Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Oh Godly Witches, hear my prayer…”

Inhale. Exhale.

Pastry craned her neck to look upwards, and her vision was filled with red. The smoke that rose from the tower before her stained the sky, filling it with what she knew was unholy air. Air tainted by the clay that baked inside of the tower.

Inhale. Exhale. The wind smelled like mud. It was high time Pastry get going.

The holy warrior took a step forward, gripping her crossbow tightly to stop the shaking of her hands. Pastry hadn’t been back to this tower in months. She should have been okay.

She had been okay, for a time. Sure, she had nightmares more often, and yes, her prayers for them to stop hadn’t been answered… but she just needed to pray more. That was what the Reverend Mother told her, and as such, it must be so. The Reverend Mother was always correct, for she spoke the word of the Witches.

This was what Pastry told herself as she made her way to the tower’s entrance. She ignored the way her legs trembled as she stepped inside, and tried not to turn tail and run when she saw the Ultmate Ether. The source of every soul baked into a human body by the First Oven.

Pastry ran past it, not daring to look. She couldn’t bear to see it again, not even as she muttered prayers to herself. “Oh Godly Witches, forgive me for trespassing…”

Up and up and up. There were many, many stairs, and while Pastry was a trained warrior, she was unused to this much climbing. Ten trays passed, then twenty, and she was already exhausted. She couldn’t remember losing energy this quickly last time. Then again, she was breathing more quickly than usual when she walked in.

Pastry was dizzy, but she ignored the feeling. She took a deep breath, and pressed forward. The thirtieth tray passed her by, and she was in familiar territory once more. She saw clay warriors and hounds marching through the halls of the tower. They didn’t notice her as she snuck her way through the trays. She was but one person, and even with the power of the Holy Fork on her side, she could not fight an army.

Besides, they weren’t what she was there for. Her Sisters would take care of the clay beasts later. No, Pastry was there for their commander, the one who held their forces together with his monstrous, unholy hand.

Red Velvet. That was what the heretic Pomegranate had called him. Pastry had never forgotten their names, and she knew she never would. Monsters, both of them. Willing to burn the world down just to release hell’s beasts and allow them to roam free.

Beasts that had thoughts and feelings. Just like humans.

Pastry shook her head, bending over and kneeling on the stairs halfway up the fiftieth floor. She felt dizzy again, and her hands shook so hard, the mechanism of her crossbow rattled. She couldn’t fight like this. She could barely walk.

A true believer will always face a moment of doubt. Pastry tried to allow the Reverend Mother’s words to comfort her. It was difficult, however, when she knew how long her moment of doubt had lasted. It wasn’t just a moment— it had been months. What would Pastry’s Sisters say, she wondered, if they knew how much her faith had been shaken?

She gritted her teeth. Her faith was as strong as ever, she told herself. It was Red Velvet’s fault for leading her astray. The unholy had come to tempt her, and whisper heresy in her ear. She had to remain strong. Butter 9:17. “Thou shalt resist.”

Inhale. Exhale.

Pastry listened for the voice of her enemy— smooth, yet commanding, and echoing through the tower. The sacred building was massive, and relatively open, so each and every sound reverberated through the floors. Pastry considered herself blessed by the Witches, as not a single hound or beast heard her over the cacophony of new abominations being born.

Seventy floors up, and Pastry found her prize. She heard Red Velvet’s voice, incoherent at first, as she climbed yet another flight of stairs. She had been walking for hours, and the sound of her enemy’s voice was almost a relief to her. She bit back her thankful sigh, however, and scolded herself for feeling this way.

When Pastry finally emerged on the correct floor, she was taken aback by what she saw. She didn’t quite know what she had expected— perhaps Red Velvet, standing tall and barking orders at his newest soldiers. What Pastry found, however, was something… odd.

Red Velvet, the tall, intimidating war general, was bent down on one knee in what looked like a bedroom. A smile was on his face, softening the features Pastry had seen twisted in pain or rage. At his feet, near a large canopy bed, a tiny dog yipped happily, shoving its head against Red Velvet’s hand to beg for scratches. Chiffon was its name, Pastry remembered.

The nun steeled herself, forcing her hands to steady. With a final deep breath, she leveled her crossbow, and trained a glare on Red Velvet’s face. One shot— quick, right through the back of his head. Then, she could leave, and let her Sisters do the rest.

“Are you going to attack me, little gnat, or are you going to stare at me all day?” Pastry flinched, her finger twitching on the crossbow’s trigger. She stared at Red Velvet in shock, crystal blue eyes meeting one with black sclera. That eye was so… inhuman. Wrong. Pastry shuddered.

She re-aligned the crossbow, aiming directly between Red Velvet’s eyes. “Silence, unholy beast,” she hissed, taking care not to alert the army below. Their numbers had thinned the higher she climbed, but she couldn’t be too careful.

Red Velvet rolled his eyes and stood, his expression shifting to one of annoyance in an instant. “I’m not in the mood for your nonsense today,” he growled, his previously affectionate tone turning nasty so quickly, Pastry nearly got whiplash. “Leave now, and I may spare your life.”

Pastry scoffed, feeling her strength and confidence return to her. “Have you forgotten,” she said, stepping further into the room, “that I nearly killed you last time we met? I haven’t seen that crimson heretic here… There is no one to protect you.”

To Pastry’s shock, Red Velvet snorted. “If you think Pomegranate cares about protecting me,” he snarled, “you’re even more of a fool than I thought.” At his heels, Chiffon growled, its ears pinned against its head. Pastry didn’t spare the dog a second glance.

Red Velvet leaned over again, giving Chiffon a quick pat on the head. His voice once again soft, he told the hound to leave. Obediently, Chiffon bounded off, running past a dumbfounded Pastry with little more than a growl in her direction. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, Red Velvet’s gentle expression vanished, and he looked back up at Pastry.

“What are you waiting for,” he said, a nasty grin spreading across his face. “Are you too afraid to take the shot? Or are you too weak?”

Do not let the unholy get in your head. Pastry shoved her rage down, blinking back tears. When had those appeared? “I am not weak,” she insisted shakily. Red Velved scoffed, taking a step closer.

“Then perhaps your faith remains shaken?” There, in what seemed to be his own bedroom, Red Velvet was in control. Pastry knew that. Something had changed since she had last been in the tower, and she knew it was something within her.

No. “My faith is as strong as it has ever been, beast!” Pastry was shouting now, but she didn’t care. “Eggs 3:14– Those who doubt My word shall be tested, and they shall—“

“Oh, spare me your words, zealot.” In the blink of an eye, Red Velvet was in front of Pastry. The nun’s eyes widened, and she took a step backwards, only for her hand to be grabbed roughly by that cursed, unholy hand. Her crossbow was knocked away by the general’s clean, human hand, and Pastry was suddenly pressed against the wall, the back of her head exploding with pain.

Red Velvet’s human hand pressed against Pastry’s neck. The woman gasped for air. She could breathe— there was shockingly little pressure on her neck itself, and she could feel Red Velvet’s clay arm holding her against the wall by her chest. Still, her heart was attempting to escape her body, and she couldn’t stop her breaths from coming out in terrified gasps.

Mismatching eyes entered Pastry’s vision. Red Velvet bared his teeth at her. They were sharp, and Pastry recoiled instinctively, or as much as she could with how little she could move. She wanted to vomit. This thing was touching her, was breathing directly into her face.

Not a thing. A person.

Red Velvet was speaking. “I told you,” he growled, “I’m not in the mood. I allowed you to walk out of here alive once already, but I’m beginning to regret that decision.”

Pastry trembled, no longer able to hide her terror and disgust. Beneath that, however, was a tiny voice which whispered that she shouldn’t be so afraid of the creature— the man— before her.

She opened her mouth, but only a strangled squeak left it. Red Velvet leaned closer, shifting his grip and taking hold of Pastry’s collar. He lifted her off the ground, leaving her feet dangling. She kicked futilely, and Red Velvet let out a scornful chuckle.

“For someone who talks so big about holiness,” the general said, “you sure have stooped low. Sneaking up to shoot me in the back… and you call me the beast?” His lips were pulled back in a snarl. How were his teeth so big?

Pastry found her fighting spirit at last, kicking desperately at Red Velvet’s legs. “Unhand me,” she commanded, though she knew it would be ineffective. “I—“

From below, a loud sound echoed through the tower. Pastry paused, and Red Velvet did the same. The general frowned, though he didn’t take his eyes away from Pastry’s. Trapped there, in her enemy’s grasp, she was helpless, and Red Velvet knew it.

The sound came again, this time bringing a tremor with it. Pastry’s eyes widened, and she saw Red Velvet’s do the same. He scrutinized her expression, then he gripped the front of her habit tighter.

“What did you do to my tower,” he growled. Pastry blinked rapidly, and then it clicked. She gasped, mind racing. Her Sisters had arrived! She was saved!

Pastry shook her head. “My Sisters are here,” she said, attempting to sound smug. Suspended by her holy garments, she failed miserably. “I suggest you release me now, or face the judgement of the Holy Fork!”

“As if releasing you would change anything.” Red Velvet twisted Pastry’s habit in the air. “They’ll come for me regardless.” Another tremor. What were the Sisters doing down there?

Red Velvet seemed to be getting an idea of what exactly was going on. He frowned, and then his eyes widened in an expression Pastry had never seen on his face in the brief time they’d known each other— one of horror.

The general still did not break eye contact with Pastry. “Gnat,” he hissed urgently, “are your little friends disturbing the ovens?” He spat the word “friends” as if it were an insult.

Pastry gasped indignantly, thoughts racing almost as fast as her heart. “How dare you,” she barked. “The nuns of the Saint Pastry Order would never—“

The ground shook with the loudest noise yet. Red Velvet dropped Pastry in surprise, who landed hard on her knees. She cried out in pain, her veil fluttering in front of her eyes. A sickening cracking and crunching filled the air as the building around her wobbled, chunks of debris falling from the ceiling above.

Whatever had been lighting Red Velvet’s bedroom had gone out. The general said something, but Pastry couldn’t hear over the ringing in her ears. She felt the rest of her body hit the floor as a final, powerful quake rattled her brain and jostled her bones. The floor vanished beneath her, and her head struck something heavy and sharp.

Then, Pastry was floating, and all the while, the Godly Tower crumbled and collapsed around her.

Chapter Text

Pastry woke up with a sharp, intense ringing in her ears that pierced her skull and threatened to drive her insane. She moaned, her eyes still closed and half-asleep. She couldn’t remember setting this alarm, but she must have, as she couldn’t miss her morning prayers yet again. A good Sister was punctual, she knew, so she began to roll out of bed, and—

Pain exploded in Pastry’s leg. She opened her eyes with a gasp, suddenly wide awake. She still couldn’t see, but now she could tell that she was most definitely not in the convent. The floor beneath her back had no bed or mat to speak of, cold and hard and covered in debris, and there was something very large pinning her left leg.

She cried out instinctively, feeling her every nerve scream with even the tiniest of movements. It felt like every inch of her body had been beaten and thrown off of a cliff— and it may as well have been.

