The completion collection of all my froggy works with new and improved layouts! All story parts are now linked to one another using a (Masterpost / Previous / Next) design. Please mind the tags and any warnings before reading. Likes are appreciated! Thanks for stopping by and enjoy the tea <3
*This chapter contains mentions of panic attacks, dissociative episodes, talks of suicide, murder, abusive relationships, and sensitive topics. Nothing untold happens, but we do brush on mature subjects.*
The lock to Shadow Milk’s dorm room is busted. It clicks weirdly when they turn the handle. Privacy is lost in that moment, replaced by a guilt-ridden exposure.
A lump forms in their throat, bobbing as they push it down. Breaths are captured, failing to comfort a deep-rooted sense of defeat. Sage slumps against the door, wood creaking as their weight presses upon its hinges.
The realization, the horror of a tarnished safe haven, is muffled under waves of despair. Their bag thumps to the floor, cane following suit, as their knees collapse; gravity swings out from under them.
A harsh slam carries dust into the air. Speckles flicker and flutter before settling into a heap. Sage stares blankly at the show.
Darkness envelops the room. They hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on. What would it matter?
Their eyes squeeze shut, face scrunching. Tears threaten their resolve. Oxygen constricts their lungs. Heat swells, pounding upon a maturing headache.
The emotional build-up overwhelms their voice, a pitiful noise is sprung. Walls crumple, barriers lie to waste.
They grasp their legs, pulling them closer, until their face is nestled snuggly between each limb.
Sobs vibrate free-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Sage isn’t sure how long they danced, how long they were held against their will.Â
Awareness comes slowly.Â
It starts as a whispered buzz nudging their ear. The sound bounces and springs, looping round and round. It grows as eyes blink. Colors shift, collecting shadows and light to create a watercolor scenery of gold and gray.
The feeling expands, traveling down their spine, touching their toes. Soreness aches as muscles flex. Hands squeeze, grasping one another in a polite hold.
Words flow over them like a fish down a stream. An amusing chuckle breaks through the haze.
“We really made a mess in here, didn’t we? Not to matter, it’s nothing I can’t fix-”
Clattering, clacking, chiming noises flood the room. A turn of Sage’s head has Pure Vanilla on display, crouched down and collecting thrown items. He tidies and cleans the damage, removing evidence of any misdemeanor; the fight gone with the wind.
Just as the bruises were healed, the wounds mended, the narration is rewritten to fit his desire… And Sage sits there, back in that chair, always in that chair, watching the proof slip away.Â
They’re stuck, frozen to the spot, not by fear, but by their mind physically shutting down. They want to stand up, to fight and yell and scream; however, the haze stops them, claiming the comfort of stillness essential to survival.
Instead, their eyes stay glued to Pure Vanilla as he moves and flutters and… stops. A clump of papers taps his shoe while he goes to pick up fallen pencils. His eyes travel down, pointless rant still raving, focusing on the wad.Â
He picks it up, unfurls it, pauses…Â
And Sage knows what he sees, what causes the hesitation, because Mystic had shown them. They’ve seen the headshots, have read the questions underneath, and considered Pure Vanilla’s involvement; saw the threat for what it truly was.
…The flyers crumple the next minute, tossed away like rotting apples. Pure Vanilla turns to them, beaming face turning a shade darker-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tears gather on their knees, slipping down. It’s uncontrollable, the way their bodies hiccups and sniffles. Misery has never been so heartbreaking. The emotion drains every ounce of energy Sage has left.
Their hands grasp tighter with each assault to their throat. Band-Aids crinkle and scrunch, pull stiff from the position. Useless, horrible little buggers clamping down like a hand around-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The next time Sage comes to a shadow looms over them. It blocks the sun, gently tugging their hand free from where it was squeezing their arm. The pain didn’t even register, but the coo from Pure Vanilla did.
“Don’t do that, my love. You will only hurt yourself further.” A kiss lands on their forehead; a flinch follows. Pure Vanilla sighs.Â
He tilts his head, examining Sage head to toe, and frowns. A beat passes with no movement present, like he is waiting for them to respond.
But as the silence grows, so does his frustration.Â
Sage can see it slipping through the cracks. Downturned eyes, a scrunched nose, paired with a heavy exhale; all signs of their impending demise.Â
His hand presses Sage’s, not to cause pain but to show presence. Sympathy doesn’t quite appear; rather, a placating type of concern.
“You’re hungry. Let’s get some food in you, shall we? I’m sure the added fuel will do wonders for your mood!” It’s said like a quiet realization, as if Pure Vanilla is trying to repeat someone else’s words, but doesn’t know the proper diction to get the tone across.Â
Sage remains silent.Â
They are lifted like a ragdoll, brought to their feet as if gravity didn’t exist.Â
Hands brush along their shoulders and down their shirt, wiping imaginary dust off their clothes. Their hair is combed through, tangles wrested free, and frizz smoothed out. Eyes are grazed. A thumb wipes stray tears away, even if their face is still puffy.
It takes them a moment to realize Pure Vanilla is attempting to make them look presentable. Sage hates it… They never got their scrunchie back.
Starry locks shield them from the world, unruly and wild. Agitation had thrashed what once was pristine, if you can even call it that. A failed attempt at normality was slain just like their prospects of survival.
. Â . Â .
Tired eyes gaze into the darkness. Shadows become shapes. Their dorm room slowly takes form the longer time slips. A blink has stray water tumbling free, cheeks raw and swollen.
All Sage can hear is their heart and breath beating in a dull rhythm, melody tarnished and bruised.Â
Isolation consumes them. Loneliness tugs at their sleeves. Strands of hair loop round their arms, as if controlled, in a loose imitation of a hug.
It’s clammy and hot, but Sage doesn’t pull away.Â
The comfort anchors them to the ground.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The door creaks open. Light shines, fluorescent and bright. Sage blinks, back in the present.
A hand pulls them forward, their body following along like a lost duckling. Pure Vanilla’s voice carries above their head just out of reach of buzzing thoughts.Â
He doesn’t seem to have an off switch. His joy fluctuated in spurts of an enthusiastic spiral.
Tap, tap, tap.Â
Gold and blue turn to meet shades of cerulean, a smile upturning glowing cheeks. Sage squints, head tilting, eyes blinking. The doorway thumps against their shoulder, and suddenly, control is regained.
A passing thought has them stumbling back. Their hand breaks free from Pure Vanilla’s hold, moving to clutch their cane to their chest…?Â
They blink, look down, and are surprised to see the object in hand. The emotion is carried as a weight settles on their back: their bag.
When did they pick them up?
Sage breaths, eyebrows pinch, and shakes their head. The fog sits at the corner of their mind, beckoning them.
“Darling?”
Right, not the time. Focus. “I- uh… Mystic was going to… We were supposed to meet… Here… I shouldn’t leave yet.” Their voice sounds weak, the excuse even more so, but a nagging voice compels them to stay strong.
They had forgotten in their prior headspace: the threat, the deal, the agreement. A promise sits upon their tongue, filling their mouth with a sour taste.Â
Tick, tick, tick. Eyes shift to the clock. The hands have moved, blurring beyond recognition, but proving time’s commitment to change.Â
One coherent thought tumbles between the cracks: Mystic should have been back by now.
Pure Vanilla hums, eyes shifting to the left. A hand tilts his head, “Really? I saw her talking with Black Raisin in the hallway earlier. Perhaps something came up, no? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if we wandered off… Besides, I told you. No more distractions, silly!”
He goes to take Sage’s hand, but misses. Air swipes past their wrist as they lean away.
“Th-then I need to get to class. I’m late,” because that sounded dangerous, like a lie wrapped in cyanide.Â
Because Mystic wouldn’t leave them like that, not after the conversation they had. Because statistics state moving to secondary locations with a criminal is a bad idea, Sage foolishly stands their ground.
“Not to worry,” Pure Vanilla walks closer, smile thinning, “I’ll talk to your professors.”
He reaches again. Misses.
Sage shifts back, “I doubt you have the authority-”
“I’ll talk to them.” Cold, icy, final.Â
Their hand is grasped, squeezed once, then twice. Words die on their tongue. Courage slips away.
The threshold is crossed, the door closes, and the world collapses for the last time.
It’s funny the way you feel right after a good cry.Â
Your body slips into a relaxed state; shoulders down, arms bent, and legs stiff from ridge posture. Fingers go numb, limbs weigh heavy as lead. Thoughts fizzle out, claiming the void as home.
Sight becomes a suggestion, reality even more so.
Eyelids flutter shut, muscles unwind as stress dries up. When rest calls, you know you’ve gone too far, yet the tenderness is too tempting to refuse.
Time passes like calm winds after a rainstorm. The residue still remains, growing along your eroded body. Leaves of doubt, vines of guilt, and mossy devastation crawl around the husk of a person, forgotten and distorted.
Emptiness shelters the soul while grief alters the rest. Some call it recovery, others describe it as readjustment, giving your mind time to recover what once was.
Sage would disagree because this sucks.Â
It’s not peaceful, calm, or quiet. They don’t feel better, don’t feel recharged. Sweat clings to every joint while every muscle screams in agony, begging for a reprieve.
Even with their wounds healed, they still feel the aftermath of pain. Tingles and prickles of phantom aches poke and prod healthy skin. Their mind can’t fathom the absence, let alone the restoration.
It’s like hands are still pinching their cheeks, tussling their curls, guiding their steps-
Sage wants a bath.Â
No, Sage needs a bath. Right now.
They take a breath and stand up. Their joints protest, popping and cracking like a windup doll. Hair tumbles down freely, sticking to clammy skin. The door helps stabilize their footing, providing good support for their shaking hands.
Darkness makes way for light, a switch flickered up, a sound clicked. Shadows recede, warmth bathing the-
. Â . Â .
A lamb plushie stares at them, sitting atop Shadow Milk’s bed.Â
Sheets are tucked in, pillows fluffed, and a collection of animals are squished to the wall. School supplies are rearranged; placed back in their home. Clothes no longer litter the floor. The bathroom door is shut.
This is not how Sage left the room.
… This is not how Sage left the room.
Panic is not the word they’re looking for, no, that’s too rushed, too hasty. This emotion builds, it festers, it clings to their throat like unchewed taffy.
It follows them as their hand pushes off the door. It hovers as they open the closet, laughs as they witness the organized crime within. It spins and bobs as they hop to the bathroom, perceiving the polite manner of cleanliness occupying the space.Â
It pivots along with Sage as they leave, head toward the bed, and search for oddities. It giggles at the sight, twists when they leave to observe Shadow Milk’s desk. It’s tidy because, of course, it is.Â
But that’s not the worst part. No, the worst part is the teasing because Sage saw, and they know that not only is the room cleaned, but things are missing.
Little things, objects you wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t looking. Things like knitting needles, crafting scissors, thumbtacks, razor blades… the list goes on.
It’s as they are staring down the tiny drawer of Shadow Milk’s bedside table that Sage can put a name to the emotion: Terror.
The drawer is empty.Â
The journal is gone.Â
Shadow Milk’s suicide note is missing; the one they didn’t get to read because morals compelled them not to. Someone else knows, and Sage gets the sinking feeling it wasn’t Pure Vanilla.
Nausea spins, blurring their vision. It climbs right up their stomach, clogging their throat-
Feet skid across the ground.Â
A door is slammed against plaster.
Knees collide with tile.Â
A lid is thrown open.
Wrenching awful sounds pursue, shaking their shoulders; hands clutching porcelain. Starry strands slip against white, almost falling past the point of no return. Their eyes prickle as heat gathers, yet no tears flow.
Breaths rattle and shake between each exhale, prolonging the attack. The aftertaste of sugar lingers across bile and regret. Much more than animal crackers leave pitched lips, leading Sage to believe they did, in fact, dine with Pure Vanilla.
That thought sends them hunching back down, process repeating until their stomach is empty.
. Â . Â .
Sage leans against the wall, cold tile grounding them to reality. Silence encompasses the space. Staggering breaths, the only sound present.Â
The flavor of wheat flour and frosting sits on their tongue, between their teeth, and upon their lips…Â
Gross.Â
Dried drool cakes their chin. It leads down the slope, marring Shadow Milk’s cardigan, causing discomfort to grow. Unpleasant smells waft from the toilet.
A tight line thins their lips as a hand is brought to their head. Weight is pressed, battling their headache while their eyes blink. A breath is taken, long and deep.Â
. Â . Â .
Their gaze wanders to the sink, and desire flourishes.
The emotion urges them to their feet. Trembling limbs wobble as Sage grabs the corner top, using the momentum to push them up. Squinting eyes meet an uncanny reflection. They look battered and bruised without visible marks, haunted.
It is not pretty.Â
They turn away, focusing on the facet underneath. Rushing water chugs freely, washing filth away. It cools their face as Sage splashes, distress pouring down the drain like paint off a canvas. They breathe as a toothbrush is snatched and mint floods their senses.
Relying on simple actions keeps their mind focused, forcing them to remain passive and not on the ground curled up as a sobbing, crying mess.Â
Brush to the left, brush to the right; repeat again and again and again until your fingertips crack. Spit the fluids out, rinse, and gargle water in the absence of mouthwash.
Mourn the loss of bubblegum-flavored floss and move on with your life. Flush the toilet. Clean the mess on the ground and erase any evidence of your conflicted emotions!Â
It only takes a few minutes, but by the end of it, Sage feels marginally better.
The ground feels more present, lights not as bright, colors more solid. Their mind can think beyond thoughts of looming dread and honey-coated words.Â
Time flows at a normal rate, causing them to truly perceive their surroundings, their emotions, and their concerns for the first time in hours.
The haze, the fog… the dissociative episode snaps with the realization, leaving behind only one essential desire.
Sage is having this bath, damn it!
. Â . Â .
The way water sounds as it pours from a faucet is mesmerizing. It captures your attention as if you are witnessing the great outdoors for the first time.Â
Trickles of beads splash and chug, plopping down to create ripples of color and light. Swirls dance and bob to a chorus of movement and song. Waves appear when a hand is placed upon wiggling ruffles.
Water welcomes you when no one else can, pushing against your skin in a gentle caress. Droplets of air cling to the misery, creating small bubble-like crystals.
Temperature is important. It’s what keeps you present enough for relief to sink in.Â
Sage likes their baths hot. Not to the point of burning, but warm enough for steam to play in the air. A bit of bubbles and a dash of sparkle would really make this scene pop… perhaps?
The tap runs as Sage searches. They pull open drawers and cabinets, lifting containers and shifting towels until finally, nestled underneath the sink, they find a pink bath bomb and bottle of bubble soap hidden away.
Sage politely ignores the label “Sugar’s secret stash. No little brothers allowed.” It wouldn’t make a difference either way.
Foam spreads like ivy up a tree, climbing and invading every inch of available space. Crystal clear blends shades of pink, landing more towards a mixture of violet and magenta. Glitter gleams upon swaying tides.
Sage leans on the tub's edge, absentmindedly watching the waters rise as they pick flower petals from their dough. A yellow, a blue, a green drop to the floor in a poor imitation of a “he loves me, he loves me not” game.
It’s once every ounce of skin is revealed, both on hands and knees, that Sage stops the facet. They ignore the way skin pricks in the absence of scabs and derobe.Â
Clothes litter the floor haphazardly, piling like stones near a water’s edge. It takes every inch of patience stored away to not shatter Shadow Milk’s soul jam across the floor, instead calmly placing it atop the sink’s counter.
Heat encompasses their dough, massaging sore muscles and releasing tension. Sage sits, back to the wall, legs pulled close to their chest, leaving only the tips of their knees and head visible.Â
Starry locks spread out, creating a galaxy-like ocean. Sage isn’t sure where their hair ends and water begins, completely lost to the sensations and sounds around them.
A sigh leaves their lips as their head tilts back and eyes close… With rest comes the collapse.Â
Thoughts spiral without intention-
Holy fuck, Sage was arguing with a murderer!
It doesn’t matter what excuse Pure Vanilla came up with. Sage doesn’t believe it for a second. If it looks like a lie and sounds like a lie, then it is a lie.Â
Although now thinking back on it, Pure Vanilla never denied their claim, simply avoided the topic. Words were spun, tone held firm, while double meanings ensnared promised reassurance.Â
Sage has never hated a metaphor more in their life!
A lamb got lost, separated from the flock? Ya, real clever. Love the word play. Beautiful wit, stunning humor, if you can even call it that!
Laughter bubbles from their ribcage, hysterics rebounding off the sides of their skull like a ping pong ball. A thud sounds as their head hits porcelain. Light fades when blue dough covers cerulean eyes.
The police, Sage should call the police. They need help. This isn’t something they can fight on their own. Pure Vanilla is dangerous and has his sights set on them, on “Shadow Milk.”
Sage is in trouble, deep, deep trouble. They should get up. They need to get up. They have to get up because someone is dead.
And isn’t that thought just terrifying…
. Â . Â .
The body would be found if they called the police. A simple phone call could decide their fate, make everything right. It’s just three little taps, three tiny numbers to fix one massive stain.
It’s still on campus, the corpse, because the timeframe wouldn’t have allowed otherwise. Seventy-two hours, three-day cycles, one since Sage arrived at this shitshow, since the murder took place.Â
Mystic said as much. Pure Vanilla silently agreed. The texts hammered the final nail in the coffin.
Traces were left behind, somewhere, somehow. It couldn’t have been premeditated, judging by Pure Vanilla’s behavior. He was jumpy, jittering between madness and composure like a hummingbird.
That reaction couldn’t have just been from Shadow Milk witnessing it, right? Pure Vanilla can’t be that far gone. Who cares if there is more than one smiling face plastered around campus on newsprint and ink?
It doesn’t suggest anything. They could be unrelated!
“I did it for you, y’know?” What did Pure Vanilla mean by that? What context is Sage supposed to grasp from it? How are they meant to dissect his actions?
Was he doing it to protect them? Was Shadow Milk being threatened, or was Pure Vanilla trying to twist the narrative again? Was this some sick ploy to blame them, to absolve his conscience of guilt?
Heh, as if finding a good enough reason could change the severity of the crime. Why is Sage trying to justify it?
They should make the call, finish what Shadow Milk couldn’t.
They should get up, walk a few paces to their bag.
They should, they could, but-
. Â . Â .
Water splashes as they sink deeper.
Droplets fall, cascading down the tub’s rim as if weeping. Glitter attaches to the floor. Silence haunts the night.Â
Sage takes a breath, removing their hands from their face. Purple and pink swirl and spin, kissing constellations and white trembling lashes. Their fingers scrape their knees, body pressing tighter as if an embrace would fix the damage swarming their mind.
Even if this imaginary scenario panned out, who's to say they would even believe Sage?Â
They have no evidence, no second party to prove their suspicions. Isolation, in its truest form, only leads towards damnation, and Pure Vanilla made sure of that.
What would they say if the officers questioned their involvement? The events leading up to the crime are as foggy as thick steam whistling from a kettle.
They would be hung up on with a stern warning to not waste precious time, efforts snuffed out before they could even see the fruits of their labor. It would be pointless…Â
So what are they supposed to do?Â
This was only meant to last a day.
Sage sighs, a weight pressing down on their shoulders. They brush a hand through floating strands and grimace at the oily texture. Gross.
A tired glance casts their gaze towards a bottle of shampoo and conditioner. It sits upon a higher ledge, singing a soothing chorus of want and desire. Blue fingers grasp the container, bringing it down to their level.
Water sloshes as three pumps gush out on an awaiting hand. The scent of blueberries fills the air. Sage massages the cream against their scalp and closes their eyes.
. Â . Â .
They could run, leave campus, hop a train, or catch a bus to the town over. Any morals keeping them tethered to societal expectations were thrown out the window long ago.Â
Sage can’t compete with a murder. School pales in comparison to their life.Â
A bag of clothes, some cash, and a stash of food are all they really need. Sage could collect what they can from Shadow Milk’s dorm and steal the rest along the way.Â
They have worked with less before. It wouldn’t be hard.
…But it wouldn’t be smart either.
Cerulean eyes watch purple-tinted soap slip down their wrists. The wounds have healed, scabbed over, but still scarred. Pure Vanilla’s healing spell mended more than Sage thought, hiding pain before the hurt could settle.
His dedication proves a sick devotion. He would come after them, but he wouldn’t be the only one.
White locks and frosty stares filled with determination come to mind. Stomping feet, burning with an unsettling passion, crawl along their spine. Pointed looks and pink jabbing nails cross the haze, cementing Sage’s fate into stone. A silence absence dissolves rising tensions.
Shadow Milk has a family, siblings. If three days were all it took for them to get this bothered, then imagine what running would do…Â
Could they stomach watching another face be added to that stack of missing flyers? Would seeing the fallout be worse than constantly looking over their shoulder for threats?
How different would it be if they stayed? Could Sage survive if they did…
!!!
Sage scrubs their hair, frizzing the shampoo around until it’s pouring down in thick globs. Bubbles float and pop as they take a deep breath, fangs glistening and cheeks puffing. Water assaults their ears when they go under.
Sound distorts, heartbeats simmer. Their buzzing thoughts cool as they count to ten. One beat, two beats, three beats. Color returns to their face, warming the space between reluctance and doubt.
Red-hot fire flames their lungs, eyes squeezed tight. Sage waits and listens to sloshing water until it all becomes too much.
A gasp rings out, loud and rushed, as tides crash down. Oxygen floods their airways as Sage resurfaces. Soap and water gush down with gravity, covering their face and stinging their eyes. Stars twinkle and shine, crackling like static as blue dough grips strands.
One comb, then two, then three. Fingers glide through tangles, washing suds free.
. Â . Â .
It feels foolish to disregard the idea. Staying on campus is a death sentence. One wrong move could make Sage fall out of Pure Vanilla’s favor, thus ensnaring them further… but running away has its own consequences.
They know next to nothing about this world’s customs, its cultures. Magic exists, for one; mystical appendages for another.Â
What would Sage do if they slipped in front of someone and suddenly questions emerged? How would they respond?
No, it’s too risky.Â
They would stand out like a sore thumb, a milk crown among orchids. Besides, Sage mustn’t forget that this world is from a storybook. Limitations are bound to restrict their options even if roadblocks have yet to present themselves.Â
Who's to say there is even a world beyond campus?Â
The story took place within the school. There were mentions of an outside world: comments from the author, theories from easter eggs, and lore drops on social platforms; however, Sage doesn’t know how far this reality is willing to go.
Are they trapped in a gilded cage, or is actuality kinder than its predecessor?
. Â . Â .
Water rushes once more past their ears. Sage ruffles their hair clean, relishing in the warmth. Constellations gleam, stardust spins, and white lashes lift, welcoming a calming sensation to fall upon discarded shoulders.
A bottle of body wash is poured onto a pink loofa. It smells sweet and a bit tangy, not blueberry per se, but something similar. They smush the soap round and round, creating a frothy texture.
The loofa glides across their skin as they scrub and scrub, chasing the scent of vanilla away.
“Ignorance is powerless*”, a divine quote Sage heard somewhere from a book or a show. It sums up their situation perfectly.
Option after option, choice after choice; it all leads back to a single possibility they would rather not face… but night has fallen and with it denial’s departure.Â
Sage is stuck for better or worse, immobilized within a husk of a rotting corpse.
No matter how they look at it, this body is a hindrance. It’s forcing their hand to remain compliant, to keep them submissive.
They were chosen for this role, this character who has already left center stage… but for what purpose?
Sage is an ordinary person living day by day.Â
They go to work, teach, eat, and repeat. Some days are spent reading while others are more social. Weekends flash by in a colorful haze of hangout sessions and personal projects. The most exciting relationship they ever experienced ended with a person-shaped hole in their heart and graveyard visits every second Sunday!Â
What does this world want with them? Why Sage specifically? What could they possibly provide that is so invaluable to the point of ripping them from their home, their cats?
Witches, they miss their cats.
. Â . Â .
A chill settles beneath their bones. Sage sets the loofa down, soap long dissolved upon foggy waters. Warmth trembles from their fingers while dough grows soggy and brittle.
They lean back once more, task completed, yet receiving little relief. Between one blink and the next, a soft breath is exhausted, leaving fatigue in its wake.
Sage is so tired.Â
They always knew life was unfair, but this is just cruel.Â
Fate crawls along their arms, pulling taut like strings on a marionette. Density paints a smile atop their mask, dotting their nose, and blushing their cheeks. Fortune dresses their dough in shining sequins and glitter, a false prophet no more than decor on a stage.
They’re like a prized jester performing for an audience of one, except their satirical jabs have long since dried. How depressing…
Is this their verdict? To live a life predestined by a force unseen, to go along with the whims of another, never to truly taste the joys of a life lived freely? It would be easier if Sage gave in, followed a blurry script, and kept to the sidelines, hidden but safe.
Pure Vanilla wants Shadow Milk alive. He wouldn’t kill them, not physically at least.Â
Sage could keep him compliant. They are a good actor. It’s not hard to follow orders, to simply listen and obey. They could stick by his side, isolating themself once more in his company; push Shadow Milk’s family away to prevent more blood from spilling.
It’s what he would have wanted, the man who shares their face buried six feet under. Sage could still look for a way home. They don’t need to risk their safety to achieve their goals.Â
The school provides for them. They have a roof over their head, food on their plate, and while yes, Pure Vanilla makes them uncomfortable, it wouldn’t be the worst fate imaginable… You know to live, to dine, and exist with a murderer by your side, one who constantly belittles you.
Sage could outlive Shadow Milk’s decision-
!!!
A jarring slam echoes through the cavernous tile. It rings loud and clear, silencing Sage’s spiraling thoughts before they could darken any further. Their cheeks sting from the pressure, water sloshing around porcelain entrapment.Â
They lean forward, staring into a galaxy of hues, chest heaving. A minute passes, then two, then three. Time floats as water drips from drooping strands. Blue hands move from face to neck, chasing stress away.
…It feels like surrender, like history repeating in a timeloop. Sage knows the ending, has seen the consequences firsthand in tubs filled with blue blood. They won’t be the reason a second pair of wrists meets the same fate.
Pure Vanilla won’t kill them, but he will extinguish their soul… and that’s all Sage has left to lose. It’s something they are unwilling to part with.
. Â . Â .
The temperature shifts from freezing to biting cold as wobbling legs stand for the first time in hours. A tug has gargles wailing from the tub’s drain as the water-soap mixture disappears into darkness. Sage grabs a towel and dries their anxieties away.
A plan is forming, the bare bones of survival. Rational thought arrives at their doorstep, knocking instantly as if to say, “Are you done with your pity party yet? Time’s ticking.”
The mental image has a smile flickering across their face. Right.
If they were brought into this world just to continue the story Shadow Milk left, what would be the point of calling in an understudy? Why not turn back the hands of time and allow the original actor a second shot at stardom?
No, that winding path of deceit and betrayal would only result in Sage’s demise; thus, forget the script. Burn the book, crumble its pages, and rip apart the main plot. They never liked fairy tales.Â
Why start now?
Sage will write their own ending, one where blood and carnage never see the light of day again.Â
A tug carries the towel down, wrapping it around their figure snuggly. Water drips off stardust and constellations, tapping against the ground in a soft rhythm. Their feet carry them across the room, cold spikes marring each step.
Blue light reflects off the sink’s edge. They ignore the giggling laughter coming from the crystalline gem beneath and wipe a hand across foggy glass.
Cerulean eyes stare back. Rounded cheeks on a small head twist and turn. Blue frosting frames pointed ears, hanging loose and free. A sharp tooth pokes out of lifting lips.Â
It’s Sage. Despite everything, it’s still them.
. Â . Â .
Deep breaths, in and out. Alright. Okay.
A comb glides through their hair, untangling knots and smoothing stray strands. One pass, then two, then three. Heat caresses the wet mop while a blow dryer hums. Moisture evaporates at a slow pace, but they feel better when all is said and done.
Lotion is applied. Makeup removed. Tears dried.
Between one blink and the next, Sage is dressed in the softest pajamas they could find, a simple top and bottom. No flares or drama follow, just a quiet moment of withdrawal.
…Tonight will be restless. They have much to accomplish if Sage wishes to stay afloat.
First, they must find out who took their journal. Its absence is evident, growing like thorns around soft flesh. Mystic comes to mind. She threatened a room inspection, and Sage needs confirmation. It would de-weed the dread.
An overcoat is thrown atop their shoulders. It’s big, sleeves falling past their hands, but it keeps the chill at bay.
Second, they need information on this body, on Shadow Milk. The facade still marks their skin even if the act has dropped. People won’t see the person beneath, at least not right away, if Sage can help it.Â
The internet will help find what they lack. Social media is their holy grace to cursed skin.
Shoes are located, slipped on without a second thought. They tap once, then twice against the ground, proving fit for perfection.
Third, magic exists. Spells, wizardry, sorcery; the kind of bullshit you would only see in bedtime stories and fictional jargon coexist between the veils of modern machinery… Sage will have to learn it.
The means of how they got here are unknown, but magic feels like the right direction. How else would you explain all of this?
The bathroom door creaks as they move past it. A blue light shines on the sink’s edge. Sage picks up the soul jam and glares at it… The gem does not respond.
They pocket it.
And, finally, the murder. Sage is not stupid. They will not risk their life trying to be a hero, however they can’t ignore the truth. If Pure Vanilla was willing to cross that line once, who’s to say he won’t again?
Sage needs every bullet in their arsenal. Clearing the fog may prove vital to their safety, their defense against insanity.
…If things go south, they will run. But for now, Sage will wait; collect as many weapons as they can and prepare for danger if it sees fit to strike.
Deep breaths in and out. It’s a plan, a date. They can do this. Sage can do this.
Their shoes drum against the ground, moving past scattered remains of despair and sorrow. The air becomes stale. Steam fades.Â
Sage bends down, hand grazing cream colored cuffs. Shadow Milk’s… No, Pure Vanilla’s cardigan is collected; bunched within their grip.
However, that’s 3am talk, right now, priorities come first in the form of a long overdue promise.
No one spots them as they leave their dorm, silent as a mouse. The night air kisses their face in a cold embrace. Twinkling stars guide their feet down a winding path.Â
Light from curtained windows catches their silhouette. Grasshoppers sing a song as they pass. It sounds like applause, as if this decision is a monumental moment.
They round a corner, hidden behind tall buildings and fenced off tree lines. Perfect.Â
Stones, leaves, and rocks are gathered within their arms. A circle of stones and a pile of nature quickly form in the harrowed space. Wind rustles their movement, tossing Sage’s hair as they scrounge behind an overgrown dumpster.
No matter how pristine a school can be, kids will be kids. Red glints off moonlight and glee.
A lighter.
They clutch Pure Vanilla’s cardigan tighter and smile.
Their shoes skid across the ground, kicking up soil and dirt in their haste. The night howls with laughter, buzzing in anticipation. It takes two clicks for the lighter to ignite; even less so for the pile to catch.
A simple nod, a step back, and a quick moment of remembrance for those who have fallen to make this point. For Shadow Milk and the unnamed girl whose corpse never got a proper rest, they allow anger to consume the sorrow.
Sage chucks the cardigan into red and orange, watching as cotton turns gray and bland.Â
I did some character designs for an A03 story I write called "It's a Trust Fall, Really." It was just supposed to be a little doodle page, but I had so much fun that it came out fully finished. Lol. I guess working on animation after animation isn't as healthy as I thought.
Sage's hair is my favorite. I love the shapes and multi-colored sections. The uniforms are a bit bland, but they work for what I was going for. Learning more about pens on Krita. The dot pen is Peak. Why I'm I just learning this now?
If you want to read the story, here's the link: It's a Trust Fall, Really
(It's 16+ rated! Don't read if you are younger, please and thank you!)
Story summary below the cut <3
Summary:
Sage doesn’t remember falling, but they do remember the impact.
Waking up in a reality not your own is a startling realization. It breaks you in a way you never thought possible. Suddenly everything is new and no one knows you, not the real you, and no one ever will… Nothing makes sense, but Sage always takes the truth for cold, hard facts.
It's a fact that they are now in a fantasy novel. It’s a fact that they are now a cookie. It’s a fact that “Sage” has possessed the body of “Shadow Milk”. It’s a fact that they must survive this cold, harsh reality they have now found themself in.
They are being watched. They are being hunted. They are losing this battle of mental fortitude, and Sage isn’t sure they can make it out alive.
Or
This is my version of a yandere transmigration story for this fandom! It's like one of those transmigration manga you can find on Webtoon, but I add my own spin on it. IT WILL GET DARK! Violence and threats are frequent in this fiction, so please read at your own risk! Stay safe and healthy! I'm writing this fic in between my other ones as a "funny ha ha" more than anything else. Updates will be slow!
*This chapter contains mentions of self-harm, blood, injuries, fighting, abusive relationships/behavior, gaslighting/manipulation, panic attacks, and dissociation. Don’t read this if it triggers you! I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Please and thank you <3*
“Bluebird! Witches, are you alright? Does anything hurt? You shouldn’t space out in front of a door-“
Time taunts them, flowing like water down a stream. Cold, harrowing dread settles between their ribs, cracking bone to make way for frost. They can’t move, won’t move; too afraid of the skinwalker before them.
Speak of the Devil, and he shall appear.
Pure Vanilla walks with a confidence, a demented type of bravery, spewing concern after concern as if the warmth from his hand wasn’t branding Sage’s chest. The bluff spins and twists, building upon false care as his shoes tap closer and closer.
Each sound sends a tidal wave of fright down their throat, drowning them. The crunch of glass amplifies the intensity.
A breath is taken, stolen from their lungs, when the golden figure descends, crouched down with burning eyes. Gold and blue roam and inspect, much like Mystic’s own, but lacking the empathy necessary for reassurance.
Figurative lights flash overhead, an unwanted encore demanded from the audience… Sage is left floundering for lines; too spent for an act yet required to perform.
“Oh dear,” Pure Vanilla sighs, “You’re bleeding.”Â
Sage blinks, caught between shock and detachment.Â
They glance down in a moment of foolishness. A trickle of blue gushes from their hand, cut in a simple line, but eerily similar to the wounds hidden beneath cloth.Â
“Oh…,” they trail off; lost, confused, and unnerved by the sudden shift in tone.
Pure Vanilla takes it all in stride.Â
He smiles sweetly, that darkness gone, replaced with a gentle kindness too jarring to be genuine. His hair falls over his shoulders, brushing against Sage’s cheek as he stands.Â
Their hand is grasped tenderly while gravity succumbs to desire.
Echoing footsteps take them back to the beginning, to that set of chairs discarded and alone.Â
A push has Sage settled while Pure Vanilla hums, delighted. The fondness is clear to see. Eyes bore into them like the sun basking down on still waters, loving and warm.
It sends a shiver down their back, unease rising from the whiplash of emotion.
A chuckle falls from widening cheeks; Pure Vanilla takes their discomfort for embarrassment. He lowers his hand to grasp Sage’s, unwillingly pulling them closer. The scent of Vanilla invades their nose as warning bells ring in their head.
“It’s not a deep cut, thankfully, but you need to be more mindful, love-”
Pain thumps.
It carries Sage’s eyes down. They blink and breathe, looking at the small glass shard Pure Vanilla picked from their wound. Lights reflect off the bead, bouncing off blood in an artful display of passion.
