Healer Cookie has made a wonderful new friend recently.
He had been in an awful state when they first found him, already half crumbled, and even the miracle worker Healer worried he wouldn't be able to save him. But save him he had, and in exchange, his friend had insisted on staying with them for the foreseeable future. He trails after Healer and assits him in any way he can, very rarely peeling himself away from his side.
Healer thinks it's sweet, growing fond of his new near-constant companion. Black Raisin is not so convinced. She keeps telling him that she has a bad feeling about this newcomer, and she doesn't like the way he's stubbornly cozying up to Healer. Healer does his best to soothe her concerns, reasoning that the attachment stems from his friend's gratitude for his saved life, but he knows how fiercely protective of their village she can be, so it's difficult to dissuade her entirely.
At the very least, his new friend seems to not mind Black Raisin's wariness. In fact, he pays very little mind towards the village at large, busying himself with long conversations with Healer whenever possible.
Healer must admit, he finds his friend fascinating, his conversations engaging and illuminating. When Healer is busy tending to patients, his friend will tell swooping, glorious tales that bewitch the whole healing tent, and often Healer's patients will leave with a fresh appreciation for their new neighbour.
It's the conversations they have alone, however, that Healer finds most interesting. His friend has a tendency to ask the strangest questions out of nowhere, and give the most captivating explanations, with a certain weight to his words that seems to be otherwise absent when they are around anyone else. Questions such as:
"Do you know what a Soul Jam is?" His friend, Plain Yogurt Cookie, asks casually, somewhere across the tent. Healer can hear the lazy flipping of paper.
Healer pauses, caught off guard by the immediate question after just stepping into the tent. He considers it for a moment; the name rings a very faint bell, but he can't actually pin it down to anything in his memory, so he shakes his head. "No, I don't think so. Why do you ask?"
He walks towards the sound of Plain Yogurt's voice with the aid of his staff, reaching out his free hand and making a small grabbing motion. There's the sound of shuffling before a tepid hand meets him halfway, cold fingers curling around his as Plain Yogurt pulls him to sit beside him on the thin bedroll. Healer can do this by himself, really, but Plain Yogurt always insists on helping, so it has become routine by now, to offer his hand and let him lead.
"A Soul Jam is a manifestation of incredible, unimaginable power and eternal life." Plain Yogurt explains as Healer settles at his side, gingerly laying his staff down on the floor. "There are five, and they originally belonged to five great heroes, who were given them by the Witches themselves. But the Witches are fickle beings. They cruelly snatched the Soul Jams back from the five great heroes on a whim and declared them unworthy, even though the Soul Jams had only ever been theirs."
Healer gasps, fully engaged with his friend's unspooling story even though it was sprung on him so suddenly. "Why? What did those five heroes do?"
"Nothing that warranted what they got. Their Soul Jams, the very core of their being, stripped away and them, cast into a suffocating Silver Tree in a faraway continent, sentenced to an eternal imprisonment!" There's grit in Plain Yogurt's voice that widens into a growl, oozing with a bitter anger. He must have some very passionate opinions on this story, because Healer hasn't heard him quite that rough before. "The betrayal! The injustice!"
"How awful." Healer comments sympathetically, nodding his head in agreement. "It sounds like a terribly unfair fate."
"It does, doesn't it?" Plain Yogurt clears his throat, and his voice smooths back out to its usual silky-sweet quality. "But that's not the important part. You see, the Soul Jams were broken apart by the Witches, and their purest parts were scattered across the realm, waiting to be found by the thieves that would become their new holders."
"Ah, so the Soul Jams are still out there somewhere?" Healer guesses, assuming this tale is something of a legendary mystery.
Plain Yogurt lets out a little hum. "Well, yes, but not quite. Actually, the Soul Jams have already found their new holders, but disaster struck and they disappeared in the aftermath." He shifts, leaning closer to whisper to Healer, a smile sneaking into his low tone. "One in particular, the holder of the Light of Truth, fell into a deep slumber, spending his days in a dreamlike haze of ignorance." He leans even closer, and Healer shudders as his breath gently caresses his dough, turning to face him. "Have you really never heard this story before?"