Pastry grunted, tears forming in her eyes as she remembered what had happened. Her disastrous attempt at leading a siege on the infested Godly Tower… Red Velvet, the clay general… and the shaking.

The tower had collapsed on the seventieth floor, and only the Witches knew how many others had been damaged. It was a divine miracle that Pastry was even alive. Earnestly, and out loud, she thanked the Witches, all while cursing Red Velvet’s name as she tried desperately to move the large chunk of stone that pinned her to the ground.

“Th-that heretic—“ Pastry screamed. She had twisted in a particularly painful manner, and it sent a wave of fire through her body. Her leg might be broken, she realized with dawning horror. Even if she were to escape her current situation, how was she supposed to leave the tower like this?

“You… you called?” Pastry didn’t bother stifling her startled cry. That voice… It was Red Velvet’s! He had survived the fall, then. Pastry didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or damn her fellow survivor to Hell.

She settled on the latter. “Oh, Witches, not you,” she grunted, sweat running down her face. Her habit clung to her body uncomfortably, chafing her skin. “Have you— ugh… have you come to finish me off, beast? Or are you going to leave me here to die slowly like the monster you are?”

Red Velvet was silent for a moment. Then, he let out a humorless laugh. “Even when trapped in a collapsed building, you’re an ass,” he said bitterly. Pastry gasped at his foul language, but the movement sent another stab of pain through her leg. She squeaked pitifully, eyes stinging with tears.

Rubble shifted to Pastry’s left, and Red Velvet grunted. “You have no right to be angry with me,” he continued as his boots scraped against the floor. “Your Sisters are the ones who destroyed this place. Isn’t it supposed to be sacred for you?”

“It is!” Pastry’s voice came out as a strangled scream as she tried to push herself up into a sitting position. “Th-they didn’t do this! They w-would never!” She was openly sobbing with pain now, straining her vocal chords painfully. That, at least, seemed to give Red Velvet pause.

The general was silent for a moment. Then, Pastry heard his footsteps approaching. His stride was rhythmic and heavy, like he was marching to the beat of a drum. Pastry felt a spike of panic, and she reached around the floor for something, anything to defend herself with.

“Don’t come any closer,” she commanded, her hand closing around what felt like a splinter of wood. She brandished it in the vague direction of Red Velvet’s footsteps, choking out another pained sob. She cursed herself for being so pathetic. Sugar 5:11– Suffering shall forge thy strength.

The footsteps stopped only a couple feet away from Pastry. She reached out as far as she could, blindly thrusting her improvised weapon in the hopes of striking her adversary. The stake made contact with empty air, and then went flying as a heavy boot kicked it away. Pastry cried out, feeling her wrist wrench on impact.

Red Velvet sighed. “Are you seriously going to try and make this difficult,” he muttered, though he seemed to be talking to himself rather than Pastry. Seconds later, the rock on Pastry’s leg shifted, and she bit back a scream as Red Velvet took hold of it.

Then, the jagged piece of stone was gone, and Pastry heard it hit the ground several feet away. With the pressure on it lifted, her leg already felt leagues better. When she tried to move it, though, she choked on another cry of pain. She held it in, reeling from what had happened.

She looked up. It was futile, as the darkness was too encompassing, and she couldn’t see Red Velvet. She could hear him, though, as he breathed heavily and raggedly. He must’ve been injured too, she realized.

“Why… did you do that?” The smallness of her own voice surprised her, and she swallowed painfully. Fire burned in her throat, pooling in her leg as well as she shifted to move her habit. She hiked up the skirt after only a moment of hesitance. Even if Red Velvet could somehow see her in the pitch black darkness, her survival was more important than her vow of modesty. She was wearing tights underneath, anyway.

Red Velvet shifted in the dark. “Did you really think I would leave you there?” His voice was calm, despite the strain underneath. “Despite what you may think, I’m not a monster. I’m surprised you’ve forgotten that.”

He sounded genuinely disappointed, and that made Pastry pause. Guilt wormed its way into her gut, and she bit her lip. “I have not forgotten,” she whispered truthfully. How could she ever forget? The idea of it so strongly clashed with her world view, however, that she couldn’t comprehend it. How could something so tainted by the unholy still be so human?

Red Velvet was moving away now. Pastry scrambled to stand up, gasping as her leg screamed. Her left knee nearly buckled the second she tried to put weight on it, but she managed to stay balanced. Hopping awkwardly, she hobbled after Red Velvet, stumbling over rocks and debris as she went.

“Where are you going,” Pastry demanded, blindly searching for her fellow survivor. “Shouldn’t we— ow!— stick together?”

Her question was met with a deep sigh, one of exasperation and annoyance. “I’ve done all I need to do for you,” Red Velvet said tiredly. “If you want to follow me, then do as you wish, but don’t expect me to act as your personal crutch.”

Pastry gaped at Red Velvet, or at least in the vague direction his voice had come from. She gritted her teeth and forced herself not to yell after him. It made sense, she told herself. She couldn’t expect anything more than basic courtesy, especially not after she had tried to ambush Red Velvet. Still, part of her wanted to scream and throw rocks at her enemy’s head.

She settled on huffing indignantly and limping off in a different direction. Immediately, she regretted it. She tripped over debris, falling back to the ground painfully. Her gloves tore, and her palms became slick with blood as she caught herself. Her left leg screamed, and she nearly did too.

Pastry couldn’t work like this. She couldn’t see, her fellow survivor wasn’t helping her, and it seemed as if even the Witches wouldn’t hear her prayers. The darkness pressed in on her, weighing down her shoulders and choking her lungs. The room was beginning to feel too small. Pastry had never been claustrophobic, but this situation was quickly turning into a nightmare.

She took a deep breath. “Oh Godly Witches, hear my prayer…” Shifting into a kneeling position, resting her weight on her uninjured leg, she allowed her scraped palms to press together in a stinging prayer position. “Please protect me and guide me to safety from this holy temple. May Your grace find me, and all others who need You…”

As Pastry prayed, she could hear Red Velvet shuffling about in the darkness. Briefly, she wondered if the general could see. It was absurd, she knew… but his movements were so calculated. Barely any debris was disturbed, and he didn’t seem to trip once.

Something about that irked Pastry. She finished her prayer, thanking the Witches hollowly. She took a shuddering breath, trying to force herself to feel grateful to her creators. The ones who had given her life, who had given her purpose in the St. Pastry Order.

Human bodies lying crumpled on the table, limbs and chunks of their heads bitten off. Blood pooling beneath them. Smiling faces staring out at White Lily as they were lifted to gnashing teeth and torn apart limb from limb.

Pastry gagged, shoving her bloody palms into her habit to staunch the bleeding. The warm liquid made her sick to her stomach, even as it growled hollowly. She didn’t want to think about eating for the rest of the day.

Red Velvet’s voice snapped her out of it. “I have bad news,” he said, though his tone was still as even as ever. “The stairs are completely blocked off in both directions. The emergency stairs are gone, too.” It went without saying that any windows that may have been present were out of the question. Which meant…

“We’re trapped.” Pastry felt as hollow as she sounded. How long could she survive, she wondered, without food or water? She had fasted before, but that was vastly different from starvation. What would it feel like, she wondered, to slowly die of thirst or hunger?

Red Velvet was moving again, his heavy boots clomping on the floor. He paced back and forth, the sound of his footsteps shifting from left to right for a measured distance. He sighed as he paced, and a soft grunt emitted from his lips. “Stand up,” he commanded, and Pastry immediately felt compelled to obey. She began to do so, then blinked, shaking her head.

“Why should I,” she spat stubbornly. Her left knee decided right then to give her a reason, throbbing painfully. Grumbling to herself, she forced herself to stand. She could feel Red Velvet’s eyes on her, even with the suffocating darkness, and she nearly snapped right then and there.

But she didn’t. She summoned every teaching of patience and virtue she had, and clung to it with a vice grip. “So, what?” She huffed. “Are we just going to stand here?”

“Hm, no. I thought we could sit and beg for the Godly Witches to save us!” Red Velvet’s voice dripped with enough sarcasm to fill a swimming pool. Then, in a much drier tone, he said: “We don’t exactly have many options. You can barely walk, and your eyes are useless. Not only that, but the tower’s integrity has been destroyed. If I try to break through the rubble, it could cause another collapse.”

“So you’re just going to give up?” Pastry took a few blind, limping steps forward, attempting to prove Red Velvet wrong. She scowled in his general direction, feeling slightly foolish. “There has to be an exit! The Witches will—“

“Would you shut up about the Witches?” Red Velvet’s voice rose, echoing through the chamber loudly. Pastry flinched instinctively, feeling the blood drain from her face.

“The Witches aren’t going to help us,” Red Velvet continued angrily. “In fact, if they were here, we would be dead. You’ve seen what they do, gnat!”

“I have, but there is an explanation!” Pastry’s hands shook in tandem with her voice. Sweat soaked her coif, and her stomach threatened to revolt. “E-every believer… is tested!”

“Is that the drivel your Sisters feed you?” Red Velvet laughed, and Pastry heard him begin to walk toward her. She held her ground, squaring her posture and ignoring her wobbling left leg.

Then, Pastry could feel hot breath on her face. Red Velvet was inches away from her, and while she thought she was seeing things at first, it soon became clear that the general’s right eye was, in fact, glowing slightly. That thin slit of sky blue held Pastry in place, and she swallowed hard as Red Velvet leaned closer.

“Look,” he growled lowly, “I don’t feel like arguing with you today. I’ve had a very bad day, between my coworkers, and you destroying my tower. So either you be quiet like a good little gnat, or I will shut you up myself.”

Red Velvet’s voice was even, but there was a strain underneath that didn’t just seem to come from pain. Pastry blinked, terror and rage mixing to create a storm in her gut. She forced a bitter laugh, and dared to take a step closer herself. Her habit brushed Red Velvet’s legs, and she craned her neck to look at the one eye she could see.

“Shut me up then,” Pastry snarled, surprised by the venom in her own voice. “You could have left me to die under that rock, but you freed me anyway.”

“If you try my patience, gnat, then perhaps I’ll put you back under that rock!” A hand grabbed the front of Pastry’s dress— a human hand, by the feel of it. The nun, invigorated by adrenaline and anger, dared to take hold of Red Velvet’s arm and shove it off of her.

“I don’t think you would do that,” Pastry claimed boldly. She received a laugh in response.

“You were going to shoot me in the back of the head,” Red Velvet hissed. “I have every right to kill you right here and now, especially since it was your church that destroyed this place!”

“My Sisters would never do that!” It was Pastry’s turn to reach out and grab Red Velvet’s shirt. Clumsily, her fingers struck his neck at first as she overreached. Then, she found his collar, and yanked as hard as she could, placing all of her weight on her right leg. She barely managed to keep balanced. “This is a sacred, holy shrine! To destroy it would— would be a sin of the highest order!”

“Well, I know my allies would never ruin the key to expanding our army, so it seems that we’re at an impasse!” Red Velvet’s voice had crescendoed to a shout, and his final word reverberated through the chamber. The ground shook slightly, and both people froze, inches from each other’s faces and mid-snarl.

