Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla

He speaks out loud. Directly. Loudly. Cruelly.

How:
• Direct accusations. Not always. But when it breaks down - yes. "Do you know why she is not here?" "Do you know who is to blame?" "Do you know what I have lost?" He does not say "you". But the child hears. Always.
• Screams into the void. He can scream at the walls. At the sky. At himself. But the child stands nearby. And thinks that the screaming is for him.
• Punishments without reason. He punishes not for the offense. For existence. For the fact that the child breathes. Eats. Laughs. Lives. Not while she is not. He knows it himself. And hates himself. But he does not stop.
• Silence after screaming. The worst thing. He screams. Then leaves. And does not return for days. The child is left alone. With the echo of the scream. And with the thought: "It is me. I am the reason." Always.
• Hints at a "better world." "If she were gone, everything would be different." "If I could turn back time..." He doesn't finish. But the child finishes himself. "You would bring her back. But not me ."

He will never say out loud: "It's your fault." Not once. Not under any circumstances. Even in rage. Even in delirium. Even in sleep.

But it reminds me. Differently. Quieter. Worse.

How:
• Pauses. He stops mid-sentence when the child enters the room. A second. Two. Then he continues. But the child has already heard this pause. And remembered.
• Glances. He looks at the child a little longer than necessary. Studyingly. As if he’s looking for something. Something that’s not there. Or is. But he can’t find it.
• Comparisons. Not direct. Indirect. "Your mother loved these flowers." "Your mother sang this song." "Your mother would want you to be happy." Each "your mother" is like a blow. Soft. But precise. Because the child knows: if it weren't for him, she would be singing this song now. Out loud. And not in his memory.
• Birthdays. Pure Vanilla celebrates them. Always. Sincerely. With gifts. With a smile. But there's something in the eyes. The child sees. And thinks: "This is the day she died." And can't help but think.
• Illnesses. When a child gets sick, Pure Vanilla treats. Desperately. Until the very end. But then, when the crisis is over, he sits down next to him and is silent for a long time. And in this silence lies the question he will never ask: "Why did you survive and she didn't?"
He hates himself for it. Every time. After every pause. After every glance. He hates himself. But he can't stop. Because the grief is stronger. The grief is always stronger.

He can't. Not now. Maybe never.

Because his pain is different. It's not quiet. It's loud. Furious. Destructive. He doesn't know how to forgive. He knows how to take revenge. To play. To break. But not to forgive. Forgiveness is to surrender. To let go. To admit that you don't control the world. And he's a trickster. He's controlled everything his whole life. Everything. Except this.

He sees Pure Vanilla changing. How she picks up the child. How she sings to him. How she smiles. Weakly. Crookedly. But she smiles.

And something in him trembles. Also. But differently. Not ice. Fire. Which does not go out. But burns. More powerfully. Every day.

He approaches the cradle. Alone. At night. When Pure Vanilla sleeps. He looks at the baby. For a long time. The baby opens its eyes. Looks at him. Doesn't cry. Doesn't smile. Just looks. Calmly. Like her.

Shadow Milk kneels down. Right there. By the cradle. And whispers:

— I can’t forgive you. Not yet. But I won’t hate you. I promise. To her. To you. To myself. I’ll try. I don’t know how. But I’ll try.

The child reaches out a hand. Small. Warm. Touches his face. And Shadow Milk freezes. Then closes her eyes. And stays like that. For a long time. A very long time.

Stage 3: “I choose him” (years)

This isn't an instant forgiveness. It's a decision. Every day. Anew.
• In the morning - get up earlier. Prepare breakfast. Myself. Not the servants. Because that's what she did.
• During the day, teach him. Herbs. History. Magic. Patience. Kindness. Because she believed in it.
• In the evening – read fairy tales. Her fairy tales. In the same voice. The same intonation. With the same pauses. He rehearsed. At night. Alone. Until it worked.
• At night – sit by the bed. For a long time. Watch. How the child breathes. How she once breathed. Next to. With him.
He doesn't say "I forgive you." Because there's nothing to forgive. The child isn't to blame. He knows it. Now. For real.

He says something else:

— I choose you. Every day. Anew. Not because you are a part of her. Because you are you. And I love you. Not instead of her. Together with her. In memory of her. For her. And for myself.

Stage 1: “I can’t look at him” (first months)

He doesn't consciously blame the child. He knows it's irrational. That the baby didn't choose to be born. That she wanted it herself. That no one is to blame.

But knowing and feeling are two different things.

He looks at the child—and sees her eyes. Hears her cry. Feels her hand, which is squeezed in his. Weaker. Weaker. Empty.

And something slams shut inside him. Quietly. Like a door. He doesn't allow himself to hate. He's a healer. He can't hate. But he can remain silent. Withdraw. Leave the child in the care of the servants. Avoid. Don't look. Don't pick up. Don't love.

