Chapter Text
It starts much the same way as it eventually ended: staff in one hand, his fingers clammy from red jam and his heart beating out of his chest.
The noise is loud, everything is—from the roar of the army at his doorstep, the quiet sobs of pain from fallen soldiers around him, and the blaring light overtaking his vision. It burns, but so does everything else, the pain searing itself into his very dough as he coughs, the world blurring around him.
He has to move. Save himself, now that there's no one left to save, burned to the ground and ripped into shreds like his old virtue, like his Spire, his old sanctuary. He's lost, and he will be paying the price for it like so many of his friends before him.
Death takes the form of an angel, cloaked in golden light, a serene smile on its face as it opens its eyes. He’s heard of the angel before, of course–in worshipful whispers and the quiet sounds of prayer from cookies under his care. The angel of peace, the light-bringer, descended into the mortal realm as a cookie with a scent of sweet vanilla, pure as his namesake with bright blue Soul Jam indicating his status as Virtue.
Pure Vanilla Cookie, newly crowned Truth, king of the ever-expanding Vanilla Kingdom.
Tyrant, his enemies call him. A cruel dictator cloaked in the guise of a benevolent god, feared and respected in equal measure. Since his meteoric rise, he’s been nothing but trouble to the ever present war that plagues their world. The angel promises to bring forth a new dawn, becoming the bright star that outshines even the fires of Destruction, gathering all cookies under his wing, promoting pacifism while waging war.
That same god stands before him now, eyes a match to how his own used to be, with a face much too sweet to belong to a cookie of his reputation. Shadow Milk’s breath hitches as his strength finally fails him, crumpling into a heap, wincing when it jostles the spear stuck on his leg. His breath comes out in pants and he squeezes his eyes shut, moving through the pain and minding the arrow stuck to his shoulder.
He has no mana left for another spell, and he hasn’t had backup since the Spire had fallen and he had lost all of his own cookies. Improvising became the norm once magic has failed him, and after centuries of running from war to war, he’s proficient enough in the art to take a life while being on the brink of death himself.
Assuming he could even get close enough to the other Virtue to land a fatal hit, let alone break another Soul Jam. His own Soul Jam, dimmer in colour and utterly out of power, whispers something at him. He does not listen, shutting it out with the ease of practice. He hasn’t listened to Deceit in a long time, only keeping it around as a convenient power supply whenever he runs out of his own natural mana.
Pure Vanilla says something, but through the haze of pain and the sting of his own wounds, he does not hear it. It’s most likely something dramatic, a good old fashioned monologue any cookie gives when they thought they've finally got him. Unfortunately for them, there’s a reason he’s survived this long and he’ll be damned if he dies here–especially to a Virtue directly opposing his own. He swallows the jam on his tongue and braces himself, ripping the arrow off his shoulder and tossing it full force at the enemy with what meager strength he has left.
His hand is caught and the arrow rebounds itself on an invisible shield, lodging itself on his thigh. The world goes white and he bites back a scream, the flare of pain proving to be too much for him as he collapses forward, stumbling helplessly into the arms of Pure Vanilla. He jerks, trying to move away, run, do something–but the grip around his wrist tightens and a wave of Light magic washes over him.
It feels like being burned alive. It feels like every single pain he has ever felt, returned tenfold. It feels like everything, and then nothing at all as he chokes on his pain and spits red jam on the pristine white robes of his enemy. The world flickers, his vision failing as his systems shut down because even immortals have their limits and he’s certainly long since crossed his own.
Shadow Milk’s head lolls to the side, and the last thing he feels is the soft fabric of Pure Vanilla’s robes against his jamstained face.
When he regains consciousness, it is to the blazing sun of Truth's magical signature, settled at his bedside, the fluctuations indicating that he’s conscious. He keeps his eyes shut, discreetly using magic to map out the room. The sheets are soft under his battered body, and the blanket makes it comfortably warm.
There's a hand in his, gently rubbing circles on his palm. His other hand is bound by the wrist, connected to the bedpost. The room is—certainly not a prison. He can sense other cookies nearby, moving to and fro in hallways around the room. No other cookie is around, and he gets to make no further observations as the hand holding his gently squeezes and a voice speaks.
Pure Vanilla’s voice is gentle, sweet as it is reputed to be, matching his image as the angel many cookies call him, “Are you feeling alright? Your injuries were rather severe.” He says, the corner of his lips turned down into a frown. His hand is deceptively soft, uncalloused—the hands of a Healer.
“....” He opens his eyes to be met with bright blue and sharp yellow. “...you kept me alive, why?” Shadow Milk asks, suppressing a wince at the rasp of his own voice.
Healing magic flows between both of them, soothing in his dough and minimizing his pain into a dull ache. The cuff on his wrist—his dominant hand, has the distinct feeling of mana blockers, restricting the flow of his magic into near-nothing but leaving enough to keep his body stable.
His Soul Jam is nowhere to be seen, but his senses tell him it is in this same room. Pure Vanilla shuts his eyes, sighing softly for a moment, “Knowledge. I've been looking for you for a very long time.” A thumb rubs gentle circles on his palm, and he tenses underneath the touch.
There's an ever present ache at the back of his skull, diluting his thoughts, heavier than the weight of his body. It's made worse with how his mind runs through every possible scenario of why—in their war-torn world, trust is a currency. Mercy is seldom given, especially to the enemy.
Compassion is even more rare, with all the jamfeuds and grudges spanning across generations. Shadow Milk bites his tongue, finding it clean of jam, “Whatever you seek, I will not give it to you. I am no one’s ally but my own.”
“You say that and yet you still served as that small kingdom’s general.” Pure Vanilla states, curling their fingers together and leaning uncomfortably close. It's then that he notices the Soul Jam echoing the bright blue of Knowledge, attached to the tyrant’s collar.
“And your army wiped them out anyway.” He answers flatly, tugging his hand away from the healer only for the grip to tighten, the other cookie climbing into bed with him.
“Yes. That intrigues me, to say the least. Why bother to lead and protect them if you knew the fate that awaits them?” Pure Vanilla settles next to him, their shoulders brushing and awfully comfortable where he is.
He pulls something out of his robes—he’s wearing much simpler ones here, a far cry from the ceremonial garb he wore to battle, and surprisingly plain. Shadow Milk’s lips thin but he does not move away as a gem is set in his palm.