Healer sucks in a shallow breath and, on impulse, clumsily reaches a hand up, searching for Plain Yogurt's face. He gets stopped halfway, his wrist snared in a frigid grip, tight enough to startle him.
"...What are you doing?" Plain Yogurt's voice has lost its playfulness, as cold as his hands. Healer's stomach twists with shame. Plain Yogurt freely and frequently touches him, but Healer has already realised that he does not appreciate the same being done to him. He prefers to initiate, or otherwise lead the contact.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." Healer offers, ducking his head with an awkward little chuckle. "I wasn't thinking very deeply. You were just so close, and I suddenly wanted to take a look at you."
Take a look, of course, is meant metaphorically here. Healer just wants to feel Plain Yogurt's face, to remember its shape, they both understand that. But Plain Yogurt responds like it was meant literally anyway, his grip on Healer's wrist loosening to something more gentle as he sighs, "You're not completely blind, are you? If you took those bandages off, it would be way easier to get an idea of my face."
Healer has never mentioned the degree of his visual impairment to his friend, so he isn't sure where he got this idea from, but he doesn't focus on that. He can't, because the idea of taking his bandages off and opening his eyes strikes him with a dark dread, anxiety wriggling to life in his chest.
"No, I can't." He says firmly, shaking his head. He doesn't know why, but he knows that he really can't bear to do it, a possible danger that he doesn't want to risk.
Plain Yogurt is quiet for a moment that stretches and snaps, the only evidence that he is still there being the chill of his hand loosely around Healer's wrist. Then, he snorts, tumbling into a poorly stifled laugh. "Awfully eager to hide from the Truth, aren't you?"
Healer doesn't get a chance to fully process his mutter, layered beneath his laugh, before Plain Yogurt distracts him by grabbing both of his hands. Tucked underneath Plain Yogurt's palms, Healer's hands are guided to his face. Healer exhales, carefully spidering his fingers out to feel the contours, the short curling ends of his icing hair. Plain Yogurt's cheeks are lukewarm, just like the rest of him.
"Do you think you deserve the Soul Jam?" Plain Yogurt asks quietly, as abruptly as all his other questions. Healer can feel his lips move against the edge of his hand with each syllable.
Healer thinks about it, slightly confused by this hypothetical question but willing to entertain it. His hands go slack, satisfied with its acquaintance with Plain Yogurt's face and ready to return to his lap, but Plain Yogurt keeps them pressed to his cheeks. Healer doesn't complain, instead letting out a little chuckle.
"...No, I don't think so. If that power really is as incredible as you say, I doubt I would be suitable to wield it. Though," Healer's voice trails off for a second, turning wistful, "with it, I'm sure I would be able to help much more Cookies."
Plain Yogurt makes a noise of acknowledgement, before tilting his head – Healer knows, can feel it through his hands. "And what about me?" He asks, with an odd intensity. "Do you think I deserve the Soul Jam?"
This answer comes easier. Healer smiles, "More than me, at the very least."
Plain Yogurt doesn't reply immediately, but somehow, Healer can feel his gaze drilling into him, along with a dozen others, and he sits a little straighter under the scrutiny.
The tension bursts like a bubble as Plain Yogurt starts laughing, loud enough to fill the entire little tent, shaking its secure foundations. Healer's hands are finally released, and he folds them neatly in his lap. He enjoys the sound of Plain Yogurt's laughter, though he doesn't know what exactly is so funny.
Eventually, the laughter winds down, ending with a huff as Plain Yogurt slumps over against him, resting their heads against each other. Healer startles in surprise, but quickly relaxes into it, sitting still to avoid jostling his friend too much.
They sit there in comfortable silence, the sounds of the rest of the villagers tapering out as the night begins to creep in.
"...Have I ever told you about the Spire?" With their heads together like this, it feels like Plain Yogurt whispers directly into Healer's mind. His tone makes it clear that he knows he never has, the question rhetorical.
Healer answers anyway. "No, I don't think so. What spire are you talking about?"
