Chapter Text
Dark Choco cookie commandeers a ship to Beast-Yeast a month and eighteen days after the king does.
He’d spent most of the time after the king’s departure dithering over it. The news had reached him a week after the expedition had set off to begin with, on one of his rare excursions into civilization which he’d long resolved himself to partake in from time to time to ensure a) he did not forget language, and b) he did not die of starvation and/or exposure, on those days where such hazy words theatened to become very present and immediate. Which is not to say they ever truly were not present -- such came with the territory of camping out on the single most hostile climate in all of Crispia (the desert of such abundance hardly counted). In fact, he might even be inclined to say the threat was the main draw of his nonexistent arrangement to begin with. No time to think is my father okay and is he still my father and oh my god what have i done when the question of the day was always am i going to die by tomorrow. So the constant threats to his wellbeing were more than agreeable. But there was quite a big difference between a snowstorm of healthily life-threatening proportions and a blizzard of such proportions that, on one occasion, a whole adult cream wolf had appeared with alarming abruptness from the pale, been tossed at dizzying speeds directly towards his head, and been whipped once more into the blurry white again just as suddenly. It had been howling a mournful note the entire while, piercing in his ear as he’d hurriedly dove to the side, and as he lay for a while in the snow afterwards, half-delirious, he could not tell if the pain he felt was his ever-pervasive guilt, the onset of pneumonia, or a burst eardrum. Perhaps that had been the last push he had needed to resign himself to resorting to some unwanted company every now and again for the sake of a sturdy structure and a halfway decent bed.
Regardless, considering his current track record of isolation, receiving week-old news was in actuality quite early for him, and frankly he could not tell whether he was more lucky or unlucky for not having found out later. The reason he had even been so expedient with his visits was for his newest additional reason to venture into the wild jungles of society, c): He had been, in all of the free time he could muster -- which was anytime where he was not actively dying-- gathering the various herbs and supplies needed to alleviate the symptoms of the pale plague, and distributing them to various medics throughout the kingdom. The excursion where he had heard of the king’s decision to fight the source of the plague had been, in fact, one of these medicine runs.
Auspicious or not, the fact remains that he’d have much rather have received news a few months later that the king had not only departed on a noble quest in some vast and ancient land, but had -- of course, given who he was -- already returned home with yet another victory under his belt and the head of a timeless scourge to show for it. Instead Dark Choco paced tracks in the packed snow of the barren snowfields, and wondered about obligation, and family, and hate, and the great barrier of communication always between any two people, with moments spared to be miserable about the ever-pervasive cold, and the general great tragedy and absurdity of his ridiculous cursed-sword holding, evil-overlord-serving, patricidal life now and again, as was routine.
There had been, on several occasions in the middle of the night, a sudden and irrepressible urge to jump up and swim across the Licorice sea himself, to paddle with arms and legs until he climbed upon the shore of Beast-Yeast and felt the same land below him that the king stood on now. It licked inside his chest and threatened to burn him up entirely if he did not follow its sway, heedless of the ice-covered dirt packed below his feet or the whipping winds threatening to rip his thin-walled tent asunder. As he paced his way out of the tent and meandered his way towards the shoreline, he imagined it burning the snow around him into water, imagined drowning in his frantic heat, or boiling alive like a gummy frog. He imagined that the world was covered in a vast ocean, and his father was somewhere on that ocean, maybe stranded on a lonely island, or languishing in the beaten heat of a salt-stained rowboat, or treading water, and he had to find him before he went under or else-- or else --
Or else what?
And then the fire would go out, and a new, colder heat would take its place, just as unnamable, until he’d trace his way back and heft up his sword and hack at the nearest thing he could find. But the sword in his hand was unfamiliar, a new purchase he’d scarcely used for this exact reason-- the grip was too soft, the weight centred more at the tip than the hilt, the thickness of the blade different -- and he’d only grow hotter and hotter and colder and colder until he crawled to his tent and passed out from the physical exertion of his dissonance and woke up the next day with twinging muscles and a vaguely embarrassing recollection of the previous night. Perhaps he really was going mad, losing touch with society. Throwing tantrums like a misbehaved toddler.
He suffered under this relentless indecision for five entire excruciating weeks, pacing like a caged cake hound, until he finally gave himself an ultimatum. He would head back into town tomorrow, and if there is news from the king on his expedition he could find, any news at all, he would let the thought of running off to fight by his side perish from his mind. If there is no missive, he would go to Beast-Yeast. (He had been running his medicinal supplies into towns as usual, once per week, but he had never in his expediency stopped to look at any flyers or papers pinned up on the walls, his cargo too urgent to waste even a moment; he had, likewise, never been still during these trips for long enough to hear anything other than stammered thank-yous and a half-cut off offers for repayment.) Five weeks was more than enough time for a man with such an important role as king to have sent back some sort of missive to his kingdom, some sign that he is alive and as strong as ever, a way to bolster morale in his absence. It mattered not whether the letter contained good or bad news; its existence alone would serve to convince Dark Choco of the king’s ability to fend for himself. Or at least that’s what he had hoped.