The dark blue of Deceit is familiar, and all the more detestable for it. He grips it anyway, even knowing he has not recovered enough to overpower his way out of here. Pure Vanilla takes his own Soul Jam into his hands, the glow of Truth matching its counterpart.
“What's your point? Why keep me around?” Shadow Milk snaps, his own conflicting emotions warring inside him. He has met the new generation of Virtues—though most are busy with their own kingdoms to protect, he has faced Golden Cheese and Dark Cacao in battle.
They are ruthless just as any of his Beastly friends, so Pure Vanilla should be no different—and yet here he is, with his head still attached to his neck. It's more than he had expected, this hospitality. Even Golden Cheese had not bothered, beheading him the second she spotted his Soul Jam. It never stuck, of course, but it was rather painful reattaching his own head.
With Dark Cacao, it ended much the same way and execution was straight forward. The twin wounds on his torso still ache sometimes, especially on cold nights, made worse during the winter.
“You're different from the other Beasts.” Pure Vanilla states.
Shadow Milk snorts, “That's your argument? The only difference between them and I is that I no longer have anything to protect but myself. No cookies, no domain, no kingdom.”
“The wandering Beast, the common cookies call you,” His captor says, utterly ignoring his words earlier, “I’ve always been fascinated by the stories, even before my own ascension.”
“Oh, I didn't know I was meeting a fan today. Honoured, your majesty.” Shadow Milk plasters on his best smile and earns a laugh for it, the sound soft like twinkling bells, matching how their Soul Jams hum quietly, almost resonating with the presence of its counterpart.
Pure Vanilla hums, “That kingdom you protected remains standing, still. I promised them my protection… if they were willing to exchange something else of equal value.” The healer murmurs, opening his eyes again and then there are fingers gripping his chin, tilting his head up and pushing his body down.
“...is that so.” He pauses, cringing at the touch, expecting pain and finding none—now that’s quite odd. He had practically slaughtered an army singlehandedly earlier, yet he feels not a single trace of pain.
“Yes.” The healer gently cups his cheek. The touch is light, somehow innocent in spite of how intimate it is. Shadow Milk fails to resist the urge to squirm away. Even if unwilling to show weakness to another, this is much too close for comfort.
“Do you treat all your prisoners like this? Seems counterproductive. I expected more ripped limbs.” He jerks away, wincing when the movement tugs at his bound wrist.
“Can you guess what they traded?” Pure Vanilla continues the line of questioning, ignoring his attempt to change the subject entirely.
Shadow Milk exhales. The answer—while not pleasant to think about, is quite obvious from his current treatment alone. It's very much a first, and a rather distasteful position to be in, but he supposed it couldn't have worked with any other Virtue but the one who stands before him, known for his supposed ‘mercy’ and all.
He doesn't admit it to himself, unwilling to bear the humiliation. Instead, he keeps his silence, all but glaring at Pure Vanilla. The healer chuckles, but he doesn't push, staying where he is to finally give Shadow Milk some personal space.
It's still much too close. He hasn't let a cookie be this close in centuries, and the feeling both makes his dough crawl and leaves him shamefully wanting at the same time. Pure Vanilla takes his time, meeting his eyes straight on and speaking,
“It's you. For survival, they gave me you. Though I suppose they hadn't bothered to inform you. It is a form of betrayal, perhaps they feared your reaction.” He muses, casual as ever even as the information sinks like a gut punch, the sting of betrayal never getting easier every time it happens.
Shadow Milk inhales sharply, ignoring how it worsens the ache deep in his dough. He does not cry—he had guessed this much, the moment he woke in the morning to an army at his door. It was easy enough to harden his heart the moment they aimed for his neck, stabbing his staff through another cookie and taking life after life until he was overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
He hangs his head, sitting up on the bed and avoiding the gaze of Pure Vanilla, “Killing me won’t work, and I will not work for you. I don't break under torture, and Knowledge no longer answers to me. I have no use for you.”
After so long, only one use remains of him, and that was only born out of necessity. A need to survive when he had nothing else, a drive to fight when he had realised his wrongs, the moment one of his friends stepped past that boundary between cookies and Witches and condemned them into an eternity of war.
Staring at his hands, he finds them clean for the first time in a while, but it is a far cry from the unblemished hands of the scholar he once was, the red jam no longer visible but never fully washing off in his mind.
“...I won't fight for you, either.” Shadow Milk adds. It will not do him any favours with Pure Vanilla, but he won't forsake his morals for either survival nor entertainment—not when he has tried both paths and paid the price for it. If Pure Vanilla breaks him for it, finds a way to make his existence worse than death or something else entirely, then he'd gladly pay the price.
Defying his expectations, Pure Vanilla takes his hands again, tugging gently and lacing their fingers together. As their eyes meet, he can only think of how long it'll take before that gentle touch turns punishing. Instead, Pure Vanilla holds him close, saying gently,
“I only need one thing from you,” He brushes his bangs back, squeezing his hand and placing the other hand on Shadow Milk’s cheek. Staring into those eyes, he swears his heart skipped a beat, somehow, even amidst the confusing well of his emotions.
Pure Vanilla smiles, voicing the ridiculous statement, “Marry me.”
Shadow Milk laughs, “...what are you hoping to accomplish with that, exactly?”, he places his hand over Pure Vanilla’s, tugging it off his cheek, “A pretty face to display for your court? Mine is hardly a nice one to look at.” He grins, sharp teeth glinting as he squeezes the hand hard enough to earn a wince from the healer,
“I've not kept my motives secret.” Pure Vanilla grips back, matching the force of his own grip, “I want peace. For all that you are disgraced, the Beasts still see you as one of their own.”
“That does not mean they'll listen to me, boy.” He hisses, “Peace? You'd be better off trying to annihilate half the planet like most common cookies say you are.”
“Regardless,” Pure Vanilla’s gaze hardens, “There is a price to be paid for true peace, and this might just work. No two Virtues, former or not, have agreed to work together since the start of the war, and your alliance to me will be a boon to both of us.”
Shadow Milk snorts, “What makes you think I'll agree to this?” He huffs, “I do what I want, on my terms.”
“Even with lives on the line?” Pure Vanilla moves closer, and at this distance, he could smell the awful scent of vanilla, disgustingly sugary sweet. The words are said in the same gentle tone, but the threat is very clear.
