Archive of Our Own ^beta

Roses flew upon the stage, and Shadowmilk freed his hand to snatch one from the air, grinning as the applause grew louder in response.

“Thank you, thank you!” He called, his voice easily cutting through the tidal wave of noise. “You really are too kind!”

The cheering managed to grow even louder.

Oh how he loved this. The attention. The way all eyes were drawn to him, and him alone. The way he knew the audience would speak of his acting for days to come. How nothing mattered but him.

A hand slipped through his, and Shadowmilk let it tighten around his fingers, not daring to let his smile slip. 

He knew his cue.

 His Playwright was getting impatient.

“I thank you, truly!” He called to the crowd. “You’ve been a wonderful audience, but that’s the end of the show!”

More cheers as him and the Playwrite bowed once more, before slipping behind the curtain.

Shadowmilk adjusted his cloak and his jewel-studded belt. He shifted the rose he had caught between his fingers, admiring it’s silky petals, the thorns that had been shorn away to keep him from pricking himself.

“For someone who complains so much about my scripts, you truly love basking in the attention~”

He clenched his hand, and promptly wished the thorns had been kept.

The figure looked at him from beneath sharp lashes. The wing at the side of her short pink hair fluttered, and he could feel the eyes from her cloak staring at him.

His own eyes, the ones within his hair, glared back at her.

His smile didn’t fall as he turned to look at the Playwrite. “Well, of course my dear! Perhaps if you included me in the writing process, there wouldn’t be so much for me to complain about.”

“The audience enjoys my scripts as they are, without your silly edits.”

“How would you know dear?~” He asked, his voice becoming a sweet mockery of hers. “They don’t know which lines aren’t yours.”

Eternal Sugar’s eyes narrowed, and Shadowmilk knew he was victorious.

“Hmm…”

“So what, my glorious Playwright, is our next game?”

Eternal Sugar’s eyes narrowed further, and her snake tail swished with annoyance. “You are testing my limits, jester.”

“Actor.” Shadowmilk corrected in a sing-song tone.

She sighed. “Take ten. Then…I have new material for you.” She clasped her hands. “Oh, I’m most excited for this story! I’m certain it will satisfy that silly sense of unsastifaction of yours!”

“Of course.” Shadowmilk purred. He shifted to bow before her, and press a kiss to her hand. An unfortunate custom of hers. “Until then.”

She smiled, and Shadowmilk resisted the urge to bite her hand instead.

“Yes. And do make sure you are puntucal, this time.”

Shadowmilk had a history of being late.

 In his opinion, it always made for a much more dramatic entrance.

“Of course, darling.”

The Playwright sighed as she pulled back her hands, and vanished down the hall, the insufferable scratching of her quill disappearing with her.

How he hated that quill.

How he hated her.

No. No, out on the stage, he was perfect. 

Only once he was in his dressing room did he let his facade slip.

He growled with frustration as he tore off his crown and slammed it onto the vanity table.

Another script, another telling of his fate. Another chain around him.

He looked in the mirror, pulling his heavy cloak from his shoulders and hanging it up. 

A first, the actor hadn’t thought twice about the Playwright and her scripts. They always became hits, and he was not one to pass up the chance to be centre stage. He had quickly climbed the ranking with her stories to guide him. He’d felt untouchable.

Except now, those scripts were chains, each one binding him tighter and tighter to the writer. Less and less control over himself. More strings for her to manipulate. Another fate for her to seal.

And there was always a new script. No way to escape. Getting on her nerves was the only defiance he had left.

He straightened his hair. 

He would not let her know how much he hated her. He slipped his cloak back in a smooth, practiced motion. He straightened his hair once last time, and threw open the door to the hall.

She had demanded he be early.

And if he was going to meet his sealed fate, he would do it with a grin.

                          ******

Shadowmilk’s eyes probed the darkness.

“I know you’re all for dramatics,” he complained. “But is this really necessary? I can hardly see anything!”

The Playwrite said nothing. Shadowmilk sighed.