The hope was a foolish one; had it been so easy to convince him of the king’s safety, he would have chased this inconvenient urge out of his mind four weeks and six days ago, and been forever content wallowing in his misery for the rest of his life outside the bounds of the kingdom, looking at the grandiose gates with great wistfulness, like a kicked-out child slinking sullenly around the outskirts of the house -- always watching the lights, always waiting for that door to open once more, but unwilling to knock -- until he inevitably tripped on some pebble or twig he didn’t see somewhere, hit his head on a rock, and died not of the cold but of sheer abject dejection. He sighs ruefully thinking about it now, the appealling future he could have had, had he had only a bit more self-discipline.
But he does not, and he did not two days ago, and so he had convinced his mind as best he could about the trustworthiness and efficacy of his new little desperate bargain with himself, and headed for the Milk Village the next morning. He had had little doubt in his mind that there would in fact be a missive posted up on every board and post and wall for every eye to see. The king was undefeated in battle, and his stern and exacting care for his people meant that he would not have simply forgotten to send some sort of reassurance back to his lands in Crispia. The letter would be there. The only question -- which had not even really been a question at all-- had been how steadfast Dark Choco’s resolution would stand in the face of this unassaillable threat. He had already been preemptively lamenting the failure of his last-ditch plan when he entered the walls of the village and found the local message board completely absent of the royal seal.
He had thought, reasonably, that perhaps five weeks was too much time for a royal missive to have been sent. Perhaps the address had already been put up and taken down while he had been driving himself half-mad about the king’s safety a scant few miles away. He had felt suddenly very foolish -- yes, everyone else had long known and been well assured of the King’s successful campaign overseas, and it was only he, in his self-imposed anchoritism, that had been ridiculous enough to worry about the king, of all people. The king had taken down countless threats to the land almost single-handedly, including Dark Choco himself; he was in no position to worry about him when he had been the threat to the kingdom that the king had had to battle just a scant few months ago.
He almost left the village without confirming, so sure of his sudden hypothesis, but the niggling worry and doubt in the back of his head had made him drag in a long, slow, breath, and trudge over to the nearest villager he saw. The square was almost empty -- courtesy of the pale plague, every single town now had the stale smell of flour in the air, and a dreary pall to match. But someone still milled about, knocking on doors one-by-one and speaking in low tones with unseen inhabitants when it creaked open. He caught her as she descended the steps of another house.
“Excuse me,” He said, as friendly as he could possibly muster, but his voice was still crackly with disuse and cold. He winced at the sound as it hung in the air, but the villager only turned her head to him, gave him a quick once-over, and smiled, a hint of concern in the slight slant of her brows. He was used to the look, and so ignored it dutifully.
“Yes?” she said, her tone bright and cheerful. “Can I help you?” Her hand reached into the basket she held by her side, rummaging around, and he watched it with a sudden nervous trepidation. The chances of a random Milk villager being a secret assassin sent by Dark Enchantress cookie to kill him for his reckless and blatant perfidy was low, but never zero.
He cleared his throat awkwardly before speaking again. “Do you know if, ah-- do you know if the king happened to send any proclamations back? From his quest overseas. To, err. Kill the plague. I was… gone away from the kingdom for a while, you see.”
He really was rusty.
The woman still paid it no mind, and still rifled through her wicker. He examined the contents closely for the glint of a dagger. “Oh, no, I’m afraid not. It’s been silent for at least a month and a half now -- uncharacteristic of our king. We’re all worried for him, but there’s nothing we can do but hope for his safety and pray to the witches that he is able to rid us of this horrid plague.”
Suddenly, she withdrew her hand from the basket, clutching a small rounded object -- a bomb? -- and pressed it to his hands. He startled backwards with alarm, fumbling the object for a moment before managing to save it from falling. It was light, and rather lumpy. Probably not a bomb. His eyes snapped back up to her when she kept talking, her voice solemn and reassuring.
“And, well, with the kingdom in the state it’s in, supplies are tight. With the king gone, it’s up to us to hold down the fort in his absence, don’t you think?” She gives him another smile, and he finally notices how tight-lipped it is, the dark circles underneath her eyes. “I’ve been giving them out sparingly, trying to make sure to ration them out once every few days-- just in case-- but you look like you need it.”
He stared at her blankly, glancing down to the small hunk of bread in his hand again. It was cold, and felt rock-hard. Before his brain could process exactly what it was he was saying and measure the precise quantitative amount of tact he lacked, he blurted: “Aren’t you worried about catching the plague? Going from door to door like that.”
