Chapter Text
The beast will come on the morrow, the Watchers murmured. They repeated it to themselves in fragile, disbelieving whispers, a wary chant –The beast will come on the morrow.
Under normal circumstances, the people of the Dark Cacao kingdom would have welcomed a visit from Pure Vanilla Cookie with open arms. A comrade of their king’s was a comrade of theirs, and he had an infectious pleasantness to him that could thaw even the iciest of cookies. The council elders recalled his gentle mannerisms, at odds with the often brusque nature of their men; the children recalled his blonde hair, a rarity among them, likening it to the whitest part of the hearth flame.
When rumors of his upcoming visit had first sown through the inner citadel, they should have brought with them anticipation.
Instead, there was only dread.
The exact contents of Pure Vanilla's letter were privy to only Dark Cacao himself, but it went something like this: Pure Vanilla Cookie had returned to the Vanilla Kingdom with a Beast in tow. Instead of binding it away, as their lord had done with the nefarious Mystic Flour, he had chosen to – to befriend it, somehow. Now he wished to visit his dear friend and see how the kingdom was faring after its bout of plague...with the Beast at his side.
“My lord, you cannot allow him entrance!” one of the councilmen had demanded, breaking the silence that had befallen the assembly chamber. The men beside him inhaled sharply at his outburst.
He hastily cleared his throat and amended, albeit less demandingly, “I...I mean, my lord...”
A humiliating quietness swelled like a licorice tide, swallowing up the hall's occupants. The distant shouts of Watchers practicing archery floated in through the ceiling-tall windows. Smoke rose from decorative braziers, forming a thick, amorphous curtain, its silvery motes blurring their king’s towering visage. It hid all from sight but the tight curl of his fingers around the throne’s armrests.
“Is he not a Beast?” the man finished weakly.
“The Beast of Deceit, no less,” another councilman added, lip curled in distaste. “How can he be trusted to act accordingly? Pure Vanilla Cookie could be under his influence.”
Many nodded in agreement. During his few visits, they'd noted Pure Vanilla's caution and sensible wisdom. He’d appeared a pragmatic individual, oddly cheerful but relatively rational. It didn’t seem possible that in the course of a few months he could have thrown all of it to the wayside in the hopes of rehabilitating something clearly not keen on embracing civility.
He had assured them that the Beast would cause no harm, but this request alone suggested either exceptional control, or, more likely, a trap.
“How could we invite a Beast into our walls after the ravages of Mystic Flour Cookie?” said another, their youthful face stricken with fear. “The people would never accept it. To ask this of us...it is impossible.”
“It is an insult,” someone muttered, and there was a hissing susurration as robes swished against the floor. Councilmen craned their necks, trying to locate who had said the offending words.
Dark Cacao’s dissenting voice cleaved through their whispering, as clean and quick as a guillotine.
“Enough,” he commanded, and the silence was instant. “I seek counsel, not debate. Your concerns are reasonable, however...”
He had reread the letter countless times, searching its depths by candlelight. Pure Vanilla insisted on keeping his decades-old braille typewriter instead of acquiring a new one, and since its backspace key didn’t work, he had to manually blot out errors with paint. The letter was a hodgepodge of dots, and several were coated in a thin sheen of white ink.
There were other details, too. The multiple crease lines, alluding to Pure Vanilla’s numerous attempts to line up the edges of the parchment just right for the envelope. The subtle anise scent of tickweed flowers, which Pure Vanilla ground up to make golden ink for his signatures, the only part he didn’t write in braille.
If this was truly a Beast impersonating him, he was doing an impressive job of it.
No, after much thought, Dark Cacao had surmised that this letter was too authentic to be from anyone but Pure Vanilla Cookie. But this didn’t make the contents any easier to swallow.
If you prefer it, my castle is always an option.
That was out of the question, not when his kingdom was preparing for its most vicious winter yet. The deadliest licorice monster attacks always struck during the early months, and after the Pale Ailment, everyone was unsettled.
Ironically enough, a visit from Pure Vanilla Cookie would have been the perfect thing to rouse everyone’s spirits. If only there hadn’t been such an unexpected caveat.
“My lord?”
Dark Cacao sighed, rubbing his temple. Mystic Flour’s vacant expression flashed beneath his closed eyes.
