Work Text:
Tight.
Tight, tight- his chest felt tight, his breaths coming in quick gasps. His heart raced against the hand pressed to his chest, his other covering his eye. Rivulets of liquid poured out from between his fingers. He didn't want to acknowledge what it was.
He knew he shouldn't have come here, and the land of Beast-Yeast quickly proved him right. Punished him for being drawn to rumors of immortality.
Was he going to die here? Bleed out on the ground, gasping for air?
No. No. Every step hurt, terrorized the wounds left in his torso from that horrible creature, but he was still standing. He could still move. Cookies may not be the most common here, but they still existed. If he just kept moving, maybe he could find someone to help. He had to have hope.
Or...
How dare he have hope, and only aggravate his suffering in his final moments? He was in the mountains, among rock, and trees, and fog. There was no one to save him. He needed to give up.
Hm. Neutrality was always harder than it seemed. What was more natural, to live or to die?
He supposed it didn't matter, wincing as he felt something thick drip off his cheek. He did love to stay neutral, not one to get involved in the messes of other Cookies, but it's not like that could hold any benefit for him anymore.
The sun bore down, blinding his remaining eye as he looked up. Hope... he might as well.
The pain beat like a drum. He didn't dare look at the scarlet beneath his marching feet. The pink trees were a more appealing color, anyway. Soft hues sparkling in his blurry vision as branches shifted in the wind.
He did feel drawn to this place, just as he felt drawn to keep moving. The pastel pinks and washed out greens called exactly to the aesthetic he preferred, and the gentle breeze was such a lovely tune. He had been marveling over the softness of a cloud when that thing attacked him, in fact, and he mourned the loss of those soft wisps of cotton. A good place to die, at least. Many didn't get that comfort.
He still couldn't say it was ideal. Many also didn't experience this excruciating pain, now did they? He'd let out a chuckle if he could. He-...
A glimmer of gray. Different from the rest.
That spark of hope raged, despite his hesitancies. He couldn't hope so hard, he couldn't, this emotion was getting too strong for him. If he was wrong, if this was a dead end, he would be devastated . He couldn't go on.
But it's not like he was going far regardless, and that blurry mass of gray looked an awful lot like stairs.
Stairs had to be built. There must be people nearby.
With a trip and a stumble, he made his way over, peering up, up, up...
He was having a strange amount of trouble processing just how tall this was, but it was clearly a lot of steps, reaching up through clouds upon clouds... Preemptively, his waist sparked with flames of pain, warning him against it.
But, what else was there? If he died on the stairs, he died on the stairs. He couldn't imagine he had long left regardless. Ironic, since a desire for immortality had brought him here in the first place.
He turned his gaze down to the first step, lifting one foot... ah, but where to put it? Perhaps a result of his wooziness, but he was having trouble with this whole judging distances thing...
He slid his foot along until it hit the step, before lifting it and following the stone until it lay flat again. Slow going, but it would have to do. He couldn't imagine tripping onto the ground would do anything to help his injuries, no, not at all.
Injuries. The skin around his damaged eye flared at the reminder of his wounds.
Every movement of his leg twisted the skin of his waist. Step, by step, by step. He wanted to cry out in pain, as if he would ever allow himself such a brave show of emotion. It felt like something was digging into his flesh all anew, hammering a nail in deeper and deeper.
He allowed himself a gasp at a particularly strong burst. He looked back up.
What had this been already? About twenty steps? And his pain was already crawling up his throat.
Still, one had to go on.
Up, and up, and up one goes.
Just another step, then again.
A pause just to hiss, just to grasp at his heart.
Continue on.
Try to distract yourself. Fail . There's nothing else to focus on but the anguish running down your torso and face.
He had to continue on.
Stairs have to lead to something.
Trip, getting too adventurous and misjudging a step.
Fall.
He lay there, hand instinctively going to hold his waist before darting back at his own cry. The remnants of his destroyed eye tried to clench, making everything nothing but worse. Tears slipped out of the other one.
He looked up.
So far to go.
Immortality. Neutrality. He had once thought everyone else a fool. He still did, he just knew he was a fool right along with them. Immortality ... he was mortal, and always had been. His mortality was spilling out onto stone right now. What right did he to immortality? Who did?
There was nothing else to try but to keep going, body torn open as it may be. He may not be able to stand up, but he could crawl.
It was despicable, it was pathetic. All his time dedicated to neutrality, and now he crawled as he bent to the whims of hope? Crawled to the promise of something better? Who was he to do so? Who was he anymore?
A being better left behind, or reinvented. A being weak to whims of desire.
His eye was so blurry with tears and blood that he could hardly even count the steps, but he was sure he didn't have far left to go. Alive, or dead. Those were his only two options.
So, with a hiss, he lifted his hand,pushed himself up, and pulled himself along.
Up, and up, and up the stairs.
Up, and up, and up the stairs.
Up, and up, and up the stairs.
Immortality was a temptation, a siren's call. To live forever would bring one power, glory, and happiness, in an ideal world. He had thought that he was beyond those temptations, he had thought that it was the neutrality of never dying that called to him.
His gaze latched on to the last few steps.
