Work Text:
Once, he believed abandonment was a choice.
That the Witch had turned her back on him—
grown bored of her creation, tired of answering, tired of him.
That belief was easier than the truth.
He had been deceiving himself for a long time.
Because believing she chose to leave was the only way to forgive her.
As the Fount of Knowledge, he stood at the center of the spire and gave endlessly. Answers poured from him like milk from a cracked vessel, and wasted on the floor before anyone bothered to taste it. Inexhaustible. He was… gentle. He was patient. He smiled, even when the questions were shallow, repetitive, meaningless—questions asked by those who wanted answers handed to them so they would never have to think.
And when the Witch stopped coming, he waited.
He waited, and waited, and waited. Long past the point where waiting made sense. Until his dough felt dried and fractured, flaking away with every silent sob.
Even if he cried until he could no longer breathe, until his dough cracked and crumbled away, no one came.
No voice called his name.
No large, warm hand reached out to soothe him or draw him close.
In the end, only he remained—alone in the tall tower, hollow and empty, surrounded by chattering voices and endless questions.
Questions from Cookies who wanted answers, not understanding. Who asked so they would never have to think. Foolish, all of them.
He was furious with her for leaving, and more furious with himself for still expecting her to return.
That was when something in him began to change.
Time passed. The Spire of All Knowledge endured.
And somewhere far away, the Witch died.
What remained of her was baked again—clean, empty, and elsewhere.
Shadow Milk Cookie did not know this for a long time. Even after the corruption of all the Virtues. Even after they were sealed within the Silver Tree. He believed she was the one who had betrayed him and discarded him like an uncared-for creation.
But then…
The Witch lives, they said.
Though she remembers nothing.
When he finally saw her again, she was not a Witch.
She was so much smaller. Lighter.
First Milk Cookie. Eyes unclouded by recognition, her gaze passing over him as if he were nothing more than another stranger in the world.
They stood within sight of one another.
He did not speak. The words crowded his mouth—accusations, demands, her name, all of it clawing to get out.
Because what could he say—to someone who had never abandoned him, because she had never survived to do so?
She did not speak either.
Because there was nothing in her that remembered him.
There was no flicker of recognition. No hesitation. She only frowned, worried, briefly, as if confused by the silence.
Then it passed.
She asked who he was, and when he stood stunned in place, she reluctantly turned away to tend her patients.
Shadow Milk Cookie remained where he was, perfectly still, the truth settling heavier than abandonment ever had.
She had not chosen to leave him.
And that, somehow, hurt more.