…What are they doing?
Sage turns their head, ponytail bobbing with the action. Their eyes move from the clock to the swaying curtains, traveling from the cabinets to the table.Â
Shapes become recognizable as they focus on broken teacups and closed doors. Words buzz in their ear, leading their mind back to golden locks and cotton eyes.
This… this isn’t right.Â
The click of a clasp coming undone draws their gaze. Glaring red creaks open while a box of Band-Aids is pulled free.Â
Pure Vanilla shakes the container, “What color would you like? Blue? Purple? Some even have patterns-“
Laughing at awkward situations, chatting like old friends, holding hands… Sage didn’t know what they were expecting from the big bad wolf. Perhaps a fight, a heated dance between con artist and victim; something tangible blooming across their skin.
They prepared for violence, a moment of anger filled by waning resentment, not sunshine and rainbows.
This can’t be what the playwright wrote. It’s not what Sage discovered; the puzzle broken to bits, unrecognizable in its infancy. Someone isn’t following the script, and Sage can’t tell who-
…Take a breath. Think. Panicking will only shift the narrative down a slippery slope.
The journal was their first clue, their maiden voyage towards insanity. While not directly stated, it hinted at control, the draining of life. Pure Vanilla was a critic molding glitter into paste. He turned the glee of a budding relationship into doubt and suspicion.
Cracks formed, that perfect image shattering under the pressure of reality… It weighed heavily until there was nothing left to stain.
The text messages foreshadowed the fall. Shadow Milk was already trudging through waves, questioning the stability of their connection… Pure Vanilla pushed too far by proving reliance suffocating.
The words “Did Pure Vanilla do this” clash with the rolling tide. Mystic’s concerned eyes haunt them, distance be damned. Care and support radiate from sleeping secrets beneath woolen sleeves.
Its devotion turned rotten, young love damaged by buzzing flies. The rose-tinted glasses shattered in favor of harsh truths… But this man does not act like a disheveled mess.Â
No, his lines are calculated, denial at its finest.Â
Pure Vanilla sits there with a chipper smile, talking about colors as if they are pieces of literature, pausing to see if Sage will respond, then continuing, awaiting the silence… Like it’s rehearsed, like it’s natural, like it’s routine.
Like he is expecting Sage to remain civil, to sit there and nod their head as if nothing happened; like the breakup was water under the bridge instead of a tsunami of bleeding emotions.
Suddenly, the words “They fight all the time” sing a different tune… One Sage is not fond of because ignorance tempts desperation-
!!!
White against blue, peaking out of cream-covered wrists. A guiltless nudge riding the fabric up by an inch, the action deliberate and purposeful.
Sage jumps.Â
Their chair scrapes across tile, loud and furious. The tension snaps, replaced by a growing sense of apprehension. They pull their arm close to their chest, taking one then two steps back.
Time waits, holding its breath as Pure Vanilla tilts his head, innocently blinking at Sage while his arms float above empty space; bandaid clutched loosely (It’s yellow. The same hue as Shadow Milk’s cardigan… Not that it matters).
He doesn’t look surprised by the reveal.Â
His eyes don’t widen, smile doesn’t falter. He sits there posed and elegant, patiently watching Sage as if they ruined some holy act… As if he knew of the damage but was verifying its existence-
Oh, Witches… How long was Pure Vanilla outside that door? How much did he hear?
They're gonna be sick.Â
Nausea spins, tainting their airways with bitter discomfort. Their legs shake, hand worming around that loose thread like a safeguard. A tug carries their sleeve up as if hiding the damage would make the crime any less severe.
Butterflies beat, withering like maggots, in their stomach. Blue and gold eyes wander, an intensity behind them, painted concern decorating silent questions…Â
Sage hates it, his gaze.Â
They hate how it lingers, how it wanders between each part of them, how it passes over their injuries with surgical precision.Â
Even rabbits know to run when faced by danger. That small voice screaming in their ear agrees, wholeheartedly. They should flee, hide, find help before tragedy strikes.
…However, actors don’t convey fear on stage lest the performance fall short.Â
Acting is certainty given life. If Pure Vanilla catches wind of their doubt, then any hope of fulfilling the script will crumple, Sage along with it… The theatrics are the only thing keeping them afloat. They can’t lose that life preserver, not now when the waves threaten to pull them under.
The rules are simple: don’t get swept away, remain in character, and, above all else, find a convincing closing remark. Only then will curtains be called and freedom granted.
Sage takes a deep breath, in and out, then reaches for that mask, the one with Shadow Milk’s name on it. They pull from the very recesses of their mind… and let anger consume them.
A frustrated sound leaves their lips, head turned to Pure vanilla, meeting his eyes. Just as quickly, the action is halted, head snapping to the left as if Sage can’t keep the connection. Their hand clutches their arm, bringing it closer, tugging on discomfort…then the pot boils over.
They grit their teeth and march across the room to where their bag and cane got flung too, not speaking nor making a noise other than dismal.Â
Fire burns each step, each moment of silence. Both items are grabbed harshly: bag slung over their shoulder, cane snatched into awaiting hands.Â
Blood drips down the handle, slow and steady. Drip, drip, drip.
“Darling, what are you doing?” A chair squeaks, blond locks sway.
“Class.” Escaping.
“What?” A confused tone, bordering on hurt.
“I’m going to class. I can’t be tardy. Too many absences,” Cold, apathetic, final. Sage takes a step towards the door, cane clacking, shoes tapping. Not rushed, but not slow earlier; they shove their anxiety down.
Pure Vanilla stands, takes a step, “No.”
They blink and stop, bag thumping against their back, throat bobbing. Fury simmers, steam heating their face while Sage’s heart beats faster. “Excuse me?”Â
Their ponytail arches behind them as they snap to face their co-star. Eyebrows lower, sitting atop squinted eyes. A frown attaches to their face, loathing adorning their mask.
“You're hurt. Let me help. Come sit back down. We should talk-“
“We have nothing to discuss,” the bite shocks even Sage with its intensity, but they don’t yield. Anger flushes, collapsing wildly like a heavy downpour.
An eyebrow is raised, arms crossed. Quiet slips by, judgment hanging above. The clock ticks, repeating motion like a metronome, stewing annoyance. Tick, tick, tick.
Pure Vanilla sighs, “So we’re doing this-“
“That conversation was private! You had no right to eavesdrop!”
“I wanted to see you! It’s been hours, love, and you haven’t responded to any of my messages. I was worried. I just wanted to check up on you. I have a right to-“
“I owe you nothing,” Sage seethes, fist clenching around their cane.Â
Their shoulders rise to cover their ears, a bit of shame filling the empty space between.Â
They imagine what Shadow Milk would feel in this situation: overlapping hatred, a frenzy of resentment, touches of humiliation. “If I wanted you to know, then I would have confided in you! But I didn’t, still don’t want to… I-”
They take a breath, fake tears glisten, but don’t fall, “You broke my trust in more ways than one. I don’t want to talk to you. I thought I made myself clear. Period.” They turn on their heels, cane scraping across the ground.
“No, wait,” Pure Vanilla reaches a hand out, but Sage swerves, “How can I make this better? Do you want an apology? I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intent to overhear you, but I didn’t want to intrude. I know you are going through a rough patch with your family. I thought-“
“I don’t want your excuses, nor your apologies. It won’t heal the hurt, won’t fix what you broke.” Two paces forward.
“Then what should I do? Please, tell me. Don’t walk away, dear.” Followed steps, shared heat hovering over their back. A continued march overlooked by a lingering shadow. Their anxiety festers.
Sage scoffs, grip tightening, blood slicking their hold, “Maybe start by respecting my wishes-“
“You're being unreasonable, Bluebird. You know I had to do it. I didn’t have a choice.”
Silence.Â
Hearts beat within mute prisons as the narration turns on its head. Tones shift, tides darken, and the feeling of crawling ants resurfaces along their spine. They don’t look back, don’t turn to see the cause of alarm… Sage stands and waits.
[Blood drips on the floor as glowing texts merge with soft spoken words: “You know I had to do it.” Pounding fists meet wood while choked sobs peel away at their mind.]
Flashes of memories, not their own, twirl round and round, dread piling to the sky. Thunder claps, lightning following after.
[The scent of blueberries, a light snuffed out, tears falling free, a continued rant, ice-cold water splashing against his exposed skin-]
Sage closes their eyes, clutching their cane tighter. Fighting down the distress.
Calm down, breathe.Â
Focus on the performance; nothing else matters. He didn’t mean it that way. It is not a confession. Stay on topic. Don’t let the foreboding consume you. It’s word association at its finest, miscommunication at its worst.
Keep going. You’re almost there. The exit is within reach.
“… You always had a choice, a chance to choose,” their voice comes out weak, cracking but not breaking. “Just like I did,” inhale, exhale. A moment slips by.
Their wrists sting, crying from somber sorrows, “And I made a decision, a call… You know that.” Shoulders rise, an act of practiced shame. Tick, tick, tick. Drip, drip, drip.
“It’s over, we’re over, it’s all over. I’m done. I… You need to respect that and let me go.” Perfect. Movie star quality tied together with a big shining bow. Hallmark would be proud.
The critics are raving. The lights dim. End scene.
Sage gave Pure Vanilla what he wanted: closure.Â
The texts stated his demand, the locked room followed up, and Sage provided. They “talked” about the break-up, in person, with blankly declared emotions. There is no room for doubt or confusion.
Add Golden Cheese’s threat and the school’s growing animosity to their expanding list of problems… and this outcome is for the best.
There would be nothing tying them together. They could go their separate ways, live their own lives, and Sage could put all this damn drama behind them.
It’s a glistening reality, a will-o'-the-wisp beckoning them closer to a false sense of safety. A moment of reprieve they so desperately desire…
Their shoulders relax, a weight lifts. A breath leaves their lungs while pattering beats slow within their rib cage.Â
Sage lifts their leg, the action halfway through completion when-
!!!
A harsh tug on the back of Shadow Milk’s cardigan catches their throat.Â
Sage chokes; their eyes widen.
And, right, this man (supposedly) murdered someone, and Shadow Milk was (apparently) the only witness… How could they forget?
. . .
Oh. Oh no.
. . .
Sage is going to die.Â
Pure Vanilla yanks them back; their cane goes clattering to the ground, bag sliding under the table. Sage struggles, mind fixating on fight, fight, fight!Â
Panic sets in, consuming every facet of their being. They try to reach for the hands holding them, but miss because they are too short. Frustration grows as airways constrict.
Black dots spread quickly like rain on a windowpane. They don’t think, just react.
Sage throws their arm back as they are pulled closer and elbows Pure Vanilla in the chest, hard!
In seconds, the tides shift.Â
Beautiful, sweet oxygen fills their lungs as Sage gasps, gently holding the now-aggrieved bruise on their neck. They wobble on unsteady legs, pausing, catching their breath… Pained sounds ring out from behind them.
Emotions spike, fear follows.
Sage bolts.Â
They ignore the ache in their knee, the soreness of their feet, the agony pulsing from their head, and run! The room blurs by in a flurry of colors, mind reeling.
Cabinets bang while chairs clatter as Sage collides with them. A mess gathers in their wake, cluttering the floor. The noise turns fear into fright, a step closer to complete hysteria.
Footsteps twist, uncoordinated and sloppy. Their side hits a bookcase, loose novels falling free, slamming upon the floor. Trembling arms grasp a shelf like a lifeline while stars blink out of dazed eyes.
A shake has their head mended, the world righted, but with it the daunting revelation that Sage… Sage had run in the wrong direction.
The door, the way out? Past the looming threat, recovering as they speak. Fuck. They are blocked in, enclosed, and an entire table’s length away from safety!
Their breathing hitches, reality biting cold. Stamania runs low. It teeters on the edge of exhaustion only still functioning due to high adrenaline.
Pure Vanilla rises, clutching his chest. It’s like a horror movie when their eyes meet.
A shadow casts perfectly over his face, features distorted and dark, yet glowing from unbridled anger. His lips thin into a small line, eyebrows ticking together. Light passes over his glasses, announcing his hidden irritation.
He takes a step, a stride, a march towards Sage and-
A book tumbles to the ground, sliding embarrassingly far from its desired mark.Â
Sage freezes, arm still thrown out in a stop motion capture. Their eyes land on their failed strike, hope fading into dust. A heavy exhale snaps their attention away. Widening blues meet a pointed gaze, one filled with exasperation too ticked to remain passive.
Pure Vanilla’s frown deepens, a cyan glow reflecting off his soul jam… before he lunges.
Thunderous footfalls charge at them, quickly closing the distance.Â
Clutter is dodged, obstacles treated like loose pieces of paper; thrown and discarded. Panic takes hold as Sage barely stumbles out of the way. Pure Vanilla pushes off the bookcase, reaching towards them, but somehow misses.
The slight brush of their hair jumpstarts Sage’s startled mind, forcing them to focus. They pick themself up on unsteady legs and dart forward, Pure Vanilla right behind them.Â
It’s a deadly game of cat and mouse as they race towards hopeless freedom, but veer at the last second using the table as a buffer.Â
Curtains kiss their cheeks, taunting their tired feet. Could they use the window as an escape? They are on the first floor. Sage could make it, but if the windows are latched, then it’s game over.
They aren’t willing to take the gamble. Sage keeps running, the clock keeps ticking.
One pass, then two, then three. Time becomes a symbol of dire consequence. Exhaustion drops like a gauge in a video game, red glaring as breaths become labored. A glance shows the treatment is not shared as Pure Vanilla doesn’t waver.
Their knee screams. Tears glisten, knowing their time is up, but foolish desperation barrels through.
Sage grabs a fallen chair and uses their momentum to fling it into Pure Vanilla’s path. Luck has the action succeeding. He tumbles, falling to the ground. The thud welcomes a small speck of hope into their heart, believing that victory is achievable after all.
They turn and scurry towards the door, praying and pleading that the small headstart would be enough.Â
Blue dough meets oak wood, almost slamming against the surface in their haste. The handle is grasped clumsily, a few moments are lost struggling.Â
It opens. Light shines. Relief washes over them-
!!!
There is a tug on their ponytail.
A whine leaves their throat as they are dragged back into the room. The door slams shut while Sage is shoved.Â
Balance is lost in favor of yanking their hair free. Wobbling legs twist and crumple while gravity loosens. A minute of rational thought has Sage bracing for impact.
Their hands slide across glass, knees following suit, skin peeling open on sharp beads as they plummet right into the shattered teacups. Blood springs from their wounds, etching into the floor as the scent of blueberries becomes sickening.
A click sounds behind them. Sage turns their head. Pure Vanilla gazes back. Lock trapping fate behind closed doors.
He takes a step. Sage flinches. Glass digs deeper.
Their arm is grasped. Blood trickles down. Distance is crossed.
A chair squeaks, toppled upright. Sage is pushed down, seated below; back to the table, Pure Vanilla in front. Their eyes wander to the ground, chest heaving.Â
Exhaustion spent, adrenaline along with it. The clock ticks in time with their heart.
…This is it. This is the end. Sage failed. They are going to die!
A stifled sob leaves pitched lips. Teeth grind together as tears fall, gliding down blood-soaked knees. They don’t care for silence as hope is dragged away below darkening waters.Â
Hiccups jerk their shoulders, the action allowing hair to slip past their neck, ponytail unraveling. A curtain of starry locks frames their face, eyes squeezed tight as glitter slips free. Pink falls from their hair, the scrunchie plopping to the ground-
!!!
A thud sounds next to their ear, loud and venomous. Fright spikes as they brace for impact-
…but none ever comes, instead replaced by a gentle dap to their knee, blood collecting on white cotton. Disinfectant stings, brussels snagging on shards, and open injuries alike. The pain subsides as skin is cleaned, revealing jarred scratches.
Sage blinks and breathes.
Shapes become blurred through tears, hiccups shaking free. No words are spoken, no thoughts laid out, just the sound of misery paired with rustling efforts at healing.Â
Their eyes stayed glued to the hands picking shards out of blue dough, confusing reality for madness.
Swab, dap, pinch, clack. One by one, the beads pile onto tile, the scent of blueberries sweetening the air. The work is monotonous, creating a rhythm Sage desperately clings to.
Swab, take a breath in. Dap, let it out. Pinch, breathe. Clack, release.
Blood drips, stinging their legs; scratches cleaned and weeping… They’re alive, the proof aching across their body. Every pulse has a story, every bruise a battle fought, yet relief doesn’t come.
Relief is a mercy Sage is not awarded.Â
Relief would be allowing their cats to curl beside them. Relief would be handing them a book and a cup of tea. Relief would be a little apartment in a crumby neighborhood, ruined but loved and cherished.
No, this action is not a blessing because it means Sage is still alive. It means the curtains are hung on rusted hinges, and the performance is still proceeding.
It means that Pure Vanilla has a need for them, for Shadow Milk… He doesn’t want them dead, rather alive and breathing-
!!!
“Hands.”
Sage’s head snaps up, tears slipping down. Blue meets quiet fury, an uplifted brow, and an outstretched hand. The demand is fierce, battling against their dazed delirium.
A wave of protest dies on their tongue, body acting before mind. Their throat bobs, confusion evident and conflict known, however options wear thin.
Blood doesn’t treat fabric kindly, Sage realizes as they unclench their fists. It peels away from open wounds like velcro and leaves nasty stains. A fresh wave of tears fight to run free, yet Sage resists.
Hiccups quiet down as connection is made, hand to hand. Eyes dry while glass is picked, blood cleaned, and disinfected applied. Swab, dap, pinch, clack.Â
The wounds reflect their knees, scraped skin, and rough lines. Stinging muscles frown when bright colors hide the hurt. Pure Vanilla carefully places bandaid after bandaid atop each injury.
They overlap and crisscross unnecessarily tight. Differing hues creating a flower garden of false promise upon blue dough… The job finishes too quickly, leaving little time to process.
Sage leans back, rubbing tired eyes as Pure Vanilla stands. He places the bandaid box back in the med kit… It closes with a click.
. . .
A fog rolls in, dust floating between each ray of light. It’s a picturesque scene holding the stillness in a vise-like grip. Waters recede, tides roll out, clouds remain buzzing with agitation.
Peaceful isn’t the exact term Sage is searching for; however, suspenseful is too passive-
“Must we fight every time we meet?”
Their eyes shift over, starry locks passing a distant shore. A choice is laid out, not as a gift but rather a snare… Danger sits pretty and poised when words become too much, the choice too grand.
Shoulders bob, a frown painted across their mask. Cracks chip and splinter, uncovering more “Sage” than they would like to show. “Depends, are you gonna grab me again, or are we past the point of respecting boundaries?”
They aren’t sure where the bravery slips through, how fear shrivels so quickly. Everything feels heavy, weighted down by an unseen force. Their mind floats between ignorant bliss and a deep-seated awareness.
A blink has colors tilting, affecting the way the stage appears. Painterly strokes blend backdrops to props. Stage lights dim, buzzing faintly in the gathering hush.Â
Their hands clench, band-aids crinkling while they breathe…Â
An ache gathers in their head, beating against their skull…Â
Eyes slip shut, a bitter taste on their tongue…Â
Pure Vanilla’s voice dials into a scratchy blob of noise…Â
Fading behind as-Â
!!!
Hands on their cheeks, pull and pinch and squeeze, while a twisted smile craves words into thumping hearts, “Do my concerns mean nothing to you?”
Sage looks to the left where Pure Vanilla once stood. They blink, confused, and glance back at the actor before them… What?
The world tilts as Pure Vanilla molds their face like dough, yanking them closer, “I tried so hard to understand your perspective, dear. I reread every message, listened to every plea, gave every ounce of tolerance I had left to satisfy you-“
He wasn’t there before, and wasn’t as mad. Sage’s face wasn’t as wet; their tears had dried. Their lungs weren’t heaving, mind not frazzled.
“-I cherished those moments too. I always have… and I’m overjoyed you feel the same. I want to spend more-“
Time lapses caught between the present and illusionary past. The pain registers slowly, the words even more so. They can’t faze the demand, the weeping heart.
“But sometimes, just sometimes, you can be so difficult, love. No matter what I do, it seems I can never bridge that gap. I miss a cue, a direction, and you tease me for it, but that’s okay because I love you-“
A faint hum sits in the back of their throat, vocal cords strumming a tune they can’t remember. Stupid bravery sits squeezed within their chest, changing into frustration the more Sage regains awareness.
“-It was a blessing to see you this morning. I knew, I knew you wouldn’t leave me! I believed, and here you are… And- and we can forget all those things you said-“
It’s a horrible, no-good emotion worming its way into rational thought. The pinching drives the passion, fueling the fire. They want to understand, to reach into that fog and pull that memory forward, but it falls loosely like grains of sand through finger tips.
Because they know distantly, words were sprung from their lips, yet clarity remains obsolete. It rallied the beast, poked the bear, and now the repercussions are thrashing; however, they can’t remedy the damage without knowing the carnage.
. Â . Â .
Instead, Sage focuses on something they can control.Â
They grasp at Pure Vanilla’s hands, pulling, twisting, prying. It’s like gripping steel off a magnet, “Let go!”
But the plea goes unheard, fingers gripping tighter, strain coiling tauter.Â
“Everything will be okay now! We can work through this together, and everything will go back to the way it was before, put all this silliness behind us-“
Sage closes their eyes and grunts, leaning back, shoving against Pure Vanilla’s forearms. Leverage is granted as Goldilocks rambles on, unaware.Â
“I’ll be right here with you every step of the way! A nice shoulder to cry on and company whenever you need, doesn’t that sound nice? With us, together, whole again?”
They wrench the threat away, nails scraping along their cheeks as freedom is achieved. A trickle of blood slides down from a resulting cut, forcing a wince and a pained sound to slip free.
…Dead silence follows.
Heavy breaths assault their lungs, a buzzing in their ear. Sage runs their thumb along the cut…Â
It’s small, not dangerous, barely even visible; nothing compared to the wounds on their hands and knees.
And yet it has Pure Vanilla collapsing into himself, “No, no, no, I,” he glances at his hands, blood underneath his nails, “I- I can fix this. You’re alright, you’re alright.” Personal space is invaded as golden locks sway.
A hand is brought up, and Sage flinches, speech rising until a warm glow shines against delicate dough. It’s a weird feeling, a tingling sensation that stitches skin back together. Blood recedes, bridges snap while white flecks dance in the air. The scent of vanilla overpowers the tang of blueberries.
“There, all fixed. You’re okay-“
“You could have done that this whole time?” Furry simmers. Injuries sing on their hands, their knees, their back, and throat.
Pure Vanilla titles his head, crooked smile dropping. He glances down, searching their person, before resting his gaze on their neck. A hum sounds out, “Yes, you should be more cautious, my love… She did a number on your neck-“
Ramblings go unanswered as Sage fumes. The performance is long forgotten in favor of developing disgust.Â
He’s a healer.Â
The man who puts Band-Aids on flower patches of pain is a healer. Options were laid out before him: a quick fix and a prolonged exposure. Pure Vanilla chose to let the hurt linger, not just from this incident but from past encounters with the one he proclaimed his devotion to.
The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind until the evidence was smeared across his stained hands. It’s a learned behavior, one acknowledging a darker psychology…Â
Was it a lesson? To heal one wound rather than both, a twisted moral view laden with improper perspective? Did he not see the push, the glass as his fault, thus not worth the-
. Â . Â .
Wait, she?Â
As in Golden Cheese, she? As in dimly lit hallways and glowing soul jams, she? As in constricting oxygen, bruise-shaped hand prints, and fear-ridden isolation, she?
“You were there the whole time? And you didn’t help?” Their hands grip the side of their chair, bandages crinkling.
Pure Vanilla snaps out of his spiral, smiling sweetly, “I know. She went too far-”
“How long were you following me?” Ants crawl along their back, face heating.Â
Images flash along with memories of uneasy emotions, the foreshadowing of gnawing worry. Eyes in corridors, the tapping of feet paces behind, insistent voices telling them to run, to hide… It dries their mouth.
“Darling, I-“
“No, how long?”
A moment passes. The clock ticks. Sage’s eyes thin, body coiling like a spring ready to pop.Â
“You looked lost, confused, and oh so terribly afraid. I meant to come sooner, to take your hand… but I suppose I was a little… stunned is all-“
“So from the beginning?” Sage closes their eyes, huddling further into themself. The frustration gets masked by a bitter tang rising up… They hadn’t noticed.
All that time slipping away, wandering astray, finding solace in ignorance, believing that Sage had even an ounce of control… There were signs.
A faint cyan glow with Golden Cheese, a looming presence hiding behind shadowy figures, a clearing instant of peace ruined by unsettling memories.Â
…It wasn’t Burning Spice who reached out when they fell, was it? The footsteps that followed after, were they also?
Nasusa spins.
“Bluebird, I just wanted-“
“Why are we here?”
“Pardon?”
Sage worms their tongue along their teeth, hands gripping tighter, head hanging lower, “I don’t want to be here. I wanna go to class. We don’t have anything to talk about, nor discuss… not anymore… I- I don’t get why you’re doing this-“
A strand of hair is chuffed behind their ear as fingers brush their head, “Darling, we-“
“Stop calling me that!” The tension snaps, thunder claps.Â
Sage breaths while tears flow, “I’m not your 'darling' or your 'love' or any other nickname branded onto my skin. I already told you we are over… If it’s about-“
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Bluebird, truly, but you can’t decide such things without me.” Hands move down, framing their face, lifting their head. Defiance meets gold and blue, a disturbing sight.
Gently, calmly, a thumb runs along, collecting their tears; rubbing a phantom cut. Sage bristles, “I can, I did. I-“
“No.”
“Your words are not final. Relationships are two-way streets. Ours crashed and burned along with-“
“Stop being so difficult. You are confused.” The grip tightens, threat looming.
Sage ignores it, “No, I’m not. You are not listening... I- I just want space and time, if anything else-“
“And what good did that do?” Pure Vanilla fires back. He snatches their hands, hefting them to their feet. Balance is lost as the rough motion battles with gravity. A grab to Shadow Milk’s cardigan has the sleeve torn down white fully on display.
Images of soft gray eyes and shaking, tender hands shatter to pieces, replaced by unwilling exposure. Bitter shame rushes against red-hot anger.
“I leave you alone, you hurt yourself. I give you space, you isolate. I allow you privacy, you run off looking for trouble. It’s not healthy, Shadow Milk!”
“And what you’re doing is?” Sage yanks their arm out of Pure Vanilla’s hold. They pull their sleeve up and step back.Â
It’s so eerily similar to before, a record spinning round and round, except this time, raw emotions lead them forward. Genuine passion pours out, stage cues forgotten and abandoned.
They take a deep breath, “You can’t keep herding me like some sheep. I’m my own person. I can make my own decisions. I don’t need you to make them for me.”
“I would never-“
“But you are, have been this entire time!” Their voice rises, hair fanning out behind them. Sage can feel it move, failing like snakes. It’s cold and frazzled, leaving little electric shocks from fiction.
“I keep telling you I’m done, but you won’t listen. You’re too blind to see past your own ego, dragging me alone like some misbehaving child… I should have listened to Mystic’s warning and stayed away when I had the chance-“
!!!
Sage blinks as the scenery changes, head snapped to the side. They bring a hand up to their cheek. It’s hot, stinging in a way only a slap could produce. A turn shows Pure Vanilla’s arm raised, chest heaving, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.
Their gut twists, anger battling with a sudden burst of agitation. Tears spill as hesitation coils, words tied together in a jumbled mess of disbelief.
Something stops them from retaliating.Â
Their feet freeze, hand placed precariously on swelling skin. Sage’s mind screams, pleading to argue back because this proves their point…
But instead, their body shuts down.Â
It pauses and waits, remembering the action even when Sage can’t. The fog sits there just beyond their control, whispering promises of protection.
Pure Vanilla lowers his hand, clenching it to his chest, “Stop, just stop… I can’t do this again. That’s enough.” He takes a breath, closes his eyes. A moment passes, fear and fright playing off shadows and light.
Tears flow, both parties distraught. Sounds dwindle as hiccups are torn from wobbling lips. Eyes glance between approaching apprehensions.
An emotion shifts. A throat bobs, stance collapsing into a guilt-ridden posture… Pure Vanilla looks toward darkening blue dough, then back to his hand and shakes his head, wiping a stray tear away. Breaths overlap in time with the clock. Tick, tick, tick.
Something must show on Sage’s face because soon a step is taken. Separation is reconsidered, and divides are reduced. Misguided concern carries him forward.
Pure Vanilla collects one of Sage’s hands. He slowly intertwines their fingers, crinkling Band-Aids and holding wounds… Sage lets him; caution thrown to the wind not willingly, but rather complacently.Â
They stand there for a moment, allowing a shared… comfort to pass between them. Tension fizzles and expands, splashing sea foam against jarred rocks.
“You might think I’m being unfair… and perhaps I am. I can’t hold you responsible for each moment I miss you.” The limb is brought up, palm spread open, colorful bandages sprouting above.
“…I would hate to ever take you for granted*. You're my other half, my light, my love… I was blessed with a second chance. I would hate to ruin it, so I’ll be patient.” Lips delicately brush covered injuries, a light flickers, reflecting off glowing dough.
Sage feels wounds mold together, pulling at the sticky adhesive unpleasantly. The process is repeated. One hand traded for the other as his soul jam gleams faintly, Shadow Milk’s humming in response.
“Take as long as you need. I don’t mind… You can run and hide, fight me every step of the way if it makes you happy.” A tap has twitching prickles crawling along their knees, raised skin repairing damaged tissue.
“Change any aspect of yourself you please.” Bodies mingle closer, space fortified for warmth.
Pure Vanilla nestles his head between Sage’s chin and shoulder, hunching lower. His hair tickles their dough, swaying with the motion. They lean back to accommodate the weight.
Light sprouts, bobbing in the air, dancing upon their skin. “Alter your hair, try a new style, act anyway you like.”
Arms circle their back, a loose imitation of a hug, as their neck heals. The developing bruise fades, leaving slightly discolored dough in its wake. Pure Vanilla straightens, the deed done.
A soft smile worms its way across glistening cheeks. Their foreheads thud together, noses just inches apart… Sage stops breathing, mind concerningly blank, eyes shaking.
“I'll endure the pain, find reassurance in the struggle, for I know when the time comes, you’ll see my perspective and understand my plea. You’re fated after all, written in the very seams of our souls.”Â
Their hands go numb, knees weak. Breaths rattle against their ribcage, jittery and aching.Â
It’s quiet, the moment before the collapse. Winds blow around them, the eye of the storm housing their failing self-preservation.
A gentle squeeze smooths their hackles, hair spiking, eyes wincing. Lips land on their eyelashes, calming and tender. Tears like stardust pour and collect, disappearing down slippery cheeks.Â
For a second, Sage is blinded.Â
Light envelopes their vision while dazzling reds and oranges fizzle like fireworks. Shadows dance upon closed eyelids, throwing a new wave of alarm down their system.Â
Their face warms as swelling skin recedes. A bruise dies before it could even form, the outline of a handprint buzzing away into the ether. It plays on their mind, leaving proof of pain gone without a care, as if the threat was just a trick of the light.Â
Only the aftertaste of hurt remains, haunting their skin like a ghost, questioning their sanity.
Pure Vanilla leans back, smiling lovingly, face still stained with tear streaks, “Everything I do, I do for you, for your safety. It might not make sense now, but I promise one day it will. No matter what you go through or how badly you want to escape it, I will remain by your side amidst it all, hand in hand.”
A gentle squeeze, an added weight. Pure Vanilla lowers his head, resting it atop Sage’s.Â
The hug whirls into a sway as a hand combs through starry locks and twitching eyes. “So don't hurt yourself by saying such things, my love. It’s not good for you… And don’t talk to Mystic for a while… or the others. Perhaps all you need is some quality time spent away from pointless distractions. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
. Â . Â .
Sage doesn’t respond. They don’t think Pure Vanilla even wants them to. The silence grows as time passes. A hum lifts the tension, playing off tender melodies.
They stand stiffly while their body swings in a senseless rhythm… Was it supposed to be comforting, the movement, the embrace? Was Sage supposed to find support in the barbed wire prickling their dough?
Watching the performance left a mark, a carved opened wound festering in saltwater and seaweed. It leaks tears composed of hatred, fear, and confusion. Emotions battle for control, yet senses dull, withdrawing into the shell of a person left behind.
Their fingers go numb, body rigid, mind blank.Â
It’s startling how quiet they have become. Noise is a constant: feet tapping, clock ticking, mellow humming. However sound leaves them, vanishing below the tide.
Hiccups and sniffles calm while breaths slow. Tears disappear as eyes blink, and lifeless composure is achieved… They're like a doll bending to the will of its handler. How dreadful.
…For reasons untold, Sage can’t help but feel like they just got played.
Who was the actor again?
. Â . Â .
“I did it for you, y’know?” Reality fades back in as words are spoken. They graze Sage’s ear, leaving a furrow to their brow.
Tired eyes glance up, dazed and muddled. The action results in Pure Vanilla doing the same, yet opposite. Golden locks brush blue dough as attentive yearning displays once again.Â
“Underneath that prickly exterior, I know you care deeply for those around you. It’s an admirable trait, one I wish you would show more often, my dear.” He takes a pause.
A hand chuffs Sage’s face. Their eyebrows lower, heart missing a beat. Nerves bounce off unease like stones across a water’s surface.
“That night… what you saw, it wasn’t what it seemed… She’s not dead-“
“What?”
Awareness washes over them, head breaching for air, thrashing to keep afloat because that sounded like a confession.Â
Clarity allows them control.Â
It causes their arms to react before their mind, pushing the labeled threat away. Unsteady feet wobble as Sage takes a step back, anxiety spiking. Their eyes go wide, breaths uneven, color draining from their face.
Ignorance fights for dominance, denial at its back, while foolishness thickens the fog until tunnel vision takes command.Â
Outstretched hands hang in the air, twitching at the loss of contact. Golden strands bob and beat, aggravated at the loss, framing a darkening face. Light glints off staining eyes, glasses falling, while a tight-lined smile slips into a frown.
For a moment, no one moves, the traction splintering into the rising tensions.
Pure Vanilla’s grace weakens.Â
He considers Sage, scrutinizing their person from head to toe. Eyes pass over their face, examining their body language, and pondering their tone as if searching for a lie yet finding none. His head tilts confused, frown deepening, until shock rips a gasp from his lungs.
Emotions bounce from anger to joy. Delight captures their hands, connecting them one more.Â
“Oh, Darling! You really are perfect!”
Sage is spun, brought into a swirling dance as Pure Vanilla leads. Glee carries their movements, contrasting the whirlwind of expressions passing through their mind.Â
A kiss dots their forehead, “It’s nothing to worry about, truly. A simple miscommunication is all.Â
Don’t fret over it, my dear… A stray lamb got loose, separated from the herd, poking its head into business it really shouldn't have, but I took care of it-”
Words drown out. Noise follows. Colors mingle. Vision blurs.Â
Fears come to light. Reality accepts their assumption as truth. Facts don’t lie.