The room she had lead him to had been at the end of the hall, and Eternal Sugar had opened it with a shiny key. He’d half-expected the room to be her office, but if this was her office, then it was no wonder he hated her scripts. Even with the extra eyes in his hair, he could hardly see two steps ahead.

A soft light became apparent, and Shadowmilk picked up his pace, eager to get out of the dark.

“Now.” Eternal Sugar stopped at the edge of the darkness, and spun around to face him. Shadowmilk nearly walked into her. “Oh come on!”

“Now, Shadowmilk.” She chided. “You must promise me first, that not a single soul will hear of what is in this room.”

He cocked a brow. “Seriously?”

She copied his expression. “Yes. Not a word will leave.”

He groaned. “Don’t you have enough over me? Fame, money, me bound to your scripts, probably my soul? I don’t care about what you have in here, certainly not enough to tell anyone.”

 Not that he had anyone to tell anyway.

“Shadowmilk. Promise.”

“UuuuGGHHHHH.” He groaned. “FINE. I promise. Not a soul, blah blah blah. Happy?”

She rolled her eyes, but stepped aside, and allowed Shadowmilk to enter the pool of light.

In the centre of the light was a cage. Rather large, and elegantly crafted. Big enough to be considered a room in a house. The light on the ceiling shone down like a spotlight, displaying…

There was someone inside.

Tucked into the furthest corner away from the light. Curled neatly into a fetal position, hands clutching their shoulders. 

Their head snapped toward Shadowmilk, and Witches were they beautiful. Long golden hair and pale, mismatched eyes. They were wearing robes, and though torn and dirty, the fabric was beautifully crafted. 

But that wasn’t what captured his attention. No.

It was their wings.

Gorgeous, feathered wings. And not fake ones either. Shadowmilk could see the space in the fabric on their back, displaying their shoulder blades, where plain dough gave way to feathers. The wings were folded loosely, pure white dragging across the floor. Opened, they would likely span across the cage. 

“Isnt he beautiful?” Eternal Sugar sang, coming to stand beside Shadowmilk.

He forced his expression into neutrality. “Eh.” He let his eyes fall the stranger’s, but oddly, they didn’t meet. “Looks like you pulled it off the streets. It’s awfully dirty.”

“It only looks like that now.” She said waving a hand. “Shadowmilk, he’s an Angel.”

“Yes, yes, of course. And I own golden shoes. It’s cute, Sugar, but be real with me. If it were possible, then angels would be in cages everywhere, pretty little displays for people to make money off of.”

“I know.” She said with a grin. The sight sent a shiver down Shadowmilk’s spine. “But this one is blind. See his eyes? Much easier to trap that way.” She pursed her lip. “Still put up quite a fight, though.”

Hm. It seems true enough. It’s eyes were locked in their general direction, but they weren’t scanning for details or moving the way seeing eyes might.

“…So what are you doing with it…?”

Eternal Sugar clapped her hands with excitement. The angel’s wings flinched at the noise.

“Well I was thinking, wouldn’t those wings make a beautiful costume!? Oh, and the story to go with it!” She grinned, scanning Shadowmilk up and down. It reminded him of a predator scanning its prey. “I think you would be ravishing with wings.”

Shadowmilk narrowed his eyes. “Uhm, Sugar, angel or not, I’m not wearing some cut off, hand-me-down wings.”

He wouldn’t admit it, but the thought of shearing those limbs from the angel made him feel sick.

“Well, you certainly aren’t going to heaven to find any!” She said with a snort. “Besides, waiting for enough feathers to molt shall take far too long. If we just get rid of your cape, they really shouldn’t weigh much more.”

The angel had gone pale.

“And besides,” she pouted. “Im almost done the script.”

Shadowmilk looked at the angel again. It’s eyes were resting on a space just over his shoulder, but the sick terror on it’s face was clear. 

“…Can’t you give it a role? I dunno, give me a partner?” He batted his eyes at her. “It can be awfully lonely all by myself up on that big stage.”

