s stiffening up entirely.
He feels… sore? Ever so slightly aching. Not the time. “Time is indelible,” Pure Vanilla starts. Horchata has a hard stare, not mean, but hard. “As I have said, time does not stop for anyone. Even I one day will crumble. And so, I find it pertinent to plant a tree in which I will never sit in the shade of.” Pure vanilla pauses for a second to see of Horchata Cookie was satisfied. He wasn’t.
“Also, power is as much a blessing as it is a curse. I cannot in good faith allow power to sit in the hands of only a few people. Plus, even I am worn down by the burden of responsibility. I still wish to guide, but not to lead. I hope you can understand.” Horchata cookie did not look satisfied.
They opened their mouth to speak, but before a word came out a kid shouted from the middle of the people. They were impressively loud for someone of their size. The crowd keeps starring at him. He hates how they drink him in and eat him whole.
“Oooo! Oooo! I have a question! Pick me! Me!” The kid squealed, as if this was his life’s mission. The kid’s parent rushes over, embarrassed and distressed. They push through the crowd hurriedly as they watch silently. The sun is right on the horizon.
“Hey, you can’t go rushing off like that! Young lad!” the mother cookie scolds. She run up to Pure Vanilla cookie, tone switching to something much more jubilant. She hoists her child over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The child laughs even as he starts to be taken away. “I’m so sorry hahaha,” she glares to her kid, trying to slip out from under her arm and off her shoulder. “Children these days. Now come on, let’s go.”
As the stars start to peer down on the kingdom, Pure Vanilla interjects as they start to leave. “It is okay, ask what you want. All deserve to be able to question and to learn.” His expression is soft and playful, looking at the kid with a patient curiosity. The child, currently being hoisted onto the parent cookie’s shoulder looks back and looks at him. His eyes are too playful. It is fully dark now. The moon not in sight.
“Why do you harbor the beast?”
The kid hisses as the crowd turns toward Pure Vanilla cookie. His words were the sudden cold of sweeping wind, biting and venomous. The kid laughs softly at first before crescendoing to a mania iced peak, it seemed as if his chest would burst and the jam would come roaring out. The stars disappear like eyes blinking in the inky darkness of the night sky. Oily drops of ooze squelch onto the ground, drenching the people. The crowd does not react.
“Wha- what?” He gets out, just nearly above a whisper.
The crowd erupts, like a volcano bursting after holding blindingly hot magma for millions of years. The sky opens, as black rain whips at Pure Vanilla cookie’s dough, stinging like needles. The where the stars were, azure eyes have replaced them, drinking in his pain. Like wise, Black Raisin cookie stares daggers at him. Horchata cookie sees right through him. Snickerdoodle cookie looks into his soul. The child laughs louder, loud enough to burst ear drums. The pain in his finger returns, sharp glass chomping at the pit to lacerate his bones.
“Why should we listen to this cookie? He holds the Beast of Deceit!” The kid spits, his little lungs straining for air. The crowd joins in the kid’s shouts. They call for his banishment, for the traitor “king” to leave and never come back! If he is to constantly be on leave to faraway lands and make allies with manipulators and liars, he might as well just be barred from entering his kingdom ever again.
He made a promise to give the kingdom to all and he only starts doing that now!? The admonishing of his past seeps into the pours of his dough, making it so he might burst. It is deafening! He blinks hard. He keeps his eyes shut till the sound stops.
The child asks, head tilting slightly “what’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”
Pure Vanilla blinks a few more times blankly at the child, head spinning. What was that? He maintains his composure and answers the little cookie’s question.
“I-I um.” Deep breaths, remember deep breaths. His voice takes on a soft, sing song quality to it, as if reading a story before bed. “I would have to go with, hmmmmm I’d have to say vanilla,” He smiles warmly.
“ME TOO!” The kid shouts all too loud. “See??? I! told! you!” The young cookie, who somehow wriggled his way out from under his parent’s arm, jumps up and down excitedly. The crowd fawns and lets out an audible “awwwwwww”. Pure Vanilla cookie is tired. He couldn’t imagine himself a parent. He does not deserve his status, he thinks A soft smile paints his face in gentle thought. Do the two minions count? He takes a mental note to find a better name for the pair.
As stars shine down like gemstones, infinite little sprinkles that top the world, it is abundantly clear that it is time to rest. For the people at least.
“Thank you all for coming here tonight! I will continually support this kingdom for as long as I can. The Chamber of Audiences is open to all for discussion and proposals. Within the week, the entire Hall of Advisors will sit to hear the public.
“Another thing, The House of knowledge shall begin construction immediately, branching from and being built off of the library in the castle. Let all the cookies of this realm rest and be rejuvenated for the days to come. We will not falter!”