“I trust Pure Vanilla Cookie. I trust in his mind...his strength. If he has the Beast contained, it must be for good reason.” Not logical or sound, but good – he'd learned quickly enough that they did not always coincide. “I won’t allow the Beast within the citadel until I can see the subjugation with my own eyes.”
The murmuring returned, councilmen’s mouths opening and closing as they tried to find a way to call this decision unwise without implying that their king was, too. The discontent reminded Dark Cacao of his previous royal advisor and seneschal, Affogato Cookie. Conniving as he was, he wouldn’t have struggled to placate the councilmen with that silver tongue of his.
“My lord, what if Pure Vanilla Cookie truly is ensorcelled?”
“My lord, what do we tell the villages on the outskirts?”
“My lord, shall we shift our forces to the inner citadel?”
“My lord-”
“Silence!” he demanded. “This assembly is finished. I will relay further details to Caramel Arrow Cookie. Begone.”
None of them had finished talking, but their king’s command left no room for rebuttal. They rose in a flurry of silks and took their dissatisfied whispering with them. Dark Cacao overlooked the empty table, the brazier smoke forming serpentine shapes in the stifling air. He immersed himself in the smell of charring wood, trying to ground his thoughts.
The letter was tucked in his cloak pocket, all four pages of it, folded into a tiny square. He had not divulged everything that was written, but he nearly wished he could confide in someone over its more...questionable contents.
Pure Vanilla Cookie had gone on multiple tangents in this letter, another indicator that it was indeed written by him, but they were all about the Beast – which he was now addressing as simply “Shadow Milk,” a level of familiarity that only increased over the course of the page.
He spent a few aimless sentences discussing Shadow Milk’s indecisive nature; his tendency to change the palace staffs’ costumes or wallpaper on a whim. After writing about assorted stately matters, he veered into talking about the Beast again. Following that was a brief apology for going off topic wherein Dark Cacao could practically hear the rueful chuckle that would’ve accompanied those words.
The first time Dark Cacao had read the letter, he’d felt a sense of shame creep up on him, like he was a voyeur looking in on something intimate. These were no hollow ramblings. Who wrote about the resplendent gleam of a smile and the timbre of one’s laughter with such artistic detail, other than poets? Who noted these things, in such scribe-like manner, about someone who was meant to be a prisoner? A prisoner who was apparently free to traverse the lands under Pure Vanilla’s jurisdiction, when anyone else would have kept him locked away – and for good reason.
Did this mean he thought Shadow Milk was no longer a threat? How was it possible that he had grown lax in the presence of a Beast, enough to refer to them with undeniable...fondness?
Dark Cacao didn’t know what to make of it, but he refused to believe that Pure Vanilla’s assurances could be so easily manipulated. Regardless, Mystic Flour was forever fresh on his mind. As much as he trusted Pure Vanilla’s judgement, anything involving a Beast rendered him unconvinced. They were a conniving kind who sought to taint the mind, and would latch onto any available avenue, any variant of kindness – whether that be mercy or clemency - to exploit.
Which was why it was imperative that he assess the Beast’s condition with his own eyes. “Caramel Arrow Cookie?”
She emerged from the hall, her shoulders dusted with snow. Her ponytail draped over her back like a gleaming copper tassel as she dipped into a low bow. “My king. How may I be of service to you?”
Her presence soothed him. Amid all the troubles that had befallen his kingdom as of late, she was the dependable anchor beneath the waves. “I have made up my mind about Pure Vanilla’s visit. Tell the Watchers to prepare weapons and have the tents mended. We shall set up camp outside the citadel and greet Pure Vanilla there.”
“Right away, Sir. Will the Beast be coming after all?”
“He will be present. Our forces will surround the area and ensure the safety of the surrounding villages. Will you join us, Caramel Arrow?”
“Of course.” Her response was immediate. “I will always fight by your side, Your Majesty. I shall relay your commands. Is there anything specific we can prepare for in regards to the Beast?”
His eyebrows narrowed. “Specific?”
"In case he becomes...malignant. I understand that he is under Pure Vanilla’s watchful eye, but it is our duty to the citizens of Dark Cacao to prepare for every circumstance. Surely there is some information out there about it? Its magic, perhaps?”
