Chapter Text
The village of Red Wood was soaked in the scent of burning wood, damp earth, and sweat. It was the kind of village that clung desperately to faith, the kind that saw divine punishment in every failed harvest and the work of the wicked in every misfortune. Father Vanilla could smell all of this stench of pathetic humanity before he even arrived at the village.
Father Vanilla arrived at dusk, the sky bruised with storm clouds. His white robes, embroidered with gold and white, trailed behind him as he dismounted his horse. The church bells tolled, their somber chime marking the beginning of something final.
He hadn’t expected to find a burning already prepared.
The village square was packed with people, their faces alight with the glow of torches. At the center, bound to a wooden stake, was the accused.
Shadow Milk. Engraved on a wooden blank at the top of the stake.
A man, tied with thick rope, his wrists bruised, his thin robes torn at the edges. He was barefoot, his pale skin stained with dirt. He should have looked pitiful. He should have looked afraid.
Instead, he was grinning.
The crowd murmured prayers under their breath, hands clenched around rosaries, their fear feeding their righteousness. The village priest, Milk Cream, waddled toward Vanilla, bowing deeply. "Father Pure Vanilla! We had not expected you so soon. We were preparing to cleanse the village of sin."
Vanilla’s eyes flicked over the scene. He had seen many executions in his time; witches, heretics, criminals—but there was something deeply wrong about this one.
"Explain," he commanded.
And under said command they hurriedly guided him aside, away from the flocks of folk to a less crowded place, whisper yelling with tones laced with fear, “This creature before you—he is an insult to the natural order. He has deceived us, living among us as a man, but we discovered the truth. He is neither man nor woman. A mockery of creation, an unnatural thing.” His voice held deep disgust, clearly not even he could believe what he was saying was a real, “and worse yet, before this moment he has spread corruption—he questions the faith, mocks scripture, poisons the minds of others with doubt.”
Another one spoke up, “They, in heavens above, work in mysterious ways. If he had not spread his blasphemy we would have not investigated him and found his sin in front of our eyes for ourselves. He is a servant of pure evil sent to destroy us, born unnatural and spreads his treachery like the gospel.”
Father Vanilla listened to their words in silence, looking over at the man at the stake then back to the men, “neither a man or woman?” He narrows his eyes, “what does this mean?”
The men looked at each other and one lowered his voice to speak, “The investigation.. into him.. well, his genitals did not hold the form of one alone, rather both.” The man seemed to shiver at the thought and closed his eye, shaking his head.
Father Vanilla took the time to process his words, this trip was not the basic one he was used to, that can say.
“If I may,” he turned away from the men and walked towards the accused at the stake, looking him up and down. This was not the face of a damned sinner, this was the face of a martyr and a proud one at that. The stupid ones who wrote pamphlets and thought dying for it made them correct. If they did not end up in hell like they claim, they had less of them in the world to fight their Order, they are fools to be proud of dying and letting their work die with them.
He did not like this kind but this one had unique properties.
Vanilla’s gaze gripped Shadow Milk’s form, "Is this true?" He asked, “your deformity?”
Shadow Milk tilted his head, dark hair falling messily across his face. His lips curled, and his voice was light, almost playful. "If the words of the church crumble so easily under a few questions, perhaps the problem isn’t me.”
The crowd hissed and multiple things came Shadow’s way, rocks or fruit but he didn't seem to care. They aim quite well, none came close to Father Vanilla.
“You don't even deny what you are?”
"What I am?" Shadow Milk repeated, laughing softly. "I’m me. It’s you all who seem troubled by that.”
There was something deeply wrong about this man. Not in the way the villagers thought, not in his body, but in his mind. He did not fear Them. He did not fear the heavens.
And yet, something in Vanilla stirred. Not for the mind of blasphemous and Vanilla knew what made truly stir.
"You will release him," Vanilla said suddenly.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Father Milk Cream stammered, "But—but Father Vanilla, the sin—!"
"You do not dictate the will of the Holy Cone," Vanilla snapped. "This is not how sin is purged. If he is marked by the Lord’s punishment, then he must seek redemption where it matters—before the High Clerics. I will take him to The Holy Tray, where his fate will be properly decided."
Who will deny a chosen leader of their Order anyhow?
Pastor Blueberry Pie hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he nodded. "If... if that is what you believe is best, Father."
The ropes were cut, and Shadow Milk staggered forward, rubbing his wrists. His grin hadn’t faded. If anything, it had grown. "Well. Looks like I live another day.”
"You will not die here," Vanilla said, his voice firm. "You will come with me to The Holy Tray, where we will judge your soul. Perhaps there, you may be cleansed, and through your suffering, this village may find salvation."
The people, though still uneasy, murmured in agreement. If suffering was inevitable, let it serve a grander purpose.
Shadow Milk stretched, unconcerned. "Fine, fine. I’ll go along. The road must be more interesting than staying here, anyway.”
