Chapter Text
Shadow Milk was not a man who understood the concept of mercy.
Throughout his life, mercy was a word he regarded with disgust. He despised how easily it crept into his thoughts, how it gnawed on his confident self-image. Cursed truth be told, mercy was something the Beast did not want to introspect at all. Perhaps because it was something he thought did not exist, since it never visited him during moments in which it was so very needed. Shadow Milk bore every last consequence of his actions, no matter whether it was something trivial like forgetting to sign a boring document as the Fount of Knowledge or being stripped of his Soul Jam by the Witches. No one ever felt a droplet of mercy for a being like him and thus, Shadow Milk learned to hate the sole thought of it.
Even the way the word slipped off his tongue made him flinch back physically. Mer-cy, he rolled the r for useless emphasis. Perhaps speaking the word in a way it should not have been spoken in was his idea of denying its annoying definition.
The ache burning up and clawing onto Shadow Milk’s chest beneath his countless layers of clothing was making each weak breath he took unbearable. The obsidian fabric clung to his skin, making every last one of his movements pull him under even more. He was not able to tell whether it was his body or his mind that was failing him in the dim light of his spire. Only once his knees hit the mismatched tiles beneath him, did he realize that his physical state crumbled first.
There were no arms to catch him when his head became the next meeting point with the ground. Surely enough, he could pull himself up. He still had enough strength in his arms, although it could barely pass as such. He should—and could—have presented himself in one of the finest curtain calls he has practiced in his head over and over again. But he did not.
Shadow Milk was tired.
And this did not apply to his physical state.
Albeit time worked differently in his spire, twisted somewhere in the false realm he created, a being like Shadow Milk could still feel its movement outside of it. The ticking of a foreign clock was unignorable, especially as every shift of its gears left an unpleasant whisper, whose content one could not determine, against Shadow Milk’s ear. He often shook it off in year-long ignorance, but ever since his mind was freed from the shackles of the Silver Tree, the spoken nonsense often became louder. Perhaps it was him losing his mind slowly, yet surely. He could not be certain of that. There were many things he had lost with no hopes of a possible return, so mayhaps fate was willing to play yet another silly trick on him.
Shadow Milk noticed that the light of his spire has dimmed.
Milky white columns laid in crumbled halls filled with husks of dust. Portraits, reminders of every form he ever took, have been destroyed, tattered until one could not make out the divergent figures anymore. Pristine ultramarine rugs laid stripped of their magnificence, reduced to phantoms of a glory that could never return. The false illusion of a sky he has crafted with lazy flicks of his cane was shattered like a mirror, revealing the black sky above. His vision blurred as he tried spotting soft splashes of white on its canvas.
How strange that sight was. He never realized how different real stars looked like.
In a moment of his mental absence, Shadow Milk could feel soft hands wrap around his slumped form in an attempt to pull him up. One careful hand rested around his waist while the other pushed blood-tainted bangs from his eyes. He could feel a lock slip down his forehead again. The fingertips pushed it back with all the care in the world once more.
Shadow Milk let his eyes roll up to take a look at the source of the unwanted interruption.
Mostly due to his blurry eyesight, Shadow Milk was not sure whether the lightness above him had a physical form. He could make out the edges of a golden crown resting atop of a being’s head. It could be akin to an otherworldly, ethereal source of power. It had to be one. Shadow Milk was proven multiple times that such warmth could not exist in the world he knew and lived in. If it was not for his stubborn mind, he would have leaned into its comfort for a moment longer, pretending it was not the soul he attempted to disarm one step at a time.
It took him a long breath before his vision cleared again.
Pure Vanilla Cookie.
Within moments, Shadow Milk fought the softness against his back.
Sharp fingernails gnawed into Pure Vanilla’s skin, yet the strength to cause any real harm was absent. He crawled onto his flesh as a warning. A warning that conveyed that the owner of the trembling hands would make sure the next touch hurt if the saint did not move. As if ignoring the hint on purpose, Pure Vanilla pushed the same stubborn pale lock away from Shadow Milk’s sight again. Even through squinted eyes, he struggled to make out the shape of the face above his own. Perhaps he also simply did not want to.