Eternal Sugar didn’t look impressed. “If I didn’t know you better,” she drawled. “I’d think you were feeling pity for the thing!” Her eyes narrowed. “Why would you ever want to share the fame you have with someone else?”

Shadowmilk frowned. He glanced to the angel again. 

Maybe if he were someone else, he would have found a better excuse. Tried harder.

But Shadowmilk knew he was nothing more then a puppet with pretty strings.

“Fine.” He spat, straightening his cloak. “Do what you would like with it. But I won’t get my hands dirty with your costume-making.”

Eternal Sugar smiled cunningly. “Of course, darling. All you need to do is play the lines i give you.”

He scowled, and spun around, striding angerily towards the door.

And not once did he look back.

                         ******

Shadowmilk was restless.

He paced his dressing room, mind swirling.

It had been two days since Eternal Sugar had showed him the angel, and since then, he could think of nothing else. It seemed so wrong to keep such a beautiful creature locked in a cage. To shear away wings that were meant to be free.

His desperation was beginning to show.

Last night he had gone to the door, but the Playwright was smart enough to keep it locked, and Shadowmilk knew she wouldn’t be stupid enough to put down the key.

What did that leave him with?

He couldn’t call anyone. Even before his fame, he hadn’t had many close friends. And he certainly couldn’t just call authorities. Oh, the greatest Playwright our history has ever seen has an angel locked up. Could you help me set it free?

At best, the crowds would think it was just him getting the city prepared for whatever his next great play was. He had done it before.

At worst, it was laughable.

Think Shadowmilk, think.

Sugar wasn’t one to use shortcuts for her costumes (The weight of his cloak and crown were proof!) so he couldn’t convince her to use molted feathers. She had said herself it would take ages, and he knew she would never wait that long. Patience had never been her virtue.

He huffed in frustration.

Maybe it was for the best. It was blind. How could it possibly fly, live up to its full potential? Or maybe the Playwright would be merciful. Put it out of its misery before she took its wings.

It still feels so wrong.

But what else was there? Even if she kept it alive after, would losing those limbs kill it? And if it couldn’t speak, it had no use in plays, which to the Playwright, was as good as no use at all.

He paced more and more. It had been two days since she had bothered him, a sure sign she was nearly finished another script, another sealed fate.

“All you need to do is play the lines i give you.”

Maybe this was the price of his fame. A reminder of the path he was stuck on.

A jester. An actor, now a monster. What was another role for him to play?

He refused to even let the tears gather in his eyes.

Fine. If he were going to be a monster, then at least let him be the greatest one the world had seen.

                         ******

A knock at his door.

Shadowmilk swung it open, and frowned at the sight of the Playwright. “Well?”

“My my dear~ I thought you might be happy to see me.” She clicked her tounge. “You look a mess.”

His forced a smile. “Nonesense! I’ve been sleeping like a baby! Living my best life over here!”

The Playwright scoffed, but didn’t argue.

“…Sooooo…costume? The performance is tomorrow, and I’d rather not be squeezing into something last minute.”

Eternal Sugar smiled. “My my! It’s been some time since I’ve seen you this eagar. Something on your mind?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Nope! Just peachy. Ready to blow away the world with my preformance, that’s all!”

She nodded. “Hm. Come along, then!”

He scowled at the way she beckoned him like a dog, but followed quietly.

His heart began to pound as they approached the room, and Eternal Sugar placed the key into the lock.

The door clicked open, and she gestured for him to go inside. 

Act normal. Don't rush.

He carefully trailed behind as she walked into the light.

Was the light this dim before? Though it had been days, he couldn’t have been certain the light had been-

He gasped as he neared the cage.

The light above it had been shattered, glass littering the floor. The light-or, at least what was left of it-flickered. He scanned the dark corners, but there was no sign of feathery wings.

Only an open door, and a chair.

“Wha….?”

Before he could react, everything went black.