“Keep your head held high, chin up. Your shoulders mustn’t drop. No, don’t slouch! Tuck your stomach in and straighten your back. Yes, that’s it!”
Wings flutter while hands mold disgruntled checks. Teeth snap, pointed and sharp, while manicured nails untangle star-filled locks.
“Oh, don’t give me that! This is important! First impressions always are, especially during Social Season- Hey!”
A silk robe is grabbed as pink lips frown, an escape attempt ruined before it could even start. Grumpy noises wiggle out of restrained hands while feet kick up dirt and leaves.
“Yes, yes, I hear your plea, but this will only take an hour at most. I know, I know, but this is our grand debut! Aren’t you excited!”
Glitter gathers in the air as a squeal is let loose. Pointed ears lowered, a noise of disapproval sprang.
“Oh, come on! We have been planning this for weeks! The flowers are grown, the tables set. Guests are arriving faster than the wind! Stop acting like it’s a surprise!”
Irritation spikes, hair fanning out, starlight shining brighter with each minute passed. A “tch” cuts the tension paired with an eye roll.
“Fine. You don’t have to wear the outer layer, but at least remember the steps. It’s one, two, three, glide. Not on the fourth step, but at the end of the third.”
Using a hairbrush as a pointer, each pose is directed with pinpoint accuracy. Mismatched eyes thin in boredom, watching absently until the movement stills.
Suddenly, wings span out, hitching in remembrance. A soft gasp follows in pursuit. Pink hands grasp blue checks, eyes staring intently.
“…And Berry, don’t forget. This is a battle of wits. Don’t show fear. Don’t express doubt. A misguided smile can be fatal, a gesture of hesitation even more so-“
Shadows melt away, blue light fizzling with each pop and crackle from Blueberry’s soul jam. His gaze sharpens, paying the hissing noise no mind, the pain even less so.
“A chat?” Pure Vanilla tiles his head, eyes closing behind delicate eyelashes. Blond curls sway in contemplation as Blueberry lets the offer sink in.
He weaponizes the silence, letting phantom hands lead his body into a formal position: head up, shoulders down, fear tucked away, body language open, yet closed enough to hide ulterior motives.
Regal, composed, and above all else polite, speech is molded into the language of Fae, of enunciation and double meanings.
“Yes… You promised to give us “Beasts” a chance to speak, did you not?” Calmly, carefully so as not to raise suspicion, Blueberry hangs the invitation in the air. He calls forth a natural charm as the offer is constructed, hiding his disdain behind a tight mask.
Let the show begin.
The room sways and bobs, caught in a sightless trajectory. Lights shine on the actors down below, one aware, the other not.
With each step, claws clip and clack against the table's surface, carrying Blueberry in a seemingly distracted daze. He glances around, eyes jumping from one object to another, feigning his interest, dulling his words…
Setting a trap, just like Sugar taught him.
“Although I was quite surprised by your little speech earlier,” Blueberry continues, hopping around a flag standee. “Sounded very dramatic! I loved the performance. It was great entertainment to my otherwise horrid stay thus far!” Sweet-like candy with undertones of spite, a perfect cover.
Guilt gathers like rain clouds as Pure Vanilla’s confused smile simmers into a disheartened grimace… It’s not enough.
Blueberry takes one, two, three steps, then purposely trips on the last beat. He makes a whole show of catching himself on his injured paw, grumbling under his breath, before moving on as if nothing happened.
An actor on a stage.
He twists and turns, moving this way and that, making sure the burn on his back is in full view as Pure Vanilla watches him topple one standee after the next.
“A heated debate over opposing ideas of justice, my, what a delicate!” The pink post falls with a slash of his paw, heart lay to rest after trust long broken. Left alone and afraid.
“To choose between one tragedy wrought from frightened hands or relent to morality’s gracious embrace.” A hop, skip, and jump carries him forward. The purple post tips with a simple nudge, unaffected by cruelty, yet desperately fighting for an alternative destiny.
“What does one value most in times of crisis? A fallen soldier riddled with more than a broken spirit or a mistreated prisoner, one stuffed in a golden cage?” The yellow post clatters when it hits the ground, the sound like clashing swords. A fire snuffed out protecting what matters most.
“How to handle the situation, how to treat the collective. To focus more on duty, on responsibility. To help your friends, your community.” A twirl escorts him to the green standee. It toppled swiftly and fast, lasting longer than the others; however, falling at the expense of its kindness.
“Or… to help those of unknown origin, to risk face, a social contrast… Well, I already know your stance on the matter.” The last to fall, the last to succumb, yet knowing all along the disaster to come… Powerless in its struggle against fate. One simple misstep dooms their chances at a happy ending.
Blue is bundled next to the others, his collection complete. Each rolled to match color order, descending from pink to purple.
An itch is slayed, a desire granted… yet want is left unanswered. Blueberry’s patience wears thin, the silence growing, unforgivingly-
“It is quiet… complicated, yes.”
Smooth like honey, sweet as joy. Pure Vanilla’s voice carries, and Blueberry forgets to breathe. His excitement spikes, face morphing into a dazzling grin, tail swaying the annoyance away.
Finally, finally, Golden boy responded to his invention! It wasn’t a full admission, barely even an acceptance, but it’s enough!
Mystics as old as time take root, ensnaring both men in a fragile bond. Power gathers then recedes, hidden behind each word spoken.
Blueberry sets his terms, laying out his intent through the newly formed request to “stay and chat.” It binds both souls to this room, this conversation, until one side breaks character.
The spell is flimsy, too delicate to hold much weight. There is no forest magic, glittering moonlight, nor rings of nature to anchor the demand in place.
And yet Blueberry still tries to muster up as much power as he can despite the odds because he needs this. He needs answers, but to put his faith, his trust- No, his siblings’ lives in the words of a traitor is risky, too risky.
The mystics will force the conversation to remain civil, to remain truthful, so that only facts remain. A double-edged sword drawn at both their throats, so to speak.
But in order for his spell to remain active, Blueberry needs to keep Pure Vanilla talking.
“Relationships always are,” he counters, eyes sparkling with unbridled mischief.
Blueberry spins, welcoming the forgotten art home. Delight spreads between each moment, both from the excitement of deception long missed and the promise of revenge.
Words gather on the tip of his tongue as his eyes meet-
. . . ?
Why does Pure Vanilla look like that? Where’s the shame, where’s the guilt?
Why is he smiling?
Receding clouds make way for sunlight, beaming rays scattering through spotty coverage… In other words, Golden Boy’s stupid, perfect face with his stupid little dimples alights with a somber joy.
The direction? Aimed directly at Blueberry’s collar, right where his soul jam lies hidden underneath cloth and fabric…
To make matters worse, Pure Vanilla has his own replica cradled snugly in a gentle caress as if the gem has all the answers to the universe itself… Like Blueberry is a foreign language, the gem it’s decipher.
…Is that a faint glow, he sees? A cyan glint playing off shadows and light… A trick, surely.
Golden boy wasn’t able to distinguish his cover during heated battle. Why now would his exploits be revealed?
Blueberry snaps his eyes shut, dropping his smile. Keep your head in the game! The rules have been set, the measures stacked. Don’t be fooled by this nonsense!
The show must go on-
“Agreed,” Pure Vanilla adjusts, hand moving from collar to check, balanced gracefully on oak wood.
Enchantment highlights his tone, words effortlessly falling into polite tones like he knows, “Tides shift, and bridges burn, but tenacity has its way with patience and understanding. With time, wrongs can be righted, hearts mended, and with it, bonds can strengthen.”
“Yet, scars will always remain,” Blueberry refutes, voice landing somewhere between regard and reproach, guarded.
He takes a step closer, “Wounds left to fester won’t heal. Infection takes life, joy along with it… If the same care isn’t given, it doesn’t matter how long you wait. The infected will succumb to missed opportunities, missed chances at salvation… But why preach such to a healer?”
Pure Vanilla’s grin grows, checks pulling, “Yes, you speak the truth. If both parties don’t put in the effort, neither should reap the reward. I have seen many souls in my time yield to stifling hardships, too blinded by their own beliefs to change. However, scars do not define the cookie, but rather stand as a testament to their resilience.”
Blueberry grunts, rolling his eyes, “You speak like someone who has never been burned beyond repair. Our minds build walls to protect ourselves for a reason, you know? Not every challenge is conquered; some lay waste to your soul.”
“I never said they were… simply a helping hand can offer greater aid than you are letting on. Of course, whether that hand is taken or not is still the deciding factor.”
“So it all boils down to trust, huh?” Blueberry wanders closer, eyeing the feathered limbs on Pure Vanilla’s head and back. He could have sworn he saw something glowing within them, something mystical.
Blueberry reaches a paw out, curiosity spiking, temptation stringing him along. He leans on the edge of the table, stretching as far as physics will allow.
Pure Vanilla hums, “I suppose, yes… Foundations have to be built on something after all. Friendships are much the same-“
!!!
Time slows as a tiny paw meets feathered wings. The softness is incredible, like a fluffy cloud between his claws. It’s surprising how well-kept they are compared to the bird nest on Golden Boy’s head.
Blueberry glances up into the furry expanse, captivated. They remind him of Sugar’s wings, although less fragrant and more rounded like a dove’s. He leans closer, eye squinting as sparkles gather-
Light flashes. Colors dance across his vision as balance is forfeited for sight.
Pure Vanilla jumps at the touch, wings fanning out as time resumes. Loose feathers go flying while Blueberry teeters on the edge of foolishness. He’s one misstep away from falling when an airy laugh catches him off guard.
The sound is delicate and soft, vibrating in between each hollow space, encompassing… But it’s a distraction, one that costs him greatly as a feather lands on top of him.
Blueberry slips once, then twice, and has a very close call with gravity, but somehow wins the battle. The feather goes flying while he rolls to safety, victorious yet winded. His back aches, his leg throbs, but he lives!
Golden locks cut his triumph short.
They graze his back, tickling his spine, and suddenly Blueberry is very aware of the healer’s presence looming above. A shiver brushes his ears, traveling down to his toes, reaching to the tip of his tail.
It takes two hops to land back on his feet and three dashes until he feels safe enough to breathe and yet… Is he still laughing?
“Oh, my friend,” Pure Vanilla breathes, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. Those stupid little dimples back on display while a blinding smile hides behind a raised hand, “Are- are you alright? I meant no harm. My wings are rather sensitive-“
“Eyes.”
“Pardon?”
“You have eyes in your wings,” Blueberry blanks, disbelief coating every word because he recognizes those shapes, those curves, those pupils.
It’s familiar, too familiar.
A hum, sweet and innocent, delights the room with its presence. Pure Vanilla makes a little “ah” sound before combing limp feathers free, highlighting the half crescents within.
They buzz, overjoyed at the contact. “Yes, they are a new addition, although not unwelcome. The added sight helps greatly in times of need… I didn’t mean to call them, but you startled me-“
His words taper off, losing meaning as Blueberry is distracted by the light show. Glowing white eyelashes with dotted pupils sparkle like sunlight. They float freely without a care, welcoming each fluffy quill openly.
How odd. How peaceful.
They should be fighting. They should be desperate for attention. They should be overfilling this poor cookie’s mind with overwhelming information, and yet they are not.
Blueberry would know. He’s an expert on the matter because those are his eyes… well, not exactly, but close enough.
Five sets swim amongst his starry frosting, battling amid comets and constellations for space. They meld with the dark night sky seamlessly, barely making themselves known half the time. Blueberry keeps them closed for sensory reasons, otherwise, but that is besides the point!
This is new and exciting! Completely out of left field! How on Earthbread did Pure Vanilla achieve such a feat?
One would need great amounts of magic prowess to sustain the appendages, let alone a strong mental fortitude, to actually use them! They should compare notes!
Blueberry jumps, feet tapping, tail swaying. Excitement coats his mood, sinking into every ounce of patience he has left. Words gather, ready to bust out, to be made known… when he stops.
Pure Vanilla is looking at him with both sets of eyes, magic and real. He is holding his head up between each arm, cheeks resting on both palms. That grin never left, but changed. It stretches loosely, up to his eyes, wide and whole…
However, the view isn’t what makes him pause… It’s the glowing gem on his collar.
The soul jam, the missing part… the other half of Blueberry’s… the other half of a “Beasts.”
“Hey, uh… How did they form anyway? The eyes, I mean.” Blueberry knows, of course, he does. He understands the means, the concept, the notion, but a dark little thought wormed its way into his head.
…It made him remember the circumstance, the reason why he was here.
“Oh? Are you curious?” Golden boy’s wings flutter, hair dropping over his shoulder. He hums, “They were a gift from a dear friend.”
His hand moves over his soul jam, “I lost my sight along with my memories long ago… It was hard, trifling, but the worst part wasn’t losing myself, but rather the bonds I had made. Someone I cherished… was scarred. Although perhaps she had been bleeding for a while and I never noticed… at least not when it mattered.”
Grief befalls his face, soul jam buzzing, calling out. For a moment, something else grabs hold of Pure Vanilla, a darkness Blueberry has not yet seen on the taller. It’s uncanny, eerie.
But just as rain clouds blow by, with a bob of his head, the presence passes, “Slowly, I regained myself, made new ties, moved on… I healed, but not alone. I found people who cared, who stayed, who listened. It was hard not knowing myself, yet over time the feeling lessened, the wanting faded.”
He sighs, “I became content, happy even.”
The room sways, creeping floorboards numbing the silence as melancholy whisks Pure Vanilla away. Light sparkles in his eyes, glitter purring in the magical ones.
“However, the past has a funny way of holding on even when you don’t chase it. It came to me in the form of three children, robust and carefree, on a mission to find a castle in the sky.”
There’s a story there behind sorrowful glances and joyful tears. Blueberry can see it in the way Pure Vanilla wanders, not physically but mentally.
Little ticks in his expression give him away: the twitching of his nose, the pulling of his cheeks, the relaxed weight on his shoulders…
“Something drew me to them as if staying behind wasn’t ever an option, although I suppose it never was. They were determined to leave, and I couldn’t let them go without support… That decision led to the very thing I had been running from, but this time I was ready.”
Pure Vanilla glances down at Blueberry, playfulness emitting from his tone, “My resolve woke a power I had not known before, my soul jam responding in kind… It was a slow change. The eyes came first, the wings next. Days passed, seasons eroded, and before I knew it, my reflection shifted to a comfortable skin-“
“Was this acceptance before or after you found out that power came from a Beast?”
“Pardon?”
“The soul jam of knowledge, the gem clasped to your collar like cheap jewelry? Surely, you know of its origin, even split as it is?” Blueberry huffs, the sound conveying his spirits. His blood boils underneath a rigged facade.
Yet Pure Vanilla doesn’t flinch from the bite; rather, a confused, almost contemplative, expression appears, “The soul jam of knowledge?” It’s said as if he is testing the waters, as if the name is foreign, genuine, and sincere in his uncertainty.
It only makes the fury more appealing as Blueberry bristles, defiance on his tongue, “The hue may have shifted, the magic cleaner, but there is no denying its nature! I know you feel it too, the calling buzz…”
Warmth surges as if to prove his point, following from one gem to the next. The feeling is reminiscent of a hug, a burning touch… A sensation which prickles his dough.
“If you can justify the use of my magic, my soul, then why condemn the rest of me? Why label me as a “Beast?” Why lock me in a silver prison?”
. . .
Silence, a poisonous drug. It sinks into the room, crawling out of the floorboards, stifling the air.
Blueberry’s claws scratch at the parchment, making grooves in the paper. His breathing remains calm, yet his ears droop, smile long gone. Too many emotions clog his throat, mind racing. The world falls out from beneath his feet, dread looping round and round his temper.
A hand shifts in his peripheral vision. Fingers clasped together, fidgeting. One loop, then two, then three. Wings lower, brushing the table, but not close enough to sting.
“I-“
“What did the faeries tell you?”
Blueberry glances up, steel tightening his mask. His mystics whisper in his ear, saying, “Remember to stay polite. The spell is on the line. You wouldn’t want to owe this mortal, would you?” But Blueberry couldn’t care less.
He hunches over on stubby legs (When did he sit?), teeth sharpening, fangs on display, “You have a prejudice against me. Do not deny it. Your mannerisms are different compared to our fireside chat. You see me as something else, something other than a starving little animal. I can see you holding yourself back, that cute smile nothing more than a leer… Was the connection to that title all it took to label me as unredeemable?”
“My friend-”
“What crimes did I commit to be subjected to such a fate? What story did you hear? What legend do you speak of? Tell me! What did I do to be less than a cookie, to be labeled as a Beast?”
Breath trembles his ribcage; the pot boiled over.
Blueberry can feel his form shift, bubble between mouse and shadow. His paws clench and unclench, eyes not leaving the table. Fury dances across his tongue while a bitter sting pricks his nose.
Staggered breathing is all he can hear. It’s in that moment of mental weakness and shaking limbs that Blueberry curses his past self for being so gullible, believing that trust was enough to hold his words to truth.
Beast of Deceit, what a title. What a fate to have everything he has ever accomplished be boiled down to falsehoods, left to die on the side of the road like a diseased rat, discarded and alone.
How much of his work was slandered? How much has he lost? How much has his siblings?
How far did they go?
!!!
A hand is placed an arm’s length away from Blueberry’s snoot. The scent of vanilla invades his senses, clouding his mind.
“I am holding myself back. You are right,” the hand waits, patiently; present, but not unpleasantly hovering. It doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch.
Blueberry glares at it, a repressed hiccup rattling free. “But not for the reason you believe.”
He scrunches his muzzle, whiskers bobbing. A frown digs into his chin, paws underneath, squeezing a rhythm. Hold, wait, release. Over and over and over again until shapes become less blurred, shadows less overbearing.
The creaking of a chair causes his ears to twitch. Blueberry can sense movement, a slight shift, but doesn’t squirm. His eyes are glued to the hand, watching, waiting.
Pure Vanilla’s voice floats above, “I am a healer, as you have heard, seen… I did not lie earlier, even if my words appear questionable to you.” He takes a breath, pausing, letting it out.
A golden hair drapes over the table, grazing the surface like Pure Vanilla leaned closed. Their eyes meet briefly, but only for a second, as Blueberry snarls.
The sound is sharp, quick; it has Golden Boy smiling sadly and recoiling back, although he doesn’t stop his pointless rant.
“While your injuries can be endured, repaired over time, it is not something I wish for you to undergo alone… My intentions are pure when I say I want to heal you. I want to take that pain away, to mend not only your leg, but your back as well… Maybe that is overzealous of me,” his voice tapers off.
Blueberry sniffs, a tear breaking free as he listens to his heart beating. Feathers flap, rustling behind him as that shared feeling of earnest reliance sings in his soul jam. A blue light flickers, hidden by cloth yet still visible if you look.
“I can feel it, your pain… Perhaps you could explain it better. I don’t know much about soul jams, much less than I thought, actually,” He chuckles, a sad little giggle, tone turning a little less formal, bridging on sincerity.
Gross.
“…But I do know what I feel, and it is unlike anything I have felt before. A cold, dark, distant type of pain… Longing, perhaps? I can only imagine how much it is hurting you… Your magic is piling up and out, leaking but not naturally, rather like a wound to your very soul.”
Blueberry tries to hide the wince.
That sly fox. He knew all along! Ugh! He tried so hard to hide the crack, too! Mind you, all Blueberry had to work with was the magic equivalent of duct tape and glue, but he still tried!
…White Lily didn’t notice… No, he is not shulking!
!!!
The audacity! Is that fool laughing again? (…Is Blueberry really that obvious?)
“Although I’m sure you already knew that,” Golden boy says with a sad smile on his lips, “…I want to help, but only if you will allow it.”
And the floor is passed over, a question hanging heavy in the air. The frown stays on Blueberry’s face, eyes pinching, limbs sprawled out like a cat as a spotlight appears overhead.
A clock ticks to an imaginary timer while he lies, staring at that hand… It’s infuriating how calm Pure Vanilla is.
. . .
“… I don’t trust you,” Blueberry grumbles. His tail flickers once, claws stretching out; face pressed to the table, dejectedly.
“I know.” The hand remains, stationary like a Venus flytrap. Taunting him.
“You used your magic on me twice, without consent. It was very rude.” Paws push off the ground as a head lobs over. Mismatched eyes glare at the appendage.
“I did.” It sits unbothered, unafraid.
“You locked me in a birdcage, a prison meant for an animal, labeled me as such.” One claw clings against the table, then a second one follows. Footsteps patter and pitter making unsteady noises.
“I allowed it, yes.” A slight twitch.
“It would be dumb to trust you again. You started this mess, after all, handing me over to those soldiers." The distance is crossed, crispy dough lying motionless.
“Perhaps, one could view it that way.” Vanilla wafts past temptingly.
“And you still haven’t answered my question.” His fangs sharpen, glinting in the light-
“I will.”
Eyes widen, fangs retract.
Blueberry pauses as his ears jolt up. The room quiets down, waiting, holding its breath. Time passes slowly, too afraid to break the delicate tension.
Those two words were said with such clarity, such determination that Blueberry's head spins.
Voices pop up, sounding strangely like his siblings. They scold him, bickering with one another over how devastating this offer could be, stating how foolish he is for even considering it.
… but Blueberry didn’t need anyone’s input. Not here, not now.
The decision was already made when he took that first step.
He gently places his injured paw on top of Pure Vanilla’s hand, closing the distance and giving in to lonely urges.
The feeling is instantaneous, spreading warmth throughout his body, collecting where his soul jam lies hidden, profound in a way that words fail.
It’s hot, overbearingly so, heating Blueberry’s chilled dough. He forgot how nice contact was, how consuming the action could be. He likes the feeling, craves it even, but forces himself to remain passive.
His claws run over Pure Vanilla’s skin, not to harm, but to inspect because curiosity piques as crumbs glisten.
Lines run across from one edge to the next, making shapes and patterns. His eyes follow the curves and bends like an intellectual, even though he has no idea what they mean, getting lost in the design. The skin is slightly dry and calloused, hands of fulfillment. A pulse beats underneath the delicate barrier, up and down, the sound of life.
But what catches his attention is more than physical limitations; it’s the specks intertwined within his dough… An element that should not be there according to his previous examination; not in a mortal’s skin: ichor.
Lean wispy bits and pieces sparkle, greeting Blueberry’s own… It’s almost as if the ingredient was always there, not as a mindless intruder, but as a welcomed member of the system, working seamlessly with the rest of the components of a healthy cookie.
The particles are so small and young in their development that they are hard to notice, glistening peacefully like sugar crystals on morning dew… The wings and eyes weren’t the only changes the soul jam bestowed upon Pure Vanilla, it would seem.
It’s almost as if the gem is craving a way into Golden Boy’s body, molding the host to be more accommodating for the power input… Almost like he is gaining shifting abil-
Blueberry blinks and turns his head. Pure Vanilla gazes down at him, amusement clear.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything-”
“Start the healing stuff already,” Blueberry turns away, flicking his tail.
An amused air follows, “I was waiting for your permission-”
“You have it! Hurry it up,” Heat rushes to his face, turning it a slightly deeper shade of blue all the way up to the tip of his ears. Blueberry grumbles non-coherently, slapping Pure Vanilla’s hand when the blonde only laughs harder… and immediately regrets it as pain attacks his paw.
He was staring for too long, lost in his thoughts, wasn’t he? Damn it. Focus. You’re supposed to be mad!
“Alright,” Pure Vanilla chimes, “As you wish. Please tell me if anything hurts.” He brings his other hand to meet the former, brushing against Blueberry’s back.
Light gathers then hums like a harp on a sunny afternoon. A melody plays, ringing in his ears as white flecks dance in a waltz.
They slide down his back and circle his leg, gathering round and round, mending muscles and dough. It’s a strange feeling, one he has never gotten used to, no matter how many times he endured the spell. Different from Mystic’s static and webby noise, Pure Vanilla’s sound is clear, uplifting in a way that has his heart beating.
Healing magic, holy and regal. Yuck.
Blueberry turns away, the lights reflecting off his eyes as his head lies on Pure Vanilla’s hand.
It’s honestly a surprise his body isn’t rejecting the craft. The usual stabbing pain that accompanies the spell is gone, replaced by a pleasant hum below his skin.
How odd, yet not welcome.
. . .
Speech fades in that quiet moment of contemplation. It drowns out the creaking of the ship, making the healing magic’s melody louder than it needs to be. Blueberry can hear Pure Vanilla humming along as he moves his hands, focused and determined.
…The mental image grids his gears. “At this point, it feels like you are stalling,” Blueberry huffs.
The hands still, but only for a moment as wings puff. Pure Vanilla tilts his head, the healing spell softening while tension sits upon his shoulders. His eyes close, a pinch to his brow, “No, I am simply… collecting my words.”
“Ha!” Blueberry laughs, cold and tight, “I don’t need your protection or your sugar-coated pronunciation. This is my family’s legacy, the forthcoming of a nation lost to time… History shouldn’t lie. I expect you to follow in its example. A promise was made, after all.”
He leans over, staring at the towering avian before him-
!!!
And there’s that uneasy expression Blueberry had been searching for.
Pure Vanilla’s smile fades, replaced by an uncomfortable frown. It looks unnatural, strained, pulling at his face like he is unused to the experience. Blueberry can see his exhaustion, can taste his nerves buzzing in his magic.
The healing spell mirrors his hesitation. Sounds of windchimes and harps strum low notes, deep and unsure.
It has Blueberry’s fur standing on edge from anticipation-
“The Legend of the Beasts,” Pure Vanilla speaks with a somber tone.
“It is not a light-hearted tale, nor is it well known around Crispa… Knowledge guarded by a single kingdom deep in the lands of Beast Yeast. Perhaps in another life, the story would have been lost to time if circumstances did not draw my friends and I to it.”
A thumb combs through Blueberry’s fur, smoothing the strands down, cooling the burn on his back. The music picks up, encouraged by the gentle action, “A horrible tragedy had befallen our lands centuries ago. It started small, as many things do, with a debate over viewpoints.”
Melconchloy gathers on the tip of his tongue, “Crispa was still new back then, budding with fresh ideas, wants, and desires. Two minds stood amongst them, students of a prestigious academy. A pair of friends united in their wish to better understand cookiekind and, in turn, bring joy to its occupants.”
The music swells, mimicking the sound of chatter, laughter. “They explored the bonds of magic, testing its limits, and researching as much as they could. Many classrooms had been destroyed in their wake… It was a wonderful time, innocent in their desire to move forward, to find truth and freedom.”
He pauses, getting lost in memory.
Blueberry can almost see it: the imposing school walls, scribbling pencils gliding across desks, endless libraries filled with knowledge. The smell of old books and drying ink invades his senses, leaving his heart yearning.
“...But?”
“But,” Pure Vanilla nods, drained, “Graduation came too quickly. While one heart was satisfied with failure, leaving curiosity to rest in mystery, the latter was not sated. Their hunger grew unannounced, festering until it became too great… Fate had plans, but companionship was not upon them.”
A heavy sigh strings the music to hum. Light grows and flickers around Blueberry like a fire across a lake’s edge.
“An impasse was crossed, paths separated, and time moved on… Goals were rearranged, friendships growing from collapse until duty became too stifling to ignore. One was led to truth, the other to freedom as they desired, however that divide piled high… and soon only regret remained upon dying embers of a charred land.”
The healing magic flits as Pure Vanilla deflates. His wings sag while his eyes gently open, meeting Blueberry's own. He sighs, bone-deep, and tired. Light reflects off blue and gold like ghosts across graves.
A moment passes, one filled with quiet contemplation as muscles are restitched. Paws stretch, claws tapping against Pure Vanilla’s hand, bothered.
“Nice story. The music was a fun touch; however, I fail to see how that relates to me,” Blueberry grumbles. He twitches his ear at the feeling of tendons fusing, a grimace making itself known.
“Ah, yes,” Pure Vanilla smiles, “There were rumors of the travesty returning, only grander beyond belief… Except they weren’t just musings, but rather facts. A great evil had been festering, brought from past mistakes… We were trying to rally our forces-“
“So you went to 'Beast Yeast' to find help?” The question slips out, rushed and snappy. Blueberry wiggles his paw as prickles dance across his skin.
A hand soothes, passing a wave of cooling suppressants through the pain. It helps mildly, “Indeed. Although not originally our intent, talks did shift towards that direction, especially when a long-lost friend was found… It was then that we learned of The Legend of the Beasts.”
“Tell. Me.”
Blueberry squirms as pressure points snap into place. Muscles relax, stinging but whole. The relief is short-lived.
“It’s a tale of anguish and suffering brought from hands that once stood as pillars of society, of fallen kingdoms ravaged by war and conquest… Homes were laid to waste, cookies fought bloodied and bruised. Bodies piled high, life essence failing in its one duty.”
A feeling of dread twists and wiggles.
Blueberry tenses, holding back fear, because that sounds awfully like what transpired that night… Lies are born from truth, at least the good ones are, don’t forget. It’s a scam.
“And the titles?” Deep breaths. Stay calm.
“Five twisted apostles stood among it all, fanning the flames of collapse: The Beasts,” Pure Vanilla rubs his ear, healing a nick Blueberry didn’t even know was there.
“A flutter of Fae who once walked upon gods, gifted power to change the very course of fate. Alas, with great influence comes great responsibility… The weight was too grand. It consumed them.”
The music dips, somber and cold. Notes are strum, reflecting metal and stone, the shattering of glass.
“Corruption spiraled, and one by one they fell, tainted and changed. Sloth, apathy, destruction, silence… and deceit, the harbors of chaos.”
Blueberry closes his eyes. He buries his head in Pure Vanilla’s hand as a knot forms in his throat. It shouldn’t bother him, the implication, but it does. It does… Because they were used as scapegoats.
No rule is perfect. Labeled as Virtues, thrust into a role of command right out of the oven, mistakes were evident. All those eyes watching them, minds relying on their words alone.
It wasn’t arrogance, nor disdain, but fear that drove them away… They weren’t enough, Blueberry wasn’t enough. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t give them certainty.
He tried, they all did; however, once an idea is sprung, it is hard to refute it…
“... Then?” Blueberry’s voice cracks as he lifts his head, whiskers bobbing. Heat warms his face, trickling down on fluffed dough. Pure Vanilla brushes his cheek… Strange, was there an injury there, too?
“They were sealed,” the music chimes, soft and sweet. White flecks fizzle out as tension recedes.
“The witches could not bear to see what had become of their creations… A seed was planted, crafted from silver and root: a prison.”
Cold metal against his skin, darkness shrouding his view, bark closing in-
“The Beasts were put to sleep… and a guardian was chosen to protect the seal.”
Pure Vanilla removes his hands. The music wanes, a final toll ringing out. He pulls back, giving Blueberry some space as white light diminishes into glimmers.
Shaky breaths are released while he flexes his paw. Blueberry wobbles forward, setting his weight on the appendage… His eyes blink, wide and shocked.
The pain is gone, replaced by a warm, fuzzy tingle. It isn’t what he expected, the instant relief. Even the burn on his back is gone.
It’s nice… to feel… better.
“And you believe all that, the legend?” He takes a step back, meeting Pure Vanilla’s eyes while hoping the puffiness of his will go unnoticed.
“…I’m starting not to.”
The response doesn’t make the anxiety vanish, even if some tiny part of him wanted it to. Blueberry hiccups, sniffs, and blinks. His mind feels chewed up, winding the tale over and over in his head; trying yet failing to make it make sense beyond a common game of blame.
He takes a breath.
The public wanted order, justice in their preferences to have a society fit for their needs. The Virtues couldn’t give that to them, not without contradicting the very rules set by the Witches. They refused, did what they could with what they had; however, it wasn’t enough.
His chest bobs up and down.
Persecution proceeds… The faeries, The Silver Guard, stepped in; whether taking advantage of the situation for ill intent or as an unwilling party, misguided or misinformation (For Salty’s sake, Blueberry hopes it’s the former). They were sealed.
The room spines. His legs feel weak. Words are spoken passing overhead.
That’s the part that fits the puzzle, yet pieces remain obscured. Why the “Legend”? Why bring the Witches into the tale as some final judgement? Why lie about their involvement when it’s clear the mystics’ used were handmade?
There is some intent there, twisted and cruel. The faeries aren’t innocent if the story Pure Vanilla told is true… But then what was their plan once the mystics failed, when the tree broke down and freed its prisoners…
Unless…
!!!
Eyes widen, moisture running free. Blueberry’s head snaps to Pure Vanilla as he takes a step back, “You were gonna seal us again.”
It’s said like a fact because it is one, harsh and unyielding.
The reaction is immediate.
Wings puff, hair sways, hands reach, but pause in the air, unsure what to do, “I-”
Blueberry retreats, nearly tripping over his pile of colored standees, “The faeries knew the tree wouldn’t hold forever. You came to their land in need… They asked for your help in fixing their felony in exchange for their aid in your war… That’s why all those tents were there, why so many soul jam holders were stationed outside…”
Shapes blur. His breathing picks up. The room stills, “You were expecting a fight… If we hadn’t run, then you would have forced us back!”
“My friend, please-”
“All that stuff you said to that lily girl was to keep me ignorant of your true goals. You knew I would try to make a deal with you. Your words were guarded from the beginning! All the nice gestures and kind words were traps! No wonder you prattled on for so long like an old man! You sent that girl away, not for my benefit, but to make sure the big bad beast wouldn’t hurt her! You were biding your time, waiting for the guards to come running; lowering my guard.”
“That’s not-”
“You were tricking me… and I fell for it!”
“No, listen-“
Pure Vanilla stands, looming over him. Light frames his figure, casting a shadow down, stretching across the table, landing on Blueberry’s small form.
He cowers, ears lying flat-
!!!
There’s a knock at the door.
Both heads snap to it.
“Your Majesty, we have arrived at the Vanilla Kingdom,” a voice states quietly, blocked by wood and plaster. Hesitation slips, eyes shifting from the sound to tiny paws.
Words gather on furred brows, while shaky legs wobble. The ship stays harrowingly silent as judgment is cast.
Pure Vanilla turns and addresses the-
Pounding footsteps stop him in his tracks. Chatter intensifies beyond the divide. Someone shouts, and a thud follows. The door is thrown open, revealing a woman in black and purple.
Crows caw, frantic and worried, “Your Majesty, the prisoner has escaped. White Lily has issued a lockdown-“
It’s her. That girl from before, the one who walked side by side with Golden Boy on the battlefield, his commander!
This was planned. This was planned!
Magic shutters and shakes, bitterly bubbling underneath Blueberry’s skin. A calming presence fights back, chiming from his soul jam, but fear washes it out.
Sounds engulf the room, blindingly bright and overlapping. His mind jumps, jagged, and jarring from faces to glistening weapons sheathed yet threatening.
Hysteria tips the scale.
A snap breaks his form.
Tears bounce with the movement as fur ruptures into shadows. Glowing eyes burst open, encasing the darkness, fizzling off his dough in chunks.
Sharp edges and pointed spikes stab, poke, break as bone makes way for heaving lungs, a beastly combination of panic and mania.
A scream rocks the room, horror coating every inch of peace, silver wings flapping in distress. Mental glints in the corner of Blueberry’s eyes as a dagger is drawn, clasped in a clawed hand.