Pure Vanilla’s voice came like the answer to a prayer someone finally listened to.
“You’re hurting.”
Shadow Milk did not react. If anything, he turned around and pushed Pure Vanilla’s body as far away as he could. He felt as the hands around his waist slipped and he dropped onto his already fragile back once more. Shadow Milk leaned up on his elbows and watched the pile of softness in front of him with weary eyes. He gritted his teeth together in a second warning, flashing sharp fangs. “You dare to insult me in this manner?”
“I am not trying to–“
“Shut your mouth!”
Shadow Milk lunged. He did not have his cane but that slight disadvantage did not bother him. He still had leftovers of his magic at his fingertips just itching to eradicate the eyesore in the room. Yet as he was close enough to land a hit, the dark smoke around his hands was merely met by the faint glow of a golden barrier. Frustrated, Shadow Milk pressed in harder. The glow only shimmered beneath his palms.
If he truly wished to do so, Shadow Milk could tear right through the protective spell. He could recognize it, since all magic that existed came from the fingertips of a person he long abandoned, yet still carried the corpse of with every step he took. The epitaph the Fount of Knowledge left behind spread like a plague Shadow Milk himself was the ignition of. At first, he taught good. He brought life and knowledge, had men and women bow to him in respect of his virtuous deeds. But the temptation of wisdom left him yearning for more, until he stole the power of the Dark Moon and gave its corruption to a folk created and brought up in purity. For that, fate cursed him to be tortured for eternity, exiled away from any source of light as an attempt to shield its glow from his destructive tendencies.
So why was it, that the light in front of him did not vanish and merely stood tall beneath his hateful gaze?
Pure Vanilla rested his hand just beneath where the barrier separated him from Shadow Milk’s own skin. He opened his eyes softly, watching Shadow Milk’s enraged outbursts with patience. Those pale lashes closed slowly with each violent thrum of a fist against the barrier.
The Ancient's voice softened. “Shadow Milk.”
Another loud thud to the shield.
Pure Vanilla leaned his forehead against the magical wall between them. “You’re exhausting yourself. Don’t do that.”
“You are definitely the last person to order me around.”
Shadow Milk’s vision blurred momentarily. His attacks on the barrier wavered and Pure Vanilla took it as his chance to discard it completely, catching Shadow Milk’s wrists in both his hands. The jester attempted tugging them away instantly, yet he struggled more with each rigid tug. When Pure Vanilla kept holding on despite all the trashing around, Shadow Milk pressed the heel of his shoe firmly to the saint’s abdomen in an attempt to kick him away. Still to no avail.
No matter what he did, Pure Vanilla held on.
They were both exhausted and lost grand amounts of energy. Pure Vanilla’s form was trembling. Each of Shadow Milk’s desperate pushes barely did any of its desired effects. At some point, the two of them collapsed to the floor in a twisted blend of light and darkness. One still holding on, the other pushing like it was his last will.
Shadow Milk’s breath came in pants. He still forced a frown to his face. “I will kill you even if it takes the last bit of my being.”
Pure Vanilla’s grip on his wrists did not waver. “I do not wish for your demise, Shadow Milk Cookie.”
“Oh, really?” Shadow Milk replied provokingly. “What a smart being you are. As far as I remember, you twisted my script all to your liking in order to bring forth my very demolition. So much for your savior persona.”
Pure Vanilla’s lips parted as if to speak and yet no word escaped his mouth to counter Shadow Milk’s accusation.
There was no denying it. Pure Vanilla has tricked Shadow Milk as a way to escape the game he was forced into. One might have regarded it as a voice of reason, a deed that needed to be fulfilled. But as soon as it took place, one began wondering if choosing another way to escape a labyrinth that changed every exit to its liking could have been wiser. What would it have been wiser for? A cleaner, less messy escape from a twisted world of deceit? Or did ‘wiser’ define itself as not having to feel this bitter stinging somewhere deep within one’s chest?
