Chapter Text
Dear Spice,
I’m writing this letter first because, in all honesty (ironic, I know), I thought the words I had for you would come more easily than they would for our allies. To put it simply, there is less baggage there, at least from my side of things. Although I will confide that even with you, I’m struggling to untangle all the thoughts buried in my twisted little mind. Writer’s block is quite the seductive poison, isn’t it? I know when you get this letter, you’ll be skimming through half these sentences to get to the ‘important part’. I can’t say I could blame your boredom for that here, given the context with which this will be given to you.
So I might as well cut to the chase: why am I writing this at all? Yes, yes, you don’t have to tell me that since I was baked writing’s been a drug I could never pry myself away from, but since the Fount died and was reborn as the glorious playwright himself, he-or I-have taken an indefinite hiatus from the craft. It’s not because I hate writing and reading now. I could never! It’s baked into my very DNA. I literally couldn’t hate it if I tried. However, lately it reminds me too much of the Fount. The sleepless nights, countless corpses of once filled tea cups, and endless hours laboring over contracts, treaties, bills, journals, and documents until they were perfect. It’s not a time I like to remember.
That sentence will probably make you roll your eyes. You’re someone who envies all the work I was put through. I don’t think I understood - truly understood - for the longest time. Remember the small window of time we had before the war started? Second Dark Flour War? You died, so I’m sure you can recall. Before that, when we were all confined to the dinky little hotel that the Wannabe Witch so generously gave us, we went hunting, which was more fruitless than intended because of the stark lack of life around us. We had that corny heart-to-heart about the Witches?
I’m not sure if for you that was just another day that bled into all the other days of our endless existence. For me, well, it stuck with me. That was..I think that was the first time I ever opened up about how the Witches treated me. Ever. To any extent. To anyone. That conversation almost ended in a nasty fight, but with some pushback, you confessed how..stale our stagnant lives were. That I could relate to. I was suffocated by all the work and pressure.
On one hand, my days flew by much more quickly than yours because the work never ended. There was always some class to teach or something to write or cookies to meet. It was so, so loud, and it never ended! Like a show that drags on and on because the writers know not when it’s time for the curtain call! On the other hand, the loud grew familiar after enough time. The weight on my shoulders made me numb, bored, even.
You, however, your purpose was to record historical events. Never meddle, never object, never question, never answer. Even before our Creators abandoned us, they rarely spoke to you. I thought for so long that you were lucky for it. As you told me, I thought you were lucky for it. Even now, I can’t help but feel that conniving green devil simmering in my chest. But now, I don’t know, maybe you didn’t have it better than I did.
It’s stupid, I know, how sentimental I’m being. And here I thought my other half was the emotional one, hah. He at least seems to understand feelings better than I do. Not that I was ever intended for that. We both know that’s more Sugar’s forte. I can practically see it now: You reading this and muttering to yourself how much of a sentimental fool I still am. Weak till the end. Old habits die hard. Some of them anyway. Look at me, rambling on and on, and yet I can never get to the point! Fitting for the symbol of chaos, inefficient for what I’m trying to convey with this letter.
So, the million-dollar question: Why? Ugh, this is something I’m going to have to try to put into words for you as well as the others. Not looking forward to this four more times. By the time you read this, I don’t know how much will have been revealed to you, or to whoever goes searching for me - probably Silent Salt. I’m trying to exercise - what was it called, empathy? - and put myself in your shoes. If I were the Great Destroyer, what would I think if my annoying little brother, after losing to the heroes and being in a coma for months, decided to..well, again, I’m uncertain how much you’ll know while reading this. What would you want to hear? What would the others want to hear? After dwelling on this for days, the hours slogging by as the tip of my pen grew dull from my chewing it, I think I’ve come to a reasonable guess.
I don’t want to be grie I won’t be gr I don’t want you to surrender your own convictions just because I have. What I hope for you and the others is that you keep fighting to reclaim this world and reshape it as you see fit. I’d love to be by your side for this, but I can’t. There’s no more to say. I simply can’t. Maybe I’m ‘overemphasizing my own importance’ as my shrink would say, and my absence won’t have any negative impact on you. Gods, maybe it will be a relief. But I had to get this out. For myself. (I’m sure you can oblige a cookie his last wish)
Raze the world in flames for me,
Shadow Milk Cookie