A moment passed. Then two. Then, when the shaking settled, Pastry slowly let Red Velvet go. She huffed, dusting off her dress in what she knew was a futile effort. “Very well,” she spat quietly. “Let us agree to disagree.”

“Fine.” Red Velvet’s tone made it sound anything but fine, but he turned around, his eye vanishing back into the inky blackness. He then heaved a deep sigh, and began to tap his foot.

“Alright,” he grumbled, “it seems that arguing with each other isn’t helping. This building could collapse with the drop of a pin, so perhaps we should at least try to get along. Yes?”

The thought made Pastry sick to her stomach, but she shoved that aside. “That… is acceptable,” she said, lightly fanning herself to calm the angry flush that had risen to her cheeks.

“A truce, then, little gnat?”

The nickname made Pastry’s eye twitch. “I have a name,” she muttered under her breath. She then cleared her throat. “Truce,” she agreed with no small amount of reluctance. Part of her hated herself for being so disgusted by the mere thought of sharing a space with Red Velvet.

The other part of her wanted nothing more than to kick the man swiftly between the legs, purely for being rude.

Red Velvet turned back to face Pastry, the dim glow of his eye barely visible from the few feet of distance he had. “What is your name,” he asked. Rather, demanded, as he spoke as if he were entitled to knowing.

Seeming to sense Pastry’s offense, Red Velvet sighed. “It’s going to be difficult trying to survive this if I don’t know your name, gnat,” he said, emphasizing the last word as if to prove his point. Pastry crossed her arms, ignoring how her right leg was falling asleep.

“Pastry. Call me Pastry.” Red Velvet repeated the name, almost thoughtfully, and to Pastry’s surprise, she didn’t quite hate her name on his lips. He was, after all, still human. Pastry had to remind herself of this every time he spoke.

After a moment, Red Velvet shifted. “Well then, Pastry,” he sighed, “here’s hoping we get out of here soon.”

“…Yes. Here’s hoping.” Above, the ceiling shifted. Pastry wanted nothing more than to pray to the Witches for her salvation, but… she wasn’t sure if they would answer.

Chapter Text

The first thing Red Velvet did on the second morning was make a racket. Pastry heard him wake up far earlier than her, and though she stopped herself from falling back asleep, she felt far from rested.

She didn’t know what time it was. All she knew was that, at some point the day before, she and Red Velvet had decided to rest after quietly stumbling through the dark to search for a way out. Rather, Pastry was the one who was stumbling. With her injured leg, she could barely walk, let along properly search. And it turned out that Red Velvet could, in fact, see in the dark. In his words, “being unholy has its advantages.”

Pastry grumbled and sat up, rubbing her face drowsily. “What’re you doing,” she asked, sleep slurring her words. “It’s… so early.” Something clanged in the darkness, and the ground shifted.

“I’m re-checking the exits,” Red Velvet grunted as he moved some rocks aside. Pastry resented being unable to see exactly what was going on, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.

So, she decided to suck it up and do the only thing she could do: blindly crawl across the floor in the hopes of stumbling across something herself.

According to Red Velvet, they had fallen to the sixty-seventh floor. His bedroom was, regrettably, completely destroyed. Pastry found herself feeling a little guilty for that, though she knew it wasn’t her fault. His nonsense about the tower getting destroyed by the Saint Pastry Order was just getting in her head.

Pastry had a particular item in mind as she rooted around: her crossbow. Red Velvet had disarmed her before the collapse, and now it seemed that her weapon had been buried beneath the rubble. They had a truce, she knew that, but it was shaky at best. Pastry needed to be prepared, and she prayed that she would find her crossbow before Red Velvet did.

She was at a disadvantage. Her enemy could see when she could not, and he had a weapon built into his body. Pastry just needed one thing, one tiny glimmer of hope in this bleak, desolate tower. Then, perhaps, she could sleep a little easier.

It was hard to focus for long. Pastry couldn’t quite shake the fog of exhaustion from her head, or the nauseous hunger, and she had little to no perception of time. It was barely a day into her being trapped, and she felt like she was going to go insane. Her throat was dry, her stomach growled loudly, and most of all, she was terrified.

She clenched her jaw tightly and threw herself into her search. She couldn’t afford to lose her head, not now. She steeled herself and silently prayed to the Witches, hoping against hope that she could stay distracted.

Nothing seemed to have changed since the day before— that was, if a full day had even passed. It could’ve only been a few hours, or it could’ve been multiple days. The only indication of time was the fact that Pastry hadn’t yet died of thirst. Of course, there was still time for that.

After only the Witches knew how long, Red Velvet spoke. “The exits are still blocked.” He didn’t sound surprised or disappointed. Rather, he seemed resigned. Pastry couldn’t help but feel irritated at that.

“You say that as if all hope is lost,” she huffed, carefully testing her weight on a rocky slope. She’d come across a hill of rubble, and though she knew it was a terrible idea, she had decided to scale it. Perhaps she could find something up there, or on the other side. If there was another side at all.

Across the room, Red Velvet snorted. “There isn’t much I can do about it,” he snapped. “Remember— if I try to break through the rubble, this whole building could cave in on us. There are no other exits on this floor. Either we die slowly, or we’re crushed to death.”

“You’re quite the pessimist,” Pastry grumbled as she slowly, shakily crawled up the unstable hill. Her left leg protested, but she forced it to comply. “Would it kill you to have a little faith?”

“Considering the fact that your ‘faith’ worships those who would happily tear us apart, it would, in fact, kill me.” Was Pastry imagining things, or was Red Velvet mocking her? She grumbled, fighting a gasp as her foot slipped. She barely managed to stay on top of the hill.

They operated in silence for a while after that. Pastry slowly made her way up the hill, occasionally sliding back down as the rubble was disturbed. If Red Velvet wondered what she was doing, he didn’t voice his confusion. Instead, he just continued to pace around the floor, huffing with frustration on occasion.

Minutes, or perhaps hours later, Pastry finally reached the top of the hill. Her left leg was practically burning with pain, but she kept going. She positioned herself feet first, shakily recited a prayer, and pushed herself down the downward slope of the rubble.

The stones scraped and tore at Pastry’s habit. Sharp edges banged fresh bruises into her skin, and she hissed as her scabbed-over palms from the day before split open again. Her gloves were ruined, so she had discarded them yesterday, but now she regretted that decision as more and more skin shredded.

She stopped when her right foot hit the opposite wall. She grunted as a shock of pain travelled up her spine. This finally caught Red Velvet’s attention, and he called to her from the other side of the hill. “What are you doing over there,” he barked, sounding for all the world like he was Pastry’s commanding officer.

The nun choked on her words at first, then forced them out. “I’m searching for another way out.” Red Velvet snorted at this, and Pastry bristled. “At least I’m looking thoroughly,” she snapped, though she quickly shut her mouth as the tower began to shake above and around her.

This was torture, Pastry decided as she carefully began to scoot around the other side of the hill. Living in total darkness and near-silence must have been what Hell was like. Pastry wanted nothing more than to scream, or cry, but she couldn’t. She had already shown enough weakness, and the building was too unstable for that.

As she grumbled to herself, Pastry’s hand brushed something odd. She paused, every hair on her body bristling. Slowly, with shaking hands, she reached out again and poked in the direction she had before.

Whatever the thing was, it was cold. It was rigid, too, stiff as a board. It was covered in some kind of fur, coarse and rough, but somehow pleasant to the touch. Pastry’s stomach dropped, but she kept feeling for what she was touching. It was when she came across a full, unbroken paw that she finally understood.

Pastry stifled a shriek, scooting backwards as fast as she could with her uninjured leg. Her sore body moved slowly, and a tiny scream escaped her lips. She shook, even as Red Velvet demanded to know what was going on from the other side of the pile of rubble.

Pastry took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling nauseous. “I-I…” she swallowed. “There’s… a body over here.”

Red Velvet froze. Pastry didn’t know how much time passed before she heard his footsteps again, rapid and loud. Grunts and shifting rubble filled the air, and minutes later, Red Velvet was sliding down the hill as well. Pastry heard him crash into the wall, likely with his whole body, judging by the noise he made. Red Velvet did not stop, however, as he dropped to the ground and quickly began sifting through the stones.

For the first time since she had fallen, Pastry did not envy Red Velvet’s dark vision. She didn’t want to see the body of the clay beast, likely broken and beaten beyond recognition. It had been buried alive under tons upon tons of stone. It couldn’t have been a pretty sight, and Red Velvet’s strangled gasp confirmed that suspicion.

“…Oh.” His voice was hollow, barely above a whisper. Too late, Pastry remembered Chiffon. The paw had seemed too big to be the tiny, yapping dog she’d seen not too long ago, but she couldn’t be sure. Her heart sank, even as the Reverend Mother’s voice echoed in her head calling Chiffon and Red Velvet monsters.

After a moment, Red Velvet sighed. “She’s been dead for a while,” he said softly. “She was crushed to death under the rubble. She… must have suffered.” He didn’t seem to be talking to Pastry at all. His voice was too quiet, too pained.

“…What was her name?” Pastry was unsure of why she was asking. It was almost an instinct, one that came with recalling how much Red Velvet cared about Chiffon. How much he loved Chiffon, and all the other clay hounds. The more Pastry tried to forget that Red Velvet was human, the more determined the Witches seemed to get to remind her.

Red Velvet sighed. “Her name was Apfelkuchen,” he said in perfectly accented German. The way the name rolled off his tongue was almost startling for Pastry. “She was one of my top soldiers. She rose in rank so quickly…”

Red Velvet’s voice was choked with grief, but he was clearly making an effort to sound okay. Pastry swallowed, a bead of sweat running down her back uncomfortably. “I’m… sorry,” she whispered, surprised by her own sincerity.

“Don’t lie to me.” A sharp, humorless laugh pushed out of Red Velvet’s lungs. “You and your church wanted this. I’ve seen you mow down my soldiers like they’re nothing, gnat.”

Gnat. The re-emergence of the nickname made Pastry’s blood boil. “I didn’t want this,” she protested, barely able to restrain herself from screaming. “It’s clear how much you care for your soldiers, and—“

“So you only care now that you can connect the clay beasts to the most human of us all.” Red Velvet was standing again, the faint glow of his right eye staring directly at Pastry from above. “I’m not the only clay monster that matters,” he spat lowly, traces of a growl in the back of his throat. “Learn that, Pastry.”

There were so many things Pastry wanted to say. You aren’t like them. You are worse than them. You are human. You are a monster. Conflicting thoughts went to war with each other in Pastry’s head, and she was left with nothing but silence. Hands shaking, she pressed her bleeding palms into her habit, and began to scoot backwards.

Red Velvet turned around, the dim light of his eye vanishing. Pastry took a shuddering breath and did the same, resuming her search for her crossbow and an exit in the opposite direction as before.

As she felt around the rubble, Pastry’s mind raced, only barely outpaced by her heart. As much as she tried to avoid the thought, her mind kept turning back to the feeling of the cold, lifeless paw beneath her hand. Apfelkuchen had been a solider. One who had risen in rank, meaning she had some degree of sentience. She had drive, ambition, hopes and dreams, all of which were now mourned.