Dark Cacao shook his head. “Records of the Beasts are largely rooted in fiction. We cannot reliably base our strategy on old ballads and centurial poetry. Our experience with Mystic Flour Cookie is our greatest strength. We have already bested his kind once.”
“I see.” She bowed again, retreating to the chamber door. “Let it be according to your word, then.”
With Caramel Arrow at the forefront, preparations would be finished in a few days’ time. Despite this knowledge, he felt little comfort as she exited the hall. There were far too many variables that he couldn’t prepare for, and the one thing that should have felt familiar, Pure Vanilla Cookie, had joined them. On top of that, they hadn’t seen each other in the flesh for months. He could not even begin to guess at how the meeting would unfold, or how his friend had changed since his encounter with the Beast.
He returned to his study, where a fire roared in the hearth. Night had descended over the citadel, but soldiers still trained by the range. Laborers mixed the tempered chocolate that would reinforce their walls. And, as usual, the Licorice Sea was never quiet.
The letter fluttered out of his coat pocket. He retrieved it, fingers roving over the parchment.
In his experience, when battling a foe, you catalogued every vulnerable moment and cradled them close to your chest, like a blade, ready to strike back at the first opportunity. If there was any exuberance to your enemy’s smile, it had the gleam of a knife. If there was any echo to their laughter, it was inescapable, banal. And it was likely you wouldn’t remember those features at all when the chance for retribution reared its head.
In his reports about Mystic Flour Cookie, he’d managed a few curt sentences about her appearance. They were memories he’d had to scrape out from the bottom of his consciousness – her pale dough, the flatness of her lethargic voice; eyes as void of warmth as the frigid starlight depths. He would have cast those images away forever if he’d had the liberty of doing so.
Pure Vanilla’s words suggested that he’d examined Shadow Milk, but not with the suspicious scrutiny of a warden, or the strategical skepticism of an opponent.
His was the gaze of an admirer.
The air was crisp with winter chill. A fresh layer of snow had fallen overnight, thin enough that it cracked like crème brûlée under the marching feet of Dark Cacao’s soldiers. They moved about like distressed ants – some helped assemble tents, driving stakes into the snow. Others chopped firewood, working with almost reckless speed. Watchers filled their quivers. From Dark Cacao’s vantage point, he could glimpse Crunchy Chip Cookie feeding nibs to his cream wolves, repeating encouraging platitudes into their fur.
The camp was composed of six tents, all dyed a prestigious indigo and erected in half-moon shape, the farthest of the tents facing the snow drifts. Dark Cacao’s tent assumed the central position, the flaps tied open with rope. Its main occupant was outside, his coat's thick, wool collar shielding the hard line of his mouth from view.
Sharp-eyed Caramel Arrow was the one who spotted them first. “Your Majesty!” she called, sprinting over the white dunes. Though the distance was short, her next words were accompanied by an uncharacteristic breathlessness. “They’ve arrived.”
She pointed to the labyrinth of trails leading into the forests. In spring, they were clear to the naked eye, wet with melting slush and bordered by grass shoots. Most of the year, though, only locals could discern the paths’ direction. Milk villagers marked the way with ash markings on trees, but those methods were not easily decipherable for foreigners.
Pure Vanilla was no stranger to the lands, and something of a itinerant himself. A little ways down the path was a dark, shadowy smudge in the fog, signaling an approaching figure. A flickering glow, reminiscent of a lantern’s shifting flame, pulsed eerily above its silhouette.
Pure Vanilla’s soul jam? No, this was much brighter than the soul jam, and it lacked its pale blue tint. Dark Cacao's eyebrows furrowed.
He extended a hand towards Caramel Arrow and the Watchers who had gathered around her. “I will greet them first. Do not give any orders until I say.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” they chorused. Whether it was instinct or anxiety, their fingers treaded towards the polished curves of their bows. Caramel Arrow Cookie kept her gaze ahead, her ponytail snapping whip-like against her back.
Pure Vanilla Cookie materialized first. The roiling fog, which had clung to his shoulders, seemingly melted away. So did the snow in his vicinity – with every step he took, the snow beneath his feet shrunk into sheer puddles that the Earth drank in greedily. Layers of ice flanking the path’s torso melted into thin streams, rivulets that looked like silver veins threaded in the dirt. A prickling warmth emanated from him.