                          ******

Shadowmilk blinked, trying to shake the heaviness from his eyes.

He tried to move, but paused as he realized-

“Really, Sugar? Tying me up? The preformance is tomorrow, remember?”

She stepped to the edge of the shadows, her eyes narrowed. “If you waited five seconds-“

“Don’t care!” He sang, shifting his wrists. “Is this really necessary for a costume change? And what of that pretty angel of yours? I thought you-

“Do you ever shut up?!” She snapped.

Shadowmilk smiled smugly.

The Playwright rubbed her temples, her eyes becoming little more then slits. “I know you tried to free it.”

Shadowmilk went still.

“…W-what?”

“Or at least, you wanted to. You think I don’t see everything you do? You’re rather lucky I kept that door locked.”

“…So what? I thought I lost something in here. You know I hate to part with my things!” He lied smoothly. “And besides, I kept your stupid deal. Haven’t told a soul. I’ve hardly even thought about it!”

The Playwright sighed. “Thats the thing about you, Shadowmilk. You’re far too good a liar.”

He tensed as she leaned in. 

“I don’t know when you’re telling the truth.”

He scoffed. It sounded forced. “Who cares? Even if I went out on the streets screaming about an angel, no one would believe it. They’d think it’s part of a preformance. You worry too much.”

“Maybe so…” She mused. “But you have seen far too much. Such good acting…it’s impossible to really know that you aren’t lying.”

“Sugar, please. All these theatrics, thats my job! Just give me the costume, and let’s move on.”

“Oh. But there’s been a change of plans.” She chewed her lip dramatically. “I’ve been thinking that…” She pulled forth a pair of silver scissors. “Perhaps what you need isn’t a costume change…”

She flicked open the blades.

Shit.

“Easy there.” Shadowmilk said slowly. “Really, isn’t that a bit much? Why not a ponytail? Or, or braids, I bet I would look great in braids!”

He was rambling, panic slipping into his voice.

The Playwright ignored him, and he hissed as her hands slipped through his hair. It was gentle, almost a caress.

“Sugar.” He managed. “Please-“

The sound of scissors cut through the air.

Nothing. Shadowmilk hesitated, then relaxed-

Pain. Like having a limb torn off. Worse maybe.

Shadowmilk shreiked as the scissors snapped shut again, and his vision went blurry.

He clawed at his restraints, but they held tight.

He tried to jerk away as her scissors snapped again, and the blades scratched the back of his neck painfully.

“Now now,” The Playwright purred, tightening her grip. “Hold still. Or I might hurt you.”

She pulled the scissors back, and though his vision was blurry, he could see the smear of jam across the blades.

“You-“

“Hush. Just a bit more trimming dear.”

He shut his eyes and tried not to whimper at each cut. It no longer hurt, but each snip had him awaiting a searing pain that didn’t come.

What could have only been minutes, but felt like hours later, the Playwright stepped back and mussed his hair. The gesture was almost affectionate, as if she hadn’t just stripped him of his pride.

“Very handsome.” She cooed. 

He sobbed pathetically.

“No appreciation? My darling, they will love you! You should be thanking me, really. I’m only looking out for you.” 

He said nothing.

She clicked her tounge. “No answer? Perhaps you just need some time alone.”

“No, no wait please-!”

She vanished into the darkness, and the door slammed shut.

His breath picked up as panic began to set in.

His vision remained a blur, refusing to focus no matter how frantically he blinked.

Scripts, to read them like this…

He would fail.

He would lose everything.

His mind was going numb with worry and the phantom pain of where several more eyes should have been.

He had never cut his hair.

What if it never grew back?

The thoughts swirled, and he panted, exhausted and shocked.

He shut his eyes, and left himself drift into the abyss.

                        ******

Minutes? Hours?

Shadowmilk forced his eyes open, and tried to study the blur the world had become.

Shuffling. Somewhere close to him.

Shadowmilk went tense. The Playwright, back to cause him more suffering?

