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Shadow Milk stands at the top of the tower, in a balcony overlooking the entire Vanilla Kingdom. The moon is bright above him, blanketing the floating kingdom in a hue of soft blue.
He swings one leg over the railings of the balcony, balancing himself on the smooth ivory as he stares up at the sky, splattered with bright, sparkling stars. If anything hasn't Changed throughout his centuries of life, it's his fondness for this same view. The little sparkling lights in a backdrop of blue, the same constellations—some of which he had named himself.
It's not all the same, of course, stars shift and change positions. Some die out entirely, their little dot of light vanishing from the sky, remaining only in ancient records and his own memory.
The moon, however, stays much the same. No closer, no further, the same pale blue it had been since forever.
He remembers staring down at the carnage below the Spire. Screaming, crying, jam and dough splattered across the cracked land. Trees toppling over as mages desperately cast spells after spells, civilians running with Spice brutes in quick pursuit.
Walking through his Spire, in the same pace he always has, slaughtering every cookie that was unfortunate enough to stumble upon him. The despair a disgusting stench in the air, his heart still even as he drove his staff through a fellow professor’s chest, their jam splattering across his robes and his face.
Spice’s laughter, his war axe barrelling through crowds of defenseless cookies. The sight it makes when he finally reached the top of the Spire, blankly staring at the consequences of his cowardly actions.
The moon today is much the same as it was on that day, only his Spire is no more and he is somewhere he never thought he'd be.
That is, in his arch-nemesis’ very own kingdom. Not as a prisoner, but something—something else. A position he is entirely undeserving of, but one that had been thrust upon him anyway by the everlasting mercy of his counterpart. He can't quite define it, but it's certainly more than what he had expected after letting himself Fall so far.
Shadow Milk sighs, swinging his legs idly. There’s nobody around at this hour, and the view below is of empty streets and closed shops, dimly lit by the moonlight. It's calm, quiet in the way that grants him peace of mind.
Ironic, considering he only climbed this far up after waking from a nightmare.
“Heh.” A familiar voice speaks and he turns around quickly, meeting another body leaning over his own, the clown’s head planting itself on his shoulder. He cringes away and tilts forward, catching himself on the railing at the last second before he could fall off the balcony.
“Hi.” The Beast giggles, wrapping an arm around him, half-floating as he singsongs his greeting.
Shadow Milk grabs his face and pushes him away, but the most it does is squish that face as arms tighten around him. He snarls, “Can't I have a moment to myself?!”
His nose is poked and he blinks, flailing in the hold. His grip on the railing tightens—he’ll be damned if he Falls a second time because of the clown.
“Oh, but how would that work exactly?” He coos, cupping his face and leaning in close.
“I am you, you are me. You can't exactly run from yourself. Albeit, little lily flower did that, but y’know, she's a special, special exception!”
His vision blurs as he’s pushed further over the railings. This is—a little too familiar.
“It’s peaceful out tonight, isn't it?” That same voice taunts, the grip on his face tight enough to bruise. His hand slips and he barely manages to catch himself in time, wincing as the pressure puts his wrist in an uncomfortable position.
“Just like it was on that night, hm? Nice and quiet.”
Quiet—like the solemn silence of a battlefield once the fighting is over—when the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded have faded into nothing, leaving only the eerie stillness of the dead. That kind of silence was heavy, suffocating, steeped in grief and lingering echoes of violence.
But this—this was different.
The night air was crisp, the distant hum of the kingdom’s evening life still thrumming just below. The gentle rustling of leaves, the occasional flicker of lantern light, the distant murmur of voices—it was a silence filled with life, not death. A silence that breathed, that held warmth, that promised another dawn.
And yet, as fingers dug into his skin, pushing him further over the edge, it felt just the same.
His breath shudders. The stars above blur and distort. For all the difference between the two, both kinds of silence had the power to smother.
A chuckle, low and cruel, drags him back to the present.
"You feel it, don’t you?" The grip on his face tightens, tilting his chin up so he’s forced to meet those mocking eyes. "That weight in your chest. That silence pressing down on you. You think it’s the night that’s suffocating you? No, no—" A hand ghosts over his throat before pulling away just as quickly. "That’s just guilt."
His fingers tremble where they cling to the railing.