"My Spire." Plain Yogurt replies simply, a smirk carrying his words. He begins to gesture dramatically with the arm not pressed against Healer's side - he can tell by the sudden jostling. "It's an absolute marvel, I tell you! Its' peaks are as tall as the sky itself, stuck in a perpetual night. There's the Yogurt River, and the blueberry bushes, and the apple trees in the courtyard. There are rooms by the dozen, and staircases that lead nowhere and everywhere, and cards that come alive. A place of splendorous chaos, holding the secrets of the universe!"
Whimsical pride plumps Plain Yogurt's voice, and that alone is enough to make Healer smile as he continues to describe the majesty of his Spire in excited, hushed tones against the end of Healer's brow.
Awe warms Healer like a hearth along with a spark of shame as he finally gets the chance to murmur back, "That sounds like an impressive place. Confusing, but impressive."
"Right?" Plain Yogurt grins. "Much better than this old dump, anyway."
Healer's smile stutters slightly. "Well, we all do our best with what we have here." He defends, voice steady, pulling away just a little. "If you have a place like that to return to, why haven't you? You sound very fond of it, and you've recovered enough to travel at length again."
"What, do you not want me here anymore?" Plain Yogurt teases, with an audible pout.
Healer sighs, shoulders relaxing again. "No, of course not. I like your company, but I really am curious."
"Mmm, I wonder. Maybe there's something keeping me here." Plain Yogurt suggests with a mockingly singsong lilt to his voice, one that isn't quite familiar to Healer. Healer jolts as Plain Yogurt's arm sneaks up around him, pulling him back into his side, but his head falls comfortably into the crook of his shoulder anyway. Plain Yogurt's short, soft curls brush against the side of his face, cushioning him.
"One day, I'll take you to my Spire, my dear." Plain Yogurt says in a low, strange tone, burbling like a pot about to boil over, and it is both a gentle promise and a threat of some kind.
"That sounds nice." Healer means it, even though he knows he doesn't plan to leave the village any time soon. Not when there are Cookies here who need his miracle healing.
Healer is not stupid. Though he sometimes find it a little unncessary, the villagers call him the Wise One for a reason. He understands Black Raisin's wariness of his new friend in particular.
Plain Yogurt is hiding something, and probably something big. Healer doesn't need to see him to know that when it is clear enough in his crafted voice. Besides, the state of their little village is not an enviable one. No traveller would want to stay past their strained welcome, especially not one who has somewhere as magnificent as that spire supposedly waiting for them.
But, regardless of whatever secrets Plain Yogurt may have, Healer doesn't believe he's malicious. He treats him too gently for that, his cold fingers cradling his hand every time he insists on helping. And his stories, told in such a lively tone, are always able to lift his patients' spirits. Why would he bother with all that, if he truly had ill intent?
No, Plain Yogurt can't be malicious, so Healer sees no reason to force his secrets out of him. If they continue bonding, they will surely surface eventually.
And if Healer is somehow wrong about this, if he really is malicious, then... well, it's better this way. Better for his attention and potential wrath to be focused entirely on him. Healer can take the brunt of it to protect the rest of the village, and it would be perfectly fair, since he had been the one to advocate for Plain Yogurt to be allowed to stay in the first place.
Ah, Black Raisin would be upset with him if she heard him say that, but it's true enough, isn't it?
That won't happen, anyway. Plain Yogurt is suspicious, definitely, and knows something Healer doesn't, but that is not an inherently dangerous thing.
For now, they can sit cuddled together on this thin bedroll and enjoy each other's company. Healer has no need for the past he doesn't remember, nor the future he can't see.
All he needs is this present, cozy in the fledgling night with his friend's lazily hummed melody coiling around him like a musical snake.
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a king who honoured Truth.
He was as gentle as a lamb, as pure as driven snow, as warm as sunlight, and his citizens revered him for these qualities. His Truth was his kindness and his hope, and he was said to be able to heal a Cookie of all their woes and pain with a single touch, so blessed by the heavens he was.
Unfortunately, his Truth was no armour, and eventually it became a blade that turned against him. His soft heart failed to protect his kingdom when disaster fell like a fog over it, thick with malice, and those citizens who once revered him came to despise those very same traits they once praised.
