Chapter Text
It was a quiet day in the spire of deceit.
Or night, or evening. Truthless Recluse didn’t know, and he didn’t really care, either. All he could really care about was the three children being held hostage right under his nose, and avoiding Shadow Milk’s relentless displays for attention.
That sounded easier than it actually was. He would stay in the room designated for him most of the time, sleeping from utter exhaustion, but when he woke up, the jester was floating about with a grin on his face, ready to go on and on about their newfound connection.
It was getting harder and harder to tolerate.
That was to say, it was a quiet day, and that never happened with Shadow Milk. So, Truthless Recluse had some peace for once.
The room was cold, but he felt abnormally warm. Was it a fever? Had he really become ill when he was needed the most?
Why couldn’t he do anything right?
He allowed himself to take a long, shaky breath.
It was fine. As long as Shadow Milk was busy, he had as much time as possible.
To think.
What was there to think about?
A plan on how to beat the beast of deceit? How? How could he? Someone like him?
It was a dimly lit bedroom, and with his staff acting out, he could barely see past the bed itself. Even so, the lingering feeling of eyes watching him had worn off, and somehow, he knew that the jester was busy right about now.
This was oddly perfect for him.
He slid off the bed quietly. The floor underneath him seemed to tremble- or was it him? - and he shuffled over to the door in his robes, hands reaching out to grab the handle.
Yes, nobody was watching him. It was okay.
He felt himself disassociating anyhow, the walls slowly creeping in, the cold, slippery marble moving backwards, urging him to go back, that it was stupid to try at a time like this, and his eyes losing focus even with his limited vision, but Truthless Recluse moved past it.
He was truly a fool.
He felt the walls for any sign of a door. Shadow Milk told him at some point that there was a bathroom near his room located to the left, so he prayed that he was remembering it right.
His hands grabbed onto a handle.
Like an idiot, he smiled to himself, an expression he hadn’t made for a long time, and his heart beat even quicker.
There was a different emotion affecting him now. He seriously felt like dying.
But he stood at the sink, and pulled out a razor.
He stared at it in his hand. Something he had brought with him and hidden up to now.
His head screamed at him to put it away, that it was pointless, for someone like him to do something even more worthless and demeaning, to think it was okay for him to hurt when he had others that needed his help.
He ran a few fingers through his hair, beads of sweat falling off his face.
How was he to do it?
Would he kill himself? No, there were still things he needed to do.
If he bled too much, he would not be strong enough to face Shadow Milk when the time came.
Perhaps he could just watch it trinkle into the sink. Not too deep, but enough to make him feel pain.
He pulled his sleeve up and held the skin against the sink.
The razor was held loosely in his hand as he softly rubbed its dull side against the arm, and he awkwardly made peace with what he was about to do.
Like he hadn’t done it a thousand times before.