Would the Reverend Mother and the other Sisters grieve for Pastry as Red Velvet grieved for his soldiers? The thought stopped Pastry in her tracks. They would mourn, she told herself. They’re probably grieving right at this minute.

It was not the idea of her Sisters moving forward that scared Pastry. Rather, it was the doubt that they would mourn at all. She was, after all, a doubter. Everyone in the convent knew of Pastry’s nightmares, her heretical thoughts. Would they forgive her, in the end? Or would she be swept under the rug like the others like her?

Just before Pastry began to spiral, her hand brushed against cold, hard metal. She snapped out of her stormy thoughts and reached for the mysterious object, nearly crying out and weeping when she recognized it as her crossbow. Her relief was short-lived, however, when she picked up the weapon and felt for damage.

The limb was bent beyond recognition. The main body had been twisted as well, and the foregrip was so badly cracked, the trigger was all but useless. The crossbow was, for all intents and purposes, nothing more than scrap metal now.

Pastry couldn’t help it— she laughed. It was a bitter laugh, sounding more like a sob, and it echoed through the chamber. In the distance, Red Velvet shifted. “What the hell has gotten into you now,” he barked sharply, his voice rough with grief. The ground shuddered.

Pastry ignored the question, tears springing to her eyes. This was it— she was doomed. If Red Velvet ever got tired of her, she had no way to defend herself. Witches help me. I’m going to die here.

Then, her vision was filled with white, and she hissed in surprise. She blinked, eyes watering not with tears, but with pain. It felt like someone had taken a knife to her eyes, and she was so focused on the burning sensation, she barely registered the fact that she could see.

Pastry gasped. The very tip of her crossbow blazed with light, cutting through the darkness like a hot knife through butter. Her heart pounded in her ears, and another laugh burst from her chest. This time, it was real.

“It works,” she declared to no one in particular. Her crossbow may have been useless as a weapon, but it still burned with holy power. Providence had lead her to this beacon, and she finally had solid ground to base her hope on.

Out of sight, Red Velvet moved quickly, more rubble sliding off the hill as he stood. He came into view not long after, eyes wide and staring at the light emanating from Pastry’s crossbow.

“…You found light.” Red Velvet’s jaw was slack, exposing his too-large, too-sharp teeth. Pastry couldn’t help but gawk at her temporary ally’s condition. His clothes were horrifically dirty, and even torn in some places. He had a black eye, and multiple scabs and bruises on his face and neck. Pastry could only imagine his condition under his clothes. She supposed she didn’t look much better.

Pastry grinned, her dry lips splitting open and bleeding into her mouth. “I told you there was hope,” she claimed victoriously. The crossbow shook in her hands, and the light pulsed. It was bright enough to light a wide area around her, exposing the extreme height of the pile of rubble, and revealing the copious holes in the walls and ceiling a dozen feet above.

Red Velvet blinked rapidly. Then, to Pastry’s shock, he broke into a grin as well. His teeth glinted in the harsh white light, but it wasn’t threatening. His shoulders relaxed, bouncing as he laughed and wiped away tears that had begun to form in his eyes. “Hope indeed,” he said, the sorrow in his voice finally leaving entirely.

Perhaps, Pastry thought, things wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, Red Velvet and Pastry scoured every inch of the chamber they had fallen into. It was impossible to tell how much time had passed, but Pastry decided to count the “days” based on how often she slept. Some days felt like mere hours, while others seemed to stretch on endlessly. Regardless, they made little progress in their search for an exit.

They talked very little, except for the occasional report on what they had found, or for Red Velvet to ask Pastry to carry her light over. It turned out that, while he could see in the dark, his vision was limited in total blackness. Sometimes, though, Pastry wondered if that was the only reason he called her over, or if he was as terrified as she was and needed reassurance that someone else was there.

On the third day, Pastry, sluggish and lightheaded, made a discovery. Her throat was drier than the deserts of Beast Yeast, and she could barely think straight, so when she heard the steady drip, drip, drip from above, she thought she was hallucinating.

Still, she followed the noise, praying for what she heard to be true. The journey was long and arduous, as she was forced to limp slowly due to her injured leg, but she resolved to find the drip even if it killed her. As it turned out, that was not the case, and she nearly fell to her knees and wept at the sight before her.

There was a puddle on the floor. It wasn’t very big, hidden behind another pile of rubble, but it was there. A thin stream of water dribbled from the ceiling, breaking into drops before it hit the ground. A pipe must have broken overnight, Pastry reasoned blearily. Or perhaps the gods were smiling down on her after all.

Quietly, Pastry moved to stand under the stream. Fresh drops hit her face, and she began to shake as she opened her mouth. She was reminded of children who tried to catch raindrops or snowflakes on their tongues as the musty liquid entered her dry mouth and slid down her throat.

This, Pastry decided, was what heaven tasted like: water. Her cracked, dry lips split and bled, but she didn’t care as she drank. It was slow, but her mouth soon filled with enough to swallow properly, and she savored that gulp as much as she could before opening her mouth for another.

She did that several more times, spending what felt like hours under the stream. Her neck began to ache from craning it too far for too long, but she didn’t care. For the first time in days, her eyes welled with hot tears. She drank as much as she could before her stomach began to hurt, then a little more. It was only when she began to feel bloated that she stepped out from under the stream.

Pastry’s face was wet with tears and dusty water. She swallowed the saliva that had begun to flood her mouth at the taste of water, and wiped her chin and cheeks on her sleeve. Part of her wanted to repent to the Witches for the condition her habit was in. The other part of her told her that survival was more important.

She sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “…Red Velvet,” she called hoarsely. She felt sick, but the water had somewhat lessened the gnawing pain of hunger in her gut. She knew she couldn’t keep her discovery a secret, even if she wanted to. So, she called out again. “Red Velvet, come over here.”

Across the room, on the other side of the rubble, Red Velvet’s footsteps stopped, then started back up again. As he drew closer, Pastry held up her crossbow like a beacon, all the while thanking the Witches for this blessing.

Mismatched eyes appeared over the top of the hill. “What is it,” Red Velvet asked quietly. He looked and sounded as awful as Pastry felt. His black eye had begun to yellow slightly around the edges, and his bright red complexion was unusually pale.

Pastry couldn’t stop herself from tearing up again. “Water,” she said shakily, still not quite believing what she had seen and tasted. “I found water.”

There was a brief pause. Then, Red Velvet climbed the rest of the hill and slid down feet first, stumbling a bit as he struggled to right himself. His eyes were wide and unbelieving, but Pastry directed his attention to the now-steady trickle of water. The stream had grown thicker, and the puddle was spreading rapidly. It wouldn’t be enough to flood the room anytime soon, but to Pastry, it was a godsend.

“I think a pipe burst,” she said lamely as Red Velvet approached the puddle. He stuck out his hand— his human hand, Pastry noted— and watched as water, very real water, ran down his arm. It soaked into his jacket sleeve and glove, but he didn’t seem to mind. His face split into a wide grin, and he laughed quietly.

“It’s funny,” he croaked, pulling his hand out of the stream. “You’ve been more useful than I have.” Pastry stared at Red Velvet, clutching her broken crossbow in her hand. The general’s expression was somewhat bitter, though it had softened with relief. He did not elaborate on his statement, but between the steady trickle of water from above, and the light of Pastry’s crossbow flickering across his eyes, he didn’t have to.

Like Pastry had done mere minutes ago, Red Velvet craned his neck upward and opened his mouth, catching the water and sighing through his nose as he received sweet relief. It was undignified, but Pastry couldn’t judge. She was more concerned by the way Red Velvet’s teeth glinted in the light of her crossbow.

Pastry couldn’t help it— she was terrified of those teeth. They were inhumanly large and sharp, the mark of a beast. Every time Pastry saw them, she had to suppress a shudder and remind herself that Red Velvet was not quite what her instincts told her. She wasn’t sure what he was anymore, but he clearly wasn’t a monster.

She swallowed and turned away. With some of the fog in her head cleared, she felt more frustrated with her situation. It had been days, and there was no sign of an exit. Pastry knew that it would be a bad idea to break through the rubble blocking the stairs, but…

“We need to get out of here.” Her voice was stronger now, and she felt more confident. Without waiting for a response, she limped away from the stream of water, heading for the stairs as fast as she could.

She had waited long enough. She refused to survive only on musty water and the futile hope that someone would save her. Her energy was better spent trying to find a way out, rather than waiting for one.

Not long after she left, Red Velvet appeared next to her, water still dripping down his face. “What do you think you’re doing,” he barked, his expression serious once more. Pastry rolled her eyes and limped faster.

“I’m going to try and get us out of here,” she replied, her resolve hardening with each pained step she took. “We’ve sat here for days, with nothing to show for it! We’re too far up for anyone to find, so we have to find a way out ourselves.”

“Have you been listening to me at all?” Red Velvet stepped in front of Pastry, looking down at her with a glare. “We can’t find a way out. We’ve checked every exit multiple times, and—“

“And we could have been out of the tower by now if you weren’t so cautious!” Pastry reached out and shoved Red Velvet to the side. He didn’t budge, so she limped around him, ducking under the hand he put out to stop her. Her legs wobbled underneath her, but she caught herself before she could fall.

Red Velvet snorted, but he didn’t follow this time. “Are you being serious,” he hissed, lowering his volume as the tower began to shake. “Pastry, I’m being logical. If we break through the rubble, this entire building might collapse on top of us!”

”Might.” Pastry arrived at the entrance to the stairs. They descended only a few steps before disappearing under several feet of stone and plaster. “I am not,” Pastry said as she knelt, “going to starve slowly in here with you because of an if.”

“Well, how about this then? It will collapse on top of us!” Red Velvet had reached Pastry’s side now, and was watching her as she began to dig pathetically at the smaller pieces of rubble. “You can’t dig through that by yourself,” he commented annoyingly, “and I can’t punch my way though it without killing us both. It’s best to bide our time and wait for something to change.”

Pastry acted on impulse, grabbing a small piece of stone and hurling it at Red Velvet. It struck his hip, and he stared down at her, eyes wide with almost numb shock. Pastry looked right into his eyes, despite her embarrassment at her reaction, and did something she had never done before. She snarled.

“Shut up,” she barked, days worth of frustration flooding into her voice. “Every word out of your mouth is nothing put pessimism. I am sick and tired of you shooting down every idea, every bit of hope I have! Even if the tower crushes us, I’d rather die quickly than spend days withering away with only you for company! So either shut up and let me dig, or help me.”

The tower rumbled under Pastry’s feet, but she held Red Velvet’s gaze. Her chest heaved, and her throat already felt dry again. Part of her wished she hadn’t shouted at Red Velvet, but the rest of her insisted that he deserved it. He had been nothing but unhelpful and hopeless the entire time, and Pastry was sick of it.

A minute passed, or so Pastry thought. Red Velvet’s eyes narrowed, and his clay hand curled into a fist. It was a simple gesture, one that seemed to be of frustration, but it was an intimidating one. Perhaps that was the point.

Then, Red Velvet’s lips stretched into a bitter smile. It was a mockery of the relieved one he had worn mere minutes earlier, and his laugh was more of a bark. “You,” he scoffed, “are an idiot.”