“You said it yourself. They betrayed me. They traded me to you like cattle. I may have helped them, but I am beholden to no one.” He snaps back, tugging his bound wrist hard enough to dislocate it and slipping his hand through. The moment his magic returns to him, he kicks Pure Vanilla off, summoning his staff and breaking the window with a quick spell.
Before he could step out to freedom, a hand grabs his dislocated wrist and pulls him back, then Pure Vanilla sets the bone in one quick motion. He bites his tongue as his magic fails him—a quick glance at his own wrist reveals a band of intricate runes where the cuff once was,
“...you branded me.” Shadow Milk’s eyes widen and he yelps as he's dragged back, landing on the soft bed. A quick wave of Pure Vanilla’s hand fixes the broken window, and he keeps his hand up as other cookies rush into the room,
“Stand down. It was a false alarm. We’re simply having a minor misunderstanding.” Pure Vanilla turns around, his grip tighter than it was, smiling serenely at his concerned subjects who had barged in at the noise.
Minor misunderstanding—sure.
He stares at the brand on his wrist. This was not the way he had expected to lose a limb, really, but he'll be damned if he stays now. Clearly Pure Vanilla is crazy at best and delusional at worst.
The door is shut a few minutes later, the other cookies returning to their posts. Shadow Milk rips himself away from his captor, gripping his own wrist and feeling up the ink in his dough. He inhales sharply, bracing himself, but a hand wraps around both his wrists and pins him back against the bed,
“You're mine by right of conquest, my dear. Is it so surprising?” Pure Vanilla pats his cheek, reattaching the cuff and healing the bruise from the dislocation.
“Besides, it’s in your interest to cooperate with me if you’d like your family safe.” He brushes his hair back and this time, he flinches at the gentle touch, realising their compromising position. Breath hitching, he turns away, willing himself to stay composed,
“I have no family.” Shadow Milk says.
Pure Vanilla straightens himself, sitting at his bedside instead of looming over him. His hands remain bound—both of them, now. He takes a deep breath, feeling a sudden drain in his very being—no doubt the work of the brand around his wrist.
“Black Sapphire Cookie.” The tyrant says, and his heart drops to his chest, his entire body stilling at those words.
“Candy Apple Cookie.” Pure Vanilla continues, tilting his head at him.
He swallows, feeling his throat drying up at the sound of the names coming out of the tyrant's mouth. It shouldn't be possible. Not when he had told the two to stay away and go, not when he never truly told either of them who he was, not when he had left making sure that not a single cookie would know of his association to them.
“So, what do you say?” The king with the face of an angel asks, a sweet smile overtaking his face as he spells out Shadow Milk’s doom and forces him to accept it with open arms.
Bound and helpless for the first time in centuries, he could only jerk a nod, refusing to give verbal confirmation. It might be petty, but he's hardly a virtuous cookie. Besides, it's far too easy to focus on something else—mainly Pure Vanilla’s knowledge of those two names.
“Good.” Pure Vanilla pulls away, his healing magic leaving with him and returning Shadow Milk’s pain.
He hisses where he lays, suddenly aware of all his injuries that still terribly ache. The healer places a hand over his eyes, whispering softly, “Sleep, my dear.”
It is the last thing he hears that day.
The weeks afterwards might be the strangest of his existence.
He is stuck somewhere between a prisoner and an arm candy, sticking to Pure Vanilla’s side dressed up like a doll. The robes resemble ones he used to wear as Knowledge, but now the soft fabrics only serve as a constant reminder of his current conundrum. His Soul Jam is on display for the first time in centuries, the glow matching Pure Vanilla’s and silencing any cookie who had doubts about his identity.
For the most part, he keeps his silence, standing at Pure Vanilla’s side closer than even his most trusted guards. Their displeasure at the arrangement is admittedly hilarious, and court drama has never been so entertaining, Pure Vanilla often shutting down the concerns with that gentle smile still in place.
No doubt they think him harmless with the cuff around his wrist and without a weapon. It would be true for most other mages—cut off their access to magic and break their weapon, and you’d have yourself one helpless Magic user unless they happen to be able to cast without a medium.
He has no patience to entertain the notion, breaking the hand of the first cookie to touch him that isn't Pure Vanilla. The resulting outrage was one he will remember for years, and surprisingly enough, he had gotten no punishment from that.
“Please do not injure any of my subjects, even if they do deserve it.” Pure Vanilla had said wryly, right after healing the injury with barely a flick of his wrist.
That noble had sputtered, dough reddening with jam, humiliated and offended, “He's an outsider, your majesty! You'd marry the leader of the enemy?”
“Knowledge is my honored guest, and he was defending himself. As my future spouse, a transgression towards him is one towards me, wouldn't you agree?” The healer had not even bothered to rise from his seat, glancing down at his subject with that same smile, but sharper.
“I—o-of course, your majesty.” The noble bowed, low—forehead touching the floor low. Like a subject bowing to their god.
Shadow Milk only watches on, keeping his silence as he monitors the inner workings of this palace. There is merit to the godly metaphors cookies attribute to Pure Vanilla—he is their saviour, the leader of their sanctuary, a place of peace that offers some semblance of normalcy in their war-torn world.
He rules benevolently, yet still with an iron fist. Not many dare question his decisions, even when prompted to. Not many bother to, really, seeing their king as the perfect untouchable god he portrays himself to be.
In public, Pure Vanilla wears the same smile. Kind, gentle—merciful. He mingles among the crowd, he personally heals the soldiers, he leads his army into battle and returns with not a single scratch or stain in his pristine white robes. His kingdom is a compassionate one, or so it tries to be. An impossibility that exists in the midst of never ending chaos and war, yet one that persists regardless.
Behind closed doors, Pure Vanilla is the same, but softer. He holds his hand gently, tracing over scars old and new, tangling fingers through his hair and pulling him close. Awfully clingy, he is, but he pulls away when Shadow Milk does, respecting his space even with the power imbalance between them.
He talks often, more than he does to his subjects. About his life before ascension as a lowly shepherd. His pilgrimages. His eventual ascension to king, then god. His friends—the other ‘ancients’, the heroes. The ones hailed as the betters to him and his own friends.
The cookies that had killed him once in various ways. The scar around his neck and his chest aches thinking about them, and the events that had led up to his own execution. Only Hollyberry and White Lily had not attempted to kill him, and it was only because he had stayed away after the second time.
Shadow Milk doesn't even remember why he had approached Golden Cheese nor Dark Cacao, the memories of it blurred and distant, his memory no longer as good as it was when he was Knowledge.