He wore the moon’s silken shell over his skin, ivory-white robes gleaming with each sway of his limbs. A golden stole was draped over his shoulders, inscribed with symbols. His hair had grown even longer than Dark Cacao’s, spilling behind him in a bridal veil. The staff he’d once carried, with its blooming orchid eye, now possessed a shining mass of light floating amid lacquered petals – the light Dark Cacao had mistaken for the soul jam’s glow. Before he knew it, he was striding forward to greet him.
“Dark Cacao?”
That voice, hopeful as the first rays of spring, was enough to make the old king smile.
“Pure Vanilla...” It came out a croak. He swallowed thickly, throat burning with emotion. It bled into his words anyway. “How long it has been. It is a relief to see you well, my friend.”
Pure Vanilla let out a small sigh, smile still affixed to his face. “Yes, well...and I hope the same has been true for you and your kingdom. I understand it’s been an uphill battle.”
“That will never change, just as the strength of this kingdom will never falter.” He gestured towards the encampment, but his arm grew limp when he noticed how quiet it had become. Tent flaps hung silent. His soldiers’ murmurs died out. The raging Licorice Sea sent sticky spittle flying as it crashed against the cliff, but there was no sound as its viscous waves tore at crumbling crags.
Mystic Flour’s presence had been an abscess of nothing, a black hole given form. What she touched crumbled; what she turned her gaze upon became obsolete. Her Beastly mark could scarcely be called a stain – it was rot, and it festered until there was nothing left to consume.
Shadow Milk Cookie’s mark was transformation. Snow hardened, grew roots, and unraveled into thorny overgrowth. Buds blossomed into fruit with glossy shells, then died in heaps of sickly, dripping sweetness, all in a matter of seconds. The world metastasized under his magical influence. Sugar mice buried beneath the snow bulged with excessive growth, their fur flaking in patches of blue and white, whiskers curling into hypnotic spirals. Roosting birds’ beaks grew spikes; their feathers turned into silverware. Foxes and deer stumbled out of the forest, predator and prey stitched together in horrific chimera.
The descriptions in Pure Vanilla’s letter had implied softness. He had somehow parsed charming smiles and a tenderness to the eyes from a creature whose existence served to disrupt the balance of life. It might have been understandable if the Beast possessed an unnatural, illusionary beauty.
But Dark Cacao could hardly coincide the image his friend had painted with the cookie standing in front of him.
His mouth was composed of sharp, thin teeth, pressed closely like piano keys. Fingers tapped irritably against the scepter he carried, long and insectile. Disregarding the cold, he wore a suit with shifting diamond patterns, a sartorial nightmare that descended to the bells tinkling death’s toll on the tips of his curled boots. Black silk stretched over arms too long, too elastic. He was a patchwork of doll parts, something a child might draw to satisfy an imaginative whim, paying no mind to how marionette limbs would fit on the shoulders of a kabuki doll.
“You,” he sneered. “Beast of Deceit.”
“You,” Shadow Milk Cookie echoed smoothly, eying him with disinterest, “His Imperial Majesty, Lord Snoozefest.”
“You dare speak with such impudence?”
The mock-smile sharpened. “Oh, geez. I suppose it’s his Royal Majesty, since you’re only a king, not an emperor. My sincerest apologies.”
“Shadow Milk.” Pure Vanilla’s tone was neutral.
His head lolled forwards. Any further and it would have snapped clean off. “You had your sentimental reunion, didn’t you? Do you insist on staying in this dreary place?”
“My business here is not finished. Don’t insult Dark Cacao Cookie while he graciously offers us his hospitality.”
Shadow Milk’s unimpressed gaze swept past the camp. “Hospitality,” he repeated flatly.
“Of course. And might I remind you that you chose to join me of your own volition?”
Own volition?
Pure Vanilla turned towards Dark Cacao, his smile measured. “I apologize for the wait, my friend. Shall we?”
He was far too calm. It should have been a visible warning, but Dark Cacao couldn’t immediately discern whether sorcery was at play. Pure Vanilla had remarkable patience, so for him to brush aside the Beast’s abhorrent mannerisms was not unlike him. What was concerning was the Beast's complacency. Where was the source of his obedience? The extent of it? If it was still able to mar the land with a brief touch, then perhaps he was not so restrained after all.