The crowd does the customary response to his call. Cheers and applause as he makes his exit. As he goes the crowd does not disperse all at once, people milling about and making general small talk before eventually dispersing.
The crown weighs heavy as he walks off the little wooden stage set up for this event. Then jogs as he leaves the public eye. He knew they weren’t, but it felt like they were boring through him, peering at all of the things he kept to himself, the good and the bad. His reservations, his regrets, his confusion. Then sprints as he enters the castle its self. Witches, that exit speech felt forced.
Well, not forced, more performative. He ment it. Truly he did. From the bottom of his heart he did. But it also stuck in his mind, a thorn stabbing through his side. Not a lie, but the truth presented in an overly joyous manner. Some funhouse lens.
His mind races just as fast as his legs do. He gets stiffer as his room gets closer in the map of these halls that rests snugly in his mind. Hair whips at his face, lashing at his eyes. The crown is heavy in his hand, weighing him down as he sprints faraway from voyeuristic skies. He does not like eyes.
That night replay in his mind as it does every night, like a broken record. He ment what he said. He truly did. From the bottom of his heart he did. He wanted to be friends with him. He wanted to be able to make amends. But having time to process what he did, despite his ascension, he was not sure he truly forgave him.
He empathized with him, he understood him. He was a mirror, he was the other side of the same coin. He cared about him. He wants to see Shadow Milk get better, why else would he be spending almost every midnight keeping him alive? Stitching him back together like some twisted approximation of what one might call a doll? Bandages and ointment and books and a stench between hospital and mortuary. Right now, his body no longer needs that. Just time. So the work load should go down besides checkups. Get back on track.
Not to mention his two minions that have taken residence here, to follow their master to the ends of earth bread. Well they weren’t that bad all in all. A missing spoon here, a stollen jar of star jellies there. They were surprisingly well behaved. He could see the looks in their eyes when they passed Shadow Milk cookie’s room. It was like a bruise on the castle. A cyst too painful to prod.
He wished he could say something, anything, to comport them, but he was not sure how. Despite all his knowledge, he was still hopelessly inept with cookies.
Thoughts kept spring in up in his skull like weeds. Every time he pulled himself away from a worry, he ran into another one like flies to a sugar trap. Thoughts he did not need right now. What if he’s dead? What was that pain earlier? Why did he have to hesitate? Why was he hurt now? Would they forgive him? Did he forgive him? Did he have feelings?
Of course he felt something towards Shadow Milk cookie. A lot of things, in fact. Sadness? Of course. Compassion? As it came to seeing him and feeling for him, of course. Anger? No. Something more like aggravation. Repulsion? Disgust? Against a sane cookie’s better judgment, no. Nothing that extreme.
The freight train of thought that derailed a long time ago is interrupted as he recognizes not only has he arrived, but that he has been standing out side the door for a solid five minuets. The aches are stronger now. Not to much, but enough to be noticeable.
The candles he lit before his speech are still burning bight as always. Tinny guards of light in the sea of moon soaked darkness. Little stars. He takes a moment to close his eyes and take in their warmth.
A deep breath in and, out was the first sound in a long time that Shadow Milk Cookie heard as the ringing that had set up shop in his ear. And business as booming. It never stoped being in the black and was blocking out pretty much every other sound. Except his heart. His lungs. The things that already thrummed in his dough. He heard that fire alarm twenty-four seven.
Pure Vanilla froze as for the first time in a long time, he could feel his Souljam resonate. It was like linking up clocks on a bar to synchronize them. A thousand metronomes in harmony. A warm feeling spread through his body one he had not felt in all too long. Recognition? No. Reflection? To vague. Connectedness? No, to unanimous.
Understanding.
Understanding not only of him self by another, but being able to see another in their entirety. He remembered why he forgave Shadow Milk cookie now. For in that moment, they were intrinsically linked. Not amalgamated, but synchronized. Still himself, but part of another as well. No up without down.
Another word popped into his head…
He was not sure if the warmness in his head was his own.
This was not the time when he could feel that Shadow Milk is awake.
Shadow Milk recoiled at the sudden warmth in his chest. Not hot like the fever he totally wasn’t running or blistering like the tears that still dare to well up. And definitely not like the white hot pain in his legs, unlike only the red hot pain everywhere else. His tendrils were ice cream on a hot August night and they frayed like sun beaten straw. It was conclusively not like that. It was comfortable. It was revolting.
It almost dampened the fact that he resorted to crawling to the door for his staff. Couldn’t even stand. He couldn’t even distract himself from the pain. His ploy only left his thumb half hanging off his hand dislocated. Some muscle showed where dough was ripped. Look at him! Does the actor want the stage hands to provide him water in between scenes too? A bag to vomit in after the act three brake down? A bandaid after a fall on stage he had to play off???