He ran his tounge over the points of his teeth. They were sharp, sharp enough that a well-placed bite would keep her from getting close again…

The figure stepped into the light. Shadowmilk bared his teeth-

Only it wasn’t the Playwright.

Or, at least he didn’t think it was.

Without his extra eyes, it was hard to tell, but the Playwright certainly didn’t wear white and gold. He squinted at the figure, and the large blobs near their back.

“You’re alive.”

The angel said nothing.

Shadowmilk scoffed. “What, come here to feel better for yourself? Admire how sorry I look in your place, because I didn’t save you?”

Silence.

“Some angel.” He spat, anger brewing hotter. “Think you’re so much better then us mortals.”

“…At least when this ends, you will be free to leave.”

Shadowmilk startled at its voice. Sweet as honey, masculine but soft, the kind of voice the Playwright would swoon over. 

“Im hardly free.” He scoffed after a moment. “My chains are just prettier then yours.”

“Hm.” He thought he saw them rub their wrists.

Neither said anything.

“She hurt you.” The angel said finally.

“No shi-“

“Thank you. For trying, at least. I heard what she said and…Im…sorry you got hurt in my place. I never meant to get caught.”

Shadowmilk considered this. “…No one ever does.”

“I had just….mortal music is much prettier then ours.” A dreamy sigh. “I believe I’ve heard you, before.”

“Really? An angel knows who I am? I should be flattered.” The last remark was spoken dryly, but the angel took no notice.

“Oh yes. At night, I love to sit on the roof of the theatre and listen to the plays. I…I can’t see but, I can still appreciate the stories. Beautifully written. Most angels rely solely on theatrics. You rely on your voice.”

Shadowmilk laughed. “Well if you could see my theatrics, then you would be completely blown away.”

The angel went quiet again, then stepped closer.

While it had become clear they were not here to hurt him, Shadowmilk tensed.

The angel took no notice, bare feet moving over shards of glass without care. Their hands brushed against the cropped edges of his hair. The touch was achingly soft.

“Your hair….can it be healed back?”

The question caught him off guard. “What?”

“You were screaming in pain when she cut it. I just thought….”

Their hands cradled the nape of his neck, and Shadowmilk hissed. The angel ignored him. Their hands began to warm.

The touch was suddenly relaxing, and Shadowmilk could feel the weight of the phantom pain vanishing as their hands moved further into his curls. Their faces were close now, close enough that Shadowmilk could catch the scent of vanilla, and clearly see those beautiful mismatched eyes.

The angel furrowed his brow in concentration, but when nothing happened, he pulled his hands back.

“I…forgive me, I can’t-“

“I figured. Cut hair isn’t exactly an injury.”

“I just thought I might help….”

“Don’t worry. You’ve done enough.”

“Im sorry, I-“

“Relax. I didn’t mean it like that.”

The angel fidgeted with his hands. “…So what now…?”

Shadowmilk glanced around, then leaned back in the chair, twisting to try and make himself comfortable. “We wait, I suppose. The Playwright will get bored. She’ll come back for me eventually. Can’t stand to leave her favourite playthings sitting idly for too long.”

The angel shifted his wings, then dropped to his knees, fingers scrabbling at the knots that held Shadowmilk to the chair.

“Augh! What are you doing?” He asked shrilly as the angel’s hands raked his ankles, pulling at the rope.

“Trying to get you free.” The angel said, voice set with determination. “I got you into the mess. The least I can do is…set you free.”

Shadowmilk couldn’t argue.

Even his only freedom was from a chair.

                           ******

Backstage once again, Shadowmilk soothed back his hair, styled in a deliberately careless way.

It had been rather amusing to see the Playwright come back to find him lounging on the chair, playing idly with one of the shreds of rope, an easy smile on his face. Fortunately, she had had no reason to punish him. She’d simply waved him towards his dressing room and demanded that he get show-ready.

He stood behind the curtain now, listening to the rumble of the gathering crowd. Showtime in ten.

He was not nervous. He would not allow himself to be.