A pounding sensation thrummed at the base of his head. In due time.
The wave of congregated soldiers split apart, reverence propelling them to step back methodically. They glared at Shadow Milk as he floated past, gazes filled with clear distrust. Few of them had met a Beast personally, but they all knew someone who had fallen ill at Mystic Flour’s hand. Only the party he’d brought to Beast-Yeast knew what she looked like, since painted depictions of her were forbidden. Even the brief description he’d written for the records was only accessible to a handful of cookies. The rest of the populace referred to her in epithets, picturing her as a pale, veiled wraith that lacked any distinct features.
To the public, the Beasts were a vague, singular manifestation of all the wrongdoing in the world, and though Shadow Milk was not directly responsible for Mystic Flour’s wickedness, he was seen as merely an extension of her will. Another vessel for destruction. The hazy visage of Mystic Flour had now gained additional attributes – a cracked porcelain dish for a smile; the jingling sound of bells from somewhere underneath her veil.
For his part, Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t seem to register the hatred directed his way. Occasionally his gaze would meet another soldier across the snow, and his smile would split into a fiendish laugh. Otherwise, he occupied himself by spinning his scepter in lazy circles. Even the inherent harmlessness of this action kept the Watchers on edge, their postures stiff as they waited for the inevitable moment when the jester’s grip would slip and the scepter would fly out to bash one of them in the head.
His boredom, Dark Cacao noted, was just as unsettling as his mirth.
His tent was no bigger than it needed to be, just enough that all three of them could assemble themselves by the stout table. It was set with two empty cups and a freshly brewed pot of tea. One of his attendants, Pepero Cookie, was poised patiently by the pot, awaiting instruction.
The Beast examined the seating arrangements, letting out high-pitched sounds of disapproval. Unsurprisingly, a complaint followed: “Some friend! There’s hardly any room in here. Quite a long way to go for spite’s sake.”
“It is enough,” Dark Cacao answered, choosing not to address the final comment. He lowered himself to his knees - Pure Vanilla followed suit, carefully smoothing down the opalescent trail of his robes as he sat. The Beast hovered cross-legged, so close to his designated cushion that he may as well have just sat down like the rest of them. Of course, he didn’t.
Pepero Cookie poured tea into each cup, dipped into a bow, and retreated to the back of the tent. Shadow Milk’s gaze went from the teapot, the two cups of tea – positioned in front of Dark Cacao and Pure Vanilla respectively – and back to the teapot.
It had not occurred to him that the Beast would wish to partake in drinking tea – in truth, he had never expected they would get to this stage at all - but he had also not given direct orders for the Beast to be excluded, either. He subtly pivoted to look back at Pepero Cookie.
She stood remarkably still for a newly trained servant, but she wasn’t entirely motionless. Her hands tugged with vicious intent on the sash strung around her waist, twisting the sheer fabric into knots. Her lips were pressed thinly together; her eyes had narrowed into slits. She made no attempts to null her disgust.
To purposefully anger a Beast was, objectively, a fool’s errand. Still, he commended her courage. Pursuing vengeance was not an easy path, and if it meant small retribution in the form of missing cups, so be it. He would allow her this small avenue of satisfaction, and a part of him wanted to see how the Beast would respond to subtle disrespect. Would it lash out, force Pure Vanilla’s hand?
Shadow Milk shook his head with faux solemnity. “No cup? Well, what can you do.” He seized the teapot in his clawed fingers and took a long guzzle from the spout.
Dark Cacao blanched. Pepero Cookie let out a soft gasp. “How uncouth,” she hissed.
“Ooh, harsh. Don’t tell me you’re all like him.” Shadow Milk licked his lips, grinning. His forked tongue shouldn’t have come as a surprise. “Now that would be a tremendous disappointment.”
“Shadow Milk! You could have drank from mine,” Pure Vanilla chastised. He leaned into Shadow Milk’s vicinity with ease, and the Beast made no moves to shrink away. His focus had latched onto Pepero Cookie, who met his gaze with renewed tenacity.
“You know,” he began, swinging the teapot handle on his finger, “I would have far preferred being poisoned. I could have played dead! We could’ve had a noir mystery at our hands! You’ve taken all the fun out of it, my dear. That,” he punctuated this statement by shattering the teapot in his hands, “is the most insulting part of this farce. And, of course, that you thought this little slight would be worth any of my wrath.”