He hisses, feral and vicious.
The scent of vanilla hits his nose as a body rushes between two fiery gazes, “My friends, please, don’t fight-“
“Sire, get behind me-“
But the words don’t register amongst the fright.
Blueberry doesn’t think. He yanks on his mystics, grasping at the binding spell, canceling its hold, pleading with the rules that this is a breach of conduct.
It agrees, ringing back.
All at once, chaos ensues.
Gloom bursts from the floorboards, cracking the aircraft like jarred rocks. Tingles of cold particles slice across the open space, intertwining and overlapping disjointedly. Power aims at the guards, circling Pure Vanilla, alarm evident on his face as his feet stick to the floor.
Frozen and confused, the avian fails to react to the encroaching spikes as they snap around his chest like slithering snakes.
The crow girl pushes the fairy behind her, fighting with her dagger, but the metal dings across stone and shadow, useless and ineffective.
Blueberry takes the opportunity and bolts.
He sprints across the table as fast as his legs will carry him, hopping over hardened silhouettes. Tears stream down his face as he glances at Pure Vanilla.
Mismatched eyes meet; one filled with despair, the other anguish. His face sets, eyes netted, lip wobbling as he mouths, “We are not friends,” over the mayhem.
. . .
Seconds later, Blueberry is squirming through rushed footfalls and cold armor, leaving smiling dimples and feathered-touched kindness behind.
A whine cracks from his soul jam, longing for a connection frayed and tattered.
*Warning! This part contains mentions of self-harm, abusive relationships, blood/injury, and self-isolation! Viewer discretion is advised. Please stay safe and healthy!*
You know that metaphor, “Out of the frying pan into the fire?”
Ya, Sage is past that point. They survived the fire just to land on the floor before a towering, famished dog.Â
Mystic Flour sits posed and calm, sipping from a porcelain cup. Floral scents waft through the air in the dimly lit room. Curtains flutter, caught in a gentle breeze behind her composed figure, setting the scene.
Every ounce of her being commands attention. It’s frightening… Sage gets the feeling it’s not a coincidence she’s blocking both exits.
An unpleasant silence clumps together above their heads. Tongues lay trapped within mute prisons, clogging airways and tightening throats. Sage fiddles with their own teacup, leg bouncing.
A clock stands to test their patience. It provides a physical timer for their internal conflict.Â
Tick. Tick. Tick.Â
The minutes trickle by, stuck in a tar-like flow-
“Are you not going to drink it?”
Sage flinches, practically jumping out of their skin at the soft voice. Tea slouches around the rim of their cup, staining their fingers.Â
Wind rushes past as their head snaps up, sweat dripping down their chin. Blue meets gray, locked in a challenging embrace. Sage shifts in their seat, shrinking under the pressure.
What was the point of escaping Spice only to be trapped in a tangled web?Â
The whole point of running was to hide their crumbling facade, and yet here they are, center stage, spotlights burning without a cue in sight.
Sage should respond, say something witty, or even excuse themselves from the room, but they can’t. They are frozen, stuck in their indecisiveness and exhaustion, like a bug pinned for inspection.
Mystic’s eyes roam, scrutinizing every inch of their person. Sage taps a soothing rhythm against their cup. It helps little in the fear of detection.
Prickles dance across their spine as her eyes follow the curve of their hair, sliding down their face, hovering over their neck, squinting at their shoulders, and continuing below.
Sage feels as if they are in trouble, like they are back home, parents demanding why they haven’t given them grandkids yet. Except this heat, this pressure is more intense, building with a judgmental stare.
Siblings. What a terrifying concept-
“It won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t,” Mystic breaks eye contact first and caresses a finger against her cup, “but it’s Chamomile mixed with a bit of ginger and honey.”
Sage’s heart shudders at the tone. They take a deep breath, hands shaking, listening to Mystic’s jewelry jingle as she tilts her head, eyes following the movement.
Drink the tea, Sage. Don’t break character, don’t be suspicious. Calm down.
They bring their cup up to their lips.
“It’s known for relieving aches and pains.”
A bitter taste fills their mouth. They cough on the meager amount willing to travel down their throat, patting their chest. What?
“You saw me fall down the stairs?” Sage questions.
Mystic raises an eyebrow, face blank and controlled. An unimpressed stare is directed their way, inspecting them, “No, but I didn't need to. I check my phone.”
Ow. That sounded like a personal dig, an attack laden behind a calm persona. Sage can only imagine what she is implying, but from the conversation they heard earlier, her fury isn't much of a surprise.Â
Nobody likes being ignored, especially family, and Shadow Milk basically ghosted his. No matter the reasoning, consequences always find a way to bite back. And now, Sage has to deal with it because this is their stage, their act, their performance.Â
Get it together. Take a breath.
The curtains are drawn, the backdrop lowered. Actors are in place, the script forgotten beneath hours of anticipation, and the audience is impatient.Â
All that’s left is the leading role, so why is Sage fumbling?Â
The scene may have shifted, the mood set, but the rules remain the same: don’t get caught, don’t go bust. Mystic wants to play mind games, well, tap Sage in.
They nod, like it means something more than a coping mechanism as their shoulders relax, welcoming the scent of Chamomile like an old friend… The bitter taste still lingers, yet clears their head.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Mystic takes the silence as an invitation, “Your neck looks bad. What happened?”
Cold, direct, final. There is no room for silence, only compliance, but Sage is no fish*.
They set their cup down, running a finger along its rim, watching as small drops of tea cling to their dough, unimpressed, “I got into a fight.”
It's said in the same voice one would use to comment on the weather. Sage doesn’t let their true feelings show, donning a mask of their own. They simply let the lie of obsession speak for itself.
The fewer cards they show, the better. Their hand is weak, bundled together in a jumbled mess of spotty memory and patchy facts.
Mystic is a joker in their deck of aces, an unknown, but perhaps Sage can twist this in their favor… They wanted information, did they not?
A pair of gray eyes bore into their soul, thinning impossibly smaller. The heat is unbearable, but Sage stays strong despite the fear coiling in their gut, determination carrying them forward.
“With whom? And why?”
“Does it matter?”
They bite back just as quick, just as fierce with defiance on their tongue. Sage sets their shoulders, faking a bravo they don’t fully achieve.Â
…Mystic sees right through them, calling their bluff.
The air shifts, dust and cobwebs making way for anticipation and regret. She rises, not from her seat, but from her anger. A glance of contemplation crosses her features.
Mystic looks at Sage, really looks at them, and what she finds causes a domino effect of dread to prick against their nerves.
Her posture goes rigid, hands clasped in her lap, back straight and posed. The tick of the clock drives the conversation, each beat a testament to their blunder.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“I’m being serious right now, Shadow Milk, and I want you to answer me honestly. I know that’s hard for you, but please consider it.”
She observes them, questioning, yet unafraid, “Did Pure Vanilla Cookie do this?”
A pause, a beat, a moment of hesitation, because that accusation speaks volumes.
Sage stills.Â
They take a breath, a glance, and their mask slips; not because of the loaded gun but of Mystic’s readiness to shoot.
That question was waiting, aging timelessly behind suspecting worries.Â
Mystic words were controlled, tone stiff, holding back any defining spirit as if she expected Sage to fight back, as if she knew they would jump to Pure Vanilla’s defense… As if they had this conversation before.
…and suddenly Sage sees Mystic differently, not as an oppressing force, but as a worried sister.
A weight is lifted, a strain cleared. They feel lighter without their anxiety holding them back, but the game is not over, simply stalled. Sage can’t back down, not on the first bet.
“No,” impassive and clear, said like the notion of abuse doesn’t bother them, “This was from someone else.” They pick up their teacup and take a sip. It’s lukewarm, fading quickly, gross.
Mystic hums, eyes squinted. One of her fingers taps the others, words whispered under her breath, so quiet Sage can’t hear. She turns away for all of one second before raising*.
“So you are back on speaking terms then?”
Sage blinks, long and hard.Â
They lower their hands, teacup following suit. Their confusion is not an act when they respond, "Absolutely not… I was under the impression everyone knew about the- Sugar mentioned something about rumors… We broke up, completely… this time.”
“And the cardigan?”
“Pardon?”
“You’re wearing his cardigan, Shadow Milk.”
Sage flushes, embarrassment painting their cheeks. They pull at the soft material falling over their hands, pooling around their waist, and curse their past self. Sage had forgotten about the clothing’s significance! Fuck.
“It was a lapse in judgment, one I will not repeat,” They stutter. Witches! What are they even supposed to say to that! It’s not like they can tell her about the wounds beneath! It was a strategic necessity, nothing more.Â
“Right,” she drones, rightfully unimpressed. A huff passes between them as she shakes her head.
Sage puffs up, hair physically rising in vindication, “I mean it! Pure Vanilla and I are no more and won’t be an item ever again. That bridge was burned, the ship sunk, the string cut! I will not rekindle that relationship even if hell freezes over! We are done! Why will no one listen?”
Their shoulders shake with each heavy breath, and wow- that was more heated than Sage meant for it to be. A strange feeling of frustration overtook them, a sensation not solely their own, yet not unwelcome in its delivery.
It struck a nerve.
“I’m sorry if I take your words at face value,” Mystic cuts in, “But your track record isn’t great.”
She sighs, deep and troubled, paired with a slight pinch to her brow, “I know how tempting it is to trust in your souljam, to rely on the bond it creates, but life is not a fantasy… Pure Vanilla Cookie is not good for you. He-“
“I KNOW THAT!”
A stunned silence cracks the tension, splitting it into fragments of remorse and emotional turmoil. Sage sucks in a breath and fights back tears. They remind themself it’s all an act even as a lump gathers in their throat, even as their tongue moves without their consent-
“I know that… It’s- it’s different this time. I have no intention of going back. He fucked up. It’s done, I’m done. I was stupid. I didn’t listen, but I see that now… Aren’t you my sister? Have some faith,” they rub a hand across their eyes while they breathe in time with the clock.
Tick, in. Tick, out. Tick, in. Tick, out.
And Mystic?Â
For the first time during the entirety of their conversation, her posture slips.Â
She goes stiff, caught between an expression of shock and suspicion. Her glare fades, replaced with wide eyes, as her shoulders fall. Little sounds leave her lips, not words, just noises of doubt, belief shattered along with her certainty.
It’s after their breathing settles that Sage realizes she found more truth in that outburst than any line they recited…
But a moment passes, and the shock is discarded like a bad draw. Mystic goes on the defensive, strengthening her resolve, “Family doesn’t run from each other. They don’t ignore-”
“Witches, I needed space!” Sage fires back, annoyance behind every word, too quick to take back, too heated to remain impassive.
“For three days?”
“A lot was going on! I needed to process,” Which is not a lie, fully the truth. Sage is still spiraling even now, but the show must go on.
Mystic matches their energy, “A simple check-in doesn’t take long,” She takes a breath, raving, “You have no idea how worried we were. We thought something awful happened, and here you are-“
Sage scoffs, crossing their arms, not allowing her the chance to speak, “I can take care of myself. We don’t have to spend every waking moment together just because we’re related-“
“Shadow Milk!”
Whatever retort they had loaded to shoot, fizzles out from her frigid bite. They lean back in their chair, disgruntled.
Mystic clasps her hands together, harder, tighter, like she would rather finish the job Golden Cheese started than have this conversation. “Have you not seen the flyers?”
…?
“What flyers?”
A whispered breath too quiet to hear passes beneath Mystic’s heavy sigh, “The ones spread around campus. The ones plastered on every surface imaginable. The ones hung up like obituaries rather than missing cookie reports! Witches, Shadow Milk, we thought you were dead!”
Shots fired; the pistol hits. Bull’s eye.
However, all Sage can hear is a ringing noise. Mystic’s continued rant dissolves behind their rebooting thoughts; irritation lost with the blow.
Images gather in their head: bleeding wrists, tearful eyes, overfilling tubs, glowing texts… The words “You know I had to do it” overlap with pounding fists and pleading shouts.
Their breath staggers, broken and uneven. Red thread weaves through their mind, connecting conversations in a jumbled web.
“But last night was the final straw” … Cookies have gone missing.
“Did Pure Vanilla Cookie do this?”… Pure Vanilla has a violent streak.
“But I can’t just ignore what you did to her” … Shadow Milk realized this too late. Someone got hurt… or worse.
“They break up like every week! Come morning, Doe will be all over that poser-“ … However, it was enough. Shadow Milk hit his breaking point.
“Family doesn’t run from each other. They don’t ignore- For three days?” … He didn’t have anyone to turn to, a self-imposed isolation.
“I hope this kills you as it did me.” … Shadow Milk knew. The guilt consumed him.
Sage breaths in and out. Don’t panic, not yet. Evidence doesn’t lie; however, it’s not a confession, simply conjecture. They don’t have the full story, only pieces.
Murder is a serious charge, an empty chamber devoid of bullets. It’s a wild accusation. Just because cookies are missing, it doesn’t mean they are dead.Â
No one died in Tales of Crispa, at least no one important; side characters disappeared, sure, but that’s what happens when your main cast is large. Details get lost, names forgotten, plot points overlooked…
Mystic- Mystic is overreacting, as family does. She doesn’t know what she is talking about. Everything is fine.
Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla broke up over something stupid, like pushed boundaries or petty drama. Breath, Sage, breath-
They pinch themselves right atop a hidden wound. The pain rewinds their brain, keeps them focused enough to pull their mask back in place even while it crumbles between their fingers.
The game is still on. Bets sets, the dealer impatient. Keep it together. Focus. Breath.
Silence grows from a gaping maw. A rhythmic ticking strikes each second like a metronome.Â
Tick, tick, tick.
It’s enough to drive Mystic over the edge.
She shakes her head, completely done. Her chair scrapes against the tile as she abruptly stands, expression calm yet furious. With each tick of the clock, her heels follow suit, marching across the room.
Sage watches as a cabinet is thrown open (the same one her kettle was stored in) and flinches at the loud bang, body reacting before brain.Â
Mystic rummages, pushing aside tea bags and dishes alike. They clatter and clink together as she collects a small stack of papers. The edges are crumbled, folded over like one would dog-ear a book to keep their place.
It takes two beats, two strides to close the distance between them. She slams down the pages next to Sage’s teacup, the object jumping in fright, and yanks over a chair, sitting heavily and defiantly.
…And, like a looping melody, Sage is back in that interrogation chair, spotlights burning bright.Â
Their eyes wander down to the flyers, encouraged by Mystic’s icy glare… Fears come to light as Sage sees similar headshots, questions, hotlines plastered in black ink.
Is it a small mercy they don't recognize any of the faces?
“Where were you?” Sharp, prickly, firm, yet masked with concern. It snaps Sage out of their spiral. Their face pale, voice weak.
“What?”
“We checked your dorm multiple times. You didn’t show up for class nor lunch. Not a single text was responded to. No one has seen you for the past three days, and it’s been even longer since you started avoiding us.”
And suddenly, Sage has a time frame, a missing block of information, paired with a growing sense of dread.Â
However, Mystic doesn’t wait for them to collect themself.Â
She goes in for the kill, “You are going to sit there and tell me what is going on from the beginning. I don’t want any bullshit, no excuses, no lies. I swear to the Witches above, if you don’t tell me the full truth, I will go to Spice and tell him everything.”
Oh. Threats. How fun. Fuck.
Sage gets the impression they don’t want to know what “everything” entails, but they can take a guess…Â
Between all the glares and frustration, all the raised voices and bitter tones, Mystic’s eyes kept wandering, glancing down… glancing at Sage’s arms, at Shadow Milk’s arms.
She knows.
But not fully.
Sage has one more ace up their sleeve, one more “get out of jail free” card. It’s a dangerous game, betting everything on the off chance she would focus on one tragedy over another… But she’d take it, the excuse, the “out.”
The question is: Can Sage afford the gamble?
Ha, like they have a choice. A lie needs truth to stick, and Sage has run out of luck.
…
They grasp at Shadow Milk’s cardigan, twisting a stray string around their finger, faking discomfort. The thread loops round and round, drawing Mystic’s attention.
It’s laughable how easy it is to distract her. Paired with Sage’s hunched shoulders and guilty expression, she never stood a chance.
“Show me.” A command, one masked with worry.
Sage complies, setting their hand in her awaiting grip. The shock is clear to see. Mystic expected a fight, defiance… but Sage doesn’t have the energy.
They turn away, not being able to stomach the guilt nor take the blame. It feels like betrayal as Mystic carefully lowers Shadow Milk’s sleeve… But the boy is dead. His harmful activity was fated to be revealed even without Sage’s interference.
“Oh, Shadow Milk.”
It doesn’t make the shame feel any less miserable.
Mystic caresses a hand over their bandaged skin, smoothing out each bump and crease, “May I see?”
Her voice is light, impassive, yet Sage can hear each shaky inhale. They squirm, both for the act and not. A moment passes, and silence hangs heavy with unspoken hesitation.Â
Their words fail them, trapped behind their tongue. Sage nods meekly, head tilting downwards as if to hide.
Mystic hums. Sage can feel the moment she starts unraveling the bandages. The minutes tick by as their skin meets cold air.
She gasps, horrified. Sage doesn’t blame her. They’ve seen the damage, lived through the pain. It’s not a pretty sight.
“Okay, okay. I-Uh, okay.” It’s more of a reassurance than a coherent train of thought, but it shows the devastation perfectly. Sage hunches over.
Fingers brush against raised skin, feather-like and careful. Every inch, every ounce of dough is inspected. No scar goes unnoticed, no flaked blood undetected.Â
One hand is traded for the other, soon both exposed in the burning spotlights above. Mystic stays quiet, holding each hand delicately as if Sage would crumble if she let go.
They don’t know what to say. The wounds speak for them, still raw and ugly. Their skin is puffed, healing, yet clearly damaged beyond recognition.
“I’m telling Spice.”
Sage’s head snaps up, “No, I-“
“This is bad,” Mystic’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, “You cut deep. This isn’t like last time. You should be dead.”
“I know, but- please, it’s- I want… I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Witches, Sage can’t do this. They shouldn’t be having this conversation. This isn’t their fight, pretending like it is… It’s too cruel.
They fall forward, laying their head on Mystic’s shoulder, confusing the performance for reality. Tears gather and dampen her collar, but she doesn’t comment on it, rather bringing her arms around their back in a loose imitation of a hug.
“You’re not,” she whispers, “You’re not… Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We had a deal, didn’t we?”
“… It was a really bad breakup. I wasn’t thinking straight.” Dead, emotionless… a bittersweet lie, masking a false truth.
“Of course,” Mystic shifts, sitting up… believing them. She runs a hand through their hair, combing tangles free. Sage tenses, eyes twitching, before carefully relaxing at the touch. A burn can not devour molten flesh unless you let it. Relax, breathe.
Time passes, mixing between quiet cries and shaking bodies. They both sit there, waiting for the next move, the next cue, the next call.Â
Mystic hums a melody lost to them. It’s calm and sweet, only broken by small tremors. Sage lets the song wash over them, pretending it’s someone else holding them close, shielding them from the world.
They shut their eyes and listen, huddling closer.
…Her perfume smells like periwinkles. It’s nice, comforting, blending well with the scent of chamomile, but not overbearingly so. It’s grounding, and Sage clings to it with an iron grip.
“I need to dress your wounds,” Mystic whispers after the song’s end. Sage grunts, not trusting their words. A chuckle warms up the space between their ear and neck.
“Come now,” she moves them, carefully setting Sage back in their chair, posture hunched and tired.Â
They allowed it, but only because their knee was starting to frown in disapproval. She smiles when they catch her eye. It’s heartbreaking, filled with a sadness only so many know.
The shame resurfaces as she turns away. Sage looks to the floor, tapping one foot against the other. They listen as a cabinet is opened. Its hinges squeak, loud and final.
Thuds follow, items colliding together until Mystic finds what she’s searching for. Her heels tap against the floor, coming back into view. She sits across from them, unfairly composed.
“Hand, please.”
In a repetitive motion, Sage relents.Â
Their hands meet, and Mystic gets to work. They watch her pull out a disinfectant, the spray stringing against their raw skin, coating both arms in a healthy dose. The excess is patted away diligently.
She’s careful and slow, making sure Sage sees what she's doing before committing to an action. The care brings a fresh set of mist to their eyes, but they blink it away.
A new, clean roll of bandages is uncovered. Mystic wraps them around Sage’s arms, matching in firmness and security. They're a bit itchy, a bit scratchy, but they get the job done.
“This doesn’t mean we are finished discussing your actions. I still want to hear an explanation, a proper one,” Mystic speaks up. “However, I can see this was hard for you.”Â
She finishes one arm, gesturing for the other. Sage adheres, nodding along.Â
“I am still mad, don’t think that I’m not. Everyone was so scared, especially Burning Spice and Eternal Sugar. You owe them an apology, Salt and I included… But I can see where my own faults lay,” Mystic lets out an airy breath.
Sage focuses on the bandage, watching it wrap round and round.
“I should have tried harder to pop your self-imposed bubble. I knew you were struggling and yet remained impassive, foolishly believing you would come to us if it got… bad again.”
Mystic’s focuses on the largest cut, the one spanning their entire forearm. Her eyes blink rapidly, lips thinning-
“It- It won’t happen again,” Sage blurts out because they need to say something, anything to assuage their guilt.Â
“You’re right. It won’t,” Their eyes meet, blue to gray, shame-filled to determined. “Because I’m giving you one week to tell Spice.”
“What? That’s-“
“So gracious of me, I know,” Mystic drawls, voice firm and distinct. She finishes bandaging their arms with a pat and starts putting the medical supplies away.
“Furthermore, from now on, you will be joining us at lunch, walking with us in the hallways, and doing all that lovely sibling bonding Spice goes on about. I will be visiting your dorm to collect anything I deem harmful-“
“That’s a bit-“
“Extremely reasonable? Yes, I’m aware.” The disinfectant joins the bandages, fitting neatly within their home.
Sage’s shoulders raise, defiance fanning, “More like an invasion of privacy-“
“Of which,” Mystic bits, grief succumbing to ire, “I have given you plenty up until this very moment. I apologize if finding my little brother covered in wounds disturbs me, but no matter.”
She glares at them, snapping the first aid kit shut with a snap, “We will work through this together, as a family, as we should have from the start… Do I make myself clear?”
How unfair and completely unnecessary… But understandable. It’s a horrible conundrum, faced with such a moral dilemma, one Sage will lose no matter what card they play.
Isolation or company? Freedom to be themself or safety from fellowship?
They scrunch their nose, bringing their arms close, and rub the newly acquired bandages, “… Crystal.”
Because this means something to her, because Sage owes her for the lie, the deception… because in the end, Sage is not Shadow Milk; they agree.Â
It’s not as freeing as they hoped, nor as guilt-relieving, but the small softening of Mystic's features cements their decision.
“Good, good,” she nods, “I will hold you to it. One week, don’t forget.”
Sage shrugs, exhaustion taking hold. They’re spent, finally reaching their limit. No more cards are at their disposal, no more bullets to shoot. The curtains hang heavy, creaking on old hinges, ready for the performance to end.
It’s game over.Â
The pot wiped clean; Mystic the winner. Sage folding to her flush. Although, what were they expecting? The cards were never in their favor.
Her chair scuffs against the ground, the sound old and redundant. “You haven’t eaten,” she says with such certainty, Sage doesn’t have the nerve to refute, once again nodding like a broken record.
A hum leaves her throat, “I’ll see what I can find.” Mystic turns, jewelry clicking together, “Stay here. We can talk more when you’ve had something to eat… And, Shadow Milk?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for confiding in me… I’m glad you're starting to take care of yourself, even if only a little,” her eyes travel down, tilting toward their cane, and Sage flushes.
Of course, she would notice such a small detail. How unfair.Â
They shift, hiding the object from view like a child caught with contraband. She laughs at them, physically brightening for the first time during this whole conversation.
Sage flips her off as she turns, creaking the door open and closing it with a click. Mystic’s laugh echoes off the walls, fading away with the tapping of her heels.
It isn’t until the final beat that Sage leans back and sighs… That was a harrowing experience. Zero out of five stars, would not recommend, but they survived it with all their limbs attached, no less!Â
Where is their standing ovation? Ugh.
They rub a hand across their face, spreading their fatigue like a second skin. Breathe in, breathe out. The curtains have fallen, the game set, no more bullets remain inside their empty camber.Â
It’s over… for now.
Tired eyes fall as they move Shadow Milk’s cardigan back in place, bandages now hidden safely behind cotton. Ha, like the flimsy material would do any good in the long run. Never should have put on the damn thing, but what can you do?
They shift, hunching further until their head meets their knees. Witches, that was close, too close for comfort. Mystic saw right through every misdirection they laid out, calling each fib like their acting skills were third-rate!
Should they be impressed or disappointed that she couldn’t distinguish her own brother from someone else?Â
But, on the other hand, who in their right mind would believe such a thing possible? You would have to be insane!
…Sage sighs, shaking their head, using the momentum to lean back. Their eyes focus on the small stack of flyers nestled beside them. Missing cookies, huh?
They grab a sheet, the very material making their skin crawl. Smiling faces look back, devoid of any defining features. There is no individual characteristic that stands out. Gender is not an issue, nor height or weight…
Did Pure Vanilla really do this?Â
It was one text, one fight between a failing relationship, one night that got out of hand; the two couldn’t be connected. Sage is paranoid, body and mind hyped up on adrenaline. Pure Vanilla isn’t a murderer. He didn’t commit any crimes. Sage is not on a killer’s radar. Everything is fine!
It doesn’t matter what their instincts are telling them. Please, ignore the gnawing hole in their gut. Pay no mind to their thumping heart nor their tapping feet.
Just moments ago, Sage’s instincts threw them down a flight of stairs into a literal spider’s den! They can not be trusted-
Sage lunges across the table, snags their forgotten teacup, and chugs the remaining tea, wishing it were something stronger. The bitter liquid travels down their throat, poisoning their airways.
Ugh, it’s cold and unpleasant, but they don’t stop till every last drop is consumed. The taste chases away the fear, grounding them in acidic leaves and rotten flowers.
The flyer is crushed with the movement, drops of tea staining the faceless photo. Sage’s breath staggers. One hand meets the other, the flyer in between, crumbled to jagged edges and pounded corners-
A shrill alarm breaks their stupor.
Sage jolts, shocked and confused. The flyer falls to the ground, crumbled into a ball, and bounces. One, two, three jumps away.
Right. Right, it was still lunch hour. Time is up. The passing period will start soon… Sage needs to get to class…
Mystic demanded they stay, but attendance was the whole reason for this performance… She’ll understand.
Sage leaves their chair like a possessed doll. Stiff gestures, collecting their bag and cane. Their feet lead them to the door, questions hanging heavy off their shoulders, shock setting in.
They take deep breaths as they clutch their cane. It’s just one day. Come on. You’re almost there. Just a couple more hours. You can do this. They can’t keep you here forever.
Sage grasps the doorknob and twists, opening the door for a fraction of a second before-
A hand roughly shoves them backwards. Pain erupts across their back as they trip, colliding with the table behind them.
Stars dance across their vision as teacups come crashing down. One after another, the delicate porcelain shatters against the tile.Â
Shards go flying. One embeds itself into Sage’s hand, creating a thin line of blue blood. It stings.
A click of the door’s lock drags their attention away. Their breath catches as their eyes widen.Â
Blond hair coming down in waves, gold and blue eyes darkened by a cast shadow, a glinting upright clover: Pure Vanilla.
Learning how to make GIFs is a lot easier than I thought! After the big animation hurdle, my understanding went up. What felt like a big, unachievable dream was suddenly closer to my skill set than I ever thought possible. This is so fun! Why did no one tell me this sooner? This image is for a fan story I write on Ao3 called "Twisted Silver." It currently only has four chapters so far, but I have more ideas coming soon! Yes, it is a Cookie Run Kingdom story centered around The Fount of Knowledge and Pure Vanilla Cookie. I know what I like.
Here's the link if you're interested:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Blueberry’s eyes snap open as they refocus. Nausea makes their head spin. Their body aches from exhaustion and pain alike.
Disassociation has never felt so disorienting.
It takes a moment for their foggy brain to process the world around them. Their vision zoning in on minor-scale details.
Luggage. Boxes. Supply crates. Rations.
Are they in some kind of storage room?
Towers of suitcases and barrels are clumsily thrown about the space. Stacks climb as high as the roof, making the already small area feel even tighter. Each wall is covered, leaving little room for the eye to wander.
It’s suffocating.
The towers of luggage are precariously balanced on one another, swaying gently in an nonexistent wind. Blueberry is afraid one might topple over and crush them, but their worry is torn away by a ray of light.
Metal.Â
Metal bars surround them, bars of gold glinting with sunlight from a window too far out of reach. It’s cold and sharp in all the wrong ways-
Blueberry is in a cage.Â
A cage meant for a bird! It’s small, smaller than small, digging into their dough like a snare.Â
Their body can barely fit. Their limbs crammed at an awkward angle. Their broken leg screams…?
But no, they twitch their paw, and it stings; however, the pain isn’t blinding. Their bone isn’t sticking out of their skin; a white bandage covers the expanse of the injury instead… They have been healed…
How strange…
Blueberry can taste magic on their tongue. It’s warm and comforting like a home-cooked meal or a bundle of blankets on a winter’s day… Pure Vanilla Cookie? He healed them.
…
But not all the way, the pain is still there.Â
Blueberry’s muscles still ache. They are still caged! This wasn’t a kind gesture. Blueberry was tricked once again by honey-coated words. When will they learn?
Just how similar to their twin are they? Why do they keep believing in a fantasy when they have seen what cookies are capable of? Kindness? Ya, right. Blueberry wouldn’t be here if kindness was reliable.
They just wanted to be with their family. How did their rescue attempt end up like this?
…Blueberry takes a deep breath.
In the end, it doesn’t matter. It’s nothing new. Cages, chains, broken trust (no matter how small), it’s all the same.
He has lived through it enough times to know that the only way out is through sheer spite!Â
Blueberry has broken out of prison before. Traveling as much as he did, it’s a common occurrence! One that he won’t ever tell his siblings of, especially Spice and Mystic! He’ll take it to his (metaphorical) grave!
The tree was one thing, crafted with burning silver and fortified by ancient runes; this birdcage is child’s play compared to that hell. Runes flow along the cage’s edge. It’s white magic (a pain), but the craftsmanship is shabby! The cage itself is a poor conduit for such a spell! Blueberry can easily get out!
…But if he is going to do this, he is going to do it right.
Blueberry calls upon his soul jam, asking it for aid. It rings back, bursting with magic. Shock ripples throughout his mind, but then they remember the soup. Stupid golden cookie did help after all.
He shakes himself. Focus! Focus!
Leaking out and around his form, Blueberry is engulfed in shadows. Strings of dark moon magic coat his being as he shrinks and shrinks and shrinks! He condenses his mass, his eyes, his hair into a small rodent.
His body becomes rounded, paws making way for claws. Dark blue and white stripes swirl around his cubby dough. A long, wire-like tail extends from his back while whiskers of a similar pattern tickle his face.
Blueberry shifts his vest to a loose blue scarf. It covers his soul jam perfectly and is tied back into a bow. Gold details travel along the edge of the cloth because fashion! He is dramatic, sue him!
The shadows fade away, slinging back into his soul jam, while Blueberry opens his eyes. A peppermint mouse is his creature of choice. Its small stature is a perfect fit to wiggle his way out of-
Wait, wait, wait!Â
“He”, “Him”, Oh hell, ya! Gender shift! Blueberry hasn’t had one of those in a while. It makes him feel reinvigorated! He skitters in a little circle, joy and excitement radiating off his form.
Okay, okay, okay! Focus!
Escape time!
Blueberry crawls over to the bars, squeezing his body tight to fit between them. His paws barely reach the ground when suddenly the runes zap back in retaliation. It’s angry and hot and hurts!Â
His fur stands up, and tail lashes out. Blueberry can feel a burn forming on his back. It will surely leave a mark, but what’s one more injury?
Right, he forgot about the runes!
Channeling a tiny bit of magic, Blueberry pushes back. Sparkles fly off the clashing spells, scattering like shattered glass. He braces against the heat, folding his limbs close to his body, until finally the white magic relents.
Ha, ha, success! Brute force for the win!
The runes fizzle out, fading into particles. The bars become colder with the power source gone, but it rangles a smug smile out of Blueberry… That is, until the cage’s door flings open with a satisfying pop…
So…
Uh…
The runes must have been connected to the door somehow, and Blueberry missed it entirely…Â
He also didn’t know there was a door in the first place, and is feeling really silly dangling from the two bars he has wedged himself between.Â
Dang it…
Oh well! Freedom here he comes!
Blueberry pushes against the bars, his claws yanking his tummy free. He snaps out quickly, too fast to adjust his balance, and fails his arms. The motion is ungraceful, but it gets the job done as he lands on his feet.
All according to plan!
The suitcase under him wobbles. Oh fu-
Gravity takes hold as the rough motion from his escape causes the cage to fall over. Like a domino effect, the suitcase is sent flying and takes Blueberry along with it!
He reaches for a handhold, but misses! Why does he always choose animals with tiny legs?
Blueberry is thrown, tumbling through the air, flipping once, then twice.Â
Magic! Magic, he needs his magic!
His soul jam glows, pops, and fizzles. The crack, Witches damn it, refuses his call for aid and flickers, powering down. A terrified shriek leaves his mouth as Blueberry comes closer to the ground just to collide with it face-first.
He bounces off the surface like a skipping stone, tumbling across the uneven terrain. Head over feet, Blueberry lands less than gracefully. The position, however, gives him a clear view of the destruction he has caused.
Three, four- No, five suitcases crash to the ground. The birdcage sits incorrectly in the center of the chaos, its door swinging off its hinges. A cloud of dust erupts into the air, causing Blueberry to squeeze.
Note to self: Don’t follow Spice’s example. Ow.
Blueberry rolls over and shakes his head. The room spins as he rights himself into a sitting position. He twitches his injured leg. It feels like he twisted it again, yet the pain is not overbearing. He could still move-
A deafening slam shatters the silence. Blueberry whips his head around, but can’t see where the sound originated from. He does hear voices, though.
“What was that-”
“Check on the prisoner-”
Okay! Time to move!
Blueberry scampers over to two large suitcases and hides between them. Footfalls thunder behind him, far too close for comfort. The ground shakes when they come near, and Blueberry catches sight of silver boots.
His heart stops, breathing picking up. His back hits the suitcase's side. The shadows welcome him warmly. Blueberry closes his eyes.
Don’t think about it. They can’t see you. They don’t know you are here, and let’s keep it that way.
With a deep exhale, Blueberry rises to his feet and slides back into the enclosed space. The luggage is placed like a Jenga tower, even on the ground. A series of winding tunnels is created, small enough for only a creature of his size.
It’s dark and ominous, but the alternative is worse, so here goes nothing… Surely one way will lead to an exit.
Left. Right. Straight. Left again.
It’s like a labyrinth, dead end after dead end. All Blueberry can see are boxes. The air is stagnant, although the smell of berries is strong. Letters he can’t read (an exciting notion) decorate the crates.Â
If only he had a second, then he could decipher them… But time is running out.Â
Blueberry can hear the fairy guards arguing above him. Their words carry on the wind, but are muffled by the density of the crates… They have found the empty cage and aren’t happy about Blueberry’s great escape.