Pure Vanilla brings him into town every day that first week, holding his hand, taking him to see the various sights in his kingdom. It is a facade of normalcy, resembling this entire kingdom that looks at him in a mix of scorn and pity. He follows, silent, mapping out the kingdom for his eventual escape plans.
He does not see Black Sapphire nor Candy Apple, and he doesn't know whether to be grateful for that or not. The brand on his wrist feels like a shackle, and no amount of outings or Pure Vanilla’s consideration could truly settle him.
There is something akin to peace in the borders of the Vanilla Kingdom, but it is one paid in red jam and willful ignorance. He does not—he refuses, to buy into it, to let himself be swayed by kind smiles and enthusiastic storytelling.
Pure Vanilla continues the charade regardless, fully intent on repeating this game until it wears him down. The wedding is set for next year—to give him time to adjust, or so Pure Vanilla says. He does not think about it, confident he could find a way to leave before the time comes.
Although, it is hard to keep his silence as the days go by, Pure Vanilla still greeting him with a smile every morning and sticking to his side as if the two of them do not have anything better to do. It reminds him of—another time.
A better time. One where he had an actual purpose, where he had discarded morality for entertainment, feeding into the flames of war brought on by Destruction. Long before the rise of the new generation of Virtues. Long before grueling days of running to survive. Long before he had looked upon the ruin he had brought alongside his friends with his own two hands and felt regret.
Deceit had been freeing. Abandoning the shackles of Knowledge and its limitations, the world became his stage. A playground for his own entertainment. One where he could play any role he’d like, dragging the masses alongside him, bending reality to his whims.
With none left to bear the title of Virtue, the world was thrown into chaos. It was as if the Witches themselves had forsaken them—which, knowing that they have—that they left, alongside the bitter truth behind the creation of cookies—it left all of them, the Beasts, with nothing in their way.
Nothing but each other. Before, it was an unspoken rule that they wouldn't interfere in each other’s affairs. After a few centuries of chaos and war, however—even that had changed. Destruction grew bored with nothing challenging his new path of death, and just as he was the first to corrupt, he too was the first to escalate things, attacking Apathy in her domain.
He had stayed away, busy with his own games and unwilling to entertain Burning Spice’s shenanigans. It should have ended at that, he thought, but then the war had verged much too close to his doorstep, what with his Spire being right in between Burning Spice and Mystic Flour’s territories.
Then, he had found himself in the same situation: staff in one hand, his fingers clammy from red jam and his heart beating out of his chest. A fresh battlefield, a war lost, and a vendetta between two of his former friends that would last for centuries to come.
Attempts to mediate them had not worked, and negotiations had broken down to start a gruesome battle right at the heart of his territory. By that point, the paradise of lies he had built for himself had come crumbling down, the realisation settling in that this would be the new state of their world.
Without higher beings to interfere, they could have ruled as gods—but Destruction had set a precedent by attacking one of their own. None would be spared from his wrath, not even another god.
Caught in the crossfire of their war, he could only retreat, hiding away to lick his wounds as the first among them to truly lose it all, his former territory now a broken wasteland of red jam and smoke. It was a great blow to his pride, but it proved to be the smart decision when not a year later, Eternal Sugar jumped into the fray, emerging from her own little paradise because Burning Spice’s new entertainment had crossed the border to her territory.
As for himself, he had run. With no allies, no home, and the Spice Swarm actively hunting him, it was the only option left. He spent years, decades, then centuries on the run for his life. Death did not come to greet him. It only ever seems to come for others, no matter how injured he gets.
He remembers healing himself for the first time—a crude imitation of the art—created from being forced into a corner and only useful to keep him going past injuries that should be fatal. He spent most of his days on the move, strolling through ruined kingdoms and smaller settlements trampled by the Spice Swarm.
The continent was slowly corrupting the same way he and his friends did, the Life Energy greatly diminished by all the death around them. It showed in the trees changing colours, the leaves no longer as bright, the ground barren of grass, the sky a constant oppressive grey above them.
Their world was dying, he realised, and it will die quicker if he does not do anything about it. The realisation sunk into him, touching somewhere deep within his soul, and it was staggering enough to reawaken his own conscience after so many years of running only to see death and destruction everywhere he went.
Shadow Milk had continued to run. Walking through battlefields, scouting for bodies and burying them. Entering each ruined house in abandoned settlements, ignoring the smoking remains of the area and the sharp, sickeningly sweet scent of jam. It became a familiar song and dance, one he will come to repeat many, many times.
Locate the bodies, bury them, pray that they may be rebaked into a better world. Purify the land with a spell, fueled with mana and sometimes his own jam. Again and again, an endless cycle that leaves his fingers caked in dirt and jam and his heart hollowed from the pointlessness of it all.
Things did not change, not for a while. He couldn't even recall how long it had lasted until that one fateful day where he entered a home and found a survivor.
A single cookie, bandages wrapped around his eyes, doing the same thing as himself—looking for survivors that are not there, in this ruined and dilapidated world. He was heavily injured, no doubt from the battle that had broken out nearby, but he had survived and that was more than most in this world could say.
Shadow Milk took that cookie back to his homebase at the time—a hidden hideaway in a mountain range, tucked in the corner of his old territory bordering the Faerie Kingdom. It was one of his bases that had survived longest, solely because it was in such a harsh environment.
Healer Cookie had woken, surviving in spite of all odds, though without memory of his life and his name, only that he had been a healer helping that small kingdom Shadow Milk had found the other cookie in.
Having gone many centuries without the close company of another, their relationship started awkwardly. Winter was setting in that time, and it had forced them to stick together in spite of Shadow Milk’s wishes. They went through their days in that little base in the mountains and much like he does now with Pure Vanilla, it gave the illusion of an idyllic sort of peace.
He remembers spending evenings with Healer, sharing tea from plants they grew themselves, conversing as they enjoyed the view of the snowy mountains—the few biomes that had remained unchanged from the continent’s slow corruption.
Healer’s voice was a calm, slow thing. Quiet but gentle, like a soft breeze in spring, he talks like he is smiling, even when he is not. Shadow Milk doesn't remember the exact timbre of his voice now, the memory long forgotten after centuries, buried under his long line of regrets and raw grief that never seems to scab over.
“It's peaceful, isn't it?”