Vanilla’s lips pressed into a thin line. "You mock even now."
"I mock everything," Shadow Milk said with a grin.
"It’s the only thing worth doing.”
Vanilla said naught, he placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "You come with me. Now."
Shadow Milk smirked, but he didn’t resist. "Lead the way, Father.”
.
.
.
The carriage rattled along the uneven road, the dense forest swallowing the village’s glow behind them. Inside, the only light came from the flickering lantern hanging from the carriage roof.
Shadow Milk sat across from Vanilla, leaning lazily against the seat, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the wood. "So. What do you think your holy flocks will do to me anyway?"
Vanilla studied him in the dim light. "You will confess. You will seek redemption. If the Divine wills it, you will be purified."
"And if not?"
"Then you will serve another purpose.”
Shadow Milk exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "You don’t actually believe that."
Vanilla regarded him carefully. "And what is it you think I believe?"
Shadow Milk leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "That you’re interested. Too interested. The others looked at me with disgust. But you..." He grinned. "You want to understand."
Vanilla’s grip tightened on his rosary. "You are mistaken."
"I don’t think I am," Shadow Milk murmured. His gaze turned sharp, lips curling in something more knowing than playful. "You’re looking at me like something rare. Like something you want to keep."
The carriage rocked, and in one swift motion, Vanilla reached across and grabbed Shadow Milk’s chin.
The laughter, the amusement, gone.
Shadow Milk’s body stiffened, his pulse quick beneath Vanilla’s fingers.
"Your arrogance is exhausting," Vanilla said softly, thumb pressing against his jawline. "You think you understand the world, but you do not. You are a mistake, a contradiction, and yet you act as though you have power here.”
Shadow Milk opened his mouth, perhaps to make some quip, but Vanilla tightened his grip.
"Did you really believe you were in control?"
Father Vanilla’s voice steady, his expression composed, but his fingers digging in, his breath warm against Shadow Milk’s face. "Did you think I took you for redemption?"
The amusement in Shadow Milk’s eyes flickered just for a second but Vanilla saw it.
He saw the moment realization dawned.
For the first time, Shadow Milk tensed, his body coiling like a trapped animal. His breath hitched, and he tried to lean away, but Vanilla’s grip was firm.
"You will serve a purpose," Vanilla murmured. "One way or another."
The storm outside roared. The lantern’s light flickered.
And Shadow Milk, for the first time, was silent.
Vanilla’s grip tightened, his thumb pressing just beneath Shadow Milk’s jaw, tilting his face up with slow deliberation. "Did you think I brought you along for forgiveness?"
Shadow Milk didn’t answer. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Outside, the storm raged on, the wind howling through the trees like some unseen choir. The flickering lantern cast long, dancing shadows across Vanilla’s face, making him look almost saintly—almost holy.
Almost.
Vanilla’s expression remained composed, the serene mask of a man who carried the weight of divine judgment. But there was something else now, something lurking beneath the surface. A hunger that had nothing to do with faith.
His fingers ghosted down Shadow Milk’s throat, tracing the delicate ridge of his collarbone through the thin fabric of his robe. He could feel the rapid pulse beneath his skin, hear the unsteady hitch in his breath.
Shadow Milk’s body stiffened. His hands twitched as if debating whether to shove Vanilla away or remain still.
"You act untouchable," Vanilla mused, his tone thoughtful, almost detached. "But I see the cracks." His fingers trailed lower, barely grazing Shadow Milk’s chest before withdrawing just enough to leave the implication hanging between them. "You are made of contradictions. You claim not to care, yet I can feel your pulse racing. You pretend to mock, but now you are silent.”
Shadow Milk inhaled sharply, his muscles going rigid. His usual ease, his theatrical mockery, it was slipping.
"You don’t fear fire," Vanilla murmured, his lips barely moving. "But you do fear this, don’t you?”
A flicker of defiance crossed Shadow Milk’s face, but it was weaker now. His breath had quickened, his body betraying him.
Vanilla leaned closer, until there was nothing between them but warmth and weight. "You thought you understood me. That I was a good man. That I was saving you." His fingers, so gentle now, brushed against Shadow Milk’s trembling jawline. "You were wrong. You know nothing.”
The carriage jolted as the wheels hit a deep rut, and Shadow Milk let out a sharp breath. His hands pressed against the seat, as if bracing himself against something unseen.
"Say something," Vanilla coaxed, almost amused now. "Or has your voice finally failed you?"
Shadow Milk exhaled shakily, his lips barely forming words. "I..."
The hesitation thrilled Vanilla.
"You what?" Father Vanilla was the voice of mockery now.
Shadow Milk clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists. His breath was uneven, his body strung tight like a bowstring.
“The natural blind lead themselves away from fire with their senses,” Father Pure Vanilla started, “Only those who mock them will cover their eyes and walk into the fire then cry it is hot.”
But he said nothing. Father Vanilla did not stop there.