The king of Truth, as gentle as a coward, as pure as a martyr, as warm as the remnants of his burning kingdom. The king, dismayed by his Truth failing him, had little idea of what to do as his citizens abandoned him, one by one until only he remained.
One day, a wise scholar happened upon the shell of that kingdom and, curious to know its story, he went to visit the king. The king, still at a loss for what to do and hoping the scholar may impart some of his knowledge, freely shared the tale of the kingdom's downfall with a deep sorrow in his voice.
The wise scholar, taking pity on the king, stepped up to the weary silhouette curled in that old throne and said, "Is it not obvious? You should let go of your Truth."
"My Truth?" The king murmured, disbelieving. "I certainly must have misheard you. I have dedicated my life to Truth. I cannot possibly part with it."
"Whyever not? Look at where Truth has lead your life – to complete ruins, hasn't it?" The wise scholar explained, oh so patiently. "It has paid your dedication back with anguish and despair. Why should you live like that? Deceit would be far more merciful to you, and it would surely soothe your poor heart, if you'd let it."
The wise scholar had offered this morsel of Knowledge out of the goodness of his heart, and for a blissful moment, the king considered it. Sadly, the king could not see it as the act of goodwill that it was, too blinded by his own petty pride, restrained by his years of stubborn devotion to the false idol of 'Truth'.
"No, what you have said is a lie meant to mislead me. I can tell, because Deceit drips from your tongue like poison." The king foolishly declares, his face hardening with misplaced determination. "This must be a test sent to me from the Witches, to test my strength, and I will not fail so easi––"
—No, that's not quite right. Let's try again.
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a great hero.
This great hero was benevolent, noble and self-righteous, known as a friend and ally to all, but he harboured a dark secret. His Soul Jam, the source of all of his awe-inspiring power, was not wholly his.
Indeed, it had once belonged to an illustrious sorceror, a manifestation of his very soul. But this sorceror had suffered a great injustice under the hands of the fickleminded Witches, and his Soul Jam had been torn asunder. While he had clung fiercely to one half, the other had slipped out of his grasp and fell into the hands of our great hero, the unwitting thief.
Of course, the sorceror came to confront the hero, to claim back what was rightfully his and reunite with the full extent of his power. But the hero was unwilling to give it up, and after much consideration, the sorceror decided to be gracious. He allowed the hero to keep his half of the Soul Jam, granted that he never stray from the sorceror's side.
For a blissful moment, it seemed like this compromise would work well for the both of them. One day, however, the hero approached the sorceror, fidgeting with his long sleeves.
"My Soul Jam calls for yours," The hero admits, soft and careful, "and so too does my soul. Even though I am by your side, it is not enough."
The sorceror smiled, flashing teeth, pleased by the admittance because it proved his emerging hypothesis correct. That the other half of the Soul Jam could not have landed in anyone else's hands but the hero's, for they were meant for each other.
"Then come closer." The sorceror goads, reaching for the hero. "Unite our two halves and become one with me, as it should be."
The hero does, pressing into the sorceror's arms, pushing the softened middles of their Soul Jams together until they begin to merge, light melting into the dark of the sorceror's tight embrace. Truth into the comfort of Deceit.
For a blissful moment, they are together and whole and one.
Then pain bursts through the sorceror's back and he screeches as the hero pushes and stumbles out of his twitching arms. The sorceror's wide, blurry eyes catch on the icy glint of a dagger in the hero's hand, sticky with jam.
The sorceror heaves as his hand scrambles to his own back, finding an open wound weeping thick jam that seeps through his clothes. He starts to taste it, sour on the back of his tongue. Sure enough, the hero had stabbed him in the back with a blade he had hidden in his long sleeves.
The hero stares down at him passively, unremorseful. The sorceror's back burns with gouging pain, and his chest burns with boiling rage, coming up through his teeth in a mighty growl. Jam leaks through his clenched fingers as he curls into himself, his Soul Jam crying in the hollow of his throat, calling for its traitorous other half, ringing, ringing, ringing, RINGING. "YOU--"
—NO! No, no, no, that's not right either, absolutely not. Let's take it from the top, one more time.