They hadn't gotten along, at first. His cynicism clashing with Healer’s optimism, many conversations ending in raised voices and frustration. Their fights remained civil, simple verbal arguments and escalating to yelling at most, both of them wary of violence with the state of the world around them.
“I’ve always wanted a life like this.”
Arguments had reduced in frequency as they spent more time together. With nothing else to do but talk, it was all they did—and it surprised him just how much company contributed to his own wellbeing.
Before, he had gone through the days aimlessly, his sole purpose being surviving and purifying what he could of the war-torn land. Any interaction with others was limited to supply runs to what settlements remained standing and the occasional travelling party he would stumble upon in his journey.
It was dull, boring, and mindless in a way that left him feeling numb. He couldn't even remember how he had kept going—perhaps it was solely because no matter what he did, he wouldn't be able to die. Whatever it was, it became his sole driving force.
That is, until Healer came around, bringing with him the scent of herbs, evening tea and a flock of cream sheep. He remembers it as the only few years he had spent stationary after the fall of the Spire. Life was quiet, and still somewhat repetitive, but each day had something new to make it distinct from the rest—an idea of Healer’s, to keep things interesting when his days started to blur together again.
“Do you think we could share this with the rest of the world?”
It was something good, what they had together living in the mountains with only each other as company and a flock of sheep Healer had rescued from a nearby settlement.
He should have known by that alone that it was not going to last long, and true enough, the war caught up to them. The neighbouring faerie kingdom had been pushed back, finally losing ground in the war after centuries of maintaining their position. Their mountain range became a prime spot for military bases, providing a good vantage point to the kingdom below.
Healer, with his ever-bleeding heart and optimism for a better world—would not stand a chance in battle. He had urged the other cookie to leave, to seek refuge with the faeries, who were known to accept common cookies into their fold.
To his surprise at the time, it was met with a flat-out refusal.
“I am not leaving without you.”
He said, and Shadow Milk remembers the feeling of that gentle hand over his Soul Jam as if it happened yesterday. Being blind, Healer couldn't have known what he was—who he was, but somehow, the other cookie had seen right through him.
Being a Beast, he would not be welcome anywhere, not even the faerie kingdom who welcomed all refugees from every part of the continent. And yet, knowing this, Healer had stayed—looking past what he was, his flaws and his ugliness, past the arguments they used to have that had left Healer and his soft heart in tears—and refused to leave.
He remembers the feeling of that last embrace, Healer desperately holding onto him, trying to convince him to stay—don’t leave, not so soon, not like this—he remembers holding onto those hands and lying through his teeth that he'll find a way to get both of them to safety.
He remembers leaving Healer to be found by the faeries, knowing he is better off with them than stuck with a Beast living on the run.
It was a few years before they crossed paths again, and he spent the entire time slipping back to his old routine as if nothing had changed at all. Though, if he stopped at the sight of cream sheep, indulged himself by visiting tea houses in the evening and flinched when facing off against cookies with a Light elemental affinity, it was only for him to know.
Pure Vanilla was a shepherd, talking of his old flock of cream sheep fondly. Pure Vanilla has a Light affinity. Pure Vanilla invites him for tea every evening without fail and never stops asking when he is always turned down.
Shadow Milk takes a deep breath, unwilling to let his thoughts stray too far.
True to his chosen name, Healer had not been a fighter, but in spite of that fact, their reunion had been on a battlefield. It was after an attack on a nearby settlement bordering the Faerie Kingdom, and the faeries had sent reinforcements to recover the injured and attempt to take back ground.
He had only been there because the settlement was attacked when he stopped by for supplies, and amidst the chaos of the war, he had been injured enough to be unable to escape quickly. With his Soul Jam hidden and appearing as haggard and dirty as any other civilian, he had been mistaken as a local and taken back to the medical tents.
There, he had met Healer again, now a properly trained healer, still going by the name that had become his title. He looked better among the faeries, blending in well with their pristine silvers, though the bandages around his eyes still stuck out like a sore thumb.
Healer had taken one look at Shadow Milk and refused to let him go, using his authority as the faeries’ best healer to plead to their king to let him stay. Elder Faerie knew who he was, of course, the Soul Jam wasn't an easy thing to hide, and his identity was public knowledge by the time he had recovered enough to move on his own again.
He settled into life there for a second time at Healer’s side, staying away from the rest of civilization until they made demands of him to pull his weight. Then, he took on the mantle of soldier, participating in battles and sieges, taking back territory lost—but he could tell it was never enough, not when in their eyes he would always remain a Beast—one of the demons who had made their world into what it is now, a wasteland of pain and suffering where any cookie could barely live.
Healer remained the sole cookie to refuse to treat him any differently, sticking by his side and keeping him company. It was not awkward between them, surprisingly enough, but it was awkward in that all the cookies who often sought Healer’s company now had to deal with him as well.
His relationship with the other cookies in that kingdom improved painstakingly slow, but it was something. At the very least, they had trusted him enough not to kill any of them.
“I'm sure they'll warm up to you eventually! It's not fair to treat you as a Beast when you haven't been one for so long.”
Thus the status quo remained for a few years, until one battle had flipped it right over. It was nothing new—a small skirmish at the southern border, close to his old territory. They had sent a small recon team, himself and Healer included. Just to investigate the area and report back.
It was supposed to be a quick, harmless mission—it was anything but.
The incident remained muddled in his mind, even with how many times he had replayed his own memory. That team had survived, he had survived, but Healer hadn’t. All due to a little mistake, a trap he had missed, triggering at the worst possible time—in the middle of an argument, because that recon team made it no secret that they hated him for what he was.
“Your kind started all of this, and you did nothing! Our world is broken, and it's because of all of you! You killed our friends, our family, our hope for the future—!”
Healer had stepped in, and that trap released an arrow that had stabbed him right through the chest. A fatal wound no mortal could survive, and it was because of a stupid argument and an entirely unavoidable trap leftover from past battles in the area.
The team turned on him, using it as an excuse to finally rid their peaceful kingdom of the plight that was his presence. He couldn't even help Healer, not when he was being attacked from all sides, pushed into a corner, then the edge of a cliff, and before he knew it, he was free falling down into the depths, crashing into the rough terrain below.
If he was any other cookie, he would be dead.
Now, he sits in front of Pure Vanilla getting his hair done, evidently not dead and unable to feel any sort of way about it. It isn't often that he has the time to dig up past memories, but in this new existence as a trophy, he has nothing but time to waste.