He isn’t sure why they haven’t called for backup, but he will not look a gift horse in the mouth.
His paws tap against the ground. Blueberry jumps over a buckle, wiggles between two boxes, and dives behind a suitcase. It’s a tight squeeze no matter which way he goes. His injured paw whines in disapproval.
It feels like he has traversed an eternity in this room. Time flows like a wrapped reality between one point and the next. His breathing goes heavy, fur hot. What Blueberry wouldn’t give for some-Â
Wait!
A puff of air blows past his head. It’s humid and dry… Blueberry follows the trail. His paws pick up speed as he limps.
No magic is detected. The wind is natural, but has a different temperature than the musk Blueberry is trapped in, thus-
A vent.
Hidden behind a crate’s edge is a vent!
Vents led outside, right?
… Only one way to find out. Blueberry doesn’t hesitate before he jumps!
The vent is cold beneath his paws. It’s smooth to the touch yet covered in a thin layer of dust. A consistent stream of wind is blown through the small space at steady intervals.
Fascinating.
Is the building air-conditioned? Blueberry wants to know! He has never seen a place so uniform before! The metal work is impressive. Spice would be over the moon!
Bolts and screws attach the panels rhythmically surrounding him. Each plate is spaced exactly the same (Yes, Blueberry measured), and an identical material is used for each board.
Pipes and tubes ran along the vents' edges. Heat puffs off them, raising the panels with the built-up pressure. It feels a tad bit dangerous being so close, and yet Blueberry can’t get enough!
He doesn’t sense any magic flowing through the metal tunnel, meaning the structure runs off a different power source! The heat indicates steam- fueled or perhaps it’s coal-based?
Ah, if only Blueberry could spare a few minutes to analyze further! But alas, he is a wanted fugitive being hunted as he breathes!
Those fairy guards must have realized Blueberry has escaped by now. It is only a matter of time before his head start is no longer helpful.
Oh, how the fates could be so cruel to subject him to this-
What’s that!
Blueberry scampers over to an opening within the vent. The slot is divided by metal bars, spanning from one wall to the next. If he wanted to, Blueberry could squeeze past them, but then he’d be out in the open.
…
On the other hand, the room below looks to be a meeting room. There is a large table stretching across the space with chairs surrounding it. Papers decorate the table’s surface while a huge map is spread out front and center…Â
Information… Blueberry’s one weakness. Tempting, very tempting.
Could he risk it?
His body wiggles through the bars, reaching for a purchase on the wall below.Â
Mystic would be so mad if he endangered himself…
A groove fits Blueberry’s paw nicely. He steadies himself while swaying his tail, eyes located on his prize.
Not to mention how his other siblings would react if they found out.
The distance is great, especially for his tiny mouse body, but if Blueberry used a teeny tiny bit of magic, he could make the jump without much struggle. It’s just a hop, skip, and a jump away!
However, when has that prospect ever stopped him? What they don’t know can’t hurt them after all!
Blueberry leaps with all his strength. Air rushes by his face as he falls, although he isn’t worried. With a quick wave of his hand, Blueberry is engulfed in a blue light.
The spell coats every part of his being, gently halting his descent, and lowering him to the table. His paws slowly grace the surface as a smug smile crosses his face.
Heh, still got it!
…Wait, why did his magic work now and not before back in the storage room? There was no crack, no pop, no stabbing pain-
Oh, would you look at that!
Blueberry skitters across the oak table. It’s easy to ignore the mild confusion with such beauty before him!Â
Parchment of vegetable fiber glides underneath his claws. The smell of drying ink and sunbaked books fills his senses. The paper is warm to the touch and smooth, so much smoother than any paper Blueberry has had the pleasure of knowing.
Little flag standees dot around the map. Each flag is a different color and topped with a unique symbol: A red heart, a green spade, a yellow triangle, a purple diamond, and a blue clover.
It’s clear to see that they were placed strategically, but Blueberry can’t make heads or tails of the reasoning behind them.
To add to this growing mystery, the continents and islands Blueberry once knew and charted have been completely rewritten! Or, well, according to this map, they have been.
Rivers, mountains, valleys, all of unknown origins, stand before them. Each has a story, Blueberry is dying to uncover… What even is the licorice sea?
Stars gather in his eyes! What fun! Blueberry hasn’t had such a riddle to solve since before… Well, not for a long time.
It makes them want to shake, to run, to jiggle.Â
A little happy spark of energy races from his paws, traveling all the way up to his ears. They twitch in anticipation while Blueberry scurries in a circle, relishing the freedom and open air because he can!
No walls restrict him anymore. Blueberry can do whatever he wants, and isn’t that just breathtaking!
He can read a book without hesitation. He can explore without regret. He can play without fear of scrutiny!
But right now, he really wants to look at this map.
Blueberry bounces from place to place, taking in all there is to see.Â
He runs around mountains, follows winding rivers, and charts each change with his mind. That valley wasn’t there before, clearly eroded by this river, although the sea levels have risen on this half of Earthbread, creating more islands and archipelagos…
Oh! A nice little forest has sprung to life near that one shining tree, and would you look at that?Â
Civilization has expanded!Â
Little houses are marked strategically near rivers and oceans. Towns, cities, kingdoms of differing backgrounds and cultures just waiting to be explored! So many places with so many stories!
Blueberry can’t help the little tapping of his feet as his tail wipes behind him.Â
How much knowledge is hidden within their walls? What lengths has magic developed? What new knowledge could they gain here in this new, bustling reality?
He spins and dances and hops at the prospect, getting a good look at all the new, shiny experiences. It’s so grand and wonderful and…
And…
…And he was asleep for a long, long time.
Blueberry’s smile lowers as his ears droop. He turns his head from right to left. The north has elevated, the south has shrunk. East and west are no better, each with its own revisions…
Nothing is the same, and Blueberry, he missed it.
A feeling of dread settles between his lungs. His throat constricts, clogging his windpipes. Warmth gathers behind his eyelids as a bittersweet expression slides down his face.
He should have been able to enjoy this moment, and all the ones he missed, with his family, but fate had other plans. One’s where Blueberry didn’t get a say.
It didn’t matter if he knew this result would come to fruition. It still hurt, still stung to know the present moved on without him…Â
Blueberry shakes his head. No, no!Â
What’s done is done. The past is in the past. He won’t tarnish this opportunity by letting harsh thoughts take over! Brutality will only get you so far.Â
Besides, his family is waiting for him! They can start over in this new world together-
!!!
His ear twitches.Â
Two murmuring voices draw near. Words such as “Cruelty” and "Justified" pass through thin walls.Â
The rest of the conversation is lost to him, but the loud pounding sound of footsteps hints at the voices’ encroaching arrival.Â
Oh no, oh no, oh no! Hide! Blueberry needs to hide! He will not go back in that cage! He refuses!
The frantic movement of scurrying feet carries him forward. Blueberry turns left and is greeted with open air. Not good. He turns right, and it’s the same, empty beside the flag standees.
Blueberry is too big to hide behind them and too slow to make it across the table in time-
!!!
The click of the lock is turned as the door slowly opens.Â
Ah! Blueberry freezes, caught by indecision. A white robe sways past the threshold.
“I still think-“ The sentence abruptly stops as a head of golden hair turns, a set of discolored eyes landing on Blueberry’s own. Shock ripples throughout the shared bond.
For a moment, no one moves. Time stops. The room itself, holding its breath in anticipation.Â
Blueberry blinks. Golden boy does the same.
Then, like a bolt, realization strikes, and both are on the move.
Blueberry’s hair stands on end as he dodges a swap and zip-zaps across the table. His little paws scramble to push him further. The momentum carries him faster than he ever ran before!
One step, two steps, three steps, and he’s racing. Dodge left, swerve right, don’t stumble, roll out of the way!Â
His pursuer reaches and grabs and pulls, but all attempts end futile as Blueberry slips out of tender hands. Adrenaline pounds like a base drum behind his ears, forcing a smile across his face.
He’s gonna make it! He’s gonna make it!
Ah.
Blueberry clips a flag standee, serving out of control. A misstep is taken as he tries to correct his balance, but lands on his injured paw. Pain radiates while his body collides with the table.
Pure Vanilla takes the opening.
A large hand encompasses him, pressure building on all sides.
For a terrifying second, Blueberry is positive he is going to be crushed. He struggles and fights and bites, but nothing works. A kick to the palm, a scratch to the wrist, nothing.
Wind blows past his head as panic sets in. Blueberry squeezes his eyes tight.
…But the weight doesn’t become suffocating. His lungs don’t scream out. In fact, the hold is gentle like a soft blanket on a winter’s day.
Blueberry squints an eye open to see…?
A cone-shaped hat with star pointed tips.Â
Oh, Great Witches above! It’s the stupidest-looking headdress Blueberry has ever seen, and Pure Vanilla is wearing it willingly! He takes back every compliment he has ever given to the man.Â
Golden boy’s fashion sense is atrocious-
Wait, wait, wait! Why is he lifting it up? Wait, no, don’t!
Darkness follows along with the fuzzy sensation of soft curls. Small streams of light filter in through the delicate material, allowing him to see, but that’s besides the point.
Did- did he just put Blueberry under his hat? His stupid cone-shaped hat?
This is a fate worse than death! Let him out! Let him out, right now!
Blueberry squirms, flinging his limbs around. His tail lashes out, hitting the side of Pure Vanilla’s hat as he thrashes. He tries to nudge his way under, but is too ensnared to get a good grip.
Shadows pass overhead while a hand hovers over him. A wave of warmth seeps into his dough, pausing Blueberry’s onslaught.Â
Soft particles dance in the air while a calming light flashes. His thoughts slow as his heart beat stills to a normal rate.
That calming spell from before! Curses!
Blueberry feels his eyelids droop as his body falls, now completely snug against the blonde’s scalp; the fight leaving his body.
“Pure Vanilla?”
The voice is elegant and airy. It sounds familiar, although Blueberry can’t place why.
“Is everything alright?”
“Oh.” Blueberry is jostled as Pure Vanilla tilts his hat, correcting its lopsidedness. Tiny claws sink into golden hair as Blueberry holds tight. He can hear the slight wince in Pure Vanilla’s tone as he responds, “Yes, I’m fine. I just… tripped.”
Silence follows.Â
Blueberry can feel the judgment from here. That was a horrible lie.
“Of course,” the soft-spoken voice replies dryly, “Perhaps you should rest if you feel unwell. I could always call Black Rasin-“
“There is no need, my friend. I believe there is still much for us to discuss. Let’s not get sidetracked.” Pure Vanilla shifts, Blueberry follows along with the motion.Â
A sigh can be heard, “You’re still mad.” It’s said like a statement, a final type of certainty that only comes with a deep understanding.
Pure Vanilla hums, neither confirming nor denying, although his silence speaks volumes. It’s uncomfortable, the tension hanging thick like a condensed fog.Â
A squeak of a chair’s leg rings out. Gravity takes Blueberry down. His claws dig in further, although the golden boy pays it no mind as he sits, prim and proper.
A second passes, then two.Â
Apprehension prickles, drowning the room and its occupants. Weight is held between stubborn stares until a chair scrapes once more and a heavy thud breaks the silence.
“I already told you,” the airy voice grumbled, “I did what I had to. You didn’t see them. You weren’t there.”
A stillness weighted heavily with hesitation covers the delicate suspension. It’s so quiet Blueberry can hear the small tremors shaking the girl’s breath.Â
She’s scared.
Pure Vanilla’s head veers down, and Blueberry rolls over. The world spins then pauses in a hushed moment of contemplation… Two steps are all it would take to be free.
“Then, tell me. What did you see?”Â
And Blueberry inches closer, so close in fact his nose touches the brim of Pure Vanilla’s hat. He blinks and stares at the soft material, the golden boy’s magic derailing his movement, but no!
Blueberry won’t back down! He pushes and wiggles until his head peaks out from under the hat-
It’s her!
The white-haired, red-eyed faerie winged bone breaker! She is sitting across from Pure Vanilla, holding her arms as if she were the victim and not the one who ruthlessly broke his leg!
Blueberry wiggles forward, pushing through the bird nest-like curls, fury burning past common sense.Â
He’s gonna bite her, bite her hard! She’s the reason that he’s not with his sibling right now!
A large hand blocks his view. No!Â
Pure Vanilla pushes him back into darkness as Blueberry squirms. Let him go! He has business to attend to-
“Stone cold eyes, the kind only a killer would have, someone without remorse,” her tone is icy as she responds, stance unbreakable.
“I saw sharp edges and hard lines. I saw a cookie masquerading as an angel, hiding devil wings under a fluffy facade. I saw a knight who had forsaken his oath, trailing a path of blood behind him. I saw monsters ready to deceive, hurt, destroy without thinking of the consequences of their actions.”
White Lily lets out a breath, closing her eyes and worms her jaw. Her voice turns quiet, “I saw a heinous act so cruel it would leave the toughest of soldiers on their knees.”
“Lily-“
“What did you see?” She cuts in, voice dry, eyes searching. “What did I miss? What makes you put them in such a positive light? I don’t understand, so please, enlighten me.”
“Desperation,” Pure Vanilla responds simply.Â
White Lily scoffs, “Desperation? Desperate people don’t destroy people’s livelihoods-”
“They didn’t know what was going on. We didn’t give them a chance-“
“You heard Elder Faerie’s words, listened to his tale, read the legends! What more do you need to condemn them?” Delicate wings fan out in irritation while blood red eyes sparkle with frustration.Â
Pure Vanilla sighs, feathers puffing.
He raises a hand and rubs his face like this whole song and dance was aging him well beyond his years. “I have, yes. But those scriptures and books were written over a millennium ago. Time changes people, changes hearts. Who is to say the Beasts haven’t changed as well?”
And Oh, Blueberry pauses where he was uselessly chewing at Pure Vanilla’s hat. He clenches his paws as his mind settles down. They are talking about him, about his siblings. “Beasts”, their new title, sits like a stone in his throat.Â
Books? Scriptures? The fairies used his own fixation against him and spun lies to help trap them further! Why? Why go this far?
White Lily leans back, “The med bay, for one. You saw what they did to Mercurial Knight Cookie. His wings are fractured, cut through like paper… He won’t be able to fly again.”
Blueberry puffs out his cheeks.Â
What nonsense! While fairy wings are fragile, they aren’t brittle. A little cut like that won’t render them beyond repair! Healing salves were invented for a reason! In fact, Blueberry has written a whole book on the matter-
Unless… unless that piece of knowledge was stored away in his Spire’s walls… Oh.
Pure Vanilla’s eyes grow firm, filled with unspoken sorrow, and yet he continues his defense, “A loss, I will admit, however, one act of violence does not justify another. Please, White Lily. It is cruel to leave that wound to fester.”
“The Beast of Deceit can live with the pain,” her voice increases in octane, hands tightening against her arms. “Need I remind you, they are immortal beings? Injuries like that are nothing. Come morning, the pain will have subsided, and the wound closed. We shouldn’t waste resources.”
What? The Beast of What?
“How could you say that? No one deserves to be in pain! They are skin and bone, my friend! Don’t you see how starved-”
“I have seen enough, and my decision is final,” White Lily stands. Her chair scrapes against the ground as she dusts off her dress, eyes set in a firm line.Â
“Do not be fooled by the form they have taken. That rabbit is nothing more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I will not tolerate my judgment being questioned. They are my prisoner, my responsibility.”
Pure Vanilla quickly clamors to follow after her as White Lily marches to the door. “My friend, don’t do this. Please, I beg of you. See reason.”
“I’m sorry,” she turns around, braided hair framing her face as she clutches the doorknob.Â
“I appreciate you allowing my soldiers and I to reside in the Vanilla Kingdom during this calamity, but I can’t afford to make any mistakes. Not again. Not after Elder Faerie put his life on the line… We will be landing soon... I- I hope to see you at the council with the others.”
She glances at Pure Vanilla, eyes sparkling with an unnamed emotion. Unspoken words are shared between them, a gesture Blueberry can’t discern.
A moment passes in that quiet form of contemplation, but sorrow gathers in her eyes nonetheless. White Lily turns away with shaking shoulders and a set jaw.
The door thuds behind her retreating back like a nail on a coffin. Pure Vanilla stands there frozen, adorned in his disbelief, hand reaching out as if to comfort, yet lacking direction.
It’s a sad sight, a private conversation made public for little ears. Blueberry can only wonder what expression is gracing the feathered cookie’s face. Judging by the sigh and downturned shoulders, it isn’t a good one.
Now alone, the quiet sits heavy, yet time moves on with grief, and Blueberry is stricken with it.
Legacies mean little to immortal beings, presentation even less so. They live for so long, life becomes a fickle thing. Days pass by like racing horses, relationships fade with growing age, and seasons change in the blink of an eye.
It’s precisely why Blueberry doesn’t care for titles, but this: Beast of Deceit.
…
Seeing the impact firsthand, the fear in White Lily’s voice, and the shake to Pure Vanilla’s shoulders, it revealed just how naive he’s been.
Blueberry missed something, something big. The Faeries didn’t just trap them. They rewrote history.
Why?Â
The answer is unclear, sitting in the corner of his mind like a warning sign, but Blueberry has a lead.
Tanned dough snaps into existence as his eyes refocus. Darkness makes way for light as he is freed from Pure Vanilla’s hat, the man stumbling over words, Blueberry pays little to no mind to.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that. Please don’t blame her too much. White Lily has lost greatly in recent days. The stress is eating away at her. She's more forgiving than-“
Blueberry is set back on the oak table, parchment underfoot. The once comforting material now prickles beneath his paws. Shaking breaths build then settle as Blueberry anchors himself.
He calls upon his soul jam, ignoring the pain it brings, and listens to the fizzle, pop, and crackle it makes. Sparks fly as magic concentrates around his vocal cords.
Pure Vanilla gasps in shock at the building heat, reaching out, but his hands meet empty air as Blueberry steps back.Â
The magic grows, shadows cross over, forming strings of darkness humming like an eldritch nymph. A pop rings out a simple syllable, followed by a constant until words form.
Blueberry opens his eyes, glaring daggers, “Let’s talk.”
Romance, in all its glory, was never a strong suit for Sage. They have fallen in love before. They understand the ups and downs, the wishful longings, and the sorrowful breakups.
Sage knows how it feels to hold a lover’s hand as you walk down the street in autumn weather. They know how nice it is to have someone listen as you ramble nonstop with a stupid, lovesick expression.
… They know how grief encompasses the emotion when they are gone, taken away by forces beyond one’s control.
The point is, Sage is not ignorant when it comes to the ways of love. For Heaven's sake, Sage is a professor, a teacher, an observer. They have seen the many types of romance take hold of their students.Â
They have witnessed the reactions, the bonds, and the separations more times than they can count. Sage is well accustomed to all of love’s little intricacies!
But never in their wildest dreams (or nightmares for that matter) did Sage think they would possess someone in a relationship… or well, at the tail end of one.
Sage sighs, the action more internal than audible. A glance up shows attentive faces soaking up the lecture being given… However, they can’t shake the feeling of eyes on them.Â
It’s the anxiety talking, Sage knows. Their nerves are shot. The object held tightly between their hands, the cause.
They glance down at the glowing screen. A shiver runs along their spine. Sage brings a thumb to their lips and bites their nail. The chewing motion calms them slightly.Â
They hunch over their desk, hiding Shadow Milk’s phone in the shadows. The screen lights up their face, reflecting off their eyes. A worried crease forms between their brows as they stare at the text thread before them.
Lengthy paragraphs of missed texts litter the screen. The words written range from worried rants to demanding pleas, but all are from one sender: “Nilly,” or rather Pure Vanilla.
Sage can feel a headache coming on just from reading them. He’s persistent, Sage will give him that. They scroll… and scroll… and scroll-
Damn, Shadow Milk spooked the golden boy bad. Half of these are frazzled messages asking him where he is, while the rest are… confusing. The further up they go, the more mind-boggling it gets.
Sage is clearly missing the context, but it almost seems like Pure Vanilla is… apologizing.
The way Golden Cheese attacked them, Sage had thought Shadow Milk had caused the split… What the hell?
Sage ceases their onslaught on their thumb and lightly cuffs their neck. A silent fury bubbles beneath their skin as their throat whines at the touch.Â
That was uncalled for!
They take a deep breath. Now is not the time.
Their eyes wander back to the screen as they read more of Pure Vanilla’s messages. The intensity of each rant grows the longer they scroll. His apologies blend into explanations.
Sage can’t make heads or tails of what he is referring to, but the tone of his writing makes them feel… queasy.
It’s like they're reading a train of thought gone astray. One moment he’s apologizing, the next comforting. He goes back and forth justifying his actions, explaining to Shadow Milk why it had to be done…
But then Pure Vanilla’s diction shifts, and he blames Shadow Milk for what happened. He insists that they were blowing everything out of proportion, that everything was fine, and that Shadow Milk was cruel for reacting the way he did.
Sage bites his lip and tilts his head. Their eyes squint as they scroll.Â
Shadow Milk doesn’t fight back; in fact, he doesn’t respond in the slightest until three days prior.Â
The words, “I hope this kills you,” are displayed like a threat.Â
Sage runs a hand down their covered arm. They can imagine the raised skin and smell the faint scent of blueberry jam… An understanding is starting to form.
Their thumb swipes up to the beginning of the conversation. Surprisingly, it’s Shadow Milk who replies first.
Monday, 9th, 8:36pm
Shadow Milk
I want you to stay the fuck away from my family.
Nilly
Bluebird! Oh, thank the Witches. You worried me dearly!
Where are you?
We can talk this out.
Shadow Milk
I want you to listen to me for once in your life. Just stop and let me talk… Please.
Nilly
You’re not making any sense, Love. Let me help you. Tell me where you are, and we can fix this, fix us.
Are you in your dorm? I’m coming over.
Shadow Milk
I loved you. I really did.Â
I never thought a guy like me could be with a guy like you… Nilly, you were my everything.
It felt like I was invincible, like I was looking down from above when I was with you. You were an angel and I… I was along for the ride.
It didn’t matter what anyone else said, what rumors went around, because I knew the truth.Â
I knew you… Or at least I thought I did.
Nilly
My light, my other half, it’s okay. You’re okay. Stop with this nonsense.
I’m coming up the steps to your dorm right now. Please, give me a few more moments, and then we can talk.
Everything will be fine. I promise.
Shadow Milk
It was great, at the start…Â
The attention was addictive. People would stare as we walked down the hall. It felt exhilarating, like a power trip to have that many eyes on us, on me. I basked in the love, in the jealousy, in the fear. I wasn’t just a weak, little school boy anymore, and they knew it. I was walking with the big cats, a part of the pride. You made it all worth it, made me feel seen…
The quiet moments were nice too.
I liked lying in your dorm room and hearing you laugh. The sun would seep through that blind you never got fixed. Rays of light danced around you like a halo… It’s what I imagine heaven is like, with all the warm colors and comforting touches.
However, I liked having someone who got it the most.
I didn’t even have to say what I was feeling. You just understood! You always did, just like that, like we were meant to be, two parts of a whole.Â
You could always read me like an open book. I thought I could do the same.
…But I was naive. It was all a lie, a dirty, filthy little lie.
Nilly
No, no, of course it wasn’t. Hold on. Let’s talk about this face-to-face. We shouldn’t discuss this over text.Â
Let me hold you. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it!
Open the door.
Shadow Milk
…And yet I wanted to believe in it.
I wanted to believe in density. I wanted to believe we were fated. I wanted to believe what our soul jams represented.
I wanted it so bad.
But last night was the final straw.
Nilly
Open the door, darling.Â
Open the door.
Shadow Milk
I can’t be with you, not like that, not after what you did.Â
I’m a coward. I know.Â
Even after everything, I still want to believe; I still want to hold your hand.
But I can’t just ignore what you did to her.Â
You’re sick. A demon shrouded in angel feathers held together by lies and deceit. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!
… I hate that I still love you.
Nilly
Bluebird, open the door. This is nonsense. Let me fix it. Please. I can still fix it. I love you. Please, you’re not thinking straight. Open the door.
Shadow Milk
I’m breaking up with you, in case you couldn’t tell. I’m done. I can’t keep doing this… It’s over. It’s all over.
I hope this kills you as it did me.Â
Goodbye, Pure Vanilla. You were an experience, one I’ll never forget… I hope the image you find haunts you for the rest of your days.
I know I will.
Nilly
Stop talking like that. Please open the door, love. You know I had to do it-
The conversation dissolves into a jumbled mess of sorrowful apologies and unraveling justifications. It’s the same song and dance Sage read before… Throughout it all, Shadow Milk never texts back.
The silence speaks volumes.
Sage didn’t pay it much mind before, but now that small insight holds weight.
…They scroll faster.
Days pass filled with empty promises and worried rants. Pure Vanilla keeps texting Shadow Milk, not knowing what transpired that night.
Sage can picture it clearly.
They can imagine shaky hands grasping a chipped phone over a loaded tub as water poured down on blue dough. They can hear deep breaths rattling collapsed lungs with the scent of blueberry jam clouding the room like laughing gas. They can see tears mixing with snot and sweat as droplets fall onto blessing wrists.
The image is so realistic that it’s like Sage has experienced it themselves, as if they are reliving a nightmare.
The fear is palpable, nestling into their bones. It’s a phantom ache spreading across their covered shame. Their eyes go blurry as static envelopes their brain, mind fuzzing out like someone changing the channel on a radio-
~~~~~!
Pouring fists slam on hardwood while choked sobs are held behind rickety hiccups. Lightheaded as he is, wobbling legs stand and stumble towards the invasive noise.Â
Slick with blood, the buzzing device clutched between his hands thuds into a charging port. He flinches back once the deed is done, the sound mixing with the threatening tone behind flimsy defenses… But that’s it. It’s final. His last soliloquy has been delivered, his requiem sung, his testimony pleaded.
…The thunderous noise grates on his ears.
A moment, a pause… a second of hesitation tugs at his sleeve.Â
Eyes shift over and lock onto the divide… A cruel little thought resounds off his skull like an echo-
“Don’t you hear him? Just listen to how desperate he sounds! You love him, don’t you? Turn back. Open the door.”
-Guilt eats away at his decision, but the image of rot and flies compels him forward.
He doesn’t succumb. The door is left closed, locked firmly in place, with the mimic wearing cookie skin trapped behind it.
…
Rushing water greets him as they step past the point of no return, the intensity drowning out his fear, his shame, his guilt. Knees fall to the ground, water kisses his skin.
A heavy breath leaves his body as he leans closer, seeking forgiveness but finding none… An ugly reflection grins back at him.
The sight turns his stomach. A hand is thrust into the water’s depths, blood mixing with water in an artful display. Fire rages up his wrist while tears drip down-
~~~~~?
“Shadow Milk Cookie!”
Sage jumps in their seat. Their hair bristles like a cat’s hackles as their eyes widen. The memory fades away, leaving behind a dazed delirium. They blink as they turn their head, coming face-to-face with an angry professor.
“Huh?”
It’s a stupid, dumb response, seeing as the motion brought Shadow Milk’s phone out into the open. The heavy sigh and pinched brow they get in return only solidifies that fact further.
Their teacher holds out their hand, face set in a stern eyebrow rise, “Your phone, please. We come here to learn, not text our lovers. If you have time to make heart eyes, then surely you have time to listen to my lecture for once. Need I remind you what you scored on our last test, Shadow Milk Cookie?”
Giggles erupt throughout the room as Sage’s face flushes. They hear a few snide remarks and whispered gossip pass around the room. The feeling of humiliation sticks to them like chewed-up gum.
It’s the awkwardness of the situation that keeps them aware enough to hand over their phone. The feelings of fear mixed with their spiked anxiety are causing a mental drawback. Sage can’t focus on the here and now, too wrapped up in whatever had just transpired.
The motion of nodding their head, turning back to their desk, and hunching over to hide their face feels more like a rehearsed scene than an actual action they take… Like a puppet on strings.
Class continues. Sage hears their professor draw the students’ attention back to the lesson, but they can’t focus.Â
Thoughts of Pure Vanilla flood their mind.Â
Images of dripping jam and shaky breaths shift behind their eyelids as the sound of pounding fists beat against their skull. Sage brings a hand up to Shadow Milk’s soul jam, the gem dead to the world yet strangely warm like an overheating computer.
…That fear was real… Too real.
Clues are starting to form, and yet Sage gets the sinking feeling he won’t like the full picture.
Lunch is Sage’s holy grail.
They never thought a classroom could fill them with such prickly emotions. Everyone, and Sage means everyone, at this school hates their guts- er, well, Shadow Milk’s guts.
It has been an absolute nightmare going from class to class, and Sage doesn’t just mean that because of their… episode this morning.
Every turn they take is like stepping into a minefield. At least six strangers have tripped them, and a dozen others have glared at them as if they caused the Dark Flour War! Not to mention some jerk-wad put gum, gum, in their hair!
Sage was able to get it out, but still the audacity!
They sigh and lean back. A thud sounds out where drywall tapes their head.
Sage throws an arm over their face, covering their eyes. The ground is cold beneath their legs, but it calms their anger. Their fingers brush a loose paper, one of Shadow Milk’s missing assignments they have been trying to complete, while a pen is clutched in their off hand.
They glare at the offending document and crunch it, smudging the drying ink.
Shadow Milk said he was the talk of the school in those texts, spoken as if he were a god walking amongst morals. Either the boy’s ego is larger than his common sense, or Pure Vanilla had more of an impact than Shadow Milk was letting on.Â
Without that bridge, every social prowess Sage could muster has dried up. News of the break-up has spread like wildfire… and Shadow Milk was painted the bad guy because there always has to be a bad guy.
…But the texts on his phone showed a different story, a different truth. Sage knows, but the rest of the school doesn’t. They only heard Pure Vanilla’s side of the tale.
You know: the golden boy, the school’s president, the honey-coated, innocent little cinnamon roll who has never told a lie in his life. Who wouldn’t believe him?
It would be quite easy, spinning the tale to make it worse than what was. Shadow Milk was already a villain portrayed in the novel, a part of the Beasts. His word is worth little more than a broken doll.
…Golden Cheese’s attack would make more sense, no matter how uncalled for it was, if that was the case. In her eyes, she was protecting her friend, one of her so-called “treasures.”
Sage scoffs. Ya, like a silly rumor is enough to justify such a retaliation. The bruise around their neck says otherwise… Just what is the logic behind this place?
Sparkling glitter forms a frowny face on their worksheet, bloating out half the words to a math problem. Sage grumbles and hunches over.
Magic? There was no magic in the books Sage read.Â
The story stuck solely to a “slice of life” theme. Soul jams were barely introduced and had little impact on the story! Sage thought they were implemented as a marketing scheme!
Argh! Their pen slides across the page, drawing a harsh outline of the accursed gem housed on their collarbone. They take a deep breath as they color it in.
Authors tend to add plot twists or combine story elements when they get bored. Sage would know; they have done it before. It’s fine. It’s okay. They were already improvising. What’s one more unexpected turn?
Ah!Â
Their pen explodes. Ink covers their homework, spreading like a wine stain. Sage’s eye twitches as they clutch their pen harder. They brush their tongue against their teeth and glare.
Deep breath.Â
They set the pen down and throw the paper away. It flutters softly before grazing the ground. A hand runs through their locks as they wind a strand around their finger.
Why are they so mad right now?
Sage had been frustrated all morning ever since that stupid vision. Images of blood-jam and heated tears haunt their mind. They are scared, angry, and confused! They want to understand, to unravel the mystery tormenting them, but Sage can’t get their head on straight!
It’s like someone else is pulling their strings, acting in their place. Sage is supposed to be the performer. They are supposed to be in control.Â
So why doesn’t it feel like it?
…
Sage rubs their eyes and stretches their legs out. Think. They need to think.
Pure Vanilla was a sweet character in the novel, but in this reality, he isn’t. He did something, something bad enough that Shadow Milk wanted to kill himself… and he achieved just that.
Oh, Witches, Shadow Milk is dead… What does that mean for Sage?
No, nope! Not going down that spiral. They broke up; Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla are over. Clearly, Pure Vanilla had an issue with that. The man wasn’t leaving Shadow Milk alone because he knew something, something he shouldn’t.
Witches, Sage wishes they still had Shadow Milk’s phone. They need-
!!!
Sage flinches forward as pounding steps beat down the stairs behind them. The noise grates on their ears, breaking the silence. It causes the lump in their throat to thicken as heat builds behind their eyes in frustration.
What gives? Which actor has gone off script? Their cue has not been called! Can't Sage lament in peace?
They inch forward and peek around the corner, they have hidden themselves behind only to see pink curls-
Sage wipes their head around as they stumble back into their hiding place. Their cane clatters across the ground from the fast movement. They feel their eyes widen and fingers twitch, heart stopping within their chest.Â
For one terrifying moment, Sage holds their breath and waits.
“Augh! My feet are killing me. Let’s take a break, Spicy. It’s been hours!” A sweet-toned voice whines, demolishing the horror into something stomachable.
It’s music to Sage’s ears. They weren’t heard.Â
Their shoulders relax as they let out a sigh of relief before wiggling further back into their cubby, pretending to be nothing more than a piece of furniture.
Eternal Sugar.Â
Just their rotten luck! Sage isn’t prepared to face her or any of Shadow Milk’s friends, for that matter! They need to run lines first lest they be caught red-handed for body snatching!
A second voice speaks up, the tone being more gruff in nature, “Not yet! Have Pavlova or SugarFly Cookie reported back? Nutmeg hasn’t seen anything, nor have the Salt knights… Are you sure Salt saw him third period?” Â
He sounds worried-angry and frustrated, very frustrated. Sage can feel the heat behind his words from here… A faint scent of pepper flakes wafts through the air. It makes their eyes prickle from the intensity.
Burning Spice.
Okay~ just gonna move a little more to the right and blend in with the shadows. Nothing to see here! Go away, go away, go away!
Not only is Sage trapped, but one wrong move and the two vultures out there will notice they exist! Why did they choose a hiding spot with only one exit? Don’t turn around, please don’t turn around.
“I’m sure and no. I haven’t gotten a single text in the last twenty minutes,” Eternal Sugar rolls her eyes and shakes her phone for emphasis. Her wings flutter in aggravation as she sways her hip.
“Look, I love Blueberry as much as you do. He’s my little brother, too, but face the facts! If he wanted to talk with us, then he would have. Besides, word on the grapevine is Blue broke up with Pv again. He’s probably licking his wounds in some corner somewhere.”
“What?”
Burning Spice grabs Enteral Sugar by her shoulders, snatching her attention where it had drifted to her phone. “What do you mean they broke up? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Sugar scoffs, “Come on, Spicy. It’s not a big deal. They fight all the time. We just need to give Berry some space and-”
“He’s been avoiding us for three days! This isn’t like last time, and stop calling him that. He goes by “Shadow Milk” now. You know that,” Burning Spice runs a hand through his hair like he didn’t just turn Sage’s worldview upside down.