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a humble shepard.
The shepard was sweet and languid as honey, content in spending his days tending to his vulnerable flock. He had no interest in the world at large, though he welcomed any travellers that passed through with friendliness, making peace in his little meadow.
One day, another shepard, hooded and pale, arrived at the meadow with a single sheep trailing sadly at his heels. He asked for a place to stay for the night, as he had recently lost the rest of the flock to a wolf and, in his grief, took to wandering the lands as a nomad.
The shepard, sweet as he was, agreed. He led the hooded shepard to his flock, where the hooded shepard settled his sheep in for the night. Then, he led the hooded shepard to his little cottage, where the hooded shepard settled himself in for the night, right beside the shepard in his small wooden bed.
Little did the shepard know, the hooded shepard laying beside him was, in reality, a wolfherd. Little did the shepard know, the sheep he had allowed to rest in the comfort of his poor flock was, in reality, a wolf bundled in sheep's wool, trained to behave mildly in the presence of Cookies.
When morning came, the shepard was horrified to find that his flock, which he had dutifully nutured since young, had been eaten whole. The wolfherd's wolf, smeared in red with its woolen disguise hanging off it in sticky clumps, trotted up to its master lazily as the shepard helplessly fell to his knees.
For a blissful moment, there was just the shepard's sobs as his world crumbled around him, ready to be remade.
Then, the wolfherd came up to the miserable shepard and lunged.
He pinned the teary shepard to the damp grass, bathing him in lamb blood as the wolfherd bared his fangs and dug his claws into dough, shedding a disguise of his own.
A thin throat gave way under the wolfherd's teeth, and he discoverd that the shepard really was as sweet as honey, all the way through, as jam spilled into his mouth. He made cracks as the shepard weakly tried to struggle, tearing into his dough in reprimand, in retribution. The shepard deserved it.
He dug into his chest with his wet teeth, pulling out his jammy heart, his pulsing Soul Jam, his writhing soul. He savoured it as he swallowed it whole, as the shepard went obediently still beneath him, because he deserves it, this is his, he is his, and the shepard deserves it too. He deserves it, he DESERVES it, HE DESERVES IT--
—HE DOES, he does, but not quite like that. No, no, something's still off. Maybe a change of angle is needed. A change of perspective.
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a liar.
He was beautiful, magnificent in his dark robes and rough around the edges in a captivating way. He watched the world from the top of a spire, looking down on Cookiekind from above with dozens of golden eyes, turning his back on Truth.
The liar was not alone. At his side, and he at his, was the beast that strung the world in shimmering strings, playing the universe like a grand orchestra to seranade his companion. Their power did not just blend harmoniously; it was a singular one, feeding into an endless cycle between the two of them, driven by the thrum of their Soul Jam.
For a blissful forever, they stood together, casting the veil of Deceit over the world, dampening the blistering light of Truth until it coalesced into the shadow of Deceit, becoming what it always should have been. The two of them were unstoppable, bowing to nothing and nobody, rising above it all. They were unstoppable, they could have been, they would have been unstoppable-- IF--
—IF THOSE GNATS HADN'T– IF HE HADN'T–
(Stupid, traitorous, weak fool!)
—No, no, enough, enough, enough. This still isn't getting anywhere. How about this?
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a saint of Truth.
He was blindingly bright, too bright, and he could drive the shadow monsters away with a single swipe of his staff, so radiant was he. And yet, for all his shining power, he was also a complete idiot, driven by his soft, squishy heart.
For instead he cleaved the monster out of the shadow, held out a hand and said, "Let me be your...friend."
Friend. Friend. How ridiculous! Laughable, really, in its absolute stupidity. The saint's eyes were so soft, gentle in contrast to the harsh edge of the light, gooey like melted chocolate, like the saint was doing the monster a favour even though it was the other way around, it was SUPPOSED to be the OTHER WAY AROUND--
—NOPE, no, that's no good either. Come on, what else, what else, what else– aha!
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived an angel.