He had decided to do something about the war, truly do something—and this is the price he pays for it now, a small thing to bear in comparison to the weight of his sins. He wonders if Healer would have approved, fighting for the weak, restoring what order he could to the world, desperately holding onto hope even when his soul remains corrupted.
Shadow Milk stares at himself, the reflection in the mirror nigh unrecognizable from the Fount of Knowledge that he once was. No longer a god nor a demon, but a broken cookie stuck in a ruined world.
Pure Vanilla continues speaking. Unwilling to continue reminiscing on his own memories, he listens. Today, the tyrant tells him of how the new generation of Virtues were born. It's an old story and clearly well-recited, but he finds himself listening anyway, curious of what spin Pure Vanilla will put into the story of him and his friends.
An old power, rising from what remains of pure Life Energy. A last ditch attempt by the world itself to fight back against the millennia of corruption, concentrated in five new Soul Jams, each manifested to a cookie deemed worthy to be its bearer. He tells him of one thing he was unaware of—that each new Virtue had been made to counter one of the Beasts’.
It made sense, yet not—it was strange, because the new Virtues had not been born into the role. He knew this, because otherwise Pure Vanilla would not have been a shepherd, but the confirmation felt almost damning. They were established cookies, most being rulers of their own flourishing kingdoms, now with the power to truly fight back against the darkness that has plagued their world for so long.
Initially, he had assumed that the new generation was baked into their roles, much like he and his friends were. Now, it made more sense—they were not bound by their roles, their Virtues—they were allowed to live, to be flawed, because they were not blessed with the title of Virtue and expected to be perfect. In their world, survival was first and it made all of them more ruthless than he and his former friends ever were as Virtues.
Hand curling against his hair, Pure Vanilla continues speaking, “I was given this new Virtue—Truth, as a mirror to Deceit.” He says, confirming Shadow Milk’s own suspicions.
He does not break his silence, but it was a close thing. Fingers gently card through his hair, a hand settling on one shoulder, “And with it, the power to fight for my wish—a world of peace.”
Shadow Milk shuts his eyes, and thinks of another cookie who used to help him with his hair—the same cookie that is now the reason he keeps it long at all, a sentimental reminder of why he continues to survive.
“I like the feeling of your hair. You should take care of it more.”
Peace. What a joke—and yet.
When he opens his eyes again, Pure Vanilla kneels in front of him, hand clasped in his, staring up at him with those eyes—he had thought it coincidence, but maybe that was the part of him that had refused to truly think about it. It is easy to lie to others, and it is even easier to lie to oneself.
“You don't believe me.” Pure Vanilla grips his hand, but a smile remains on his face. Instead of that fake gentleness, it is now a wistful thing. The smile of a dreamer living in a harsh world, who kept on dreaming in spite of the impossibility that was their dream.
“I want to live to see the end of the war.”
“I will end this war, and your cooperation will be the first step towards achieving that.”
He tugs his hand away and exposes the brand on his wrist, letting Pure Vanilla see the ugly mark and finally speaking, “You have it, don't you? Don't pretend this is anything more than you wanting me as a trophy.”
Shadow Milk leaves afterwards, off to retire to bed early for lack of better things to do. Pure Vanilla does not stop him, he rarely ever does. He tries not to think too hard on the why.
In the years after that incident, he told himself he wouldn't stay stationary again. Not for any other cookie, not even for himself. He would push through, forever wandering the continent and fixing what he could in Healer’s memory.
Peace still felt like a far away, improbable thing, but he did not dwell on it. Most of his days went by in a blur, moving from settlement to settlement, staying long enough to be of use to them but never long enough to truly settle. After so many years on the run, he's built a reputation of sorts—still the sole Beast to be without a territory or cookies to rule, but also the only one to go unchallenged as a wanderer.
He wore his Soul Jam openly, trusting his reputation to keep most cookies from attacking him on sight. True enough, every cookie from a single travelling civilian to a full party of five often flees at the sight of him. It was dead useful in that he didn't need to dirty his hands often, not when his mere presence alone was enough to scare off any potential enemy.
It was also terribly lonely.
Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that both Knowledge and Deceit could only thrive in the presence of others. Perhaps, it was because of that very fact that he once again found himself in the company of others—not even grown cookies this time, but a pair of children, who had run to him instead of from him, a last ditch effort to survive after they had gotten separated from their refugee group and been ambushed by monsters.
He had gotten rid of the monsters, but the children stuck to him like baby animals imprinting on their mother. No matter how far he walked or how much he ignored them, he would see them in the corner of his eyes, quietly trailing after him.
In their world, children are often left to fend for themselves, most losing their parents early on to a war. He's surprised that anyone is even having children, what with the state of the world around them. Though, most factions that declare themselves honourable seldom attack children, instead welcoming them in as new citizens to be trained into loyal soldiers.
He has had to face children across a battlefield. He’s been forced to lead them into one, for lack of better options. Despite his efforts, he's killed those younger than the boy before—gullible children make good weapons, and the scar from that explosion still bothers him from time to time.
Children need stability, a home where they can be safe and grow up without worry. A notion that is practically impossible, their world already in tatters as it is. Thus, it shouldn't be a surprise that they were so willing to trail behind him despite the threat he possesses.
“Things are always better with company.”
One night, he settled next to a river, in a secluded area away from battlefields and recent wars. It wasn't completely safe—no place was, not even actual settlements—but the thick grove surrounding the area dissuaded most cookies from bothering to proceed further, so he had hoped it was enough.
He stayed with them for a year, teaching the boy self-defense and the girl basic shielding spells. Black Sapphire and Candy Apple, a teenager and a child not even in the double digits. Shadow Milk had not been kind to them, not when living with them had hit too close to home, reminded him too much of Healer and how much better the other cookie would do with two children instead of him.
He was not kind, in training and in demeanor, remaining as a distant provider who kept them fed and alive. Yet, they latched onto him anyway, eager to please, happy to learn—asking for his time almost shamelessly. In the earlier months, there was always one of them watching him, small hands would grab onto his robes before his trips outside, demanding to come with him.
To his own surprise at the time, he had agreed, playing along with the children’s game, balancing the delicate act of being something of a caretaker but not a parent.
Although, it still didn't stop them from growing attached to him. The first to call him a parental title was Candy Apple—a simple slip of the tongue that had Black Sapphire paling, clearly fearing his reaction. He had not acknowledged it, simply offering his name to correct her.