Shards cascaded over the floor. Pepero Cookie swallowed, still fidgeting with her sash. Dark Cacao took the reins before she could say something irreversible. “Pepero Cookie. You are dismissed.”
Her body bent into a bow, a fan snapping shut at the hands of an irritable noble. The tent flaps flailed as she slapped them open on her way out.
Pure Vanilla picked up a broken piece of pottery, frowning. "Was that necessary?"
Shadow Milk harrumphed. "On the contrary. I should have done worse."
Pure Vanilla collected the discarded fragments into the thin fabric of his stole. He sat down again, lifting his cup to drink. "Shall I count this as an improvement?"
Shadow Milk snatched the cup from him, taking an obnoxiously loud sip. “Don’t get cheeky now. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m not,” he said, lips curved in amusement. Then, “You would rather be poisoned?”
“I require effort.”
“Yes,” Pure Vanilla said dryly. “I’m well aware.”
Dark Cacao cleared his throat, and their attention snapped towards him as though they’d just recalled he was present. Pure Vanilla Cookie smiled merrily, redirecting his attention. "Apologies, my friend. May I dispose of this properly? I can replace the teapot, of course."
"There's no need. We can replace it with ease."
"I insist."
"And I implore you not to worry over such trivial matters," Dark Cacao said firmly.
"The Dark Cacao kingdom's royal heirlooms are no such trivial matters."
"It is not necessary to go to the trouble."
"Oh, but it would be no trouble at all-"
Shadow Milk pointed his clawed finger at the teapot's remains. Each individual shard rose, eungulfed in a magical outline that resembled tar, and reassembled themselves. The result was not a perfect replica of the previously unscathed teapot; the clay had now taken on a blue tinge, and ooze seeped from the visible cracks. On the lid, an eye, just likes the ones in Shadow Milk's hair, blinked blearily.
He yanked it up by the handle, facing the two of them. That sharp, irate smile had returned. "Go on now!" he bade, waving a flippant hand, like he was addressing sheep. "Spare me the nauseating niceties and talk about something interesting, will you?"
Dark Cacao's lips pulled into a deep frown, but soon his friend's soft beckoning drew his attention. The rest of their exchange went smoothly; the Beast, to his surprise, rarely spoke up. His remarks were written all over his expressive face, from annoyed, dull stares to goading, serrated sneers. Shadow Milk didn't meet his gaze very often, but when he did, his eyes glimmered with piercing, unmistakable animosity. It was a bewildering contrast to the bored smile tacked beneath, eerily mismatched. Then again, there was nothing there that felt like it belonged, anyway.
The conversation that followed had been, among other things, enlightening. It had not, however, served to bid away the headache forming at the base of his skull.
Dark Cacao sat at the table, nursing a cup of old tea. Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk had long ago been escorted to a tent – their tent, Pure Vanilla had emphasized – leaving him alone with his thoughts. He’d summoned Pepero Cookie earlier to serve him tea, and she’d been there since, poking at coals with weary eyes.
The hot, bitter taste of lapsang forged his musings into a fine-point tip. First – the Beast, for all its jesting, was still a threat. It feigned vain disinterest most of the time, preferring to inspect its reflection in the scepter it carried when Pure Vanilla and Dark Cacao’s conversation veered into recollections of their past, but there was still a part of it – Dark Cacao could not gauge how large - that relished cruelty. He’d gleaned that much from its interactions with Pepero Cookie, and how it seemed to drink in the poorly masked abhorrence of his soldiers.
Still, he was not a threat to Pure Vanilla Cookie. He was impolite, yes, when he should have been groveling at the undeserved opportunity he’d been given, but the two engaged in mutual rapport. With every offhanded comment came a rebuttal, and oftentimes they would enter heated debates of their own, descending into a separate realm on the other edge of the table, unaware of how delighted their expressions looked to the sole witness present.
And then there was the proximity. It was one thing to sit close to one another. It was another to play idly with the other’s hair, or flick them lightly on the cheek when they said something you disagreed with, or share sips from the same teacup. Dark Cacao didn’t want to linger too long on those memories, but they were fresh on his mind, having occurred only moments earlier.