What? Siblings? Who calls their siblings their friends? And what does Spice mean? Shadow Milk had a name change? That stupid journal was useless after all!
Okay, okay, okay. They collect their things, shoving both pen and papers in their bag. Their cane is grasped with a firm hand as they wobble to their feet.Â
New plan: Sage needs to leave while the two are distracted!
It’s time to break out their stealth skills and make like a leaf. Sage holds their breath as they put one foot in front of the other, cane held above the ground, silencing their movements.Â
Their shadowed covering vanishes as Sage steps into the light. They stick to the hallway’s wall, creating distance but also support for their aching leg, and tip-toe around the budding argument.Â
They let the conversation roll off their ears as they move, anxiety clogging their throat every step of the way. Step. Step. Step. Don’t trip. Keep moving, keep your head down. Don’t get distracted. One. Two. One. Two. Get to the Wings, beyond the curtains, get off stage!
By the time it takes them to get a third of the way down the hall, the argument has spiked.Â
Spice said something he shouldn’t.
Sugar gets defensive.Â
Her wings puff up in aggravation while her frown pouts, “I know- I didn’t- It’s just- Ugh! It’s not important. They break up like every week! Come morning, Doe will be all over that poser-“
“No, you don’t understand-“
“What don’t I understand!” Sugar balls her hands into fists, widening her stance. Spice recoils in shock, and Sage follows suit, stunned by the sudden shout.
“I’m tired, my feet hurt, and we have been searching for that little blue devil for the past few days. And. You. Know. What? He’s still not showing his face!” Sugar marches closer to the gentle giant, standing on her tiptoes to meet his eyes. Her tone turns challenging.
“He knows we’re looking. We know he’s hiding. And there is nothing we can do about it!” She throws her hands into the air, fuming.
Spice whimpers like a wet cat, but it doesn’t stop the ongoing fury bubbling off of Sugar.
She jabs a finger into the giant’s chest, “I have missed not one, not two, but three hangouts with my girls!” Each word is said with a jab, her acrylic nails pinching the fabric.
“I have a life too, you know? I can’t keep doing this. Shadow Milk can handle himself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lunch date to get to,” Sugar glares, whips her hair, and walks away.
Silence consumes the hallway, the tapping of her heels fading into the distance.Â
Spice watches her leave with such a pitiful expression, it makes Sage want to go over there and comfort him… Almost. But they don’t, instead continuing on their chosen path.Â
Escape. Don’t get caught. Stop with the icky feelings! Keep moving! Stay indifferent.
They don’t pay any mind to the sad sigh or shuffle of feet as they go. The quiet, “Well, I fucked that up,” goes unnoticed as they turn a corner, sparing a glance back only for a second-
Sage thunks their head on a solid surface so hard they stumble back. Confusion colors their face as their eyes travel up-
A Cat girl… or a centaur cat girl, fluffy ears, tail, and all, stands before them like a brick wall, blocking their only exit.
Is it weird this isn’t fazing them as much as the bird-hybrids? Burning Spice has multiple arms. Sage has eyes in their hair… Cat girl makes the most sense, honestly.
She has fiery red curls and a piercing gaze to match. Her pupils thin into slits when their eyes meet. Sage doesn’t recognize her, but she recognizes them. The hiss humming within her throat is proof enough.
“Shadow?”
Sage whips around at the pitiful tone. Their eyes widen as Burning Spice catches sight of them and-
Oh no.
Sage turns around, sees the cat cookie, then turns back to Burning Spice. Like a game of table tennis, they twist back and forth rapidly, realizing the trouble they are in. Spice on one side, this new player on the other. Fuck.
The taller cookies blink, just now catching sight of the other, and break out of their stunned silence. A sort of shared communication is passed between the two, consisting of eyebrow rises and head tilts. Whatever they discuss ends with a firm nod and two sets of fiery gazes locking onto Sage.
Not good.Â
Their eyes dart around wildly. Spice is down the hall. The stairs they were hiding under, blocked by his massive body. The distance is too great to travel in such a short amount of time, yet the alternative isn’t much better.Â
The cat cookie stands closer, stance ready to pounce, claws on standby. Sage can barely outrun someone with two legs; she has four.Â
Double fuck.
All seems futile as panic sets in.
The two cookies step closer. Sage spins around like a chicken with their head cut off! Their cane scrapes against the floor with their indecisiveness. Their backpack thumps against their back. Sweat drips off their brow as their throat closes up and-
Okay. Okay. Okay.Â
New, new plan: Fight?
“Hey buddy, we just want to talk. Nothing to be afraid of, so stay still!” Spice lungs at them, all four arms reaching out. Time slows down as Sage stares wide-eyed at the oncoming threat until instinct takes over.
Sage kneels him in the gut. Hard.
Spice falls over with a loud thud, grasping his stomach. Painful grunts leave his crumbled form as his knees meet the tile.Â
“S-sorry,” Sage squeaks, because they didn’t mean to hit that hard and honestly are quite surprised-
Two strong arms grab them from behind. They squeal in surprise and kick their feet as the cat girl picks them up. “Hold still,” She hisses, wrangling them like a disobedient kitten.Â
Sage does not sit still.Â
Instead, they kick and scratch and bite whatever is closest because fuck you! When it becomes clear the girl isn’t bothered by their attacks, Sage resorts to reeling his head forward and slamming it back into her chin.
The deafening bang is more satisfying than they thought it would be.
Stars dance around their vision, and by the witches, they will have a killer headache later, but it gets the job done. The cat girl releases them in favor of clutching her jaw. A silent “Ah, Fuck!” passes her lips as she steps back, creating distance.
It’s enough.
Sage wiggles around her and runs.Â
They run faster than they have in their entire life.Â
They run like they are passing the final plate in a baseball game. They run like they have the ball for a winning touchdown. They run like they are turning in their final research assignment before the deadline with two minutes to spare!
Adrenaline courses through their veins, pushing them further. They feel giddy, yet drained, but they keep moving, twisting through the labyrinth that is their school. A pain shoots up their leg, the left one, and they are reminded of the horrible ache housed within their bones, but pay it little mind.
A tiny laugh escapes as they turn a corner, cane skittering across the ground at the old angle.
Holy Moly, that actually worked! They didn’t think it would. Sage has a base stat of zero in fitness! That should have ended badly! Sage should be at a game-over screen. They should have reloaded, but because of some strange twist of fate, Sage survived!
The win feels so great after the crummy day they were-
Pounding footsteps beat down the hall coming from… behind them-
Sage spares a second to glance over their shoulder just to see a heaping mass of red barreling down the hallway straight towards them.
Ya, it couldn't have been that easy. Of course! They jump like a cat and pick up their pace.
“Stop running!” Spice yells.
“Stop chasing me!” Sage retorts.  Â
Wind blows by their face, tousling their hair as they move. One hallway leads to the next. Sage hops over ledges, squeezing through closed doors, and dances around corners. Left, right, straight, turn. The pattern becomes rhythmic, their feet the orchestra.
Neither side backs down, but neither gains distance either. It’s a stalemate running off fear and emotions alone.
The farther they run, the more occupied the hallways become. Onlookers stare at the ongoing crisis before them, but none step in to stop either cookie. Sage blames the heaping mass of fiery hell lapping at their heels.
Phones flash in their face, and giggles soon follow. Sage can only imagine the headache this will bring, but unfortunately, they don't have the time to be dramatic about it.
A crossroads is before them, and Sage swings left.
Wrong choice.
The hallway opens up to a huge common area. Sage jolts to a stop as they gaze at the massive collection of cookies swarming the place. Their heart picks up while their eyes search for a way out.Â
However, Spice’s footsteps increase at Sage’s hesitation. AH!
Without a second thought, Sage jumps into the fray, shoving cookies out of the way. “Sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry!” is a polite mantra that pleads from their lips, although it isn’t received well. They are glared, shouted at for their reckless behavior, but it doesn't stop them. Sage keeps fighting. They keep moving.
Spice has no such difficulty.Â
While Sage has to squeeze and push their way through, the crowd parts like the Red Sea for the hothead. Not for the first time, Sage curses their height. If only they weighed over 120 pounds and looked like a football player, then maybe they wouldn’t have to resort to this silly game of Tetris!
“Pavlova Cookie! Get him!”
What? Sage turns back around and sees what you could only describe as a Cherub in cookie flesh. The pink cookie starlets, wings fanning out. He zeros in on the commotion, and like a light bulb going off, drops into a defensive position.
Sage is heading right toward him. Uh, Oh.
They hecticly scramble to stop their advance, feet scraping against the floor. Can’t go forward. Can’t go back. That leaves-
Sage parrots to the right. They sprint around cookies, jump over backpacks, and squish between friend groups. Not once do their feet slow down, not once do they look back.
!!!Â
There!
Sage wastes no time. They lunge for the spotted gap and increase their speed. Spice exclaims something behind them, but Sage pays it no mind as their foot lands unbalanced.
Time slows as gravity takes hold. They wobble. A hand reaches out, one radiating warmth, but it misses.Â
Sage tumbles.
Eyes catch sight of a staircase underneath them, but it’s too late.
Their knees bonk against tile while their arms wrap around their head. Flashes of colors swirl past their vision. Their skin screams where the impact is the greatest. They can feel more bruises decorating their dough by the minute.
It ends just as it begins, bated breaths and all. Sage abruptly stops with the final stair passed, arms slapping against the ground. Their head spins as they push up on wobbly legs, caneless, and dizzy.
They heave a breath as their eyes blur. Voices climb in volume as the world comes back to them. The chatter is loud, bouncing off the walls.
Overall, they feel fine despite the dramatics. No broken bones, no bleeding nose, just a hazy, blank-eyed stare and a feeling of wrongness that compels them to look down. It shocks them greatly, leaving them frozen as their eyes catch sight of blue particles.
Sage reaches a hand up and brushes Shadow Milk’s soul jam. It fizzles, cracks, then pops with a strange blue glow… That explains the sudden natural twenties on athleticism, but it looks like time’s up.
The light dims, and with it the warmth. Now, sitting dead on their chest, Sage doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
It’s the pounding of feet that gets them moving again. Sage is still dizzy, still confused, but focused enough to understand that they need to go.
The first step is hard, but the next comes easier. Their cane waits patiently for them up ahead, and Sage can’t be more grateful. The object is grabbed without much fanfare.
Next, they know, Sage is shifting down hallway after hallway, corridor after corridor. Left. Straight. Right. Double back. They pass classrooms filled with students, round corners sharper than a knife, and skitter between columns wider than the sea.Â
They get so lost in their head, in making sure their trail ends cold, they don’t realize how the temperature drops.
Shadows cover the once glowing walls. Bulbs are broken, their shattered glass left to collect dust on the floor. Marble turns gray, white to black. Cobwebs litter the space as if they are home, and Sage is an uninvited guest.
It’s the feeling of eyes on them that keeps them moving even without another soul in sight.
They’re lost, completely and utterly.
Spice’s footsteps have long since faded, but Sage refuses to stop. They can’t slow down, not yet.Â
Not until they know they are safe. They may have won the chase, but something tells them they are still being hunted. Glimpses of shadows dance in the corners of their eyes, hints of orange and yellow making a mockery of them.
The tapping of their cane helps little in their paranoia.Â
They’re tired, feet heavy with exhaustion and pain alike. Sage’s hands are still shaking from their fall, and the wide openness of the space they are inhabiting makes them physically ill.
Somewhere quiet, but secure, is what they need; somewhere to hide where they won’t be found.
Sage stumbles then turns, eyes catching on a cracked-open door. Perfect.
They follow the siren call until they are past the threshold, locked firmly behind plaster and wood. A sigh leaves their lips as they thunk their head against the frame.
That could have gone better.
“Good afternoon, Shadow Milk.”
Sage jumps and whips around, heart hammering against their rib cage. Their eyes jolt from place to place, searching, then landing on a girl dressed head to toe in white.
“No casualties have been reported thus far, but my sources mention a few injured,” Black Raisin leaps over a fallen crate, Pure Vanilla hot on her trail with Blueberry held firmly within their grasp.
“They are destructive,” she continues, “Most of the East side of camp is destroyed. Our men are fending them off the best they can, but it doesn’t look good… Dark Cacao issued a retreat. The airships are being-“
“Please, my friend. Say no more. Take me to where I’m needed most,” Pure Vanilla holds Blueberry tighter while their face turns solemn. It’s uncanny, the change from golden retriever to serious leader.
Blueberry shakes their head. No, please say more!Â
Beast? Does she mean one of their siblings? How close is the “east side of the forest” from here? Who is it? “Destructive” isn’t all that descriptive!Â
It’s a blur as the trio moves through camp. Soldiers rush past them, some carrying supplies while others brandish weapons. Blueberry is torn between hiding behind Pure Vanilla’s arm or looking around in hopes of gathering more intel.
They settle for peaking their eyes just above where Pure Vanilla’s arm is holding them close, hiding the rest of their body away.Â
The whole place is a rush of motion. Cookies running around left and right. It’s completely different from the earlier tense, yet peaceful atmosphere the camp held. It’s like the tension finally snapped, the pressure being too great.
A foreboding emotion takes root within Blueberry’s gut. Even though they know it’s their siblings causing such sparks, they feel as if something bad is about to happen…
A sound catches their attention. Their ears perk up. Off in the distance, they can hear yelling and… a fizzing noise?
Suddenly, their eyes widen while their head snaps to the sky. They catch a glimpse of red-hot particles sparking to life. Blueberry recognizes that magic signature!
Not even a second later, the massive blue expanse erupts in tones of red and orange. Explosives like fireworks fight in a dazzling array above them.
A harsh wind is blasted their way from the powerful bombs, knocking over a few tents in its wake. Chaos soon follows, and cookies go flying. Orders are given and hastily followed through.
Pure Vanilla staggers, nearly dropping Blueberry before their hold tightens. They turn around- Or, no, he turns around and the sky is bathed in a blazing inferno: Spice!
Yes! Their brother is safe. He’s free and he’s coming! And-Â
Pure Vanilla’s face falls, eyes opening in shock. Black Raisin looks no better. The two glance at each other and nod. Black Raisin runs off towards the flames while Pure Vanilla continues on their original trek…Â
Blueberry doesn’t understand what’s so surprising. They were headed towards Spice, weren't they? But no, the explosion came from the west; they were headed down a different path, which means-
They weren’t expecting Spice, were they?
Then, who was Pure Vanilla taking them to?
The golden cookie weaves his way through camp, further from the battleground behind them. Fewer and fewer cookies are present the further they go, most running to the fiery inferno. The temperature stagnates, moisture evaporating.
It’s unnerving.
The saturation of the forest fades away. Greens and browns mull to black while purples and whites shift to gray. The air becomes static. White dust floats by gently-
Blueberry’s nose twitches, and they sneeze. It surprises them. Is that flour?
Strings of white light like spider’s silk decorate the camp. Webs are everywhere as far as the eye can see. Plants, tents, supplies, you name it, all are covered in a thin layer of flour: Mystic!
It’s a pensive maneuver. Spice on one side, Mystic on the other.
Joy floods Blueberry’s mind. Two out of four siblings are safe, and soon Blueberry will be able to see them again! Just a few more steps and-
Pure Vanilla hesitates. He glances down at Blueberry and chews his lip… Blueberry doesn’t like that look.
“Excuse me,” Pure Vanilla turns and flags down a pair of soldiers. Armor of black, gray, and white adorns their bodies with silver highlights and… sugar glass wings…
NO!
“Please, I know the situation is dire, but could I spare a moment of your time. Could you take this little one to safety for me? I wouldn’t be able to bear it if they got hurt,” Pure Vanilla- NO, the traitor pleads.
The two fairy soldiers bow, remaining silent, and grab Blueberry-
And suddenly they are back there-
A root snags Blueberry’s foot as they are roughly shoved forward. They stumbled into Salt, and the chains around their wrists rattled. A whimper leaves Blueberry’s lips... Salt slows his pace.
The soldiers- fairy soldiers- pull on Salt’s chains in retaliation, separating the two. Blueberry’s ears droop, and they continue walking at a faster speed despite their legs screaming at them to stop.
It doesn’t take long before the group reaches their goal: a silver tree.Â
Cells made of wood and metal are blended seamlessly. Three of the cells are glowing a faint white hue, magic holding the entrapments together.
Blueberry doesn’t want to think about who lies beyond the bars. For the first time in their life, they want to live in ignorance.
Salt is dragged away, and Blueberry watches, frozen, as he is thrown into an empty cell.Â
Magic encases him, sealing him away, and Blueberry is left alone.
They close their eyes and await their fate, dreading the isolation and coldness before they even step inside their prison-
Blueberry is thrown back to the present as cold, ice-like hands hold them tight. Their eyes widen and ears twitch.
Words are exchanged, but Blueberry can’t hear them. Their breath picks up.
Wind blows by as they are carried off. They go limp, frozen.
The scenery changes, colors rush by. Blueberry can’t breathe!
A single word is repeated, stuck in their head like a prayer: no, no, no, no, NO-
Suddenly, the world shifts as Blueberry’s captures are flung to the side. A high-pitched neigh rings out, the sound of hooves hitting ground following soon after. Through tear-ridden eyes, Blueberry looks up and locks eyes with a wispy stallion.
Salt’s horse? How did he even? It’s been less than a day! How did he get his horse???
Before they can ponder any further, Blueberry is crushed to the fairy soldier’s plate of armor. The silver guards are back on their feet and glaring daggers at their brother, sitting atop his trusty steed.
The dark knight raises his sword while his eyes flash with ominous purple flames. Whips of smoke emit from his helmet as he speaks, “Release them.”
All sound dies out at his brother’s request. The two fairy soldiers glance at each other before leaping into action.
The soldier not holding Blueberry rushes in, aiming lower, and engages in combat. Salt charges forward, and the two clash swords.
Blows are exchanged, and within the madness, the soldier holding Blueberry takes the opportunity to run. It snaps Blueberry out of whatever spell had befallen them.
No, Salt’s right there! They won’t go down like this! They bite and wiggle and fight as hard as they can, but no matter what they do, they can’t get free! The fairy’s hold is too firm.
It doesn’t stop Blueberry from trying, however.Â
Their efforts increase the further they get from their brother. They squeak out in protest and paw at the fairy’s arm, but the silver guard doesn’t budge.Â
Their footfalls carry them far, and soon Salt is no more than a speck on the horizon. Blueberry’s hope slowly fades the farther they get-
-but then a body goes flying.
The fairy from before is sling-shot past the duo. A loud whinny sounds from behind them. Salt’s horse is galloping at full speed.Â
Blueberry can taste the fear pouring off the silver fairy holding them. They increase their speed, but Salt catches up easily. He swings his sword, but misses by a hair as the fairy dodges.Â
They both break apart: Salt rains his horse in while the fairy catches their footing.Â
The silver guard glances at their friend. They don’t get back up, although Blueberry can see their chest rising. They are alive, but the fairy doesn’t take their injured state well.
A sort of stalemate is met with neither party making a move; however, it only takes a split second, and the tides of battle shift.
Suddenly, the fairy whirls back and flexes its wings. They jump over a fallen tent and leap off a discarded crate. Their wings catch an air current, and they take to the skies.
Blueberry holds on, scrambling for dear life. The ground gets farther and farther away as they soar into the sky. The fairy expertly dodges branches and birds alike.Â
Salt rampages down below them, following close behind. Blueberry lets out a fearful chirp (embarrassingly enough), and they hear Salt race faster, but the silver guard is quicker airborne than when they were on land.
…That is, until a pink mass rams into them, feathers framing the forceful embrace. Blueberry is smushed in the crossfire. Pain races up their front paw, where it gets stuck in between the two figures. They squeak in alarm and turn their head.
Massive wings curl around the two fae, circling them. A laugh rings out, the sound sweet yet manic. Blueberry knows that sound. They smile.
“Hi, darling! Hope you don’t mind if I cut in!” Sugar chips, lips curling into a sharp smile. Her fangs poke out, glinting off the sunlight.Â
Blueberry has never been so happy to see their twin.
The silver guard grunts and grabs Sugar’s head, trying to peel her off. Their sister’s eyes turn murderous, “Don’t touch my hair.”
She reels back her arm, allowing Blueberry some breathing room, before retracing her claws.Â
She swings!Â
Her talons go right through the fairy’s wings, ripping two massive holes in the delicate structure and suddenly-
They.
Are.
 Falling!
The wind becomes a whistle, cutting into Blueberry’s face as they are smushed up against the fairy’s chest once more. The fairy flounders in the air, failing to reclaim control, as the two plummet toward the ground.
Sugar laughs like Blueberry isn’t about to be flattened to death! If they had their magic, they would be fine, but they don’t, and they don’t know if Sugar knows that-
Trees zip by their head, the fairy holding them taking the brunt of the fall, while branches crack with the added weight. Leaves and twigs intertwine, creating a mesh of coverage blocking out the sun.Â
Blueberry panics!
The ground! The ground is coming closer!Â
A hand shoots out and grabs the fairy by their neck, just inches from the fatal fall. Salt sits triumphantly as he holds the fairy atop his horse like a trophy; however, the rough motion throws Blueberry from the fairy’s arms.
They bounce once and hit the ground, front paw screaming out in pain. Eh, ow. Their head is spinning, but at least they're free now. Yay…
Blueberry braces themself and pushes off the ground, but their paw throbs. It might be sprained... Nothing Mystic can’t fix, although that doesn’t mean they won’t be giving Sugar an earful!
They huff as they turn back to Salt and thump their leg in irritation. Salt does not get the memo and glows with delight… Just wait, Blueberry will have their revenge! Wouldn’t his armor just look stunning covered in glitter?
Sugar busts from the trees, smiling wide. Her hair is tousled and her makeup is smudged, but she is beaming! “Wasn’t that just a rush! I forgot how good flying felt,” She sings.
Her wings puff with excitement, and Salt nods his head. He raises the fairy high in the air, and they both laugh: Sugar cackling while Salt huffs.
Stars gather in Blueberry eyes, their fur ruffles. Seeing their siblings like this, all happy and whole, makes them yearn for the future.Â
They want to cuddle with Mystic. They want to debate with Salt. They want to dress up with Sugar. They want to spar with Spice.
And now, they can! It only took a millennium, but the siblings can finally move on with their lives!Â
…Maybe everything will be alright after all.
Blueberry takes a step forward, the action feeling more than just a physical movement, and smiles.
They’re buzzing with excitement. In fact, the whole forest is rumbling in anticipation-
Wait, no. That’s not the forest, the- the ground is… shaking?
Vines burst from the floor, thorns traveling down their expanses. They wiggle and twitch before thrusting towards Blueberry’s siblings.Â
The duo is taken by surprise.
Sugar swings her claws and cuts down each vine that comes her way. She twists in the air, dodging the best she can, but her back is exposed, and she is ensnared. The vines entrap her, although not for long. She flexes her muscles, and the vines snap away.
Salt stands his ground as well. He slashes with his sword, somehow not letting go of the fairy he is holding, while his horse crushes the vines with their hooves. His movements are sharp and precise, a well-balanced dance between blocking and attacking.
The two make an excellent team, quickly taking down any adversary that comes their way.
However, Blueberry can see them tiring by the sweat glistening in the wind. Their siblings are not at their best, weakened from their imprisonment.
Blueberry calls forth their magic, but it fizzles out with a pop. Damn it! They haven’t recovered enough. Fine then, physical strength it is.
They stumble forward on shaky paws before jumping into the air-
Only to be grabbed the second they leave the ground!
Delicate hands snatch their ears, holding Blueberry like a piece of raw meat jelly. They wiggle and squirm-
A cold voice rings out behind them, “Release my guard or else.”
A beat, a pause, a moment of hesitation.Â
The forest quiets down at the demanding voice, yielding to its authority. Salt and Sugar are stunned. The vines halt their movement, but remain in the air as a silent threat.
No one moves.
A floral scent wafts by, and Blueberry can barely glimpse a long white braid from the corner of their eye.
It smells sweet, sweet like lilies.
Their breath catches as green spores surround this new cookie.
Green spores that should only bow to one cookie’s will, but this fairy certainly isn’t him.
Salt recovers the fastest. Blueberry can see it in the way he shifts his head. He acts indifferent to the feminine voice, playing coy.
Blueberry understands instantly.
They twitch their nose and wiggle their limbs, despite the pain it brings. The act isn’t perfect, but they hope it’s enough to fool the floral cookie grasping them.Â
Blueberry is just a normal bunny. They have no affiliation with the “Beasts.” The vest they are wearing was a gift. It’s a silly outfit their owner gave them. Don’t pay too close attention to the magic leaking off them! Blueberry is completely ordinary!
Let them go… please.
“I’m not telling you twice,” the floral cookie tightens her grip on Blueberry’s ears. A grimace crosses their face. They wiggle harder.
Salt doubles down.Â
The two cookies glare at each other in a silent standoff. Nobody moves. It’s deadly quiet.
“Fine then.”
Blueberry is jostled, waved around in the tight hold like a rag doll. The floral cookie snatches their front paw and yanks-
A viscous scream explodes in the air. Bones crack. Tears pour like raindrops. Their breathing becomes erratic. Their eyes shift from side to side, unfocused.
The pain takes over their senses. Their form ripples, shifting like static.
They’ve had worse. They’ve had worse. They’ve had worse. This is nothing. It’s just a broken leg. Blueberry is fine. This is fine. Everything is fine-
They push the pain away, lock it up tight in the recesses of the mind. Breathe. In and out. In and out. Their eyes glaze over.
…Blueberry whimpers.
Salt drops the fairy like it burned them. Their horse neighs in discomfort. Sugar’s face darkens. She looks murderous.
Blood drips down Blueberry’s front, staining their vest. They pay it no mind. Don’t think about it-
The fallen fairy joins their queen. They limp over, clutching their chest. Their wings flutter, their face grimaces.
Blueberry twitches their paw. It stings. It hurts. They can’t breathe. Don’t think about it-
Words are exchanged.Â
Blood rushes to Blueberry’s ears. Don’t think-
Threats are made.
Blueberry can’t breathe. Don’t think-
The trio moves back, away from their siblings.
Blueberry wants to cry. Don’t think-
They are passed over to the fairy guard. The floral cookie takes the lead. Trees obscured their vision.Â
Don’t think-
More voices invade their ears. They are passed from hand to metal. A ship, one like Blueberry has never seen before, makes it past the haze taking over their mind.Â
It doesn’t matter. They lost.
Blueberry closes their eyes and waits for the pain to subside… It never does.
The loud, blaring sound of an alarm destroys the silence of the otherwise tranquil room. Sage bolts up from the blanket cocoon they somehow found themselves in.Â
A stream of drool is dried on their face with messy bed hair cascading down their shoulders. Their eyes feel red and puffy, and their mind is not all caught up with their surroundings, but that alarm is very telling.
Sage is going to be late for their first lecture of the day!
By the Great Gods, how could this be? They never sleep in late!Â
Sage won’t be able to make themself a cup of tea this morning, let alone apply any makeup! Their students are going to make fun of their ruffled appearance. Oh, Sage can just tell this day is going to be a long one.
But that’s okay, it’s alright. It wouldn’t be the first time they were relentlessly bullied by their students. Their ego can handle it… Although, to be on the safe side, perhaps they can still repair this slight misstep by freshening up the best they can.
Sitting up and throwing their legs over the side of their bed was truly a battle with the way their blanket clung to their body. The warming embrace of sleep fought back, only being vanquished when Sage’s bare feet met the ground.
A shiver ran up their spine from the harsh hardwood floor beneath them. Oh, pins and needles. Tingles traveled up and down their sore muscles, the pain growing as they stumbled forward.
Sage sighs.
Today just had to be a bad pain day, too. They’d have to bring their cane into work with them to help alleviate the pressure on their sensitive muscles. Sage’s head was starting to prickle with the oncoming threat of a headache while their arms trembled with faint pains, as well.
Honestly, they were actually feeling quite faint, but it’s not so bad that Sage would miss out on class. They have gone to work feeling worse (at their coworker’s disapproval, nonetheless) and wouldn’t deprive the young minds awaiting their arrival to teach! A few pops of Tylenol and they would be right as rain.
A yawn escapes their mouth as Sage allows their mind to go on autopilot towards the bathroom, staggering with each step. They stretch and flex their arms above their head, recoiling from the ping of pain to follow.Â
All the aches are slowly starting to wake them up. Sage must have slept in a weird position last night. At least their back doesn’t hurt this time! Heh, old man humor.
The door to the bathroom squeaks as they step inside. They flick the lights on and stumble their way to the sink while rubbing their eyes.Â
One hand meets porcelain while the other slowly lowers, wiping the dried drool from the corner of their lips. Sage lazily squints their eyes open and-
Like a bucket of ice water being dumped over their head, Sage is now fully awake. Dark blue and teal colored eyes look back at them, and suddenly, memories start flashing as they recall the past day’s events.
The blood, the confusion, the fear, the panic- everything comes back. And- and-
Fuck, Sage fell asleep. They must have been tired from everything that happened and now-
Now they will just have to deal. It’s okay. Sage is smart. They’ll figure something out… Surely there must be a way to reverse this…
Wait, but then why was an alarm going off?
Sage turns on their feet and rushes out the bathroom door, tripping over a discarded sheep plush on their way. They steady themselves before resuming their pursuit, glaring back at the doll in annoyance at its betrayal.
They come to a halt at a study desk, a messy one at that. A pen holder, some sticky notes, a small collection of knick-knacks, and a laptop grace the table’s surface. The low hum of a charging port can be heard below the structure. Two cords run back up from the port: one to the laptop and the other to a cracked phone.
The device is still ringing and chiming off the hook.
Sage allows a moment of remorse to pass for the missed opportunity to snoop through two very important sources of intel. What a waste! They huff and shake their head for their negligence.Â
Now is not the time. Focus!
Sage picks up the phone and immediately notices the large crack splitting the screen in two. Spider web chips run from the larger cut. Sage isn’t sure how the phone is still working with how bad the damage is. They can’t help but ponder what happened to cause such a travesty…
It only takes a single tap to turn the phone on. Various notifications light up the screen in a chain, although the more prominent alarm grays them out. The words “This is your last chance! Class time in ten minutes” are displayed proudly.
Double fuck!
Sage forgot, if only for a moment, that this story has a school setting, which means they will have to attend Shadow Milk’s classes in his place! A whole plethora of issues are now thrown their way! They aren’t ready for this!
School means teenagers, which means bullying, which means sitting alone at a lunch table while everyone around you thinks you're lame, constantly, all the time! Sage is a professor for a reason! They teach adults with developed minds! They are afraid to cross middle schoolers in the street, and now you tell them they have to interact with their evolved forms!
Ya, no, no, no! Sage had enough of one school’s disablist views. They don’t want to have to go through that again!
Call in. They’ll call in. No one said they had to attend anyway. Shadow Milk can miss one day of class. It’s no big deal.
Sage taps the call button and is instantly blasted with hundreds of missed calls. Some are spam, others from friends, but the bulk are from a contact listed “Nilly...” Although the thing that catches their eye the most is three recent calls labeled “Urgent” in increasingly boldness.Â
All are from the school board.
That doesn’t bode well…
They close their eyes tight as their thumb hovers over the voicemail left in their stead. Like a frightened mouse, they press play. The sound cracks as the audio hums to life.
“Good Afternoon, Mr. Shadow Milk Cookie. This is administration calling. We have tried to reach you for the past few days; however, we can’t seem to get a hold of you.”
The voice sounds overjoyed, like they aren’t about to ruin Sage’s whole morning. A rustling noise could be heard in the background while distant chatter creates a bustling atmosphere. They pause, speak to someone off camera, then continue where they left off.
“This message is to remind you of our school policy on absentees. It says here that you have been missing from class for the past few days without any notice! Paired with your frequent tardiness, I hate to say it, but we will have to expel you if you miss one more day! A call will be issued to your parents, and your dorm room will be cleared out if-”
Sage stops the recording. Triple Fuck!
They lean back and press their hands against their eyes, dropping Shadow Milk’s phone in the process. It thuds when it hits the ground, but Sage can’t muster up the energy to care.
There are many things they want to do right now.Â
Sage wants to run.Â
They want to leave all this, the life Shadow Milk has created, behind. It’s not theirs to mess with. It shouldn’t be their problem. Why should they sit still and play house? Sage knows what happens in the novel. They don’t want to be caught in the crossfire when things go to shit.
They want to go home.Â
It has only been a few hours, but Sage misses their cats. They want to sit down and read a book to them. They want to enjoy their company with a cup of tea. They want to watch them fight and play and bicker in their little cat ways!
Sage wants to expand their library, donate a few books, hang out with their friends, plan trips, visit cafes, teach!
They want their life back, not to live someone else’s…
But in order to do that, Sage will have to be compliant.Â
Truthfully, they don’t know much about these types of situations. Sage would prefer a good non-fiction or how-to book any day over a fantasy tale.Â
They are not well-read on the subject. The only bits of information they have on the genre are from snip-bits of conversation their students had during downtime. In fact, if it wasn’t for their students, Sage wouldn’t have picked up the darn series in the first place…Â
THEREFORE, they shouldn't be too hasty.
Any wrong steps they take could lead to disastrous consequences. Sage knows Shadow Milk is somehow intertwined with the “Beasts”, the villains of this story, from what they could gather from his journal. Meaning Sage already has a target on their back.
Going forward, their options are limited.
Sage sighs. They run a hand through their hair as they start pacing, nerves buzzing off of them. Thoughts pass by as they take one step after another.Â
Two choices, just two measly choices, are all they can think of realistically pulling off with the knowledge they have. They can either adhere to the school’s warning and venture into the jaws of the beast, or they could go against their better judgment and remain here where it is safe until someone comes to collect them…
One option leaves them with more accessibility. They could find more outlets at the school, continue the “plot”, move the story along, and hopefully find something to help increase their chances of going home.Â
However, on the other hand, that school has its own demons. Shadow Milk’s dorm room is safe. No one would come to check on them… at least, for a while. Sage could use that time to browse the net, do some research in a more controlled environment… But that would change the plot, presumably.Â
With Shadow Milk’s connection to the Beasts and knowing that Pure Vanilla’s trial story was next on the roster, Sage can only guess that their involvement is a must.
Ya, the plot point is glaringly obvious… Morals be damned.
Sage pinches the bridge between their eyes.
They don’t like what is happening to them, but that doesn’t mean they will ruin Shadow Milk’s life just because of this slight mishap. The boy will be grateful when they swap back… It will happen. Sage is not delusional. They simply have to find a way back, somehow, someway…
But before they can do that, Sage must first get through this day. Just one day, one day of pretending to be someone they are not. How hard could that be?
Sage stops pacing, and their mind quiets down. For a second, the world doesn’t seem so bad with their thoughts in order. They have a game plan: Get through this day. It seems easy enough, but deep down they know: This is only the beginning.
They lift their leg and take a step forward-
Oh, ah, Ow! Pins and needles, pins and needles!Â
Like a crackle of lightning, red-hot spams course through Sage’s leg. They fall to the ground on shaky arms and suck in a deep breath. One, two, three, and then release the air before repeating the process. Slowly, painfully slowly, the pain subsides to a mild ache. It takes everything Sage has not to give up right then and there.