She did not repeat it again, and he couldn't help but feel some sort of disappointment at it, even if he had been the one to reject the offered title. Black Sapphire, being the older of the two, had stuck to ‘master’—knowing what he was by the Soul Jam attached to his collar.
It was less lonely, with the two of them. As the days progressed, the children worked to fortify their home, intent on making it the safest place to be. He had not stopped them, but he did not help either, knowing that any kind of base could only be temporary.
The end of the year grew closer, and he silently prepared to leave, unwilling to stay longer the way he had with Healer. He had only ever planned to stay a year, though he never told either child, sure that they would object loudly.
They spent the new year climbing a mountain nearby, catching the sun before it rose in the distance. He remembers sitting in between the two, a well of emotions stirring inside him uncomfortably, reminded of another time where he sat next to another cookie dear to his heart.
“I want to see the sunrise with you every day. Would you let me?”
He had stayed then. He did not stay the second time, leaving at the end of the day with only a piece of paper to explain himself.
Afterwards, he returned to his life of drifting, but his conscience always made a return, constantly urging him to check on the two—the children. He did occasionally, and he told himself it was for lack of better things to do. The two were living well without him, having continued their training with the little instructions he left.
Much like him, they did not stay at one place, constantly wandering, squabbling with each other. It was a questionable decision—one with too many risks that he didn't think Black Sapphire would be willing to take, world-weary as that boy was. He watched over them from a distance, and it was not long before he discovered the true reason for their constant travelling.
They were looking for him.
Shadow Milk stayed away then, hiding his Soul Jam and assuming another identity, continuing his mad quest for peace that slowly feels more like penance. It brings him to small kingdoms in need of assistance, and he serves until there is no cookie left to serve.
It lasted up until he served for one kingdom that had dared to challenge the Vanilla Kingdom. He still doesn't know who had exposed him, but the rest is history.
In the present, he gets his answer in the form of a reunion with Black Sapphire and Candy Apple just a week after his capture.
The two are doing well—better off than the day he truly left them. Seeing them, it dawns on him just how long time has truly passed. Last time he saw Candy Apple, she was a tween, capable of defending herself but still a child.
Now, she sees him from all the way across the hallway and runs his way, tackling him with a rather terrifying strength and sending both of them crashing onto the carpet. Black Sapphire follows at a much more sedate pace and before long, he has an armful of both children, now young adults in their own right.
Their grip is tight around him, as if they fear that letting go might mean losing him forever. Pure Vanilla gives them access to a drawing room and surprisingly enough, leaves them alone to talk.
The first thing Black Sapphire does after breaking the hug is slapping him, yelling at him for leaving in such a way. Candy Apple meekly stays to the side, fiddling with her fingers as her brother lashes out at him, loud but without any truly abusive language.
At the end of it, he gets another hug. He does not apologise to them for leaving, “I won't apologise for something I didn't regret. You two were better off.”
“Because of you.” Candy Apple adds, cheeks puffed indignantly.
Shadow Milk ignores that, switching the topic to a more important matter—mainly, how the two of them had ended up in Pure Vanilla’s clutches at all.
“He threatened you?” Black Sapphire asks, bewildered, as if the thought of Pure Vanilla, known tyrant of the current largest faction of their world, threatening someone was something entirely unbelievable.
“It was to get you to stay.” Candy Apple explains as if that makes it any better, “Otherwise, you’d have run off again and not given him a chance at all.”
Shadow Milk twitches, “He proposed marriage and threatened me with compromising your safety should I not agree. I met him a week ago. Pray tell, do you not see the red flag there?”
Black Sapphire whistles, and it is then that his concern over how lightly the two are taking this grows deeper, because surely they're being much too casual in enemy territory.
“He really didn't tell you.” The young man sighs, brushing his hair back with one hand, “Though, hm, would you believe it if I tell you that Candy Apple and I have been citizens here for many years, and that Pure Vanilla once saved our lives?”
“....no.” That is too many coincidences to be true, surely, even if Pure Vanilla is supposed to be the Virtue of Truth. He would know how easy it is to twist truths. For all Shadow Milk knew, this entire kingdom is one giant cult worshipping Pure Vanilla.
“...yeah, no wonder he didn't just come clean from the start.” Candy Apple scrunches her face, poking at him with enough force to make him wince, “It's true, by the way.”
Sure.
Shadow Milk scrutinises both children, trying to find any sign that they might be under some sort of spell. Brainwashing is still also on the table, considering this kingdom has a whole church dedicated to its leader.
“He's not all bad, really.” Black Sapphire offers.
“I'll believe it when I see it.” He dismisses.
Pure Vanilla invites Black Sapphire and Candy Apple to their dinners.
It’s an odd thing, because he respects Shadow Milk’s refusal to join him for evening tea, but pesters him every dinner to eat together. He does, because it isn't like he has much choice, but he finds himself surprised to see just how often Black Sapphire and Candy Apple join them.
The two make dinner more lively, in that it isn't just Pure Vanilla trying in vain to make conversation while Shadow Milk flips around his food. They share dinners for the next few weeks. Every time, Black Sapphire and Candy Apple would sit next to each other, forcing him to sit next to Pure Vanilla.
Even knowing that the two are safe and Pure Vanilla’s threat was an empty one, he cannot find it in himself to relax.
Not when he sits next to Pure Vanilla and wishes that it was another cookie there instead of the tyrant king. Not when he struggles to sleep at night and spends his days restlessly pacing, no longer used to staying in one place for so long. Not when the sight of a lavish dinner makes his stomach crawl, having survived on scavenged goods and mostly his own mana.
Being immortal comes with its perks, and he had practically optimised it to its fullest potential. Much to Pure Vanilla’s own displeasure—a healer, too, just like—
“Come to bed with me. You'll sleep much better, I promise.”
Shadow Milk drops his spoon, the chatter of the three cookies around him halting. They've been conversing animatedly, the children clearly enjoying Pure Vanilla’s company and vice versa. He hasn't contributed much, but as always, each of them have piled up things on his plate, encouraging him to eat and not saying a thing about how he isn't talking with them.
He stares at his food, half-eaten, the scent sweet enough to make him want to puke his guts out. The brand on his wrist burns.
“You need to eat more, my dear. You can't sustain yourself on mana alone.”