She thought for a moment, consideringly, then gave a small, tired shrug. “I’m no different from anyone else who’s got the plague… It could have been me, stuck in my house, breathing in the dust I’m crumbling into, crawling to the door for a lump of bread from a neighbor. I’ll die some-day. This way seems as good a way as any, I think. If I crumble I’d at least like to have a lump of bread.”
He only blinked at her, unsure of what to say, and with a murmur and a small dip of the head she meandered off to the next door, knocking and waiting patiently.
He watched her, stood silently where she left him.
She did not turn around.
There was no answer.
It was remarkably easy to steal a boat from the naval forces of the Dark Cacao fortress.
He could not tell if it was because of the disarray they were in with the departure of their commander-in-chief and their naval commander, or because usually no-one would dare steal boats from the navy, because no-one half-sane wanted to sail over the sentient sea that was constantly trying to kill them at any given moment. Including the navy, but they had to do it anyway, because they’d drawn the short stick of the military forces when they were enlisting, he supposed.
It was a stupid idea to do this, he reflects, two days in on the journey to the ancient continent. For one, he does not have any knowledge of how to steer a boat, except for the purely theoretical teachings and procedures the king had drilled into him at a young age. And the protocol for how to direct your crew in the case of a sudden and imminent storm is certainly not going to help him now, so that renders at least two-thirds of the information irrelevant. It is not looking good for him.
For another, this is also stupid on every other level. He had been foolish in giving himself such an ultimatum; it would not have worked, he knows, and he knew then, even if there actually had been proclamations from the king pinned up on every wall and door and post, which declared in loud, blaring capital letters: ‘ALL IS WELL! EVERYONE IS ALIVE, AND I, THE KING, DARK CACAO COOKIE, AM BETTER THAN EVER. IN FACT, I HAVE KILLED THE REVILED ENEMY ALREADY, AND AM NOW SAILING BACK AS I WRITE. ALSO, HAD I BEEN IN ANY SORT OF TROUBLE, LET IT BE KNOWN THAT I WOULD NOT HAVE WANTED MY PERFIDIOUS RECREANT OF AN EX-SON, DARK CHOCO COOKIE, TO COME TO MY RESCUE ANYWAY.’ Nothing would have worked, besides seeing the king safe and sound back in Crispia, or making sure he was safe and sound in Beast-Yeast. The only thing the wretched self-delusional mistake of a decision had done was give him an excuse to make this terrible decision; and now he is on a boat he doesn’t know how to steer with a naval map he doesn’t know how to read headed towards a continent he doesn’t know how to navigate and a maybe-father he doesn’t know how to know. He buries his head in his hands.
He probably should have stayed in Crispia and let the unspeakable agitation bake him alive. It is, ultimately, none of his business whether the king lived or died. Only that his kingdom and its people could prosper. He would be of no help to the king, he knows; he is too weak, too unwanted, too untrustworthy in his motivations and loyalties.
Dark Cacao cookie would have come anyway, he thinks, and does not feel better at all. Dark Cacao cookie also would not have picked up a cursed sword, or served a master that wanted to destroy all of cookiekind or stabbed his father, twice , so. Clearly they are leading different paths in life, or something like that.
Alas. It was him and the-- he pauses, and glances down the side of the ship at the faded paint along its side. It was him and The Shortcrust Wake , going it alone. Splendid.
According to his map, if he was reading it correctly-- and if he was not he was going to die of starvation at sea and it soon would not be his problem anyway -- He would arrive in Beast-Yeast in approximately a week and a half or so. He rounds it up to two in his head, given what he knows about his own steering ability, which is nothing, and decides a break from his never ending moroseness is in order. Not that moroseness waits for any break. He settles back on his haunches for a quick bite, folding up the naval map with a sigh.
Fumbling with his hastily put together supply bag of various probably-won’t-spoil-foods, he blinks, nonplussed, as he withdraws a hard grey-brown lump, before he squints in recognition. It was the roll the Milk villager gave him; he must have thrown it in the food bag when he had begun packing. He had been in a flurry to leave the moment he arrived back at his tent, only barely registering enough to take somewhat proper preparations for a several-week long trip.
Two more days in the air had clearly not done this bread any favors. He hopes that white spot was just a part of the bread, and not mold.
He almost chucks the horrid thing off the side of the ship, but he hesitates, thinking about the weary face of the villager, of her efforts to make sure that the sick were fed as best as she was able, of her confident resignation. He opens his mouth bravely and takes a tentative bite. The great and terrible shell of the beast does not give. They should make the royal armor out of this stuff. He tries using his molars to gnaw on a small corner-chunk of the lump. The angle is awkward, and he winces as spittle drips down the hard crust in the wake his efforts. After a while of working slowly, he finally manages to break off a piece, and chews thoughtfully. It tastes like shit.
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The Shortcrust Wake makes landfall. Dark Choco Cookie has arrived in Beast-Yeast.