Pastry narrowed her eyes into a glare, but she didn’t dignify the insult with a response. She was better than that, she told herself, even though she wanted nothing more than to hurl another stone, this time at Red Velvet’s face. Perhaps she could give him a second black eye to match the first.

Instead, though, Pastry turned back to the rubble on the stairs and began to dig again. It hurt her hands, and one of the scabs on her palms tore again, but she didn’t care. Even as she sweated out the water she had just drank, she reasoned that it was worth it.

She dug all day. Or perhaps just for a few hours. By the end of it, she had barely made a dent, but she was determined to keep trying. Even as exhaustion began to tug at her eyelids, and fatigue weighed down her body, she dug. No matter what, she would get them out of there. Even if she had to do it alone.

When she was finally forced to rest by her own exhaustion, she slept by the stairs. The next day, she dug again, only taking breaks for water. All the while, Red Velvet watched her with an unreadable expression.

Occasionally, he left Pastry’s field of vision. She did not ask where he went, but she could hear rubble shifting on the other side of the room. For a moment, she wondered if he had finally listened to her, and was actually trying to free up the emergency stairs that served as the only other exit in the room. That hope was dashed the second Red Velvet came back to watch her again, still wearing that infuriatingly resigned expression.

That was what he was: resigned. Red Velvet, it seemed, had accepted their fate. Even after the discovery of light and water, he was determined to die a painful, slow death by starvation.

Pastry prayed to the Witches as she dug, asking them what she had done to deserve being imprisoned with such an unhelpful, ungrateful person. She wanted to scream and curse Red Velvet’s name, but she clung to what was left of her dignity with a vice grip. It would be okay. Everything would be okay.

On Pastry’s third day of digging, Red Velvet finally stood up from where he was watching and walked over. Pastry didn’t look up, too focused on her task, but she knew he was there. Every muscle in her body burned as she heaved another stone out of the pile. Days of back-breaking labor, and she had barely even made a dent.

Red Velvet was right. Pastry couldn’t do this by herself. She hated it more than anything in the world, but it was true, and she couldn’t do anything about it. Still, she was determined. She would rather die trying to get out than doing nothing at all.

Suddenly, a hand was on the back of Pastry’s habit. She yelped as she was pulled roughly to her feet, staggering and nearly falling before Red Velvet reached out and righted her. She looked up at him, sputtering indignantly, only to have her mouth forcefully closed by the man’s human hand.

“This,” Red Velvet said with a sigh, “is sad. I can’t watch you do this anymore.” His eyes were filled with pity, and Pastry wanted to punch him right in the face. She bristled, shoving Red Velvet’s hand away from her mouth.

“Then don’t,” she spat, crossing her arms and glaring. “And stop manhandling me.” Her sweat-covered habit was bunched up in the back now, and she didn’t know if any amount of smoothing would return it to normal. She supposed the entire outfit was beyond repair, anyway.

Red Velvet rolled his eyes, but sighed out a “fine.” He crossed his arms as well, wincing slightly as he did. Most of his injuries weren’t visible, and Pastry found herself wondering how badly he had been hurt from their fall.

“Your tenacity is admirable,” the general said, as if he were praising a soldier. “You may be a fool, but at least you’re a determined one.” Something in his eyes had changed. They were softer now, almost contemplative. What was he thinking about, Pastry wondered.

“I’m not a fool for having hope.” Pastry puffed out her chest and tilted her chin up in the hopes of appearing taller. “Even if the Witches won’t help us here, their divine influence is still at work. This is a trial, and so I must persist.”

Red Velvet’s face twisted into a sort of half-smile. “A trial,” he scoffed. He didn’t pursue the issue further, but Pastry could tell he wanted to. His clay hand clenched into a fist, and he turned to face the stairs.

“I haven’t exactly been much help in this situation.” Red Velvet’s words surprised Pastry, even though she had heard them before. She swallowed drily, uncrossing her arms and stepping forward. She moved to Red Velvet’s side, leaning so she could look at his eyes. He seemed to be in deep thought, brow furrowed ever so slightly.

He sighed. “As foolhardy as you are,” he said, “you… have a point. Sitting and waiting has gotten us nowhere.” Red Velvet turned to Pastry, his face hardening again. “Are you absolutely certain you want to try to get to the next floor,” he asked, the question heavy as the tower’s upper floors, begging for the opportunity to collapse.

Pastry swallowed. “Yes,” she said resolutely, gripping the skirt of her habit and ignoring the pain in her palms. She had torn open the scabs repeatedly, and often had to pick pieces of rubble out of her open wounds. She prayed she wouldn’t get an infection from this.

Red Velvet seemed almost disappointed in Pastry’s answer, rolling his eyes. Still, he stepped forward, cracking his neck and stretching his arms. “Very well, then,” he said, sounding as resigned as ever. He looked over at Pastry again, now fully looking like the war general he was.

“I need you to listen carefully,” he said, “and do exactly as I say.” Pastry opened her mouth to protest, but Red Velvet cut her off. “Would you rather keep your pride,” he barked, “or live?”

It wasn’t a threat, that much was clear. Red Velvet’s tone suggested a genuine question, not an attempt at intimidation. Pastry did not feel like she was in danger, not from Red Velvet at least. So, she huffed, but kept quiet.

Red Velvet nodded. “I’m going to try and break through the rubble,” he announced with a sigh. I can’t believe I’m doing this, his eyes seemed to say. “When I do, I will most likely ‘manhandle’ you again. Is that acceptable?” He put air quotes around the word “manhandle,” as if Pastry’s earlier demand had been unreasonable, but the nun nodded anyway.

“Good.” Red Velvet balled his clay hand into a massive fist. “Stand back, do not distract me, and when the tower begins to collapse, do not scream.”

When the tower collapses. Pastry wanted so badly to correct Red Velvet, but before she could, the general raised his fist into the air. It began to glow with a dim, red energy, and Pastry hurriedly limped backwards. She barely managed to make it three feet before Red Velvet brought his fist down on the rubble blocking the stairs.

The wave of tremors that followed knocked Pastry off her feet. She squeaked as she landed hard on her back, her head smacking against the floor and rattling her brain. The room spun, and dust began to fall from the ceiling. Pastry barely managed to collect herself before Red Velvet struck the block again, and the tower began to shake even harder.

Something above Pastry cracked. It sounded like stone, and too late, the nun realized that the floors above were beginning to cave. Her eyes widened with horror, and all at once, every emotion in her heart was replaced by regret and raw, unadulterated fear.

Then, a hand was grabbing her back, and light flooded her eyes. Pastry grunted as Red Velvet hoisted her up by her waist and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He was running, running down the stairs that now had a sizable opening, and then to Pastry’s horror, he jumped off the edge.

She couldn’t help it— she screamed. When Red Velvet hit the ground, he cried out and fell to his side, spilling Pastry onto the floor. All the while, the tower trembled like it had nearly a week before, and the sounds of breaking supports filled the air. Pastry got a horrible sense of deja vu, but she could barely move, she was so dazed. Dimly, she registered Red Velvet’s hands grabbing hers, dragging her across the cold, tiled floor and under the stairs as the shaking building made it impossible to think.

Pastry didn’t know how much time had passed. Hours, maybe only minutes. When the rumbling finally stopped, and the dust settled, Pastry was left in total darkness, with nothing but her pounding heart and ragged breaths to let her know she was still alive.

She coughed, inhaling dust and flecks of plaster that floated through the air. Most of the tower was made of stone, but many of the upper floors contained more modern building materials. It made for an unpleasant sensation as plaster stuck in her throat and made her wheezing hacks that much more painful.

She shifted, and her back brushed against something warm and hard. Red Velvet was behind her, she realized, breathing just as rapidly as she was. He coughed, finally releasing Pastry’s hands. She hadn’t even realized he was still holding them.

She didn’t know whether to be disgusted or not. So, she tried to put it out of her mind entirely, taking a deep, shuddering breath and trying to stop her body from trembling. Blindly, she felt behind her, grazing Red Velvet’s leg with her hand. It was almost comforting to know that he was still there, still alive. That she wasn’t alone.

She let out a shaky laugh, and Red Velvet did the same. “You were right,” they said in unison. Pastry balked slightly at this, but relief was quickly eclipsing every other thought. She broke into a grin, high, almost delirious laughter pushing out from her chest. Red Velvet joined in, and for the first time in days, Pastry felt the weight of stress lift from her shoulders.

When the laughter finally died, Pastry heard Red Velvet shift. Her open palm had something cold and metal pressed into it, and when light burned her eyes, she realized that she had been handed her crossbow. Red Velvet had taken it with them.

“I… think I owe you an apology.” Red Velvet sounded dazed, and when Pastry looked over at him, he wore a thin, humorless smile. He glanced at her, opening his mouth to continue, but she cut him off by shaking her head.

“You owe me nothing,” Pastry said, surprising herself as much as Red Velvet. “I’m just… thankful. That you saved me.”

It was the truth. Pastry was shocked by just how grateful she was. For once, she didn’t even feel like thanking the Witches. She knew they had no hand in this. This was all Red Velvet, in all of his unholiness and blasphemy.

The general’s eyes were wide. “I suppose I should thank you too, then,” he said quietly. He shifted, finally breaking contact with Pastry entirely. She felt cold.

“You always prattle on about ‘hope’ and ‘faith,’” Red Velvet continued, grunting with pain as he tried to stand. “I had honestly given up, in a way, but I truly admire your determination. Even if it is foolish.” He was so straightforward, so serious, it was almost off-putting.

Pastry shifted, making her own attempt to stand. She was much more successful than Red Velvet, even though her head throbbed and her entire body ached more than usual from the second fall. She dusted off her habit out of… well, habit, and sighed. “I don’t think you can call it foolish anymore,” she said proudly. She couldn’t help feeling vindicated as Red Velvet sighed and nodded slowly.

Pastry then surprised herself again. She smiled a true, genuine smile at Red Velvet, and held out her hand for him to take. He stared at it for a moment, then reached out with his human hand and pulled himself up slowly. He staggered on uneven feet, but managed to keep himself upright long enough to let go of Pastry’s hand.

He took a deep breath, pushing it out slowly. “Well then,” he said, placing his hands on his hips. “Shall we?” He tilted his head toward the ruins beyond the staircase that had protected them from harm. Pastry had no idea what waited for her, but she didn’t feel afraid. She nodded shakily, taking a weak step to the side to allow Red Velvet to move past her.

“Let’s go, then.”

Chapter Text

Exploring the new floor was surprisingly easy. This was mostly because of the fact that half of it had collapsed as well, tumbling down further into darkness. This made the main room much smaller than the floor Red Velvet and Pastry had left, but Pastry wasn’t one to complain.

Unfortunately, there were several more important things to complain about, the first of which being that the stairs to the next floor had gone down with the rest of this one. Pastry stared into the inky abyss that her glowing crossbow barely made a dent in, and sighed. “This is… inconvenient,” she muttered.

“No shit.” Though Red Velvet’s words were harsh, his tone was shockingly lighthearted. It was almost as if he were joking, though Pastry didn’t find it very funny.