He thought he might have been wrong, or rather, he knew he had deluded himself, but that didn't matter now. No temptations called to him, not anymore, only the innate desire to survive.
He pulled himself up and a few paces further, collapsing onto the ground with a gasp. Heave after heave of breaths escaped his lungs, eye closing as his aching fingers scratched at the stony ground.
He was up. He had made it. And stairs had to lead to something.
Opening his eye and lifting his head as far as it could go, he took a glance around, gaze flittering over everything within sight as his vision attempted to focus.
Pink. Lots of pink, dashes of brown, hints of green...
His gaze cleared slowly, defining splashes of color as peach blossom trees, soaring high above his head. A garden among the mountains, its fruits all ripe, or nearly so.
His heart sank.
And it was wildly overgrown.
No one had been to this garden in a long, long time.
His hope had led him astray. The call of emotion had disappointed him once more. He hung his head, vision landing on a fallen peach bao from the very trees that had called him up here. A gift perhaps, or maybe a joke.
He picked the fruit up, soft and squishy in his hand, carefully maneuvering onto his back to stare at the bright pinks above, contrasted by such a pleasant blue peering through gaps of leaves.
A lovely place to die, at least.
He lifted the peach bao to his mouth, sighing at the sweet and juicy flavor that slipped onto his tongue. Maybe it was his fading consciousness, but he thought that this might just be the best thing he'd ever tasted, contentedness dazzling his senses. He knew the garden had lied to him, but he sent it a silent 'thank you', anyway. For giving him a wonderful last few moments. He wished it well, he wished it a good future. A gardener, perhaps. Someone to clean up that awful mess.
Heh. He was talking to a garden now…
He breathed in, a final gasp, letting the fruit fall from his hands as he leaned back into emptiness.
He thought, perhaps, that dying was neutrality.
It didn't speak to him like any Cookie would, but he understood it nevertheless, floating in a void of flower petals.
It was the garden itself, gentle and welcoming.
Its roots curled around him, pulling him close. It whispered its sympathies to him, cooing a soft tune as its branches waved at him. It asked, what happened, little sprout? How have you been torn apart so?
He couldn't talk the same way it could, so he whispered, "a beast attacked me."
A beast? it asked. Such a harsh word.
"I am not from here. I have no other word for it."
An excuse, it admonished.
He looked to the side, staring out into mirroring pink and black. "I have nothing else left."
It hummed, such a pleasant sound. You speak too soon. You are only a blossom, not even bloomed.
"How so? I'm dead, am I not?"
You will not rot, it promised. I will save you.
"Me?"
Yes.
"Why?"
It did not answer in any way for a while, and he stared into crisscrossing branches in wait.
Eventually, it spoke. You have much to learn still on the path to neutrality, and we need a caretaker. We have waited for so very long. You will be our gardener.
I was not made for this land.
You will be. You are already very, very close.
A phantom breeze raced through the tree, cascading soft pink petals onto his face. He closed his eye, lifting his hand to provide further protection. But as he moved, his hand clenched against his will, fingers clasped around something soft, but firm, and, strangely, a little fuzzy.
Now floating among a purely black void, he opened his eye, unsurprised to find himself holding a peach bao.
Or rather, a question.
He bit into it, sealing his fate.
Peach Blossom awoke.
His vision cleared quickly. His mind, however, felt foggier. Back to the fog of his home realm.
He breathed. In and out. Cold air clearing out dust.
Awake. Alive once more. Peach Blossom took a quick glance at where he lay; he hadn't been moved in his death, but his clothes had been replaced, not a single drop of blood staining the new colors. He couldn't say the same for the stone beneath him.
He turned his gaze to the trees. His trees.
It was quite a spontaneous decision, something he oft avoided. He enjoyed gardening as a hobby, sure, and knew quite a lot about it, but doing so forever? As his sole purpose? Past him couldn't imagine it.
How interesting that he had no qualms with it now. Only a sense of belonging sinking deep into his heart. Pink and brown called to him - roots told him their stories, branches swayed with their worries, and ripening fruits sang the name Peach Blossom , welcoming him. This was his garden now.
Peach Blossom lifted his hand, feeling where his old eye had been. Instead, he felt soft petals. The periphery of his remaining eye caught a glance of pastel pink.
Everything did feel a little off, still, Peach Blossom finding himself unable to gauge the true distance between himself and the trees. Ah, well. Unfortunate, but something he could get used to. Perhaps the garden couldn't solve everything. Or maybe the remnants had been turned into a flower as a reminder?
He heard the trees giggle, wind twisting around him. Perhaps neither, then? If the garden seemed so amused…
Peach Blossom supposed he had lots of time ahead of him to figure it out, feeling the rush of immortality beneath his skin.
He had come here seeking immortality, a selfish desire. With it, he had found a selfless purpose. What an interesting mix, in the end. A black and a white mixing into a cool, neutral gray.
Peach Blossom turned his gaze to wildly grown bushes and messes of branches and leaves. Nearby, he spotted a trowel already laid out for him, tucked neatly beside a number of other gardening tools. His heart felt more whole than it had ever been.
Questions of neutrality could come later. He had been called to this job for a reason, and it was time to get to work.