It's not cruelty. It's self-defense. Because if he allows himself to feel, he'll break. Completely. And no one needs a broken healer. Especially not a child.

Stage 2: “I shouldn’t blame him” (First year)

He begins to force himself. Mechanically. In the morning – go to the cradle. Look. Count the breaths. Leave. In the evening – again. Closer. Longer. More painfully.

He tells himself: "It's not his fault. She wouldn't want me to hate him . She loved him. More than anything. More than us."

And something trembles. Inside. Slowly. Painfully. Like ice that melts too quickly. Burning.

He takes the child in his arms. For the first time. By himself. Without being asked. Without servants. Simply because he has to. The child looks at him. Gray-green eyes. Her eyes. And smiles. Her smile. That very one. With wrinkles. Which aren't there yet. But will be.

Pure Vanilla is crying. Quietly. Without a sound. Just tears. Flowing. And he doesn't wipe them away. Because he can't. His hands are busy. With the baby. Her baby. Their baby.

What's left after her
• The smell of sage. In their room. For years. No one could get it out.
• One strand of hair. Chestnut. With a red tint. On the pillow. Pure Vanilla kept it in a locket. Never took it off.
• A smile. The shadow of a smile. On a child’s face. When he sleeps. Shadow Milk saw it. Every night. And every night he hated himself for what he saw.
• Silence. That very one. Warm. Not empty. Not evil. Just silence. Which used to be filled with it. But now it’s not. And both – Light and Darkness – don’t know how to live in this silence. Without it.

She's not a saint. Not perfect. Not a martyr. She's alive. With all her flaws. And that's why they both love her.
• Patient, but not endless. She will listen. Understand. Support. But if you push it too far, she will speak out. Harshly. Honestly. And both Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla appreciate it. Because no one else tells them the truth.
• Cheerful, but not empty. She laughs at everything. At herself. At them. At the world. But behind this laughter there is depth. She has seen pain. Knows it. But she chose joy. Not because it is easy. Because it is difficult. And she copes. Every day.
• Wise, but not preachy. She doesn’t give advice. She doesn’t lecture. She’s just there. She just listens. She just loves. And that’s enough. Because both Light and Darkness are tired of words. They need hands. Hugs. Silence. And she knows it.
• Strong, but not cruel. She is not afraid of Shadow Milk. Not afraid of his darkness. Not afraid of his fury. She looks into his eyes and says: “I see you. All of you. And I stay.” And he breaks. For the first time. Really. And cries. On her shoulder. And she strokes his head. And is silent. Because she knows: words are not needed.
• Light, but not blind. She sees Pure Vanilla. Not a saint. Tired. Guilty. Lonely. And she doesn’t try to fix him. She just takes his hand. And says, “You don’t have to be perfect. You have to be yourself.” And for the first time in thousands of years, he breathes out. Really.

Her name is Hazel.

Appearance

She's not a beauty in the classic sense. She doesn't shine. She doesn't blind. She's warm. Like a fire in the fireplace. Like bread from the oven. Like hands that will always find yours.
• Hair: Soft. Chestnut-colored, with a reddish tint in the sun. Not smooth—lively. Constantly falling out of her hairstyle. She’s stopped fighting it. She just gathers it into a careless bun. And one strand always falls on her face. It’s always tucked in. Both Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk. In turns. And they both remember this moment.
• Eyes: Gray-green. Like the sea on a cloudy day. Like moss on stones. They change depending on the light. When she laughs - green. When she thinks - gray. When looking at them - they both see different things. Shadow Milk sees understanding. Pure Vanilla - forgiveness.
• Face: Soft. Round. Freckles on her nose. Not perfect – real. Wrinkles around her eyes – from laughter, not from age. She laughs a lot. Loudly. Contagious. So much so that it’s impossible not to smile.
• Hands: Working. Not smooth. With calluses. She cooks. Plants. Heals. Holds. For both. When they quarrel, she takes their hands. And squeezes. And they become silent. Because they cannot quarrel when she holds them.
• Clothes: Simple. Comfortable. Linen. Cotton. Earth tones. But always with one detail. A bright one. A ribbon. A brooch. A scarf. Something she found. Something that reminds her of them. Of her two worlds.

Pure Vanilla doesn't give nicknames. Just "you." Or silence.
• Shadow Milk gives. But angry ones. "Mistake." "The Price." "What's Left." And when he gets really angry - "Killer."

Shouts. For any reason. For a broken cup. For being late. For laughing too loudly. For being too silent. For breathing.
• Punishes. Not physically, but emotionally. Ignores. Ridicules. Makes you feel unwanted. “You shouldn’t have been born. You know that?”
• Doesn't protect. When others bully the child, he laughs. "Serves you right. Maybe you'll understand what pain is."
• He plays. But without warmth. Like a trainer. Like an executioner. Like someone who wants to break. And sometimes he does break. And he hates himself for it. But he doesn’t stop. Because stopping means forgiving. And he’s not ready.