Shadow Milk snaps back into reality to hear the concerned noises of the others. Pure Vanilla kneels next to him again, gently holding his hand. For a moment, he sees Healer standing there instead, in the exact same position—even their hand feels the same, though he’s quite sure that’s a byproduct of his slowly draining sanity.
“I need to tell you something.” Healer—Pure Vanilla says, and the children tense as if they have been waiting for this moment for a long time. He remembers their words, about something important that Pure Vanilla hasn't told him.
He thinks he knows what it is. Not everything can be a simple coincidence, no matter how much he denies it.
“I'll marry you,” Shadow Milk says instead, much to Pure Vanilla’s surprise, his dreadfully pretty eyes widening.
“On one condition.” He adds,
“Let me lead your army.”
They object. He does not back down, doubling down on the idea. It takes a while, but Pure Vanilla eventually accepts, holding his wrist to take off the brand—not as permanent as he thought it was, and he's grateful to not have to lose a limb to get rid of it. In return, he behaves and makes himself useful. For Pure Vanilla’s foolish dream of peace, the Beasts must be eliminated. Even if only one truly remains a threat now, the rest of them having crumbled underneath their own power in the recent century after the rise of the new generation.
Mystic Flour was the first to go, he knows. He was there to witness it, then her moment of clarity at the very end, the little slip of a tear before she falls, Soul Jam crumbling alongside her form, fading into nothing but a pile of flour.
Eternal Sugar died defending her paradise, eventually swarmed by the overwhelming might of the Spice Swarm. Burning Spice had taken her head off himself, though not without losing an arm and a leg in the process.
Silent Salt remained the last stronghold against Destruction alongside the Faerie Kingdom, but the centuries of fighting had made his old friend weary. He does not know what became of the knight, but he has not seen the other cookie in nearly a century.
It leaves them with the Virtues of Pure Vanilla’s generation, and the sole cookie who enforced the status quo of their world. Burning Spice, down two limbs, unfortunately remains a formidable threat.
Things have been calm so far, what with Pure Vanilla’s many victories and his alliances with the kingdoms of the other Virtues. His capture of Shadow Milk was his most recent achievement, though disappointing for the Vanilla Kingdom’s citizens with the decision to keep him alive. With the way they often stare at him in the streets, he knows they’d want him dead if he isn't proving himself to be useful.
He does, making good use of his knowledge and experiences. After so long, he has become good at war. The army is skeptical, but winning a few battles and ending year-long sieges had been enough to at least get them to listen to him.
Pure Vanilla sticks close, but being a healer by trade, he does not often charge ahead into the battlefield. Shadow Milk extracts a promise from him not to, taking front and leading the charge in his stead—having an overpowered immortal was good for morale.
Burning Spice officially declares war the moment he sees Shadow Milk dressed in the Vanilla Kingdom’s colours. He jeers at his old friend from the other side of the battlefield, but does not engage him—he knows his own limits, and he has surpassed them centuries ago. As he was, he had no chance of standing up to Destruction.
Unfortunately, Burning Spice is not known for his patience. In their third encounter—also the first to have them truly face to face, he finds himself blocking a flaming war axe with much more ease than he had expected, not five minutes after this first true reunion in the centuries since Silent Salt’s disappearance.
Shadow Milk fights back, and realises that he is only able to because he had spent his imprisonment recovering. It really is a wonder what regular sleep, healthy meals and being mostly anxiety free can do for oneself.
Their fight lasts until backup arrives in the form of Pure Vanilla’s allies, the sight of two banners in particular catching him off guard enough for Burning Spice to nearly cut him in half. He dodges the swing of that war axe within a hair’s breadth, but it makes a wound across his torso that is deep enough to make him stagger on his feet.
It is then that he is reminded of a conversation with Pure Vanilla, not even a few weeks ago.
“After the war, I'm going to step down.”
“...sorry?”
“The life of royalty has never been one for me. I.. think I much prefer living as a shepherd.”
“...ha. At the end of this, you could declare yourself the ruler of this world, and yet you want to forsake it all?”
“I never wanted to rule. I just.. want a simple life. Maybe somewhere in a mountain range, with a flock of sheep and a nice view for evening tea.”
“....”
“I’d love that kind of life, and I’d love it even more if I could share it with you.”
Shadow Milk swallows, two faces overlapping in his mind, confirming what his heart knows but refuses to truly admit. Peace, what a joke; the hopeful, foolish ideal of a dreamer in a world of nightmares—and yet, here he is, fighting for that same dream.
In memory of a kind smile and a kinder touch. Of soft laughter and quiet evenings shared with tea. Of a flock of sheep and gentle humming, fingers carding through his hair and lips pressing against his cheek.
“Why? I love you, silly.”
Shadow Milk takes a deep breath and forces himself to move, pushing himself harder than he’s ever dared, casting spells non-stop and slashing at his former friend with a ferocity that only motivates Burning Spice more. They hack and slash at each other until he sees an opening in the corner of his eyes—and how ironic it is that his old friend still has the same weak spot after a millennia of corruption.
He targets it viciously, and in the split second Burning Spice freezes in surprise, he takes his own staff and stabs it through the Soul Jam on Destruction’s chest, breaking the gem and piercing right into the heart.
Burning Spice dies laughing, bursting into flames. Someone grabs his hand and forcefully drags him away from the explosion. It singes a good part of his dough, but he survives, stumbling into the arms of his saviour much like how he did in their first encounter nearly a year ago by now.
It ends much the same way as it started: staff in one hand, his fingers clammy from red jam and his heart beating out of his chest.
It's silent now. His vision still blurs, and it burns more literally in this case, his body a mix of painful gashes and explosion burns. The world doubles, but he can still see Pure Vanilla, still in the guise of an angel, Shadow Milk’s head on his lap.
His vision clears a little, the soothing feeling of healing restoring enough of it—just enough for him to spot a familiar trap in the corner of his eyes. He sits up through the pain, hugging Pure Vanilla and twisting him out of the way. The trap activates, releasing an arrow that he knows he cannot catch in time.
For a moment, he chuckles at the sheer irony of it all. His Soul Jam cracks, crumbling apart in its other half's hands. To think he had tried to kill the love of his life with an arrow, only to die from one himself—the same way Healer 'died' so long ago. Pure Vanilla cups his face, crying, yelling, screaming something or at someone. He can't make out any of it.
Shadow Milk smiles, and says the words he should have said all those years ago, the first time Healer—Pure Vanilla mentioned his dream,
“For peace.”
Then, he hears nothing else.