Yet the angel…

“You look awfully pale dear~ Do you need some water?”

Shadowmilk turned, and adjusted his cloak, glaring at the form of the Playwright.

“Nonesense!” He crowed. “Simply awaiting curtain call!”

“Well then,” She tossed a stack of paper into his hands. The writing was only blurry black lines. “You will have no issue with this script.”

Shadowmilk felt the stack and gawked at her. “A new script?! Sugar, showtime is in ten and I-“

“Now now dear, don’t you worry yourself! You’ll ruin your pretty face!” She tilted her head, amused. “You really think you memorized all my scripts on your own?”

Shadowmilk blinked. “Of course. My memory is excellent.”

The Playwright laughed. “My dear, I really thought you were cleverer then that!”

Shadowmilk narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying…?”

She only smirked. 

“Sugar.”

She grabbed the script from his hands before he could even think about snatching it back. “Oops! The stage to calls you, my lovely little star.” She laughed as she gave him a gentle push. “Now go out there and burn.”

Shadowmilk stumbled onstage.

Immediately he became someone new. The ruler of the stage as he straightened his back and all eyes fell to him. The crowd rippled with gasps as they took him in.

“Such an incredible actor!”

“Do to see his hair?”

“So flattering on him! He’s so handsome!”

“Why’d he cut it! It was so cute before!”

“How much do you think he makes each preformance?”

Shadowmilk let their voices ebb away.

No script. No sight. He was going in blind, in more ways then one.

He held his composure, his perfect stance. He was the ruler of the stage. Not the Playwright. He would not let them see his fear. He would not let her have that control over him.

The strings around his very soul tightened. Pulled.

The Playwright’s voice seemed to whisper in his ear. 

He found himself delivering the line.

Another whisper.

Another line.

Shadowmilk quickly melted into the role. He voice grew more and more powerful, his steps steady and purposeful.

Still, his mind reeled. Had he ever learned the scripts himself? Or had the Playwright spent all these years whispering in his ear, giving him only the illusion of control?

No. He cleared his mind as he walked across the stage. He would not give into fear. Not now.

Stop.

He froze elegantly, let himself become statue still.

And watched another figure step carefully into the light.

Whispers rumbled through the crowd like distant thunder as they took in the second actor.

“Wow!”

“So beautiful!”

“Such a fantastic costume!!”

“There’s never been two actors!”

“Amazing!”

“Those wings look so real!”

The angel.

There he was, standing stage left. Unharmed. Alive. Beautiful.

His wings were still folded, his soft face slightly dazzled as he took in the sounds of the crowd, the warmth of the stage lights. It was hard for Shadowmilk to tell for sure, but his face and clothes seemed to have been cleaned since they had last seen each other.

His hesitation did not last long.

Shadowmilk’s mind was blissfully free of whispers as the angel began speaking. Witches his voice was wonderful. It was soft yet captivating, and the crowd stared at the newcomer, completely awestruck.

Another whisper.

Shadowmilk turned to his angel, and spoke his line.

The angel replied.

And so their dance began.

Shadowmilk had always acted alone, but his new partner—who was named Pure Vanilla—fit seamlessly beside him. He may have hated the Playwright, but it was moments like these where he couldn’t help but admire her storytelling skills. The original play had clearly been made for a much larger cast, but somehow she made it work with only the two of them.

Romeo and Juliet.

The story became more and more apparent as they went through. Though it had its own twists, it was undeniable.

A young new king, and the sweet prince of a warring kingdom. Through a series of crafted events, they met, and fell in love despite the brutal war of their kingdoms.

Shadowmilk, of course, had the role of dashing young Romeo. The character was one he liked immediately, though he barely avoided rolling his eyes at the choice of story. Star-crossed lovers, making him gentle and loving, for someone he couldn’t have? Sugar should have known he was better suited to other roles.

And Pure Vanilla, had the role of Juliet. While it was clear the angel was not a girl, his fawn-like appearance and soft-spoken voice were perfect. He fit well upon the stage.