She sighed. “Did you find anything,” she asked. She looked up at Red Velvet, who was leaning on the wall close to what remained of the stairs. His right leg was lifted slightly off the ground, still aching from the fall he’d taken hours ago. Pastry silently wondered if they would be able to make it out when neither of them had two working legs.

Red Velvet shared her concerns, having put them in her head in the first place. When they decided to split up to search, he had commented on how much slower they would move now. He was at least trying to be more optimistic, though, Pastry thought, as he never implied that they wouldn’t be able to move onward. He didn’t even comment on Pastry thanking the Witches out loud for saving them.

He was even smiling now, although his grin was slight. “I did find something,” he confirmed, stepping away from the wall and limping across the room. It was almost pathetic to watch, though Pastry knew she didn’t look much better.

Red Velvet was moving out of the range of the crossbow’s light, so Pastry shuffled after him. “You could just tell me, you know,” she said, surprised by the lightheartedness of her own tone.

“I could,” the general said, “but I don’t want to.” Pastry scoffed, some of her irritation towards Red Velvet returning. It didn’t have time to fester, however, as she narrowly avoided walking into Red Velvet’s back when he stopped abruptly. He walked like a soldier, and there was almost no warning for his quick halt.

Red Velvet stood in front of a door. This was a surprise to Pastry. The floor she had left was just one big chamber— presumably for combat training. She shuddered as she thought of the clay beast that had been crushed to death under rubble, unsuspecting as it had trained below.

She couldn’t remember the soldier’s name, but the thought of it— her— struggling to breathe and whimpering for aid that would never come from the unconscious people mere feet away…

Pastry shook her head violently, and peered again at the door. Her breathing had turned ragged, and Red Velvet was looking at her strangely. She tried to ignore this, focusing on the door. “What is this,” she asked quietly. “This doesn’t look like the door to the emergency stairs…”

Red Velvet continued to stare at her for a moment, then sighed. “That’s because it isn’t,” he confirmed with a nod. “It’s a door to a storage room.”

Pastry’s eyes widened, and she whipped her head around so fast, her neck jerked painfully. “You mean—“

“There should be supplies in there, yes.” Red Velvet took a step toward to door, placing his massive clay hand on the handle. He did not turn it yet, however, turning back to face Pastry head on. “If we find anything in there,” he said, “swear you won’t pray in thanks.”

It wasn’t a joke, or even lighthearted. It was a true request, one that made Pastry bristle. “Why shouldn’t I,” she protested, gripping her crossbow tightly. It wouldn’t work, she knew, and she didn’t want to use it anyway, but her reflexes had taken over.

Red Velvet rolled his eyes. “I’m sick of hearing your religious drivel every time even the slightest shred of hope or despair appears,” he explained bluntly, shifting to stand at his full height despite the sweat that began to form on his forehead as he aggravated his injuries. “I’d like to think that’s a reasonable request in return for saving your life.”

Pastry scowled up at Red Velvet, ignoring her own bruised leg and squaring her hips and shoulders. He had held off from commenting on her religion for a time, but it seemed that he didn’t feel like doing that anymore. She gritted her teeth and huffed. “What’s your problem with my faith,” she grumbled.

She knew the answer, of course. She always had. Some part of her understood, even. It wouldn’t exactly feel good to be told that your very existence meant that you were wrong. The glare that she received confirmed this, not that it needed to be confirmed anyway.

Guilt stabbed at Pastry, and she deflated, crossing her arms. “Fine,” she grumbled, though the Reverend Mother’s voice berated her in her head. How could you take orders from that unholy beast? I’m so disappointed in you, my child. Somehow, the disappointment was always worse than the physical punishments that Pastry almost always managed to avoid.

Almost.

Satisfied with Pastry’s answer, Red Velvet relaxed his posture and leaned on his left leg. With a deep inhale, as if he were bracing himself, he gently turned the door handle, and pushed it open.

The door creaked, and when Pastry limped closer to shine the crossbow’s light inside, her jaw dropped. In the room, there were what looked like dozens upon dozens of boxes. They seemed to have been stacked before, though the tower’s collapse had knocked those stacks over.

As they fell, some of the boxes had burst open. The contents within had spilled out, revealing hundreds of smaller packages, all the same size. Red Velvet seemed to recognize them on sight, and the wide grin that split his face nearly made Pastry cry with relief. This was good. Whatever they had stumbled across was good.

Red Velvet made his way into the room, dropping to his knees with a painful-sounding thud. He let out a strangled cry that was cut short by a sharp intake of breath. He grabbed one of the smaller packages— a brown paper bag— and tossed it over to Pastry. She fumbled it, barely managing to catch it with a surprised squeak.

“What is this?” The nun was already working to open the bag, but her hands were getting in the way. After spending days futilely trying to dig through rubble by herself, with no gloves, her hands were a disgusting, scabbed mess. Her fingernails had broken a couple of times, so she was unable to pry the bag open. Frustrated, she brought the end to her mouth and tore at the paper with her teeth.

She felt like an animal as she managed to tear off a chunk of paper, spitting it out vulgarly. It fluttered to the ground, leaving Pastry to stare at the contents of the bag. Every bit of shame she felt evaporated as she registered just what was inside.

It was food. Pre-packaged crackers, a tiny bag of what looked like macaroni, and a larger, opaque bag that squished when Pastry poked it. She couldn’t stop the noise that pushed out of her lips, akin to a whimper, as she frantically grabbed for the crackers and tore open the packaging with her teeth again.

The crackers were dry and stale. They had no salt, and they tasted like dirt. Right then, however, it was the best food Pastry had ever had. She teared up as she shoveled the crackers into her mouth, openly sobbing as food entered her stomach for the first time in well over a week. Right then, the rest of the world didn’t exist. It was just her and the life-saving food sent to her by the Witches.

Something about that thought felt off, however. Pastry did not slow down, but the crackers suddenly didn’t taste as good. Then again, Pastry had felt odd at every meal for months. After she and her Sisters said Grace, no matter what she ate, the food left a bad taste in her mouth.

The crunch of bones snapping and grinding between gnashing teeth. Blood dribbling down monstrous chins as booming voices cackled from the heavens.

Suddenly, Pastry felt sick. She dropped the crackers, her stomach aching and growling in protest. Hands shaking, Pastry sat down heavily. Her head felt fuzzy, as if she were floating, and suddenly nothing was around her at all. She was watching herself from above, detached as her chest heaved up and down rapidly. The world turned on its head.

“Pastry?”

Crunch. Snap. The sensation of falling.

Suddenly, a hand was on Pastry’s, and she was thrust back into her body. The fog in her head became a painful ringing in her ears, and she realized she was hyperventilating. She looked up, blinking away tears as Red Velvet came into focus. His brow was knitted with concern, and he was squeezing Pastry’s hand tightly in his as he squatted in front of her.

The nun swallowed hard, yanking her hand away and trying to force herself to breathe. She choked on air, but she managed to quiet the ringing in her ears by ignoring it. She had gotten used to doing this, and welcomed the feeling of numbness that came with her memories disappearing behind a wall of ice.

“I-I…” She swallowed. “I’m fine.” With one hand, she brushed the now-broken crackers away, suddenly disgusted by the crunching noise they made. “Just… thinking.”

Red Velvet narrowed his eyes, his jaw clenched in pain as he wobbled on his injured knee. “This,” he said, gesturing toward Pastry, “is not what thinking looks like. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but don’t lie to me.”

Pastry stared at her companion with wide eyes, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. She clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispered. She reached out, grabbing the bag of food from where it landed on the floor, and began to tear open the main colorless bag.

The message was clear: leave me alone. Red Velvet seemed to understand, heaving a sigh and standing up shakily. Pastry watched him go, trying not to gag as the scent of tuna hit her nostrils. She already felt sick, but the smell of the food in the bag only made her lose her appetite more.

Still, she forced herself to eat. She flinched when her tongue brushed against her own teeth, and tried not to imagine herself getting crushed between the slick, white enamel. Tried not to imagine the slimy, mashed fish sliding down her throat as the blood and organs of her fellow humans.

When she was done, she all but threw the rest of the package away. Her stomach revolted immediately, growling and bubbling uncomfortably. She heaved, desperately trying to hold the food down, to no avail. She barely had time to aim her mouth away from her habit before she vomited on the floor.

Pastry was a mess, and she hated it. How could she be so weak in the face of a test? The Witches… crunch… the Reverend Mother would be so disappointed in her to know that her faith was so badly shaken. That the mere thought of the Witches made it nearly impossible to eat. That she was such a failure.

Red Velvet was back now, a sigh on his lips as he saw the mess Pastry had made. “You shouldn’t try to eat so fast,” he commented. “You’ll only get sick. And the tuna meals are awful, so they won’t do you any favors.” A pause. “Are you sure you’re okay? I wouldn’t want you to die right after we made progress.”

The last sentence was somewhat lighthearted, likely an attempt at motivating Pastry. She just nodded her head, knowing deep down that she wasn’t being convincing in the slightest.

Red Velvet stared at her for a minute, unblinking. His eyes travelled up and down her body, taking in the horrible state she knew she was in. She had never cared much for how she looked, her vows of modesty and chastity preventing those kinds of thoughts, but she at least wanted to look presentable. She certainly did not look anything close to it now.

Then, Red Velvet exhaled, the noise somewhere between a sigh and a normal breath. “You know,” he said quietly, “what happened today made me realize something.” Pastry stared at him blankly, trying not to be aware of the pile of vomit sitting next to her.

“We won’t be able to get anywhere if we don’t trust each other.” Red Velvet’s voice was almost calming, and Pastry felt the shaking of her hands lessen slightly. “We’re trying to survive together, Pastry. I know I said you don’t have to talk, but I think it would be best if you did. I will return the favor if you do.”

On her knees before Red Velvet, filthy and sick, Pastry felt oddly vulnerable. She wished she could go home, to the church. She wished the Reverend Mother was there to take her away, even though she knew that whether she was scolded or comforted was up to fate. More than anything, she wished she had never gone to that Divine-forsaken tower.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. Then, almost on autopilot, she answered. “Fine.” Her heart dropped to her feet, but to her own shock, she didn’t regret saying it. Part of her wanted to scream and cry, and that part was slowly winning. She blinked back tears and balled her hands in her habit. Then, she looked up at Red Velvet and sniffed.

“At least let me eat first.” Pastry’s stomach growled loudly, even though her appetite had been thoroughly dashed. Red Velvet’s lips twitched into a tiny smile, and he nodded.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said calmly. Pastry swallowed. Whenever I’m ready, she thought to herself as Red Velvet limped away. As if I ever will be.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, Pastry was not ready to talk for a good, long while. After slowly forcing down a fairly decent bagged cheese tortellini dish, she still felt bloated and sick. The storage room was beginning to stink due to her vomit, and the world felt like it was caving in on her.

Red Velvet was shockingly kind about it. Pastry couldn’t wrap her head around his gentle demeanor as he helped her stand and walked her out of the storage room. He had finally stopped looking annoyed at everything she did, and even had a slight air of sympathy about him.

