if you’re still taking requests for CRK, could you write something about the ancients with a minion of their respective beasts? If not all of them maybe hollyberry and Pure Vanilla
maybe the reader followed the beasts before they corrupted and just don’t know how to let go, still clinging to the hope that the virtue they followed is still down there.
But they don’t hate the ancients, they don’t hate anyone.
(Sorry if this sent twice, tumblrs being weird)
Grief Is the Price of Belief
Tags: Pure Vanilla Cookie x Reader, Hollyberry Cookie x Reader, Post-War Reflection, Found Family, Bittersweet Hope, Broken Ideals, Quiet Redemption, Soft Angst, Comfort Without Fixing, Supportive, Disillusionment.
Warnings: Emotional Distress, Grief and Loss, Past Manipulation.
A/N: Might be ooc in Hollyberry Cookie's part because I haven't reached chapter 10 yet... 🚶♀️
The Spire of Deceit has long since fallen silent. The wind howls through broken marble and whispers through the cracks like forgotten prayers.
You sit on the edge of a shattered balcony, legs dangling, the stars above unbothered by Cookie-kind’s suffering. Below, the remnants of what once was—your loyalty, your devotion—lie buried under moonlight and ruins. You once followed Shadow Milk Cookie, not out of malice, but because he spoke of truth twisted by perception. Of freedom from dogma. Of eyes opened.
Pure Vanilla Cookie stands quietly behind you. He doesn't speak at first, doesn’t offer pity, only presence.
“I used to think,” you say, “that he only wanted to free us from illusion.”
You don’t mention Shadow Milk’s name. Neither does he.
“I know,” Pure Vanilla says softly, his staff glowing faintly beside him. “So did I.”
You turn to look at him. He doesn’t meet your eyes—his remain closed, as always—but you sense that he sees you more than anyone else ever has.
“I didn’t hate you when the war started,” you whisper. “I didn’t understand. I still don’t. But I never… hated you.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he replies, his voice nearly lost in the breeze. “I failed him. Failed you. Truth is not a weapon. I tried to wield it like one… and forgot that it can break like glass.”
You inhale shakily. “He’s still in there. Somewhere. Isn’t he?”
Pure Vanilla Cookie sits beside you slowly, the vanilla orchid eye in his staff blinking once, as if contemplating. “Truth doesn’t disappear,” he murmurs. “It gets buried. Shrouded. Sometimes corrupted. But I believe… no truth is ever truly lost. Only misremembered.”
You look away, tears pricking at your eyes. “Then why does it hurt so much to believe in it?”
He smiles faintly. “Because belief is an act of courage.”
There’s a silence. The kind you share with someone who knows grief as well as you do.
He doesn’t tell you to let go. He doesn’t ask you to forget. He just remains there, a steady warmth at your side.
“You once followed a shadow,” he says gently. “Now… maybe you can walk beside the light. Not to erase the past, but to honor what was once true within it.”
The scent of battle always clung to her—berries, dust, and iron—but it was her laughter that rang first.
And for the first time in ages, you wonder if you can.
“Oi! Thought I might find you brooding again.”
You didn’t lift your head. The fields outside the Garden’s border were blooming again, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at them.
Eternal Sugar Cookie had made them bloom once. Not like this, but better. Sweeter. You had believed in her—before.
Before the Garden became a cage.
Before joy turned into compulsion.
Before comfort became control.
“She only wanted everyone to be happy,” you said aloud, your voice cracked.
You heard a grunt, then the sound of heavy armor as Hollyberry Cookie dropped beside you, resting her arm over her bent knee.
“She forgot the cost of real happiness,” Hollyberry muttered. “The kind you fight for. Cry for. Bleed for.”
You looked at her. She was fire, always—loud and alive and real. And you had feared her once. Not because she was cruel, but because she reminded you of everything you’d run from.
“She wanted to protect us from pain,” you murmured.
“She protected us from feeling anything at all,” Hollyberry said. “That’s not kindness. That’s fear with a ribbon on top.”
You winced. “Don’t speak about her like—”
“Like she’s gone?” Hollyberry looked at you then, eyes sharp. “She is. That Sugar you followed, the one who just wanted to help? She’s buried under layers of illusion. Candy-coated chains.”
Your heart cracked. You hated how right it sounded.
“I still see her,” you whispered. “Sometimes. In her voice. In the way she smiles.”
Hollyberry’s expression softened. She sighed, brushing a hand over your shoulder—not gentle, but steady.
“Yeah,” she said. “I see her too.”
You blinked, startled.
“You do?”
“I fought her, didn’t I?” Hollyberry shrugged. “Face to face. I saw the hurt behind the honeyed words. The desperation in that perfect paradise. I saw her soul crying out—and I still said no.”
You swallowed.
“Was that… easy?”
“Not in the slightest,” Hollyberry said. “She meant a lot to me. Still does. But if I let her keep me there, I’d be betraying her worst.”
Your hands trembled in your lap.
“I don’t hate her,” you confessed. “But I can’t live in her dream anymore.”
Hollyberry stood. “Then don’t.”
You looked up at her.
“Come with me,” she said. “We’ll grieve her together. We’ll remember her right. And when the day comes that she wakes up—if it ever does—we’ll be ready.”
You didn’t know if that day would come.
But you took her hand anyway.
Because Hollyberry didn’t promise false comfort. She offered a path forward. One you could walk, even with grief stitched into every step.
He who is unfazed finds his feet away from bloodied soil, whose heels were stained, nonetheless found them kissing the familiar grime and loose pebbles leading to a wooden refuge sleeping on the hillock, caressed by a brook chilled with tranquility.
From distant conflicts;the warrior returnshis courage spent in trenches far from home.
There, tempered obsidian eyes haunting his dreams, burn…
Today, Love sat beside me on the busand spoke of the vilest things.Whatever shimmered in my eyes dulledafter that uneventful encounter.
I had pictured her gliding over a moonlit lake,swans fanning behind in V-formation,their wings flirting with the upwashon a summer night clear enoughto echo eternity.
Don’t meet your heroes. I should have known.
Instead of the portrait painted by ideals,Love…