Some things never change.Â
A devil’s tango, they have been fighting off for the majority of their life, assaults good old lefty. Chronic pain can be a bitch! They felt the signs of an attack this morning, but ignored them in favor of the more pressing issue; now they are paying the price.
Great, just great.
Sage takes a deep breath and shifts their body, gradually, to a sitting position. They stretch their legs out and test their muscles.
The pain is minimal. It’s not too bad. Sage can still go about their day; however, they will need a walking aid… Would Shadow Milk even have one?Â
But- Does- Hold on- Hmmm-
Sage pokes their leg, fascinated by the soft texture. Their skin is a baby blue tint, sugar-like sparkles sprinkled throughout… Sage twirls a strand of jelly-like liquid around their finger. They have no idea how the consistency is even hair, but despite common sense, it is. Their eye catches sight of white, the bandages on their arms, and Sage is reminded of the jam-blood…
A cookie body… Shadow Milk’s body…
They only swapped minds… Then why is Sage still suffering from their illness? Does Shadow Milk have a similar condition? Did facets of Sage’s life pass over when they woke up in this body? What else changed? What else is new? What else is different?
…
Staying here will resolve nothing.Â
Take it easy. One step at a time. Focus on getting ready, and everything else will follow.
Sage stands up using the wall as support. Their muscles bite back, although fail to pester them further than a mild annoyance.
First things first, they need to uh… bathroom. Bathroom is a good start.Â
They need a costume before they can step on stage, after all! Where would they be without their makeup? The ten-minute mark has long since passed. Sage is beyond late, so they can take their time. There is no sense in rushing when “Call time” hasn’t even been announced!
Sage hobbles over to the cracked-open door of Shadow Milk’s bathroom and squeezes their body inside while-
Right!Â
The bathroom is covered in jam, and the tub is still full of bloody water, and it smells sickeningly sweet-
Sage goes over to the bathtub and pulls the plug, allowing the water to start pouring down the drain. They scrub the floor with a cleaner they found under the sink while they wait. Then, they clean the tub… and the sink… and anything else that is even slightly stained blue.
It’s not perfect, not in the slightest, but the monotony of the task helps clear Sage’s mind.Â
Once done, they stand up and look at their arms, just now noticing the blue tint staining the bandages they applied earlier that night. Sage isn’t sure if their wounds reopened or if all the cleaning dirtied the pristine white, but they reach for new medical tape nonetheless.
The wounds look… better? Maybe? Sage isn’t sure, but it doesn’t look like any of the cuts reopened. Small victories.
It’s fine. The bandages cover them nicely, so Sage doesn’t have to think about it.
They continue throughout their daily routine-
Brushing their teeth with the candy floss toothpaste seemed more disgusting than it actually was. The paste tasted like mint… Shadow Milk doesn’t own actual floss… Sage forgoes taking a quick shower since they are in a bit of a rush and simply washes their face with water and applies a blueberry-scented perfume that was hidden away.Â
Their hair feels a bit… slimy from not being washed… gross. Sage finds a pretty pink scrunchie hidden away behind some beauty products. They brush their hair, untangling knots with a comb while- hold the phone!
What are- are those eyes??? Why do they have eyes in their hair? Cookies don’t have random eyes, do they? Why-
Deep breath. Deep breath. It’s okay. This is fine. It doesn’t seem like Sage hurts the extra… accessories by brushing their hair. In fact, they look almost peaceful sleeping there with their long lashes on display…Â
Honestly, the sight is not that alarming…
In fact, Sage would say that Shadow Milk’s hair is pretty even with the extra features. They add to the ethereal charm!
A high ponytail will be their style of choice for the day. It’s not too nerdy, but doesn’t scream “Try hard,” a nice middle ground. Sage wants to be as discreet as possible. The less attention they gather, the better; therefore, their look needs to reflect that!
Boring, uninteresting, non-conmental. With the way their hair sways as it is tied up, Sage can’t help but think they achieved just that. Good, great!
A simple coat of lipstick, mascara, and eyeliner is added to pull the look together. Not too bad.
Next, they need clothes.
The walk back to their closet pestered their legs. Sage can feel the way each muscle bends and twists as they stumble across the floor. Don’t think about it.
They huff a sigh of relief when the closet’s door opens. Everything is how they left it: fabric decorating the floor while clothes hang above on metal hooks. What to choose, that is the question!
A cottagecore pair of overalls, a goth lolita dress, a bubbly two-piece- So many options!
…But wait, how silly of them! Of course! Shadow Milk attends a Boarding school, meaning uniforms. You can hear the excitement bouncing off their voice, can’t you?
There are three choices here. They could either wear a plain black skirt, knee-length shorts, or boring old pants in a similar fabric. Oh, the joy of conformity! How unoriginal!
…Honestly, Sage is feeling the skirt, but they can’t wear the skirt! Why, you might ask? Well, Shadow Milk did not stop at marking their arms, so… ya. Be it as it will. The shorts are a nice gender neutral option anyway. Bonus point for covering the marks on their legs, even if just barely.
The uniform itself is standard, lacking any pizazz. Don’t stand out, that was the goal, so really, this option is their best bet, no matter how much it makes them recoil at the idea of actually wearing it.Â
The shorts and shirt fit like a glove as if the outfit was tailored to them, perhaps it was. Sage thought the texture would be less appealing, although they are pleasantly surprised to find it doesn’t rub at their skin… It feels like money, well-funded money.
Compared to Shadow Milk’s room, this comes as a surprise, in more ways than one.
…
A shine catches their eye. Hanging off the hanger where their uniform once was, is the last piece to their ensemble: a jabot with a lace finish and a glittering blue gem.
A soul jam, as the community calls them.
Sage picks it up and runs their thumb over the cool crystal. A tingling sensation dances under their skin. It feels like whimsy personified, like power.
An upside-down clover composed of a swirling night sky, twinkling stars, and all: Shadow Milk’s motif… Sage can’t help but feel like something is missing, in more than just design. The promotional material for the book series wasn’t big in visual imagery, but wasn’t there like an eye or something in the middle?
Hopefully, it’s not important…
They clasp the neck piece in place and slide on a pair of shoes. The actor is now ready for the stage… You know if they want to look like an escaped hospital patient.Â
Shadow Milk’s uniform is short-sleeved. The bandages on their arms stick out like a sore thumb.Â
Not ideal.
They resume scavenging throughout Shadow Milk’s closet. Multiple types of fabrics and textures of varying hues jump out at them. All they need is a simple cover-up, preferably one that isn’t too eye-catching nor rough on their skin. However, the more Sage looks, the less amused they get.Â
Would some type of organization kill Shadow Milk? This is just obscene even by Sage’s standards!
They pick up a white knitted sweater: Nope, too icky and scratchy. They find a pink puffy coat: too small and light. They reach for a red leather jacket: way too big and shiny! They tug out a purple hoodie: again, too big and smells faintly like… a horse?
Piece after piece, Sage flings clothes over their shoulder. A small mess is starting to gather behind them, but they don’t care. Surely, something in here would work. If only they could-
Ah, ha! There we go, a nice cream-colored cardigan!
It smells slightly like vanilla, which is a nice contrast to all the blueberry scents floating about. The fabric is soft, too, and snuggly hugs their wrists, so Sage doesn’t have to worry about anyone seeing the bandages the clothing hides. It’s a simple design and light enough that no one would question them wearing it.Â
In other words, it is perfect!
And, as the cherry on top of their sundae, Sage uncovered a hidden cane underneath all that clothing!
It was at the back of the closet, buried under piles of fabric, cloth, and sewing tools. The cane was discarded, stashed to collect dust, and placed away from prying eyes as if Shadow Milk despised its very existence… Perhaps he did, with how new the object looked, not a dent in sight.
…He doesn’t use a cane to move around, does he?Â
…Sage is going to ignore this insight.Â
Their legs will thank them later. If anyone asks, Sage will glare until they leave them alone! Or ignore them, ignoring works too.
Sage stands and spins. The cardigan flows behind them in a dramatic display. Cue the victory music because Sage has completed their costume. Applause is welcome! Thank you, thank you.
Now all they need is a script!
An actor cannot perform without the proper scene directions after all.
Sage moves over to Shadow Milk’s bed and drags out their school bag. They lift it high and then immediately shake all the bag’s contents free. Notebooks, papers, supplies, and the like pour out. They organize each notebook, folder, and paper by subject.Â
A rough outline of their timetable is grasped from the madness. Sage can figure out when to go from there and hopefully complete their “normal person” persona. They will have to find a map later depicting where everything is in more detail. Shadow Milk’s phone might have that information, but later.Â
Sage can’t keep prolonging the enviable.
They have to leave and start the first scene of their performance.
It’s with a heavy breath that Sage collects their school supplies and hoists their bag onto their shoulder. They clutch the handles in anticipation while stuffing Shadow Milk’s phone in their pocket.
The script has been handed out, “Places” has been called, and Sage is ready to perform.
(Looking back, the thought didn’t even cross their mind to lock the door behind them…)
Sage leans heavily on their cane as they huff and puff with exhaustion. Sweat drips down their brow, and a frown decorates their face. They have many complaints.
Most amount to: Who decided to build the dorm building Twenty minutes away from the main estate? Why the hell is the campus so large? Did they really need two separate buildings for a swimming pool and gymnasium? Who is funding this place!?
Witches! Sage remembers reading a few lines of dialogue depicting the school, a glamorous place filled with many facilities for both teachers and students alike, but nothing to this scale. They can’t even see where the school ends and the property line begins.
There is only a single road leading up towards the school, and the fog rolling in blocks the rest of the concrete path from view. A heavy wind blows past the towering pine trees dotted across the horizon, a forest. It’s creepy with the fallen leaves and red-orange hue taking over the grounds.Â
Fall is coming, and with it freezing temperatures that Sage did not account for. Shadow Milk’s cardigan is not helping with the growing chill assaulting their body.
But they made it, despite all odds!Â
Sage had stumbled and tumbled their way up that stupid winding path and wobbled up the annoyingly long staircase leading up to the main school building. Their legs are worn and tired, but the reward will be worth it! Warmth, here they come!
Big ornate doors between marble pillars are wrenched open without a care as Sage steps through the point of no return. Instantly, hot air blows on their face, fighting away the chill. A smile and sigh of relief join Sage as they close the door behind them. Their cane tabs against the granite tile as they take in their surroundings.
The interior is just as grand as the outside was.Â
Dark wooden features frame the walls while every surface is coated in either marble or granite. A long hallway stretches before them, branching off down several halls, and a grand staircase leads up to the second floor. Sage spots an elevator off to the side, and a tiny fear of traversing that behemoth is smeared away.
Glass panels add a more modern look to the older elements. Windows create dividers between rooms and the central hallway. The lights above are framed with crystalline metal, causing the space to glow.
Sage is gawking.Â
Holy guacamole, this place doesn’t look like a high school, let alone a rich boarding school! It is more equivalent to a college campus, a newly built one at that. They wonder what the teacher lounge is like… If this were any other reality, Sage would definitely apply to work here… Well, if they didn’t know the monstrosities hidden behind the gilded facade, that is.
It’s grand and beautiful, but Witches, it is creepy without another soul present. Everyone’s in class, so the hallways are empty; however, Sage can’t see anyone working admission through the glass passageway leading into the room.
They’re alone.
Silence stretches on while Sage shifts nervously, cane following their movement. They take a step forward, anxiously glancing around as they do.Â
Earlier during their walk, Sage was able to find a school map (Both inside and out) along with a class schedule on Shadow Milk’s phone. It makes them feel foolish going through his binders prior, but the stalling did calm the tension building in their gut… It’s 10:30, which means math, the furthest classroom from the main entrance.
Sage’s legs, the left one really, don’t appreciate this knowledge, but what can they do?
Time passes with the tap of their cane. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s the only sound that can be heard, even though they can now see other students behind classroom doors. There is no chatter, no pencils on paper, no noisy projectors, just silence.
They pick up their pace.
Left, straight, right, and then another left. Tap. Tap. Tap.
It becomes a pattern, a rhythm, with Sage walking further and further into the labyrinth-like maze. They get down three more hallways, all the same design, all the same layout, before they give up.
A few minutes of rest couldn’t hurt. The silence is really starting to get to them, and if Sage had to walk down one more dimly lit hallway, then they would-
A low hum catches them off guard. Sage whips their head around and comes face-to-face with a vending machine. The noise startles them so badly that they jump.
When a minute goes by and nothing happens, Sage relaxes. It’s just a vending machine. Nothing to be afraid of. In fact, food might just be the thing they need!
A high-pitched growl leaves their stomach.
Sage blinks.
…And then flushes in embarrassment. Seems their stomach agrees with them… They completely forgot to eat again, didn’t they? No wonder they felt so bad this morning. Add the constant stress, wounds, and lack of nutrients, and you get a very bad time.
How foolish. Sage really needs to break that habit before their body breaks down even further…
They can start with righting their wrong, right here and now. New objective: Grab a quick bite before curtain call.
The vending machine is as high-end as the rest of the school. Multiple treats of varying nutritional value are trapped behind its glassy prison. Don’t worry, Sage will free you from your lonely fate!
On display, there are both drink and snack options, ranging from savory chips to sour candies, although all are a sweet of some kind. Spooky muffins, strawberry cakes, canned berry soup. The further Sage’s eye travels, the stranger it gets, but oh, right…
Sage is a cookie.
It’s easy to forget when they feel right at home within their skin. They don’t need the same nutrients as a human would…
That thought sends a shiver down their back. Sage opens their hand and stares at the soft dough. The blue tint twists their gut into knots.
This is temporary. They just have to keep reminding themselves of that. Keep the thoughts clouding their judgement away, ignore the voice questioning their resolve, and breathe-
Oh, look! Green Tea! That sounds lovely, doesn’t it! It wouldn’t be as good as brewing a pot themself, but it will quench their thirst. Just what Sage needs!
They confidently hit the button which will release their sweet reward, but then pause… A hurt noise escapes their throat.Â
Money! Sage doesn’t have any money!
Frustration bubbles, heat spreading across their face, but Sage won’t cry! They can’t! They will ruin their makeup! By the gods so help them, they would rather rip this machine apart than smudge their eyeliner!
Agh!
Sage rests their head on the cool glass pane, keeping them apart from their beloved. They close their eyes and huff. The coldness helps calm their growing anger, but not by much. Their stomach gurgles sadly.
…There is another way, a forbidden technique from Sage’s college days, they could apply here, but is it worth it?
…
Yes, yes it is.
Sage looks left: not a soul. They look right: not even a ghost… Go time.
They step back, bracing themself. Their cane taps against the floor as they get into position and exhale a deep breath… before slamming their foot into the machine! They kick once, then twice when nothing happens… and then one more time because give them a snack, damn it!
Their frustration flames their attack, the sound thunderous in the silent hallway. Pings of pain travel up their leg, but they are quickly forgotten as a thud sounds.
Victory.
Sage collects their prize of one bag of animal crackers with pride. The bag snaps open with a satisfying pop while a smile graces their face. A little bat-shaped cracker is pulled free and promptly crushed between their teeth.
Success has never tasted so sweet-
A door slams open, startling Sage so bad they choke on their cracker. Harsh coughs ambush their lungs as they beat on their chest.
“You.”
The voice is booming, cruel, ruthless. It’s followed by marching steps. Sage whips their head around, wiping saliva off their chin as they reclaim their breath.
Their eyes widened.
Golden Cheese Cookie.Â
Blond hair combed to perfection sways as she moves, the short locks framing her dazzling makeup. Her school uniform is a deep black compared to Sage’s white and gray, the colors of the school’s student council.
Nails like talons clench at her sides as her high heels click across the pavement. A triangular soul jam shines in the fluorescent lighting. Its soft edges contrast the snare, twisting the girl’s face…
Her appearance is regal and refined, demanding attention from any who glance her way; however, all Sage can focus on are the massive phoenix wings sprouting from her back!
It's reality-breaking.Â
Sage can ignore facets of their own inhumanity.Â
Their nervous system responds to their brain signals. Their lungs expand and collapse fine. Their mind functions off spite and a bone-deep curiosity wonderfully! As long as they don’t look behind them, at their starry hair filled with sleeping eyes, then they could pass as a regular human with a skin condition, but this.
This is new and shocking in all the wrong ways… It’s distracting, grabbing their attention like a fatal flaw.
It’s the reason why they don’t realize Golden Cheese is reaching towards them until it is too late.
“Wait?!” Is the only word they can muster before they are yanked up and slammed against the wall behind them.
Their cane goes flying, soaring far out of their grip, and clatters upon impact with the ground.
Red-hot agony consumes their back as they are practically choked. The pain travels down their spine and spikes along their nerves. They can already feel a bruise forming.
Sage grabs at the girl’s hands, trying to pry them off, but they fall short, animal crackers hitting the floor like marbles. Their feet barely reach the ground, leaving them desperately scrambling for a purchase as the delicate snacks are crushed beneath their feet.
Sage mourns the loss.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here after what you did, wearing that no less. What game are you playing?” Golden cheese’s tone is dark, spit flying from her mouth as she bares her teeth.
Her wings puff up, casting a shadow over them.Â
Sage can’t breathe.
She laughs, a mirthless and vicious little giggle, “It’s been what? Three days? Four? Maybe even five-“
Their lungs scream for air, yet Sage can’t. Golden cheese’s hands hold firm, leaving no room for give. Fatigue clouds their mind, and their vision fades.
Sage can hear the avian-like girl prattle on.Â
“I knew it-“
“Using him all this time-“
“Shouldn’t have trusted-“
“Didn’t listen-“
Her words scramble together, mixing in a cacophony of sounds and noises. Sage feels their throat close up. Heat rises to their face, their eyes feel heavy. Their fingernails scrape across the girl’s talons, but it doesn’t work.
The lightheadedness scares them. Panic sets in. Instinct takes over.
Sage opens their mouth and bites.
Their fangs sink in and don’t. Let. Go. The girl screams, filled more with anger than anguish, and shoves Sage against the wall.
Their legs give out, and they fall like a sack of bricks. Blood- No, jam drips from their teeth.
It’s not theirs.
Sage heaves as they crouch, saliva dripping off their chin. Carefully, oh so carefully, they reach a hand up to their aching throat and flinch… They eye their cane wearily where it rests just paces away, a few paces too far.
“You’re crazy,” the words leave their mouth before they can stop them. It’s said barely above a whisper, yet the damage is done.
“Me? I’m not the one who bit like some rabid dog. Ugh!” Golden Cheese holds her hand close to her body. An orange hue drips down, coloring the tiled floor below.Â
“I don’t know why Pure Vanilla puts up with you! You are nothing more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing- Breaking up over text? Who does that?” She glares daggers at Sage, the tension increasing the longer time passes.
They return the gesture, taking deep breaths as their mind spins, vision blurry like watercolor. A step is taken towards them, and their body reacts. The wall greets their fright, and for a moment their heart spikes.
Golden Cheese looms tall and proud, eyes alive with hatred. Sage watches in horror as her pupils dilate like a snake’s, shifting into thin slights.Â
An electric green inflames her soul jam, light reflecting off her eyes. Runes shift and dance around the gem as her face hardens, fists clenching.Â
The ground rumbles. The building shakes. Sage panics!
All at once, the lights above shatter, raining glass down like water. It’s a miracle the two remain uncut, rather the shards sprinkle across the ground threateningly. Darkness encapsulates the room. Shadows haunt the corners of Sage’s eyes.
They hold their breath.
The only light remaining glows ominously from the girl’s soul jam.
“You will make this right, or else flunking will be the last of your worries.”
The threat hangs between them like a eulogy, commemorating their passing as if the act has already transpired.Â
Sage blinks, caught between fight or flight. Their body chooses for them.
Palms sweaty, eyes wide, dumb faced and all, Sage locks up. Their throat runs dry. Their voice is trapped under layers of fear. Their eyes never leave the intense gaze directed their way.
Silence is their enemy.Â
Sage can see how the lack of response picks at the girl’s temper, and yet their lips don’t move. They feel like a mouse being stared down by a falcon… A starved falcon.
Golden Cheese rears back, snare twisting. She is at her breaking point. Time’s up. Sage braces for impact, but-
Nothing happens.
Something stops her. Something Sage doesn’t understand, but feels as the air becomes warmer, welcoming, suffocating, if only for a fraction of a second before it is gone like a fleeting embrace.
Their soul jam, Shadow Milk’s soul jam, glows faintly in response… Like it’s calling out to someone, or something.
…
Golden Cheese sighs, a deep, heavy exhale brought from the depths of her exasperation, and runs a hand through her hair. She steps back, gives one more hearty glare Sage’s way, and… leaves.
Just like that.
Sage gaps as her high heels crush glass shards with an audible click.
They don’t move until she is no longer in view.
…
Breathe in. Breathe out.
She’s gone. You’re safe. Everything is fine.
Magic exists. That’s fine. That’s normal. Just breathe.
The darkness envelops Sage, glass spread around them like land mines. Their head is reeling from the crucial piece of information they just received… It made one thing very clear.
…
Sage stands up.Â
They use the wall as a support as they collect their things: their backpack, lost sometime during the conflict, and their misplaced cane. Strangely, no glass landed on either item… Sage pays this no mind.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It’s like their mind is numbing, body following along its lead. Rocks dance around their mind, breaking any coherent train of thought they could muster.
They are shutting down. Not good.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
A laugh catches them off guard. Their cane scraps across the tile as they spin around, only to realize eyes have been watching them from the shadows the whole time.Â
The classroom doors surrounding them are ajarred.
Hushed voices whisper behind thin walls, twisted smiles spread across darkened faces, while eager ears eat up any gossip they can find… People were watching, and no one came to help?
…A teacher didn’t come to help?
…Well, Sage hopes they liked the performance.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The next few steps are blurry. Their memory is spotty, as if the events transpired through a short-sighted lens.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
They remember stumbling down hallways. They remember finding their class. They remember opening the door, the lecture within falling silent. They remember their teacher saying something to them, but Sage doesn’t think they respond.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
They remember sitting down and plopping random textbooks onto their desk. They remember using the cover to hide their- Shadow Milk’s phone.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
They remember staring at the blank screen like it was a deciding moment: either continue the act or live in ignorance.
I am writing a new story called “It’s a Trust Fall, Really” over on Ao3. These doodles are a few snapshots from the tale. I’m still working on a Sage design for a school setting. I used highlighters and the like to map out everything.
If you want to check out the fic I've posted it down below:
The ceiling was an unfamiliar sight. The cold tiled floor pressing against their back was unexpected as well, but less so than the warm cream colored roof above them.
Sage doesn’t remember falling asleep.Â
They don’t remember anything past a dull headache and a loud crash. Their whole body hurts with phantom pains, proving that something indeed did happen, although the pain in their arms is a more pressing issue. Pins and needles dance upon their skin as the faint sound of water dripping drills through their ringing ears.
A groan leaves their mouth as they flex their muscles-
Ow, ow, ow! Okay, that was a very bad idea! They flinch and pull their arms close, holding their legs up to their chest to ease the pain.
What happened, where were they, why does everything hurt, and a hundred other questions slam into the forefront of their brain. Sage breaths in and out through heaving breaths. They clench their teeth and blurry open their eyes.
A dull-toned bathroom greets them with light blue walls and dark tiled floors. A sink is off to the side with a toilet nearby and various other bathroom essentials scattered throughout the space. None of the objects are recognizable, let alone anything Sage would buy for themself. This isn’t their bathroom and not their apartment, which leaves more questions than answers-
Before the panic can sink in, Sage leans back and takes another breath. This is okay. Everything will be okay. They just need to breathe and wait for the room to stop spinning. Perhaps they are at one of their friends’ houses or somewhere of a similar nature, safe and in good company.Â
Nothing bad will happen, surely? They will figure out whatever is going on and go home. Sage still has to go over their lesson for tomorrow’s class and prepare the needed material. Their cats, Apple and Grape, will be waiting for them to fill their food bowls and- and their books! Sage was supposed to receive the next book in a series that their students had recommended to them soon. They didn’t want to disappoint them by not being able to read it!
A strained laugh passes through their lips as that thought is a strange one to hold their sanity to.Â
(TW: Self-Harm below cut! Stay safe and healthy!)
…But, on the other hand, keeping calm in these types of situations is honestly the best way to go because let’s face it. Sage isn’t the type to believe in delusions, nor false senses of security. They don’t recognize anything and can’t think for the life of them, therefore they can only catastrophize, but-
A droplet of water drips onto their shoulder, breaking them out of their thoughts. Sage blinks and turns their head to glance behind them and-
Oh, gods above! What the actual fuck?! Why is- Is that- Blood?
A bathtub. Sage was leaning against a bathtub filled with bloody water.
Globs of blood clusters swarm around in the overfilled tub, a sickening sight that made no sense, especially since the water was tinted a deep, dark blue.Â
This shouldn’t be possible. There is too much- and- and- it’s blue? Why is- how- Call it a gut feeling, but Sage knew that what they were seeing was blood, even though it wasn’t red.
Their eyes were shaky, their breath picked up again, and their hands stung with pain…
Their hands- no, not their hands, but their arms!
They bring their arms up and twist their skin to reveal beads- no trails of blood, cascading down onto the bathroom floor. A dark blue, matching the murky color in the tub, stands out through their tears.Â
Something that shouldn’t be possible- shouldn’t be real. Sage shouldn’t be alive right now with the amount of- of blood their-
They need to- need to stop the flow. Sage has already lost so much- they need ban- bandages.Â
Where could- could there be- there!
Sage crawls, smearing blood behind them as they slowly grab for the sink’s edge, pulling themselves up on shaky knees. They slip once, twice on the slick puddle beneath their hands and reach for the cabinet above-
A glint in the mirror catches their eyes, and Sage freezes.
A pair of differently colored eyes, one blue- the other teal, blink back at them. A rounded face, a button nose, and a youthful expression greet them. Blue hair, of all things, drapes down their shoulders, clearly not dyed but rather natural?Â
And dark blue- a sweet-smelling stain drips from their outstretched hand, falling into the sink below.
But that’s not right, because that is not Sage looking back at them in the mirror. No, that is a stranger. An adolescent, certainly someone who shouldn’t be in a bathroom covered in their own blood, although truly, Sage can’t focus on that right now, not if they want to survive this.
The cabinet squeaks as they pull the door open. Not much is hidden behind the old doorway, just some extra toilet paper, toothpaste, and a few beauty products, but there is a small med kit stored away.
Sage wastes no time pulling it down and carefully starts washing their arms in the sink. Blood drains down the pristine white porcelain while the water cleans their wounds, leaving their arms cold and wet. Their breath slows as they work.
Thin white lines are revealed after all the blood is gone, mixed with a fresh set of dark blue cuts going in different directions. The wounds look as if they were done in a rush, lacking any kind of care, and show a sign of desperation. A confusing and concerning sight, but again, not one Sage can focus on.Â
They open the med kit and grab rolls of medical tape. They have never had to patch themselves up like this before, or anyone else for that matter, so the patch job turns out worse than they hoped. Although the bandages do their job either way, holding tight and firm.Â
The silence of the bathroom rings, only being broken by Sage’s breathing as they finish tending to their arms.
…
It smells sweet, unlike the bitter tang of blood. It’s weird and wrong, but what else is new?
Okay, ya, no. Sage needs to stop panicking and think. Nothing will get done otherwise and-
And clearly, they need to keep their wits about them. Something strange is going on. Something Sage doesn’t have the words to describe or process.
…They can’t- can’t remember anything before they woke up.Â
Not everything is a blur, just the moment from before waking up here.
Sage can remember their life. They can remember their cats, their students, their friends, but they can’t- can’t remember why they ended up HERE, with bloody arms and staggering breaths.Â
They need more information- they need to get out of this bathroom… so they do.
Sage opens the bathroom door, completely forgetting their previous fear, and blinks.Â
A dorm room? Or a really shitty apartment is on the other side. The space isn’t that big, with only a single bed, a closet, a desk, and a bedside table present. There are a few personal items, like shirts, books, and plushies, but not much. The room doesn’t have a kitchen, just one window covered by curtains, and a door leading to, hopefully, the outside world.
It’s cold and dark, not homely in the slightest. No cats, no pictures of friends on the walls, no nothing really. It’s the picture-perfect image of student housing.
Sage investigates further. The closet is attached to the wall, creating another small room, and is filled with handmade clothing. It doesn’t appear that gender was a topic this person cared about, seeing as all forms of clothing are present. Sage can agree wholeheartedly with this discovery!Â
Dress how you want, be who you want.
Yarn and fabric of multiple hues are scattered on the floor with hooks and needles neatly packed in baskets. Sage will ignore the stained quality on some of the needles for their own peace of mind. The closet doesn’t hold much else.
The main room, if you can call it that, feels… quiet? Like whoever had lived here wasn’t one for company. A strange stillness has clearly taken over the space, not one of tranquility but of solitude… Again, there's not much to look at.
Plushies decorate the bed. Rabbits, wolves, lambs, you name it, it’s there. It seems whoever lived here spent all their savings on yarn, fabric, and plushies. Hmm, not that it’s Sage’s place to judge. They spend all their wages on books.Â
A school bag is resting near the bed, half-hazardously squashed underneath it. Its contexts reveal notebooks, textbooks, folders, and supplies. It’s just schoolwork, nothing incriminating.
The notebooks are filled with notes on various subjects, doodles in the margins, and short ramblings. Characters Sage doesn’t recognize, eyes, spirals, and people- people with characteristics that pull at Sage’s mind are across the pages.
The folders show assignments. Most of them are marked in red with failing grades, and Sage is certain that this person is flunking at least half their classes. Perhaps this points towards the whole… situation… They woke up to in the bathroom…
But that name plastered atop each assignment, “Shadow Milk,” rings a bell. Where has Sage heard it before? Hmm, something to ponder on.
The textbooks and supplies aren’t important, unassuming, so Sage places the bag back where they found it. Nothing else is below the bed besides dust and the bag.
Which just leaves… the bedside table.Â
Sage opens the drawer connected to the structure, reaches in, and pulls out a dark blue journal. They sit on the bed as they brush a hand down its cover. That name “Shadow Milk” decorates the front with star stickers surrounding it. The journal is old and well-loved.
Should- it would be impolite if Sage reads this. It probably holds personal information, but- well, they did just snoop through this person’s room, and they need to know what’s going on. Even if- even if Sage is getting a sinking feeling as if some part of them already knows.
The first page crinkles upon opening… It’s a diary.Â
A book going over personal events from the start of the school year to a “falling out” with someone close. It’s written with sparkling words and beautiful metaphors. Stickers decorate a few joyful entries, while notes are written in glitter pen scattered throughout. It’s a bit adorable how “Shadow Milk” talks about some of their friends and schoolmates.Â
However, a visual shift slowly takes the entries down a darker tone. The colors given by the pens fade into graphite pencil. The stickers stop completely, leaving blank places where they should be. The entries get shorter with clipped diction, becoming more static and scripted.
It describes the deterioration of this person’s mental health in vivid detail that Sage won’t go into…
They find monotonous pages upon pages filled with check-ins and little blue dots that they don't really want to think about…
This trend continues for the rest of the journal up until what they assume is today’s date, circled in red and with a letter of farewell attached below… They don’t read the letter, giving this body’s owner that small amount of privacy and turning back to previous pages.
Sage learns about them slowly, deciphering their messy handwriting in ways for their mind to understand. Some pages are skipped for their unimportance, while others are lingered upon.
Shadow Milk attends a boarding school, being just shy of seventeen by a few months. It’s near the middle of the school year, and they, or rather “he” as they prefer to be referred to most of the time, are certainly struggling… It seems he doesn’t have many friends. The only ones he writes about are familiar in a way that has Sage’s head spinning with dreadful possibilities.
Burning Spice.
Eternal Sugar.
Mystic Flour.
Silent Salt.
And finally “Shadow Milk”. All names Sage has heard, because they are all names that Sage has read- in a book series- a book series his students recommended. In fact, certain things described in the journal are reflections- if not a shift in point of view- from scenes in the series.
A book series with many chapters detailing the life of a group of friends, their school life, and hardships throughout.Â
A book series with a slice of life quality and a terrifying, dark twist. A book series with deceit, betrayal, and psychopathic tendencies at every turn.
A book series with characters who are not all they seem at first glance.
And Sage just found themselves somehow within the confines of that world in a body not their own.
Fuck.
Sage is spiraling again. They are pacing around the small room like fire is on their heels and there's nowhere left to run, no hope to grasp. They might as well allow the fire to burn them completely because the world is a lie and everything they ever knew is now wrong in a gut-twisting, disgusting sort of way!
They feel sick from blood loss and dizzy from all the walking, but they can’t force their body to stop.
This isn’t happening.Â
This isn’t real.
It isn’t scientific in any way, shape, or form! You can’t just become a whole different person in an alternate reality at the drop of a hat! Sage had a life! They had responsibilities, goals, and dreams! It couldn’t be taken from them just like that!
It’s a cruel twist of fate! What god did they anger to be placed within this body? What happened to Sage’s body? Did they die? Is this some horrible re-enactment of a play gone wrong? Or perhaps one of those reincarnation tales that their students discuss on breaks? Has Sage been whisked away from their life for some greater purpose, or are they at the mercy of a god’s folly?Â
There was no guide to hold their hand when Sage woke up. No third party to inform them of the rules of this land. No mystic tablet of information to explain their next steps. Just blood, dread, and a fate they wouldn’t wish on anyone.
Sage wasn’t even human anymore.
This story takes place within a world much like their own, except the only difference between here and there is that everyone is made of some kind of sweet. In fact, everything is a type of sweet. The bed, the curtains, the fabric, the water, everything! All horribly sickening soft textures like some kind of Candyland knock off. And Sage, or shall they say “Shadow Milk” is a cookie!
Yes, yes, made with dough and frail sugar bones! That is why their blood smelled so sweet with a stupidly blue hue! It wasn’t blood at all, but jam! Their hair? Blue and white frosting. Their clothes? Some kind of desert mixture. Weird ass name? Yup, named after fillings? Toppings? Whatever.Â
Oh gods- No, Witches, aren’t they? There are no gods in this world. The only creators known are the witches, and Sage blames them all. Burn them all to Hell or whatever equivalent they have here, and- and- and yup, here comes the tears.
Big fat globs of them are pouring down their face from the stress of this whole mess. From waking to jam flowing down their arms to the uncanniness of a space not their own to- to- all of it! Everything! Every damn thing.
They need- they need- need to just clock out of reality for a bit. To break down- to just- exist for a second.
…
They stumbled to the bed, falling face-first, and just- just breath.Â
In and out. In and out. In and out. Until they suck in a big breath and just scream right into the nearest pillow.
Emotions pour out of them. Sadness. Fear. Confusion. Anger. Hate. Remorse. Desper.Â
They sob and sob for what feels like hours, getting lost in their head for the loss of a life they once had. Could they even reclaim their life, or is this new, cruel joke their prison? Does Sage even want it? This body’s owner sure didn’t-
…
Okay, that was a bit too far. Not very polite and good of them.Â
…
Sage didn’t mean that.Â
…
They- they want a life, want to live. It would be preferable in their own body, but if this is the only way to move forward, maybe they could give it a go? Ugh.