At least to the crowd. Even with his vision blurred, Shadowmilk caught the little things. The way his breath tightened as he moved across a stage he could not see, the way his head turned to the crowd at every small noise they made.

But as the story progressed further, the angel began to relax. Moving easily towards Shadowmilk’s voice, twirling into his arms without hesitation or fear. His wings became a part of the preformance, stretching and dancing along with him, making the audience gasp with delight as they tried to figure out the mechanics.

Another monologue, a sweeping dance, and Pure Vanilla spun back into his arms, leaning back against his chest like it was the only place he belonged. He smiled fondly, and while Shadowmilk knew it was only part of the preformance, it felt genuine.

And oddly, just for a moment, everything was perfect.

But this play is not one with a happy ending.

The plans to run away together, a small, humble wedding-done offstage, thank the Witches.

Then comes the tragedy. The banishment of Romeo. The anguish. 

But then comes more plans. To spend the night before Romeo must leave. 

They were standing together, hands entwined. Pure Vanilla’s wings were held loosely, but they curled around Shadowmilk like an embrace as they leaned closer.

Shadowmilk could feel his heart pounding at the short distance between them. It hardly felt like an act now, as Pure Vanilla commanded he leave, lest Romeo be killed. As Shadowmilk promises to return.

He knows this kiss is nothing more then the pulling of strings, meant to capture the hearts of the crowd.

But he finds his heart captured too, as Pure Vanilla’s wings twirl to shield them from the hungry gaze of the audience.

Cheers erupt as the curtain falls, signaling the change of scene, but Shadowmilk throughly ignores it in favour of the angel at his lips. He tastes like vanilla, and Shadowmilk can’t help but smile against the curve of the other’s mouth. It’s funny. Heaven is here, pressed against him, and he tastes like vanilla.

The pulling of strings. Shadowmilk is helpless.

They pulled away, but before he can say anything, Pure Vanilla was turning away. He caught the delicate blush on his cheeks, the regretful look in his eyes, before the angel ducks to the other side of the stage.

He knows it’s not personal as his own strings force him backstage.

The Playwright was waiting for him.

“My my, dear. I didn’t think you to be such a romantic~”

“I’m not.” Shadowmilk huffed, trying to regain his composure. “Simply playing the lines you’ve given me.”

She laughed. “Well, you even had me convinced. It don’t think I’ve seen you that passionate about anything, let alone a kiss.”

He scowled as his cheeks flushed. “If an actor is good, you can’t tell if he is preforming.” 

The Playwright laughed again. “If you say so, dear.”

His scowl deepened as the curtains rose.

Pure Vanilla had returned to the centre of the stage, and began speaking, lamenting the loss of his Romeo.

From where Shadowmilk was standing, Pure Vanilla appeared as little more then a blur of color, but his voice was clear as bells. He closed his eyes, letting himself focus on it. For a moment, he wondered if this was what it was like for the angel, on nights where he sat on top of the theatre. What had it been like, to be a heavenly creature sitting just above mortals? He wondered how many nights he had spent there, how many times they had been so close, but unaware. How many times could they have met?

Shadowmilk opened his eyes as the angel pulled forth something. A small glass object, it seemed. He squinted at it, but from his place, it was impossible for him to tell what was inside.

Pure Vanilla continued to speak as he lifted the bottle. Ah, yes. The scene where Juliet drinks the potion that will make her appear dead. The one that seals her and Romeo’s fate.

He turns as the Playwright laughs. It’s hardly more then a breath, but he catches her sharp grin and narrowed eyes.

He looked back to the stage as Pure Vanilla raised the bottle to his lips.

The angel downed the bottle, and their eyes met. Even though he can’t see, Pure Vanilla smiles at him.

And collapses.

His blood ran cold.

He can’t tell if he has control as he rushes onstage, pulling Pure Vanilla into his arms. Already going cold, feathered wings limp. The bottle rolls out of his hands and across the stage.

Heartbeat already gone.