"Tell me," the voice continues, sickly sweet, "do you really think you deserve this kingdom? This peace?" A scoff. "After everything you did—after everything you let happen?"
His breath stutters.
"How many lives did you destroy, hm? How many dreams did you crush under your heel? How many begged for mercy and never got it?"
The night is peaceful. But the battlefield lingers in his mind—smoke in the air, steel slicing through flesh, voices screaming, crying, going silent one by one.
"You don’t get to be saved, not after that," the voice hisses. "Redemption? You think you deserve that?"
His grip on the railing slips slightly. His heart pounds against his ribs, harder than before.
Because the worst part is—
He doesn’t have an answer.
The shove comes, and he Falls again.
For a fleeting second, he thinks—maybe this is what I deserve.
The wind howls past his ears as he scrambles, limbs flailing until his fingers catch. His body jerks violently, wrist nearly giving out as he clings to the railing, barely hanging on. His breath is ragged, uneven, desperate.
But why?
Why is he still fighting?
His arms tremble as he struggles to pull himself up, muscles screaming, mind clawing for a reason to keep holding on.
The battlefield still lingers behind his eyes. The smoldering ruins. The voices—pleading, screaming, falling silent. The blood on his hands that never quite washed away.
Did he really think he could move past it? Did he really believe in something so laughable as redemption?
A shadow looms over him. A boot taps the fingers that cling so desperately to the ledge.
“You still don’t get it, do you?” The voice is almost pitying. “No matter how much you try to crawl back up, you’ll always be what you were.”
A hand presses against his forehead.
“You don’t deserve to be saved.”
The pressure pushes him back, his grip slipping—
And then he’s Falling.
The sky rushes away, stars turning into blinding streaks. His stomach lurches, his chest hollows out, but the worst part—the absolute worst part—
Is that some quiet, ugly part of him agrees.
After all, he was always meant to Fall. Maybe he never should have tried to climb back up in the first place.
Pure Vanilla is going to be so disappointed in me.
The thought settles in his chest heavier than the wind rushing past him, heavier than the weight of his own body plummeting toward the ground.
He had tried. He really had. He clawed and climbed and let himself believe, even for a moment, that he could change—that he could be better. That he could deserve the warmth in Pure Vanilla’s eyes, the gentle touch, the unwavering kindness that was so freely given, even when he had done nothing to earn it.
But in the end, this is what he amounted to.
Someone who Fell from grace. Someone who deserved to Fall. Someone who is still Falling.
The wind roars in his ears. His body twists midair, the stars above shrinking, the ground below rushing up to meet him. He lets his eyes slip shut, breath escaping in something between a sigh and a sob.
At least this time, I won’t have to crawl back up.
🌿
He wakes with a violent gasp.
His body jerks upright, sheets tangled around him like restraints. His chest heaves, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. He barely registers the cold sweat clinging to his skin, the way his fingers clutch at the fabric beneath them as if still reaching for the ledge.
He’s not falling. He’s not falling.
But the hollow ache in his chest doesn’t fade. Even as he presses a trembling hand over his racing heart, trying to ground himself, the feeling lingers—
Like he never really stopped Falling at all.
A warm hand covers his own.
He flinches. His breath stutters, body still caught somewhere between the Fall and the present, between the weightless terror of plummeting and the suffocating guilt that followed. His fingers twitch against the sheets, unsure whether to grip tighter or let go entirely.
Pure Vanilla says nothing. He simply shifts closer, pressing warmth against his trembling frame, silent and steady.
He wants to pull away. He doesn’t deserve this. Not after the things he’s done, not after the thoughts still clawing at his mind, whispering that the nightmare was right—
That it wasn't just a dream.
But his body betrays him. His hands clutch at Pure Vanilla’s robes, desperate, shaking, clinging to something real. A sob catches in his throat, strangled and quiet, and suddenly there are arms wrapping around him, drawing him in like he belongs.
Fingers thread through his hair, slow, rhythmic. A silent promise. A tether.
He shakes, breath uneven, and still, Pure Vanilla does not let go. He does not ask, does not try to force words from a throat too tight with grief.
He simply holds him, patient, unwavering.
And though the Fall still lingers in his chest, heavy and aching, at least now—
He is not Falling alone.