Not right now. Not in this second. They need a few more minutes of peace. They need to lie down and not think. They need to rest for a handful of moments.Â
Sage will allow this time to break and bend beyond their mind. They will allow themselves this time to grieve.
After a while, when the time is right and their bones agree with them along with their mind, Sage will move. They will get up and clean the bathroom. Drain the tub of its unholy combination, scrub the sink clean of any stains, dab at the blood on the floor, and make sure their bandages are clean and cared for.Â
Then, Sage will plan. They will re-read the journal. Take notes in a spiral of important matters, write down where to go from here, and whom to avoid.
However, for now, Sage will just exist.
They will just breathe. They will just rest. They will just be- be themself- be Sage for what might be-
Blueberry jolts awake. They back up into hardwood and, for a second, their whole world collapses.Â
They are back there, behind silver bars and harsh carved bark. No, no, no! This can’t be happening! This can’t be real! They- they had escaped. Don’t tell them it was all a dream, a cruel, heartless dream. Blueberry can’t handle it.
Their goopy form shakes and flails around. Eyes appear upon their shapeless mass, looking every which way, trying to find a way out. They need to get out! Let them out- let them out-
Twigs, branches, feathers, pebbles. No, no, no. Please, something, anything! They turn and shift and roll.
Stones, bones, leaves, light-
Wait, light?
There was no light in the tree.Â
Blueberry squirms across the floor, twisting their body until flecks of light cross over their dough. Dust and dirt are dancing in the golden rays. The vibrant display is flowing in from an opening within the wood surrounding them.
They aren’t trapped.
They can leave.
The ground where they lie is sloped downward with an opening up the small hill the incline creates. Blueberry crawls.
They worm their way over twigs, bones, and leaves, allowing the sharp edges of each object to cut into their dough. The pain barely registers, the view outside the burrow overtaking their thoughts.
It’s beautiful, the sight before them.
Tears are flowing from their eyes like starlight, twinkling when they hit the ground. If they had a mouth, Blueberry would be smiling.
A gust of wind caresses where their face should be. It’s warm, breezy.Â
Grass sways in the wind. Bugs and birds chirp in tandem with the sounds of the forest. A critter rummages in a bush somewhere nearby while howling can be heard in the far distance. Honey bees buzz as they float from flower to flower, collecting pollen. A woodpecker beats against a tree where an almond squirrel is storing its nuts.
The sun smiles down on the animals below. Encompassing Blueberry in its holy aura, heating up their chilled dough. It burns slightly in a way that is too familiar, but Blueberry ignores it.
The ground smells like dew. It must have just rained. Small droplets of water cling to flowers and grass shards alike. Pinecones and acorns dot in between the green carpet and hide like gems in the jewel sea.Â
They look up and their breath is taken away. The sky is mesmerizing.Â
Soft blues dance across the sky, glittering like fairy dust. Tall pine trees reach up, trying to explore every inch of the vast blue expanse. Not a cloud is in sight. It feels unreal how open everything is.
Blueberry thought they’d never see the sky again…
They want to see more of it. They want to explore, to run, to dash out into that field until their legs are sore and aching. Desire grows and takes hold.
Blueberry wobbles as they try to stand, only to realize they don’t have legs. They are still a mass of dark blue sludge, glowing eyes, and sharp teeth. An eldric abomination of appendages… They stand out like a sore thumb.
That won’t do, won’t do at all.
Blueberry focuses and calls out to their soul jam, to their magic. It sings back, but stings. Their magic is leaking, their soul jam is crying… It feels like a piece has chipped off, and a wound was left in its place.Â
They run a gooey nub over their soul jam. A crack no bigger than a fingernail sits dead center upon their once unblemished gem. It aches, calling out to someone unseen… Their magic flares unnaturally.
A hiss sizzles from their crumpled form, but they push past the pain, past the shock, and grasp thin strings of magic. Blueberry coats their shapeless form in a flimsy covering.
Shadows engulf them as their dough is reshaped. Tiny, stubby legs appear from the darkness, followed by a round, fluffy tail. Two long ears extend from their curved face, while a small blue and gold vest covers their chest. Matching in hue, two discolored eyes blink open.
A marshmallow bunny phases into existence where Blueberry’s gooey form once stood.Â
They shake out their hind legs and twitch their ears. The shift is a bit disorienting. It makes their head spin.
Suddenly, the sensations of the forest explode in volume. Aches and pains threaten to take them under. A red hot pressure builds behind their eyes. Their ears flop down and press close to their body.
Time passes as they sit and wait until their ears stop ringing. Colors slowly collide back into one image while the noise quiets down. Fortunately, the forest waits patiently for Blueberry to collect themself.
They suck in a deep breath and exhale through their nose. Their ear twitches.
Blueberry closes their eyes and braces themself before shakily standing. They take a step, one paw at a time. It’s not a graceful sight. Blueberry is more akin to a young deer on unsteady legs, but the action brings a smile to their face.
They can walk again! They can run!
And that they do, as fast and as far as they can, Blueberry frolics.Â
They jump and bounce, kicking up grass and dancing in the field. A melody plays in their head as they spin. Their tail wiggles back and forth happily. Dirt coats their paws like a second skin while mud clings to their body. It’s undignified of someone thrusted into the roll of greatness and yet this is the happiest Blueberry has been for a long, long time… Sugar would be appalled.
A moment passes, their chest beating erratically, all movement coming to a halt.Â
Big glops of air are gulped up like a dehydrated man drinking water for the first time while they catch their breath. Blueberry’s feet ache with exhaustion, but their face portrays their cheerfulness. They want to run some more. The feeling was lost to them in the tree. It felt nice to move freely again.
Blueberry goes to jump, but stumbles over their paws as their attention is stolen. A flower catches their eye, a white lily, and stops them in their tracks. It’s strange since this type of flower was not common in their land back in the day.Â
A sparkle gleams in their eyes at the new knowledge. Blueberry will have much to catch up on. The thought excites them further.Â
Lilies have been around for three thousand years, seen in both art and ancient mythology. They symbolize a vast number of meanings, ranging from purity and innocence to beauty or resurrection. There was a time the flowers were used for medical purposes too. Cookies used them to heal respiratory issues such as coughs or bronchitis, although they are more commonly mixed with oils or waters to heal flesh wounds.
Blueberry desperately wants to know why someone planted them here of all places!
Were they trying to create medicine like their predecessors? Was it a purely aesthetic purpose? How well read were they on the subject and would they like to discuss it with Blueberry?
Witches, they want to debate with someone so bad!
But, aside from the woodland creatures, there isn’t another cookie nearby for that desire to come to fruition, therefore Blueberry will do the next best thing.
They lean in close and sniff the flower.
It’s sweet, almost overwhelmingly so. The pollen causes Blueberry to squeeze, and the force jolts them back. They wiggle happily and let out the equivalent of a rabbit’s laugh. Why didn’t they think of this sooner?Â
Shifting has always caused them joy. Why did Blueberry stop while they were in the tree? This is how it feels to truly be free-
A sharp pain blossoms within their gut, knocking them off their feet. Their breath is stolen from their lungs. Black spots darken their vision. Blueberry shakes their head.
Right.
They need food to keep their form, or, well, energy. You can’t create matter from nothing after all. Blueberry wouldn’t be so lucky as to bypass that rule… The small amount of magic they gathered from the forest won’t last them long. If they can’t keep their form, then they’d be a sitting duck while the fairies hunted them down…
Wait a minute.
Fairies… Oh, oh no! That’s right! This isn’t the time to be frolicking! How could Blueberry forget?
Spice. Where was Spice?
Blueberry turns and frantically looks around. Trees surround them. Foliage expands as far as the eye can see.Â
Panic sets in as they run around, turning over every stone and diving into every bush. Nothing stands out in the small clearing, that is, until they find scorched ground.
Glowing speckles of embers burn in the shape of faint footprints leading deeper into the woods. Whips of smoke puff by. It smells like pepper and autumn winds: Spice.
He must have been here recently. Blueberry has to find him! How could they let themself get so distracted?
They take a step forward but pause, their thoughts running wild, their mind more focused than before.
Blueberry senses a slight change to the forest’s surroundings. It feels like fairy magic. Was Spice still being chased? Is this a trap? If Spice was captured, would Blueberry be able to free them by themself? Should they look for the others first?
Deep breaths. Everything will be fine. Nothing will be solved if Blueberry stays here.
Find food first, then follow the path. If they do find Spice and he requires aid, then Blueberry will deal with that problem when it arises. For now, they must have faith that their brother was able to escape their pursuers.
…
The path leads on further and further from the little field Blueberry woke up in. They can feel themself break down each step they take, pieces of their shabby craftsmanship peeling away.Â
Their pristine white fur is slowly mixing with a dark blue hue in patches.
Time is running out, but there is no food in sight.
Blueberry silently curses themself for not choosing a carnivorous animal. Why go for a rabbit when they could have been a cake hound? They could have tracked Spice better with a canine’s nose and have been able to get a meal by now, but no!
A huff passes by their lips while their leg thumps in irritation.Â
They don’t have enough magic to spare on changing forms once more. Surely, something will appear soon? Please, just a small berry or some fruit! They’d take anything at this point!Â
…Perhaps they should suck up their pride and eat some grass. It wouldn’t be filling, but some of their energy would be restored, especially with the forest’s magic mixing with the natural nutrients. As gross as it would be, Blueberry could nibble the strands of burnt grass from Spice’s footprints.Â
They could think of it as flavoring! Ya, flavoring! Just don’t think about the germs or ickiness of it all. They have to do this to survive, and no one is around to judge them. Blueberry can do this.Â
They can do this!
Just think of it like a roast or simmering soup-
Their nose twitches. What’s that smell? It’s so sweet.Â
Blueberry wanders away from Spice’s footprints, off the fiery path. They dive through brushes and tall grass, worming their way between flower beds and trees. The smell is tantalizing. It draws them near.
They burst through a pile of leaves and trip over their feet in their rush to stop. Just beyond an outpost stands with various cookies spread through.Â
Blueberry’s ears stand up in shock, and they back up until they are hidden within the leaves. Shrouded by the shadows, their eyes give off a faint glow as they look out.
Tents are set up with purple flags atop each post. The cookies present are cacao-based. Blueberry can taste their bitterness from here. Each cookie carries a weapon. Some are patrolling while others are training.
A few floral-based cookies are within their ranks as well, but they are all warriors, no civilians in sight. Blueberry has found some sort of encampment…Â
Are they looking for them? Their siblings?Â
Blueberry can’t see any fairies, but that doesn’t mean these cookies aren’t aiding them…
That scent flutters by, and suddenly Blueberry couldn’t care less about some dumb cookies. It’s like a siren call, and Blueberry has already fallen to its sweet sound.
They will be careful, as silent as a mouse. Get some food and get out. Nothing will go wrong.Â
Everything will be fine.
Blueberry’s paw pads softly carry them across the forest’s floor. They stick close to the ground, shrouding themself in the tall grass. They hold their breath as they step within the enemy camp, dodging footfalls left and right.
Crates and barrels hide their small form as Blueberry hops about. They catch snip-bits of conversations.
“… There’s been no sight… Supplies incoming soon…”
“His majesty is…”
“… Gaining backup post dawn, but still…”
“Left side reported all clear…”
They only get pieces of a puzzle, but the image is perfectly clear to them. These cookies are after their siblings, Blueberry included. This detour must be quick.
They move around a cream colored tent, the fabric brushing against their fur, when they spot a small campfire. Atop the fire is a gleaming pot, steaming with a delicious-smelling soup.Â
Blueberry want!
They jump, hopping up onto a log set beside the campfire, and waggle their bum in preparation to leap-
“Oh, dear. Don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself.”
But two large hands pick them up before they can even get one paw in the air!
Witches, damn it!
Blueberry struggles and wiggles.
“Oh no, I’m sorry. I won’t hurt you, little one.”
Fat chance! Blueberry has heard that before! They won’t believe your lies, tall person! You can’t fool them-
!!!
A warm feeling spreads throughout their body. It feels like the sun and smiles. They go limp. Tears gather at the corners of their eyes. When was the last time they felt this way?Â
… Perhaps with Mystic, back before they were hunted for sport, when her powers were endless and the days felt never-ending. Blueberry remembers a time their heart yearns for.Â
It brings unwanted feelings, sweet yet sour, with the knowledge that Blueberry will never be able to experience such moments again.
They remember soft hands running through their hair, the repeated motion a soothing balm to bleeding wounds.Â
They remember laughter like the chime of a bell, the sound clear like crystal and just as sharp, but faded with age.
They remember subtle jabs with no real malice behind them, a teasing tone filled with a smugness that Blueberry was never able to match-Â
It felt like home. It felt safe. It felt… like walls breaking down.
…
It felt like healing magic.
Blueberry blinks and zones back in. They look up and ignore the frantic hands fluttering around their fuzzy form.Â
This cookie looks kind, soft.Â
They have golden locks and long white eyelashes. Their eyes match Blueberry’s: one blue, the other gold. A star sits in the center of their forehead.Â
Wings, a set, flutter against their head where ears should be. Two more are flush against their back, puffed in a worried manner. Shining robes adorn their body and fall around their bare feet.Â
Blueberry is sat on their lap (When did they sit down?). Their robes are cozy and provide a warmth Blueberry didn’t know they needed… They nuzzle against the cookie’s stomach without even really meaning to.
The golden cookie chuckles.
“I’m sorry for spooking you, little one… Do your wounds feel alright? You had quite a number of cuts and scratches.”
Their voice sounds like heaven, like they are an angel.
Blueberry is biased.Â
This is the first cookie they have spoken to in… eons. Of course, they would connect to them…Â
Blueberry just didn’t expect to be so infatuated with the first cookie they saw. The small act of kindness was clouding their judgment.Â
They shouldn’t be so trusting and yet… a tiny part of them was calling out to the golden cookie, pleading with Blueberry to let them in, to cling tight, and never let go.
It was frightening, but in a good way-
“But that’s not the reason you came over here, is it? You’re hungry, are you not?”
The tall cookie stands, setting Blueberry down gently, and steps over to the steaming pot. They swirl the sweet-smelling soup once, then twice with a large ladle.Â
It’s strangely domestic.
…
The forest is peaceful and quiet. Warm too. Blueberry can almost pretend they aren’t in an enemy camp, being hunted as they breathe.
They lay their head down on the log, keeping their limbs close to their chest; loafing like a cat. A gentle breeze blows by, caressing their fur. Their eyes blink slowly as they look around.
…
The forest has changed. Plants have grown wild, invasive flowers have taken over, and the landmarks Blueberry once knew are long gone… Just how long were they asleep?
So much has changed.Â
Is their knowledge even relevant anymore? Are they relevant? Has Blueberry extended their usefulness? Is that why the cookies of old sealed them away-
No, such worries are meaningless. Blueberry will never know the answer, that window of opportunity is long gone. They can only move forward.
Blueberry tilts their head, laying it on their front paw.Â
And there is so much to look forward to! So many things to learn, new skills to master, and various places to explore. Only Time will allow them to see all they wish… with their siblings by their side of course. Perhaps they could go on a trip together…
…mmh, that would be nice.
They could go out to the Licorice Sea. Salt wanted to check out that ooze the locals were worried about. Blueberry wants a sample, although Sugar might complain the whole time… But Spice would definitely want to fight it and Mystic would be fretting over the group the whole time… It would be fun.
Oh!Â
Or they could go to the Citrus Islands across the continent. The peace and isolation would be right up Mystic’s alley. Spice and Salt would turn everything into a competition, pulling Blueberry into their antics. Sugar could get a tan. They could make seashell necklaces together, play volleyball, make s’mores…
Ya, that would be nice…
Mhmm, cozy-
A humming noise rouses Blueberry from their dozing state. The golden cookie is practically purring with a beaming smile on their face. How weird (how pretty).
The serene sound adds to the calming nature flowing around the small space the two are occupying.
Not good.Â
It’s putting Blueberry to sleep (and is very distracting). They rested for so long in that blasted tree and yet here they are, tired and sluggish…
They have to snap out of it!
If Blueberry succumbs to their body’s desire, they aren’t sure they will be able to wake up anytime soon. They- they can’t fall into an eternal slumber, not again, not ever!
That cookie is doing something to them! What kind of harpy are they?
It’s too peaceful, too… serene. It’s strange and unusual, and Blueberry doesn’t trust it.
Their ears perk up, and they squint their eyes, nose twitching. The air around them is off somehow, yet Blueberry can’t place why. It doesn’t feel like magic, at least no kind they know of, but it has to be something nefarious!
No cookie is that nice.Â
Sharing their food, healing Blueberry’s wounds, calming them down…
Ya, something is a miss. The golden cookie didn’t ask for anything in return, not to mention are a complete stranger. Therefore, they have no reason to help Blueberry…
Perhaps they just like animals? Maybe the golden cookie is dropping their guard because they think Blueberry is a defenseless creature (they wouldn’t be wrong since their magic is still on the fritz).
Or maybe they are part of the fae themself and feel as if they have to help Blueberry for moral’s sake… Although the fairies are fae creatures, and they turned on the virtues quicker than most cookies…Â
What flawed logic…
But this cookie doesn’t give off fae magic; the forest doesn’t call for them. Despite their feathery appearance, this cookie is completely made of baking ingredients, no mystical roots in sight.
Suspicions.
…Blueberry needs a closer look.
They inch forward on the log and tilt their head inquisitively. The golden cookie glances at them, and their smile somehow brightens further. Their eyes sparkle while light from the fire adds to their glowing aura, bouncing off a blue gem on their chest-
!!!
Is that?Â
A soul jam.Â
One like Blueberry’s own sits on this cookie’s chest, minus the chip.
Their breath hitches.Â
That can’t be. It’s impossible! Only the virtues had soul jams unless- unless the witches had bestowed new gems while they were away. But no, that would be impossible since the witches aren’t around any-
Blueberry takes in a deep breath and closes their eyes.
…
… The soul jam on this cookie’s chest is faintly resonating with Blueberry’s own. It’s almost like it is calling out to them, trying to draw Blueberry in. The golden cookie’s magic is trailing after the little amount leaking from Blueberry’s jam, curling around and… feeding it? Merging with it?
Blueberry isn’t sure, but- It feels nice like- like-
It’s like two halves of the same whole finally reuniting after an eternity apart…
…
When- when did Blueberry’s soul jam fracture?Â
Was it during their time in the tree where sanity was limited and madness clung to every facet of their being? Was it during their failed escape attempt, the memory fuzzy with panic and dread alike? They can’t remember…
…
Did- did their soul jam break off and form a new gem like a starfish?Â
It’s unbelievable, unheard of, and completely unexpected… But it feels right, like a burden they had been struggling with is now split between two parties instead of one.
Blueberry should be terrified right now. A power source, one “bestowed” by the Witches themselves, has been tampered with! It was their responsibility to keep it safe, away from devious hands. They had failed… Why wasn’t that thought as horrifying as it should have been?
Why does it feel so right, so freeing?
…Does this strange cookie feel it too? Are they being drawn to Blueberry just as much as they are being drawn to them? Is that why they feel so calm around them?
Blueberry has too many questions and not enough answers. For once, their knowledge is failing them, and it scares Blueberry to be so in the dark… But it is also thrilling, their curiosity enthralling them.
They inch near the edge of the log, craning their neck to examine the golden cookie further.
On closer inspection, Blueberry sees that this cookie has their soul jam on a jewelry clasp. It’s pinned to their chest, swaying freely in the wind.
…That’s not fair.Â
The virtues weren’t as lucky.Â
Blueberry’s soul jam is imbued right above their chest, at their collarbone. It’s trapped within their dough, almost like a conjoined part of their person. Their skin forms a prison around the gem.
The throbbing pains that come and go are a small price to pay for the easy access to the massive power source… even if it hurts.
They are suddenly glad that their fur and vest are covering their soul jam from prying eyes. If this cookie saw it, then Blueberry would be in deep trouble… If they found out who Blueberry was, would they be able to get away?
“Here you are.”
A bowl of red berry soup is set down next to Blueberry, knocking their train of thought astray. Worries and doubts pale in comparison to their growing hunger. Before they know it, Blueberry is tipping the bowl over in their haste to swallow down such a feast!
The golden cookie laughs at their antics.
The soup is sweet, sickeningly so… It’s the best thing Blueberry has ever eaten. They devour it like they are starving- Well, actually, they are, aren’t they?Â
Tears slip from their eyes once more. Witches, Blueberry forgot how nice it felt to be warm, belly full, and without wanting for more.Â
“Now, now. You shouldn’t eat too fast. You’ll make yourself sick.” The golden cookie moved the bowl away- or at least they tried before Blueberry bit their hand!
How dare! The audacity!Â
Blueberry thumps their hind leg in irritation. A surprised smile graces the golden cookie’s lips.Â
“Now, now,” Their tone is light and airy.Â
The golden cookie moves the bowl away while Blueberry bites the corner of the dish. They tug it back, but don’t make it far before their leg catches on an uneven groove. Blueberry loses their footing as the world turns sideways.
They are going to hit the ground!
They close their eyes tight and brace themself for impact, but-
An arm clutches them close before they descend any further. The golden cookie’s wings puff up, their smile nervous as they move to sit. They bring Blueberry back into their lap while they stroke Blueberry’s white fur. The bowl of berry soup is placed next to them.
“Goodness, that was a fright. Do be careful, little one. A fall like that would hurt quite a bit.”
Blueberry is stunned, but shakes their head. They huff. Silly cookie, very silly. None of this would have happened if they had just let Blueberry feast! Speaking of food-
They hop and reach from the bowl again, but fall short. Stupid tiny legs!
The gold cookie chuckles for the hundredth time (really how happy could one cookie be?), the sound extinguishing Blueberry’s ire.
“Alright, alright. I get it. You want more… Just don’t eat it all in one bite, okay? It wouldn’t do any good if you get sick.”
The bowl is moved back, and Blueberry thumps their leg in joy. They scramble to the dish and shove their head into the soup, disregarding the talker’s wish for only a second before their tummy gives an unhappy twist… Their pace is much slower after, regrettably.
A pleased sigh brushes past Blueberry’s raised ears. The sound has them tilting their head up, a drop of soup falling off their chin.
“Very good.”
A flush decorates Blueberry’s face, their fur standing up before settling. They avert their eyes and continue sipping the soup... What a silly cookie, indeed.
A breeze passes by, golden locks flowing in its wake, while the two sit in a relatively quiet silence.Â
Blueberry focuses on their meal and allows the small moment of rest… Unfortunately, the golden cookie doesn’t get the memo.
They brush Blueberry’s fur, patting their vest in a comforting manner. Their hands fluff Blueberry’s ears and travel over every inch of their body, inspecting them.
The golden cookie hums and tilts their head. “You are such a curious little thing… I had no idea marshmallow bunnies were native to Beast Yeast, although judging by your outfit, perhaps you belong to one of Dark Cacao’s men?”
…?Â
“Beast Yeast”? Is that what they're calling this land now? How crude. Blueberry wouldn’t call the native animal species or flora violent, let alone “Beasts.”
Unless… Oh, witches. Are- Does- They mean the virtues, don’t they? Blueberry has a new title now… How fun.
Something must show on their face because the golden cookie frowns. They resume petting Blueberry, although less inquisitively and more comfortingly.
“I suppose not then… I would’ve had some choice words with your owner if you were... I can feel your bones, my friend. You are starved, although I’m sure you know that.”
The golden cookie's tone turns firm. It’s strange. They shouldn’t care, and yet they do. Blueberry doesn’t know how to react to them.
Friend, huh?
…
They focus on eating. The soup’s almost gone, even though their belly is full… They keep eating anyway.
The angel above them smiles down, their eyes softening, “I can get you more if needed, dear one… Black Raisin Cookie is a wonderful cook. I don’t blame you for wanting seconds. I’m sure she won’t mind-“
“Pure Vanilla Cookie!”
Blueberry jumps, knocking the bowl of soup off the golden- er, Pure Vanilla’s lap. They mourn the loss like a friend just died, completely devastated. A funeral will have to wait, however, as a new cookie sprints towards them.
Pure Vanilla stands up, bringing Blueberry along with them. A red stain marks their pristine white robes, but they pay it no mind.
“Ah, Black Raisin Cookie, my friend… I was going to make myself a bowl as well, but I couldn’t ignore a hungry soul,” the golden cookie greets, wings fluttering behind them.
The crow-like cookie stutters exasperated, glances at the spilled bowl, Pure Vanilla’s robes, and then Blueberry before sighing and pinching their- no, her brow.Â
Blueberry huddles closer to Pure Vanilla, not in fear but in a cautious manner. She has weapons on her. Not a good sign.
“Never mind that,” Black Raisin grunts, “The situation has changed.” She cracks her neck and shifts her feet.
Its tale is always in motion, moving with the tide, shifting in time, and changing at the drop of a hat.
Word of mouth is a tool well used through the passage of age, and Blueberry Cream knows it well. Their story has been misshaped more times than they can count, either by malicious hands or hopeless belief.
Unlike the tales, however, they are not a savior. They are not a monster. Heck, they aren’t even themself most of the time.
Blueberry Cream is a creature of change! They are a Fae like no other, a shapeshifter!
Adapting is a skill they have mastered. Their dough is as malleable as they please on a day-to-day basis. Their hair, clothes, accessories, you name it! Everything can be bent to their will!
Of course, their mind matched their dough in versatility, so it wasn’t a surprise to them when their students and “followers” alike started rebutting their gift of knowledge.
It hurt, yes, but Blueberry saw the fall coming. They knew sooner or later the curiosity born within cookiekind would grow out of control. They knew it would twist with greed, making its way into cookies’ hearts.
Hate, greed, and lust can do awful things to a community, especially one as newly built as theirs, bringing its downfall to fruition. It was a horrible, gruesome sight, seeing war ravage its way through the seeds they had planted.
Knowledge burned to the ground, books screaming out as their pages were singed. Cookies were massacred for sharing their minds, their jam decorating the streets. Homes were destroyed for the “greater good,” “justice” being laid out from false goodwill…
…
Blueberry knew it was only a matter of time before they, too, were hunted down for what they were baked to do…
They won’t lie and say it wasn’t scary.
Their siblings tried to shoulder the burden of the fall from them, but there is only so much you can hide from a cookie that can turn into the sneakiest of creatures… The anger and venomous words thrown their way were… less than ideal, although nothing a little deflection couldn’t handle!
It didn’t stop the violence. It didn’t stop the outrage. It didn’t stop the hate.
However, it gave them time, the precious commodity being in short supply, and Blueberry spent it well.
Hundreds, if not thousands, of books, scrolls, and grimoires were collected throughout those short weeks. Blueberry was not picky in what knowledge they stored away, allowing all works of literature to be carefully hidden away in their spire’s walls. Some were written by them, while others were designed by scholars' hands, but all were locked safely behind a potent spell.
It won’t be for years, centuries, eons- until the magic would fall and the knowledge would spread once more.
It hurt seeing all that potential trapped instead of being freely accessible; however, Blueberry couldn’t see another book burn. They wouldn’t be able to stomach it…
In the end, it didn’t exactly matter.
Blueberry Cream won’t be able to see the fruits of their labors. Their fate was set in stone, or shall they say silver.
Three weeks, that’s how long it took for the public to turn on the virtues. Their prayers weren’t answered as they liked. Their questions were no longer placated. Their faith was crushed between venomous words and vile rumors.
The virtues were hunted down like cattle.
Traps were spread across places they once thought safe, and injuries grew like second skin. People they trusted turned their backs on them; betrayal ran rampant. Not a second of rest was given. They were always on the move…
If you think about it in a certain way, it was honestly quite impressive how each virtue was trapped so easily!
…
Sugar was the first to go.
She trusted too quickly. Her heart was displayed for all to see. Her goodwill ultimately being her downfall. Mystic warned her, they all did, but Sugar had faith in the cookies she once called her friends.
Come morning, there was one less cookie at their campfire, one less sleeping bag to take care of.
…
Mystic and Spice fought a lot in the coming days. Their arguments spilling out of tattered tents and erupting the stagnant silence that had overtaken their camp. Salt tried to keep the peace, but there was only so much they could do for the two eldest siblings.
Mystic thought it her responsibility to go looking for Sugar, believing she could have done more to stop her, while Spice was adamant about them sticking together. The war general proclaimed the importance of staying as a group, but Blueberry knew he was afraid of losing someone else.
By the fourth day, their fighting had blown up, and by night, Mystic was gone… Spice blamed himself.
Blueberry, for one, can’t blame their elder sister; they wanted to go too once they heard the news, but Spice held them back, and soon five turned to three-
A week passed. The woods became a home, foraging became a must, and a sense of normality was created…
It didn’t last long.
They were found, on the run once more, and Spice stayed back, a foolish decision that cost him greatly…
Blueberry can’t help but think he was trying to make up for what happened with Mystic.
…
Salt didn’t take it well.
He was much more protective of Blueberry in that final week. Wouldn’t let them wander off on their own, not that they wanted to… But it was weird being cared for so dearly. They kind of liked it. They missed the closeness they once had with their siblings…
Days went by without a single word spoken, just soft embraces of reassurance that they weren’t alone in this. Blueberry took care of the cooking while Salt foraged close by. They didn’t stay in one spot for long, always moving.
It was tiring, and Blueberry was slowing Salt down with their fragile body; however, their big brother didn’t leave them behind.
He should have.
Salt would have been able to go on much longer if it weren’t for Blueberry. He would have been safe. He could have escaped, but he didn’t.
Blueberry’s limited stamina had finally caught up to them at the worst possible time. They were spotted. Blueberry had tripped and couldn’t get back up without struggle and-
-And then it was over. The virtues had lost, they had fallen, and all five “champions” were sealed away in a silver tree.
Time became a loose concept.
… It was all icy-cold chains, splinter-infested floors, and a deep, dark quiet for a while after the bars were put in place.
There was no sun, no light, and no company beside their own mind for hours at a time-
Blueberry would have preferred death, a nice, swift end, but you can’t exactly kill an immortal being.
…
They never thought they would experience starvation so intimately.
…
Blueberry couldn’t even talk with their siblings, even with their cells so close as the walls muted any sound that wished to pour out.
It was hell. It was torture. It was a fate that Blueberry wouldn’t grant to anyone.
They lost themselves in madness, in solidarity.
They had so much knowledge to give, to share, to speak, but no words would leave their throat…
Time moved on, and they forgot how it felt to be whole…
…
Although nothing lasts forever.
It started small, like most things do, with a sliver of light flowing from a crack. Blueberry thought they were hallucinating.
But the light spread, and with it hope blossomed.
It burned when the flecks of light touched their dough.
Blueberry loved it.
Their form had long since turned to goop, their body not having enough nutrients to keep their shape. They crawled to the crack and slept near it, comforting themself with a false sense of security.
Day by day, it grew and grew.
Eventually, they could even hear voices! They sounded worried, fearful, but Blueberry didn’t mind…
They just wanted some company.
…
At one point, they must have fallen asleep because they were shocked awake by a loud crack. The small hole they mushed themselves up against had splintered up and around their prison bars until-
Until there were more holes than tree; leaves and wood alike falling all around them.
Their form had slipped, and they had fallen through a crevice, landing on soft, spiky grass.
The texture was familiar and yet foreign at the same time. It was wonderful. It was awful. They loved it. They hated it.
Colors danced around them. Light blinded their vision. Voices rose from all angles. It was overwhelming. They couldn’t tell up from down, but then suddenly warm hands were picking them up.
For a moment, they struggled, thrusting about until an action calmed their nerves.
Callused hands rubbed against their sensitive dough in a soothing rhythm. Heat warmed up their frozen body. A scent of pepper fluttered through the air: Burning Spice, their brother.
They were held up to his chest, just shy of his soul jam, and firmly hidden from the masses around them.
Blueberry could hear yelling and a rush of movement. The air vibrated with magic being shot off while defensive barriers were summoned left and right. It was a battleground.
Fairies.
They were surrounded by fairies. Soldiers were on all sides, with a group of differently colored cookies standing alongside them. Shining stones decorated their bodies (Were those soul jams? No, impossible).
All of Blueberry’s siblings were there as well, but they didn’t get much of a chance to reunite, as soon Burning Spice was screaming and they all ran off.
All the movement was too quick for Blueberry’s sluggish mind. They were only able to grab slight details, such as the way Spice’s bones were jutting out of their dough. His breath was ragged and his steps uneasy, but he kept moving anyway.
Fairy soldiers were hot on their trail.
Blueberry had to do something.
The forest around them was bathed in a thin layer of magic. It wasn’t much; however, it was enough to jump-start Blueberry’s soul jam. With a deep breath (or a goop-being’s equivalent), Blueberry pulled in as much energy as they could and threw it out!
A bright blue light shone off their form, blasting the soldiers behind them… and also knocking Spice off his feet.
Oopsie, not Blueberry’s brightest idea shooting off raw magic like that, but cut them some slack. It’s been too long since they used their powers! They're rusty!
!!!
-And they are also flying through the air!
Spice dropped them, the big oof!
They hit the ground hard. Pain rippled its way across Blueberry's form. They convulsed for a moment, the action throwing their body forward. Suddenly, they were rolling down a slope, hitting just about every rock and twig along the way.
A solid force collided with their body, and Blueberry came to a jarring stop. Stars spun around their head as colors danced across their eyes.
Soft ground turned into hard dirt. Flowing air was cut off, and solid wood encaptured them once more and-
Blueberry couldn’t breathe. No, not back here. Please! Anywhere but that cold, silent prison. They had just gotten out! They couldn’t- they wouldn’t-
The last thing they heard before they passed out was someone frantically calling their name.
Sage doesn’t remember falling, but they do remember the impact.
Waking up in a reality not your own is a starling realization. It breaks you in a way you never thought possible. Suddenly everything is new and no one knows you, not the real you, and no one ever will… Nothing makes sense, but Sage takes the truth for cold hard facts.
It's a fact that they are now in a fantasy novel. It’s a fact that they are now a cookie. It’s a fact that “Sage” has possessed the body of “Shadow Milk”. It’s a fact that they must survive this cold, harsh reality they have now found themself in.
They are being watched. They are being hunted. They are losing this battle of mental fortitude, and Sage isn’t sure they can make it out alive.
Or
This is my version of a yandere transmigration story for this fandom! It’s not very serious, but does cover dark themes. I’m writing this as I go, so updates will be slow! It will be out of character! I write to the tropes I like!
Writing blurs:
I’m going to be writing a new fan-fiction!
I know, I know! “But Silksong is coming out tomorrow!” You say. “You will spend all your time playing it instead of writing”, you say.
Well, you’re probably right, but I had this fiction in the works for a while now and have to get around to posting at least some of it before I dwell into that rabbit hole!
I already have a lot of the story mapped out and will be posting some short dabbles here while the whole thing will be posted on ao3. I’m only up to chapter five so updates will be slow, but I have faith.
I will also be posting more doodles from each chapter as they go up. If you liked the summary above, maybe check out the whole thing when I post it~
Not sure when the update date will be, but soon hopefully!