Shadow Milk could feel strands of Pure Vanilla’s blonde hair caress his cheeks. What was he, reduced to another villain meant to cause fright and harm, and yet so painfully unable to stand up for the one category he was meant to be representing flawlessly? He leaned up on his elbows, watching the truth from up close in search for the tiniest of hints that could reveal him just where exactly he went wrong. Pure Vanilla did not move. Of course, he would not do so. He still had his self-proclaimed part that was written somewhere behind those mismatched eyes to play.
Shadow Milk sneered. “That’s some horrible acting if you ask me.”
His vision blurred once more. Slowly, the spire began crumbling pillar by pillar. Tall ceilings started crashing to the ground, leaving dusts of smoke behind every impact. Each shattered panel barely missed the two figures on the ground.
Witnessing the slow undoing of the spire, Pure Vanilla looked around in panic. His friends must have left already just as he ordered them to. He should have left too as soon as he had the chance. His job here was done. He gained his insight into a chapter of knowledge that was unknown to him before. There was no more plausible reason to stay in the eye of the storm.
Or was there?
Pure Vanilla’s eyes turned to the crumbling figure on the ground. He was not sure whether Shadow Milk had enough strength to get himself out of the situation. Shadow Milk probably did not know that himself. He did not even know if he was meant to escape or sink with his ship.
Pure Vanilla raised himself to his feet on trembling limbs, leaning against his golden staff. He extended an open hand in Shadow Milk’s direction. Inviting.
Shadow Milk blinked twice in disbelief. “Take that out of my face.”
“I will get you to safety.”
“Pfft, I can do that myself.”
“So why won’t you do so?”
“What does it bother you?!” Shadow Milk snarled.
“As difficult as it is to believe, I do not wish for harm to come your way.”
“Oh, how hopeful you are. How utterly naive,” Shadow Milk laughed bitterly. “Are you still trying to deceive me? I thought you did that already! Aren’t you greedy to attempt to do it twice? Tsk, tsk!”
“I am not attempting to deceive you again.” Pure Vanilla extended his hand closer. “I merely want you to be safe.”
He wanted him to be safe. What a cruel joke.
“I do not want your pity.”
As another boulder fell a few tiles away from Shadow Milk, he noticed his cane discarded on the ground just barely outside his reach.
Pure Vanilla’s hands around his staff tightened. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”
“I’m sorry to disturb your little extra act, but who said anything was ending?” Shadow Milk reached for his cane and was about to haul its sharp ending in Pure Vanilla’s throat when another of the golden barriers stopped him from fulfilling his deed. Nonetheless, he smashed it against the shield until he could see sparks fly. “Isn’t it just so smart of you? So very kind of you? To offer an open hand to me out of all the people? Are you truly doing this for me or are you attempting to uphold a standard you have set yourself? Oh, I wonder if I don’t know the answer to that already.”
Another sharp press to the golden barrier. Small cracks started appearing on its surface. “Your kind makes me sick. You pretend to understand a life you have not lived, a burden you did not carry. You were merely gifted its good and pure part, yet attempt to see beyond that. Hah, don’t make me laugh.”
“And now you what? Stand here, lead by some heroic instinct implanted into your head by the Witches? Do you wish to save the poor, tormented soul like a good man that you are? Oh, please.” Shadow Milk’s staff stabbed through the barrier harshly. A wicked smile appeared on his lips. “Mark my words: One day your kindness will become your undoing.”
In a swift motion, Shadow Milk tore the leftovers of the golden barrier as it disappeared in soft shimmers. He hauled his cane up violently, getting ready to gash it through the last source of light next.
The expected impact never came.
Because it was the shadow that was taken out first, feeling its weight slump against both the mother and carnage of its existence.