This angel was once a shepard, once a king, once a hero, once a saint before he ascended to the light of the heavens. He was beautiful and benevolent, warm as sunlight, sweet as honey, blindingly bright and infuriatingly beloved. Until he wasn't.
You see, when the angel had ascended, he had thought that he had risen from the rock bottom of the river. He had foolishly believed that he now knew everything, that he had captured the essence of Knowledge through a brief meeting of two halves of a single Soul Jam.
He hadn't realised that a new rock bottom can always be created – all you need to do is dig.
And so, the demon did, dragging the angel down from the picturesque heavens and back to him, backed by a symphony of screams.
The angel tried to reason with him, with his faulty logic. The angel tried to fight but wouldn't risk crumbling him for good. The angel tried to reach out to him, like he really, truly believed it would work.
In the end, the angel lays crumpled at the demon's feet in a heap, cheeks wet with tears but eyes tired and wild. His painful light dims into something bearable, close to snuffing out entirely, flickering weakly like a candle in the wind.
"You were right." The angel whispers, about his hope, about his kindness, about anything, about everything. "You were right. It was always going to end like this."
And when the angel looks up, it is as if he is giving all of himself to the demon. Properly, this time, no clever tricks even passing his mind. His life and soul forfeit.
There. Perfect.
Shadow Milk sighs, a heavy sound that thickens the air. He is not quite satisfied, because he cannot be, not with his dough crawling with restless viciousness, but he is satisfied enough. With the story, of course. Not with anything else.
Just thinking of that, Shadow Milk scowls, finally looking back down at his hands. He had forgotten about the little plush doll he was holding. It's a cute little replica of Pure Vanilla, small enough to fit neatly into the palms of his hands. He had been fiddling with it for no reason in particular, mostly agitated boredom.
In the midst of his storycrafting, he must have tightened his grip too hard. His claws have ripped its chest in half, stuffing bubbling out of the wound like sea foam.
He stares at it blankly for a moment, claws idly toying with the fluff. Then he narrows his eyes, growls, and twists his claws deeper into the tear.
Lonely, Pure Vanilla had said, with the absolute gall to act like he could read him perfectly. Like he could understand him.
As if! There was no way he understood him, and his new little light show only proved that. Whatever understanding Pure Vanilla thought he had was conjured by his own mind, his poor little heart's attempt to find a peaceful solution. It's like Shadow Milk had told them – in the face of the unknown, Cookies tend to fill in the gaps with whatever fits best with their existing belief system, and what they want to believe is true.
Shadow Milk huffs, finally pulling his claws out of the Pure Vanilla doll. It's a sad looking thing, droopy with the lost stuffing. He considers it for a moment, before gingerly beginning to push the stuffing back in, tuft by tuft.
There is one thing Pure Vanilla got right, though. He really is the only one with the potential to truly understand Shadow Milk. He was close to it, even, tantalisingly close before he pulled himself back out again, but he hadn't gotten there yet.
Shadow Milk knows that he hasn't. Because Shadow Milk knows what it will take to get him there, and it involves tearing him to shreds–
Shadow Milk summons old marionette strings, now mostly unused, and begins to sew up the open chest of the doll with lazy flicks of his finger. Despite the casual movement, the stitches are precise and perfect. Once he's done, the doll looks almost as good as new, but inarguably altered.
—before fixing him back up in Shadow Milk's design.
Only then would Pure Vanilla really be able to understand Shadow Milk. Only then would Shadow Milk believe it.
Shadow Milk rubs his thumb over the doll's cheek, something ugly twisting in his chest. His claws twitch, eager to tear the doll apart again, to have an outlet, but he refrains because he does have self-control and he just fixed it.
Instead, he lifts the doll up and presses a kiss to the little stitched star on its forehead. No, not a kiss. It's more like a curse, a harsh press of lips with the slightest snarl of teeth, with enough pressure to create a dent in its soft head.
Yes, this isn't the end. They have eternity, after all. The wait may be agonising, but eventually, he'll understand him. Shadow Milk will make sure of it.
The something in his chest loosens just slightly, as if relieved.
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