How pitiful.
How pitiful he would crawl. How pitiful he couldn’t walk, or fly, or blow this whole room to bits. How pitiful he was taken in by that trader. How pitiful he could feel the missing half of his soul resonating from the other side the door, that it was not his. How pitiful it is that he missed this.
Pure Vanilla made up his mind right there and then. He forgave Shadow Milk. At least for the moment, if not for beyond that. What he did was horrid, disgusting even. He could still feel eyes burning into the back of his neck. He tried to mold him, to fit him into a cutter he was not made from. But, he understood him. He understood how Shadow Milk was hurting, desperate. How he was going depressed and insane for so long, sinking into the barbed comfort of irony, he forgot what it was like to be genuine. Not only with others, but with himself.
Even if he didn’t truly forgive him after this moment, it was his duty as a healer to get him to a better place. He can tell Shadow milk is awake. How would he act? Be all calm and graceful? Be outgoing and happy. Friendly? Angry? He was not sure. But hey, he was on stage not even a hour ago. This isn’t so diffrent. But his lags are shaking, weak. The rest of him throbs as well, as if his body was infected by a nauseating rhythm.
Shadow Milk could feel his mask kicking into gear. A social situation. He was good with these, all the world’s a stage and all that. He remembers when he wrote that one actually. The sun was shinning through his window, the air gently blowing the curtains in a picturesque fashion.
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He put the quill back into the inkwell, ready for another line. The line. But the words did not come to him. He sits back and groans. This is supposed to be one of the key lines of the play. This needed to be good.
“Why must the hardest part of being a playwright be writing plays. That’s the whole point!” The fount of knowledge flailed animatedly in his chair.
He gestures at nothing in the air as he pushes back in his chair even more. Crash! He falls out of his chair. He sits there on the could for a second, reeling. Spots dance in his vision as he struggles to stand up.
He groans as he gets up and goes over to his balcony, dusting himself off. His glasses are cracked now. Hell need to get new lenses. Sure he technically doesn’t need them, but they look soooooo… he loses his train of thought.
Walking over to the sliding sugar glass doors guarding his balcony, he lets the moment warm him. He slides the doors and steps out to view the campus Blueberry Yogurt Academy. It bustles with students running from place to place, carrying books and discussing topics and a little sonnet battle seems to be forming down near the band hall.
Standing on the semicircle balcony, leaning on the rail, he takes in the sight. The summer air is fresh, freeing. The wind gingerly carries the scent of caramel and cinnamon on its back. Sun shining in his face. He could take the sun from the sky and eating it like a star jelly. This is what the oven must feels like, he thought.
Blueberry Yogurt cookie took a deep breath and immersed him self in the moment.
It was the feeling of spotlights and lectures. It was being on a stage… oh! He has it! He rushes over back to his desk and franticly scrawls the nine before he forgets. “All the world’s a stage,” says halfway between a laugh and a shout. Oh how inspiration strikes.
As he sits down to write, lifting the quill from it’s resting spot, he stares in to he ink pot. Azure eyes stare daggers at him. Tendrils thwip out of the bottle and latch onto his hands and wrists. Further and further it climbs, reaching his mouth, enveloping him. Before he can make a sound, he drags himself in into the ink pot, ripping himself from the memory.
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He shakes himself from his rose tinted delusion and focuses. “No time for flashbacks,” he scolds. He does not need any pesky memories right now.
Right now, he needed to strategize, to paint his mask. The usual would work, all jokes and jabs and entendres that left no room for the other to speak. Probably with a touch more venom for good measure though, to get him way.
Pure Vanilla will never be ready, this he knows for sure. But he will not give up in trying to help. The pain locking up his muscles was not his own, but another’s. The soreness gently ebbed and lowed, calm and shimmering with danger that lurk below. But it was not surprising.
This has happened before, in fact. Sometimes, when bandaging or disinfecting wounds, he would look into Shadow Milk’s souljam. It was always the blue of night, of the darkest depths of the ocean. And as voids oh so tend to do, when he stared, it stared back. He could swear he saw longing in it. Like a caged animal solemnly sitting in its prison.
Both of them, at the same time, had the same thought. As Pure Vanilla put his hand on the door’s delicate, gold leaf handle. The inspiration hits him like well… what ever it was it hits hard. As Shadow Milk got ready for another show, this time with an audience that he needed to get rid of. The line snaked him upside the head like the frying pan of an aggravated chef unsatisfied with their protégé’s work. A bit wordy but whatever. How it came to them not withstanding, same line popped into their heads.
Break a leg.