Pastry tried to feel grateful for it. Really, she did. But she couldn’t stop thinking it was patronizing. Something about it made her skin crawl, although she supposed that she rarely felt comfortable in her own skin lately.

She and Red Velvet sat in silence for hours. Or maybe minutes. She didn’t know, and the way he stared at her only made time drag on longer. At least he brought water, Pastry thought as she slowly sipped from the plastic bottle Red Velvet had tossed at her. Every pre-packaged meal in the storage room came with some kind of drink, it turned out, most of which was water or tea.

Red Velvet was resting his legs on a rock, keeping his injuries elevated. Pastry wondered if she should do that as well, even though the pain had started to dull when she was sitting down. It still hurt to walk, but she could manage well enough.

The general was still staring at Pastry. His mismatched eyes were half-lidded with contemplation, bearing into her very soul. Pastry bit her lip, shifting in her makeshift seat on an uncomfortable piece of stone.

“…Are you ready to talk now?” Red Velvet’s voice was soft, in a way that grated on Pastry’s ears. She regretted saying she would talk at all, feeling fresh sweat bead on her back. Her armpits felt swampy and disgusting, not to mention her unmentionables. Discomfort prickled under her skin, and she shuddered.

“I…” She swallowed hard, feeling her stomach churn. “I changed my mind.” She didn’t want to remember the Night of the Witches. Not when the mere thought of it made her want to throw up again. Her hands shook hard, despite the fact that she was holding her crossbow with a vice grip.

Red Velvet sighed, but he nodded despite his apparent exasperation. “Very well,” he hummed, crossing his arms. “You clearly don’t trust me yet, which is fair. Let me know if you change your mind again, though.”

Pastry felt the urge to correct Red Velvet, but he wasn’t exactly wrong. Pastry didn’t trust him fully. Still, she couldn’t stop the creeping feeling of shame and guilt that came with waffling on her opinion so much. Part of her wondered what her Sisters would think of her for reneging on her word.

Then again, she supposed, her Sisters wouldn’t exactly be thrilled with the idea of her sharing her inner turmoil with the unholy.

She sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping. “I apologize,” she mumbled, shame pooling in her gut. Hours ago, she would have repented to the Witches. Now, after agreeing to keep her faith more quiet, she found that she didn’t want to repent. It was difficult to drown her memories in prayer when she couldn’t pray at all.

Red Velvet shifted, propping his leg up higher. “It’s fine,” he said with a slight eye roll. “Although, it’s strange. For someone so bold, you become awfully timid when it comes to feelings of fear.”

Pastry looked at him sharply, her jaw dropping. She huffed indignantly. “I’m not afraid,” she insisted, gripping her crossbow tighter. Her bangs hung limply in front of her eyes, trapping the image of Red Velvet in bars made of hair.

“Yes, you are.” Red Velvet didn’t pay attention to Pastry’s offended gasp. Instead, he gave her a dry look as she glared, his long eyelashes batting once as he blinked slowly. “Don’t pretend like you aren’t,” he commanded. “I’m terrified as well, Pastry. There’s no need to hide it. I’m not going to force you to talk, but you shouldn’t apologize for being afraid of doing so.”

Ah. So that’s what he meant. Pastry’s stomach dropped to the floor, and she swallowed. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and pressed her lips together, biting them so they stayed shut. It hurt, but the pain was grounding, in a way. It was better than letting her embarrassment and annoyance carry her back into the darker parts of her thoughts.

She sighed. She was so, so tired.

——————

Pastry woke up in pain, as she had every day for over a week. Sleeping on a hard floor hadn’t exactly done her neck or back any favors, and she always woke up with fresh bruises. She’d tried bunching up her skirts to create a makeshift pad before, but it didn’t do much. She was left with nothing but a crick in her neck and irritation.

It didn’t help that she was the opposite of a morning person. She always had been, even before she joined the St. Pastry Order. She got in trouble for it often, but it was one habit she just couldn’t seem to shake. Even Red Velvet woke before her, as he had done today.

Pastry groaned, rubbing her eyes as she sat up. She looked around blearily, squinting in the dim light that came from within the storage room. Red Velvet had taken her crossbow, then. She didn’t mind as much as she thought she would. He couldn’t exactly leave, after all, with the staircase being destroyed.

After several minutes of collecting herself, Pastry sighed. Pushing up with her palms, she struggled to stand, wobbling on her injured leg. She managed to rise to her full height, sighing as the pressure on her wounds was increased, then froze.

Pastry paled, feeling a pit open in her stomach. She pressed a hand to her lower abdomen, feeling a dull ache behind there. Oh, Witches, she thought to herself with mounting dread. Here? Now?

Silently, Pastry prayed that she was wrong about what was happening to her. Feeling an uncomfortable sensation under her skirts, she swallowed, and began limping over to the storage room as fast as she could.

Red Velvet was inside, sorting through the many toppled boxes of pre-packaged meals. He seemed hard at work, but when Pastry stumbled into the room with her crystal blue eyes wide, he looked up immediately.

“What’s wrong?” Red Velvet caught on the second he locked eyes with Pastry. She ignored the question and took a deep breath.

“I… I need the light,” she said shakily. She hated how her entire body trembled, feeling nauseous as an ice-cold hand clutched at her abdomen. She could feel what was happening, and she prayed and prayed that she was wrong, but deep down, she knew that her prayers would be unanswered.

Red Velvet squinted suspiciously, but he didn’t question Pastry, much to her relief. Instead, he walked over and handed her the crossbow. She could feel his eyes on her back as she turned and ran as fast as she could, shuffling to hide behind the tallest pile of rubble available. Once hidden, she lifted her skirts and tucked them under her chin, dropped her panties, and gasped.

Blood.

Pastry never cursed. Even when she had been a teenager, going with her fellow Sisters on the occasional, forbidden, late-night excursion, she had never sworn. Here, hidden behind a pile of rubble and staring at the menstrual blood in her underwear, she finally broke that unspoken rule with an emphatic ”Shit.”

Quickly, she yanked her underwear back up, snapped her tights back in place, and smoothed down her skirts. How long did she have before she bled through her underwear? She was already covered in filth and grime, but this was one line she refused to cross.

Shame burned on her cheeks, a hot blush creeping into her ears as well. Pastry all but sprinted back to the storage room, injuries be damned. She nearly tripped and fell multiple times, but she managed to stay upright as she stopped at the doorway to the storage room.

Red Velvet squinted in the light of the crossbow as he turned to look at Pastry, hissing slightly. “What the hell are you doing,” he snapped. Pastry once again didn’t answer his question, standing there and shaking as embarrassment and pain clawed at her gut.

“Um…” Pastry didn’t know what to say. It was inappropriate to just ask if Red Velvet had this kind of hygiene product! He was a man, and one marked by the unholy at that! Pastry felt awful for thinking that particular thought, but that didn’t stop her anxiety from bubbling even higher in her throat.

Red Velvet frowned and marched over to the doorway. Even favoring one leg, he was still incredibly tall, Pastry noted as he came to a stop. He looked down at her from over a foot above, his pupils contracting in the harsh white light of the crossbow.

“If there’s some sort of emergency,” he said quietly and slowly, “you should tell me, Pastry. Running back and forth with a look of panic on your face won’t do anything. We need to communicate.”

Pastry gritted her teeth, huffing a sigh. “I know,” she muttered, her face burning. “But this issue is private. Please, don’t… don’t ask me about it.”

She regretted saying anything at all. Red Velvet’s expression became intrigued, and he looked her up and down with an odd look. Was he… sniffing the air? Was he sniffing Pastry?

The nun stiffened, and too late, she remembered Red Velvet’s ability to see in the dark. If he could do that, then what other enhanced senses did he have? Could he smell her blood?!

Red Velvet’s eyes widened, and Pastry’s heart sank. Her suspicions were correct, it seemed, and the sudden tension in Red Velvet’s body only made Pastry feel worse.

The general coughed awkwardly, and Pastry didn’t know if she was imagining things or not, but she could’ve sworn that his face was redder than usual. “I… see,” he said, his voice strained. “I’m… sorry for asking.”

He blinked rapidly, taking a deep breath. A more calm expression crossed his face, but Pastry’s shame only worsened. “There aren’t any products for that in here,” Red Velvet admitted with another cough, “but if you’ll give me a moment…”

Red Velvet shrugged off his jacket, exposing his black turtleneck. Pastry watched with tense shoulders as her companion placed the edge of his jacket in between his sharp teeth, bit down, and tore off a large strip of fabric.

Pastry squeaked. “You don’t have to—“ A second, loud riiiip interrupted her as Red Velvet repeated the process. Pastry wanted to curl up and die, both because her cramps were worsening, and because of Red Velvet’s actions. Something about him sacrificing an item of clothing for her own monthly curse made her feel even worse.

Then, Red Velvet was pressing the strips of fabric into her hands. His rough touch stung the scabs on Pastry’s palms, but she didn’t flinch as she gripped the fabric tightly. The dark red was nearly the same color as the fresh blood that was beginning to trickle faster. Pastry bit her lip, then sighed.

“…Thank you,” she muttered quietly. Still holding the crossbow, she backed up and out of the room. Without waiting for a response from Red Velvet, Pastry limped away as fast as she could.

The jacket scraps actually made for decent pads, shockingly enough. When folded, just one would probably last Pastry the whole day. She silently, if not halfheartedly, thanked the Witches that her periods had been shorter and lighter than usual. Frankly, she was surprised that she hadn’t skipped this month entirely, since each cycle seemed to be getting drier and drier lately.

Once her makeshift pad was in place, Pastry pulled up her underwear and tights, squatting on the ground and shaking. Why, she wondered, were the Godly Witches punishing her like this? She was trying so, so hard to be a good Sister, a good believer. She prayed as loudly as she could, joined extra services, tried her damn hardest to wake up for the morning prayer. No matter what she did, however, nothing worked.

Nothing would ever erase the image of the Witches consuming human beings, just like her, from her mind.

Pastry sniffled, hot tears running down her face. She hadn’t even realized she was crying. She hated herself for being so volatile lately, even though she knew that it made sense.

Red Velvet was right about Pastry— she was scared. Scared of of being trapped in the tower with nowhere to go. Of the Reverend Mother. Of the Witches. Most of all, though, she was afraid of the ever-present darkness of the unknown, the darkness that pressed on every corner of her mind as she questioned everything she had ever known.

She sighed heavily, wiping her eyes. She stood, pocketing the other strip of fabric Red Velvet had torn, and began to make her way back over to the storage room.

The general was still sorting through the boxes when Pastry returned to him, prompting another hiss at the sudden light. Pastry pointed it away from him, muttering a quiet apology as she did. She then took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and spoke.

“Thank you.” She paused, her cheeks still dusted with pink. “For… you know. I… appreciate it.” She felt dirty for even mentioning it again, but Red Velvet seemed to have gotten over his own initial embarrassment. His emotionless expression showed none of its earlier awkwardness, and he nodded with confidence Pastry hadn’t seen before.

“It’s nothing,” he said firmly. His coat, thoroughly destroyed, sat next to him in a pile of scraps. He’d turned the entire thing into makeshift pads, it seemed, and Pastry’s stomach knotted with an unfamiliar feeling.