The casual intimacy reminded him of the observations about Shadow Milk in Pure Vanilla’s letter. After an afternoon spent with the Beast, he couldn’t glean any of those details himself, and truth be told, he did not desire to. Shadow Milk held no ethereal beauty. He seemed to shift between substances. He could be as wooden as a carved puppet or as expressive and stretchy as clay; his edges were either sharp or sagged with decay. He was not a pleasant sight by any means, yet Pure Vanilla had noted his laughter, the twinkle of affection in his eyes, like a painter who noticed daubs of color at the edges of a canvas. He had found, beneath all the rust, something alive and worth treasuring.
If there was good to be found, let it be him that nurtured it. Dark Cacao knew he could never – would never – be able to do the same.
The thought bought to mind something else. “Pepero Cookie.”
Her head flicked up, instantly attentive. “Yes, your Majesty?”
“When did you begin employment here?”
She blinked. “I...it was a few months ago, your Majesty.” The coals sparked, sending miniscule droplets of fire cascading over her dress. “Several days after you returned victorious from your expedition in Beast-Yeast.”
“After the funeral rites, then.”
Her expression faltered. “Yes.”
“Who was it?”
A pause. The words were stuck in her throat, but she managed feebly, “My mother.”
Her fingers clung tightly to the spoke. Dark Cacao let out a deep sigh, his first of the evening. “My deepest condolences. She fought valiantly until the very end.”
“You don’t-” she cut herself off. “My Lord, I apologize for the...disturbance I caused. I put the entire kingdom at risk for the sake of pettiness.” Her head lowered, shoulders trembling. “Please mete out my punishment.”
“You will not be punished.”
She stared at him, disbelieving. “But I could have condemned us all! I could have-”
“And you did not.” He lowered his teacup. “I cannot blame you for your anger, even if your actions were reckless. Countless others would have done the same. But loathe as I am to speak it, the Beast is a companion of Pure Vanilla Cookie, and thus, our guest. The rules of hospitality extend to even the likes of him.” He met her stunned gaze from across the room. “This cannot happen again.”
She swallowed, smoothing her soot-stained hands down the side of her dress. “I understand.”
Silence hung over them, a sodden blanket. The teapot whistled its irritable chorus. Pepero Cookie rose to bring it off the flames. Her lips were pressed flat again, in that silent bitterness from earlier.
“So it’s true, then?”
"True?”
Her eyes flared, but when she spoke, it was a low whisper. “That the Beast isn’t truly a prisoner. That he may do what he likes.”
His private thoughts were not so plain that he should share them with a stranger – in the staunch environment of the citadel, rumors were coveted like pearls, and servants tended to be frequent buyers. The information itself, however, was not anything unique to him; other soldiers could have determined the same things themselves. The only other person he might have confided in was currently standing guard outside Pure Vanilla’s tent, and likely wouldn’t be back until morning.
“He is not a prisoner,” he affirmed, setting his cup down with a solid thunk against the table. “He is free to make his own choices, and go where he pleases, so long as he doesn’t interfere with the livelihoods of other cookies.”
“Does that mean he chose to come here?” she prodded. “To what aim?”
“His full intentions are unclear. He has the capacity and the capriciousness for destruction, but he seems more interested in being...impertinent,” he decided on, “and engaging in uncivil acts.”
“Yet he is no common delinquent,” Pepero Cookie muttered. “I don’t understand why Pure Vanilla Cookie would entertain him. Does he plan to wait until the Beast grows bored of complacency?”
“I cannot speak for him,” Dark Cacao said sharply. The veiled accusations thrust his friend’s way did not go undetected. “I cannot say that I would ever follow in his footsteps, but that is why he holds the Light of Truth, and I do not. He has always believed in the potential for good, from both the worthy and the undeserving. It is not my place to determine who he extends his benevolence to, even if I find the endeavor pointless...even if I vehemently disapprove.”
She bit her lip, glancing up at the slit in the tent’s flaps as though something might overhear. Faint, flickering lamplight cast ink blots over the snow; soldiers meandered by with their bows, their conversations muffled by the wind.
“I don’t know how he looks at him and feels anything else but anger.” She spoke so quietly, Dark Cacao had to strain to grasp the words. “I don’t...”
The memory of the letter emerged in his mind. No more words were exchanged throughout the evening.