He doesn't shut up. He screams. Constantly. At the child. At himself. At the world. At her—for leaving. At Pure Vanilla—for not saving him.

He can't look at the baby. At all. For the first few months, he doesn't go near the cradle. Then, he does. But he doesn't pick it up. He just looks. And in his eyes, there's hatred. Not for the baby. For himself. But the baby sees only hatred. And he thinks it's for him.

He plays with the child. Sometimes. Loudly. Cruelly. As if punishing. As if taking revenge. “You wanted attention? Here you go. But don’t think I’ve forgiven you.” He doesn’t say it out loud. But the child hears it. In every game. In every laugh. In every too-tight grip on the shoulder.

He hates himself. More than Pure Vanilla. Because he's a trickster. He should have found a way out. He should have saved. But he couldn't. And now the child is living proof of his failure. Every day. Every second.

He cares, but doesn't love. Mechanically. Like a doctor. Like a healer. But not like a father.
• Avoids touching. Doesn't hug. Doesn't kiss on the forehead. Doesn't hold hands. Because he's afraid that if he touches, he'll break. Or hate even more.
• Talks about her. But not with the child. With the portrait. With the empty room. With the silence. The child hears. Sometimes. Through the wall. And remembers.
• Doesn't protect. When Shadow Milk yells at the child, Pure Vanilla doesn't intervene. Because he agrees. Because he also blames. And this betrayal is the quietest of all.

He doesn't scream. He doesn't hit. He doesn't curse. He falls silent. And this silence lasts for years.

He takes care of the child. Feeds him. Clothes him. Treats him when he's sick. But he doesn't look into his eyes. Because he can't. Because every time he sees those eyes—her eyes—he hears her scream. That very one. At that very moment. When she left.

He doesn't say "I love you." Never. Because he's not sure it's true. And that's the worst thing. Because the child feels. Every second. That he's unwanted. That he's a reminder. That he's a mistake that cost the life of the most precious thing.

Pure Vanilla hates himself for this. Every day. Every night. He knows it's wrong. That the child isn't to blame. But knowing and feeling are two different things. And feelings are stronger. Always.

Shadow Milk Cookie is a slim, medium-sized Cookie with a powder-blue complexion and two different-colored eyes: one blue right eye with a black slit pupil and black eyelashes, and the other sky-blue left eye with a white slit pupil and white eyelashes. His mouth is sapphire blue and sly, with teeth that range from straight to sharp depending on his emotions. Near his right eye is a pale blue, claw-shaped mark. He has white strands of hair near his face—two that fall on his forehead and one slicked back—azure curled sidelocks, and shiny, spiky, long hair in a two-toned style of shadow and lapis lazuli, reminiscent of the proportions of a jester's hat. Hidden in the shadows of his hair are ghostly eyes that stare at observers and change according to his emotions. Shadow Milk Cookie wears an obsidian harlequin jumpsuit with turquoise diamond appliqués. His sleeves are bishop-style, with his right sleeve having a pale blue Columbia base and his left sleeve a black base, both with sapphire accents and wide cuffs reminiscent of whipped cream. Jester wears a jabot collar from which curled tails hang with a ghostly blue lining and a black exterior. Its lining features more staring eyes. He wears his eye-like Soul of Deception Gem as a brooch on his collar in the same place where Pure Vanilla Cookie wears his Soul of Deception Gem. Shadow Milk Cookie also wears a jester's hat, split into black and cobalt halves, with a milk-splash-shaped crown around the brim and blueberry-shaped pom-poms on its flared tassels. He holds a thin black staff with a blueberry-eye handle and another milky design on the neck, the eye design being a direct reflection of Pure Vanilla Cookie's orchid-shaped staff.

Pure Vanilla Cookie is a medium-sized and skinny cookie with an orange-tanned dough and creamy blonde hair. He has heterochromia: his right eye is pale yellow and his left eye is pale blue. His eyes are mostly closed, though he opens them occasionally. He has a star on his forehead.

Pure Vanilla Cookie's outfit is that of the ruler of the Vanilla Kingdom, hence the waffle hat, robe, and light color scheme. He has a pointed hat, the top of which is bright yellow with a waffle pattern, while the bottom is golden in the shape of a crown. His robe is also golden yellow and features two triangular capes, while the collar and robe are bright yellow and have the same pattern as his pointed hat. The cross-shaped plate on his robe has a picture of his bright blue Soul Jam. Underneath his robe is a long, simple white dress with long sleeves and a dark brown pattern that resembles dripping syrup, as well as a turtleneck that goes right up to his chin.

The staff he holds has a vanilla flower with yellow orchid petals and an eye with a light blue sclera and a brown iris. The brown shaft has several green vines on it.