He can see the Playwright’s smile.

No.

She doesn’t need to whisper in his head for him to know. This time, Juliet will not rise. The poison was true, not some fake death.

The Playwright has never been one for taking shortcuts.

He can still remember his fate. The death written in his scripts. The king who would eventually fall.

Pure Vanilla’s feathers are soft under his hands, soft and terribly still.

He looks up at the crowd. Even with his blurred vision, he can see their expectant faces. They know the story as well as he does.

At this point in the story, Romeo finds his own poison, and drinks it. Then when Juliet wakes and finds him dead, she kisses him, then stabs herself.

He fumbled to grab the bottle from where it had rolled. Empty. Completely drained, not even a drop left to grace his lips.

He hesitated. No script, no whisper in his ear. Only a still heart against his chest.

A slight push on his strings. Not telling him what to do, but daring him.

He drew his sword.

He found himself studying the blade. Perfect, sharp edges that have never been used. Only ever as a pretty prop. But the metal was real. The handle, it’s elegant cross, the blade. Sharp enough to cut flesh.

He raised his head. The audience was beginning to whisper.

He did not want to be a prisoner any longer.

He turned, and met the Playwright’s gaze challengingly. He would not succumb to her fate. No, he would write it himself. 

And if it is written with red ink, so be it.

He plunged the blade into his heart.

The crowd cheered, completely unaware the flowing blood wad real. The Playwright raised her brow, but did nothing.

Shadowmilk stumbled as he clutched his chest, his vision going dark as he watched white feathers go red.

He collapsed into the curve of Pure Vanilla’s neck. He let his hands run through downy feathers, let the scent of vanilla fill his senses as the sharp, salty tang of blood filled the air.

His eyes fluttered closed, and in his final breaths, he couldn’t help but hope that his angel would once again find heaven.

                          ******

The theatre had exploded into panic when they began to realize the blood flowing off of the stage was real. When their beloved actor did not rise and demand applause.

The audience had becoming filled with screaming as people shoved over one another, each desperate to get as far from the tragedy as they could.

The Playwright couldn’t help but scoff as she passed the scene. Such a waste, for those pearly feathers to be stained with red. 

She’d known her actor would eventually break, but she’d expected something…extraordinary. A blade through a heart was hardly original.

Then again, he had been desperate, and desperate men did desperate things.

Still, she moved quickly from the theatre, and into the arms of authorities.

She let herself sob, and began to mourn alongside her city.

                           ******

The theatre had been permanently closed down.

The authorities had been rather startled to come upon the scene. A beloved actor, dead by his own hand, and an angel, reasons for death unknown.

“I had no idea he was even an angel!” The Playwright had exclaimed, wiping her eyes as she was questioned. “I simply thought it was his costume, as it was what he auditioned in. And the bottle only had water in it!”

They were never able to prove her wrong. The truth was never discovered. The angel remained a mystery.

As for the actor, his case was never discussed. The scripts had not called for such an act, and it was simply chalked up to suicide. They never found the original script, the one that fortold his death.

And with the Playwright clearly distressed over the loss, they never though to consider the writer was also an excellent actor.

She had vanished shortly after, anyways. 

Even if they had considered, the theatre mysteriously burned down a week after the incident. A terrible, blazing fire that had destroyed everything but the skeleton of a once grand stage.

Despite that, the theatre was never torn down. The city could never find the heart to bury the reminder of the greatest actor their generation had seen.

The theatre became a place for ghosts.

Perhaps if one was lucky, they would catch a glance.

 If you listened, you might hear soft music, and maybe, just maybe, you would catch the sight of two actors dancing across the stage.

A king, his long hair cascading over his shoulders, his head high as his crown sparkled. And in his arms, an angel with glorious wings, whose steps were light and sure as he leaned into the arms of his partner.

And if you looked hard enough, you might notice how free they looked. 

No longer held back by chains or pretty scripts.

The king and his angel, dancing freely, their fates gloriously unwritten.