She didn’t know what to call it, but it wasn’t exactly bad. Confusing, yes, but in a sort of warm way. Gratitude was perhaps its closest approximation, but this was ever so slightly different. She pushed that feeling aside with a sigh, and shifted on her feet.

“I’m sorry for inconveniencing you,” she intoned. “I wasn’t expecting this to happen. Though, to be fair, I… didn’t exactly expect a tower to collapse on me, either.”

To Pastry’s surprise, Red Velvet chuckled. “Neither did I,” he said with a small smile. “I… apologize for reacting the way I did. I was just caught off guard.”

Pastry shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, well… let’s not talk about it,” she breathed. The room lapsed into silence, and Red Velvet stared at Pastry for a long while. When he finally broke eye contact, the entire tower seemed to breathe a sigh of relief along with Pastry.

The nun deflated once Red Velvet was looking away. She felt dirty and disgusting between her legs, and her entire body crawled with discomfort. Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground and curled up in the hopes of alleviating her pain.

It did little to help. Sometime later, Red Velvet mentioned that there weren’t any painkillers in this particular storage room, asking if there was anything else he could do. Pastry herself was at a loss, and could provide no answers.

Eventually, silence filled the storage room yet again. Pastry watched Red Velvet sort box after box, sniffing each meal package and setting them into designated piles. The short woman couldn’t help but feel impressed with her ally’s sense of smell. It seemed almost convenient for him, allowing him to both sort food for later use, and help Pastry too. As humiliated as Pastry felt, she was still grateful for the help she’d received.

Hours, and several boxes later, Red Velvet spoke up. “How are you feeling,” he asked, almost as though it was his duty. The detached way he spoke to Pastry irked her slightly. As she had been doing for days, however, she decided to choose her battles. This, she knew, was not a battle worth fighting.

“Better,” she answered. It wasn’t a lie, really. Her cramps ebbed and flowed, and now they seemed to be receding. Red Velvet cracked a small smile at this, sliding over one of the prepackaged meals. Pastry sat up and grabbed it off the floor, tearing it open barbarically with her teeth.

“Try not to heave that one up this time,” Red Velvet said as Pastry spat out the torn, thick paper. There was a smile in his voice, and when Pastry looked up, she saw a slight grin on his face. Without thinking, she smiled back, and even chuckled a little, to her surprise.

“I’ll try,” she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out the meal. There were no crackers inside. Instead, there was a soft, squishy muffin. Nothing that would crunch in her mouth, like the snap of bones that always haunted her dreams.

Pastry’s smile widened slightly, the darkness at the edges of her mind retreating a little. Witches and Reverend Mother be damned. For the first time ever, Pastry was truly glad Red Velvet was there with her.

Chapter Text

Pastry stared down into the abyss that occupied half of the main chamber of the floor. The light of her crossbow barely even scratched the surface of the encompassing void, to the point where she wondered if there was any of the lower floor left at all.

She bit her lip and sighed. “Find anything,” she called, freezing as the tower shifted beneath her feet. A waterfall of dust spilled from the shattered ceiling above as Red Velvet grunted from within the storage room.

“Besides food and a few first aid kits,” he said, “nothing useful.” It had been a couple of days since Pastry’s period had ended, only on the second day, and Red Velvet had taken to rummaging around the storage room. Pastry didn’t know what he was doing in there, but she supposed it must have been decently important if he was so occupied with it.

Pastry turned away from the ledge and looked over at the storage room door. Red Velvet was poking his head out, and he squinted in the light of the crossbow. “Would you stop pointing that thing right in my eyes,” he hissed. “Seriously, every damn time…”

Pastry redirected the crossbow’s beam with a sigh. “Sorry,” she muttered. “You didn’t find a rope or anything?” The question was ridiculous, and Red Velvet’s eye roll confirmed this.

“If I had,” he said with a bitter laugh, “I would’ve told you.” The general was clearly irritated by the lack of progress, and Pastry found it annoying. She felt the same, yes, but she almost wished Red Velvet would go back to being pessimistic.

She rolled her eyes, limping over to where Red Velvet stood. It was getting easier to walk, thankfully, but the clay general was still struggling. Reminders of the fall he’d taken never failed to bring a twinge of guilt to Pastry’s heart. It was easier to feel bad now that he had been so helpful during her period.

Pastry carefully squeezed past Red Velvet in the doorway, taking a look at the storage room. She blinked, and gave a little “hm.” She turned to face Red Velvet. “You’ve been… busy,” she commented, slightly impressed.

The overturned boxes of pre-packaged meals had been righted, resting comfortably on the ground in their proper positions. The back of the room was still disorganized, but the front largely looked as it would have before the collapse. Pastry glanced inside one of the boxes to see it filled to the brim with packages of Witches-awful food. It was, indeed, impressive, and Pastry wondered why Red Velvet hadn’t asked her for help.

Behind her, the general shifted. “I had to do something while you were asleep,” he commented. “Besides, I can’t exactly look for other supplies if everything looks like it’s been through a natural disaster.” It was a fair enough point, but…

“…While I was asleep?” Pastry frowned and turned to face Red Velvet, who looked down at her with the slightest of grins. His black eye was healing decently well, Pastry noted through her confusion. He had a few newer bruises around his neck and face from the second fall, however.

Red Velvet nodded. “You tend to sleep longer than I do,” he explained, stepping around Pastry and strutting further into the storage room. “It gets boring on my own, so I entertain myself with sorting these, and looking for alternative ways out.”

It went without saying that the man hadn’t found anything of the sort, but that wasn’t what Pastry was focused on. She blinked, a slight blush flaring on her cheeks. “You could’ve woken me,” she huffed, though she knew she would’ve hated Red Velvet if he did.

True to Pastry’s thoughts, Red Velvet snorted. “I tried,” he said, walking carefully through the neatly stacked boxes he had already gone through. “You rolled over and told me to ‘fuck off.’ Not very holy of you, Sister.”

Pastry froze, face burning as she gripped her crossbow tightly. “Liar,” she protested weakly, limping after Red Velvet. “I wouldn’t say that! Especially not in the Godly Tower!”

“And I would never lie in the Godly Tower.” Pastry could hear a smile in Red Velvet’s voice, though she didn’t find it very funny. “Is lying not as bad of a sin as swearing?”

“Stop mocking me!” Pastry caught up with her companion, reaching up to tap his shoulder. He turned when she did, and she glared directly into his eyes. “I would never,” she huffed, “say such a thing in a sacred place! And don’t call me ‘Sister!’”

She punctuated her sentence by crossing her arms under her chest and standing as tall as she could. It was very, very hard to be intimidating when she just looking up at Red Velvet’s face made her neck sore from craning.

The general chuckled, leaning forward until his face was at eye level for Pastry. “Fine,” he said with a grin, “don’t believe me. But I have no reason to make up something like that. Besides, I do believe I heard you say ‘shit’ about a week ago, when your period started. I think you’re the liar here.”

Pastry’s thoughts swirled and stormed, and she gave an affronted gasp. “How dare you,” she squeaked, though she knew he was right. The words she wanted to say stuck in her throat, for the better. Spewing more curses at Red Velvet wouldn’t help her case, and she didn’t want to further defile the crumbling pillar of holiness she stood in.

So, she forced herself to ignore Red Velvet’s smug smile and turned to walk in a different direction. She shuffled behind a stack of boxes, red-faced and irritated. She hated how easily Red Velvet riled her up, especially when it came to her faith. She didn’t even know if she could to call it hers anymore, and that thought terrified her. Surely Red Velvet could see that?

Pastry sighed, relaxing her grip on her crossbow. Her hands stung. The scabs there had begun to heal a bit, and they itched almost constantly. She repeated Sugar 5:11– “suffering shall forge thy strength”— over and over again in her head every time the urge to scratch surfaced, but it was getting harder to resist temptation.

To distract herself, she began to explore the stacks of boxes. Each one towered over her, well over Red Velvet’s height. He must’ve used his clay arm to reach that high, Pastry realized. Despite the height of the stacks, they still seemed stable, even as Pastry’s skirts and chest brushed the boxes when she squeezed between them.

As she pushed further into the storage room, she saw the full extent of the damage done. About three quarters of it was still filled with overturned boxes, to the point where it was impossible to see the opposite wall. Pastry bit her lip, staring at the pile.

Footsteps approached her from behind, and Red Velvet came into view. Pastry could only see him through her peripheral vision, but when she glanced to the side, she saw how close he was standing. His arm almost brushed Pastry’s shoulder, flirting with the edge of her capelet.

Still hurt from the earlier teasing she had received, Pastry frowned up at Red Velvet. “What,” she demanded, not quite coming off as intimidating as she wanted to. Part of her worried that Red Velvet didn’t take her seriously at all. The rest of her knew it didn’t matter anyway.

Red Velvet stared down at her with a serious expression, his eyes half-lidded contemplatively. “You seem awfully concerned with these boxes,” he hummed, as if he were trying to catch a soldier in the act of disobeying orders. Pastry rolled her eyes.

“There isn’t much else to be concerned about,” she snapped quietly. She hadn’t meant to sound quite so angry, but she leaned into it and shot Red Velvet a glare. “Would you rather I stare down at the next floor for hours?”

“No, I’d rather you help me with these instead of looking at them like you want to throw them off a cliff.” Red Velvet’s dry look was slowly morphing into a cross between irritate and amused. “You seemed like you wanted to help earlier, so feel free to act on that desire, Pastry.”

The nun narrowed her eyes further and scowled, but she didn’t argue. “Fine,” she sniffed, “I will.” As if she had won an argument of some kind. She knew, however, that ultimately, she had lost.

Red Velvet was kneeling on the ground now, clearly leaning on his left leg. He had grabbed one of the toppled boxes and was gathering spilled pre-made meals from the floor. He dumped them into the box with wild abandon, then looked up at Pastry and raised an eyebrow. With a huff, the nun knelt, ignoring her own leg pain, and began to copy Red Velvet’s movements.

They didn’t talk for the rest of the day.

——————

Days passed by, and slowly, the storage room was beginning to look more presentable. Around two days in, and over half of it was finished. Red Velvet begrudgingly admitted out loud that having Pastry help made the entire process go faster, and the nun had to resist the urge to be smug about it.

It was also easier for Pastry to work now. She and Red Velvet had cracked open a first aid kit and tended to their wounds as best as they could, wrapping their exposed wounds with the gauze that came with each medical pack. They seemed to be for on-field emergencies, as there wasn’t much in them, but as Red Velvet put it, “these will suffice.”

They didn’t talk much. Pastry didn’t really mind it at first, but by day three in the storage room, her mind was beginning to wander. She thought of the Reverend Mother, of the eyes that she knew were watching her from the shadows, and it was getting harder to focus. So, when the silence grew to be too much, Pastry was almost glad for the sudden strangled gasp that erupted from Red Velvet’s throat.

Pastry whipped her head around to look at her companion, and her sense of relief vanished in an instant. Red Velvet was digging through the boxes and packages now, eyes wide as saucers, and his expression filled with horror. His movements were frantic and desperate, flinging sealed meals everywhere, to the point where one hit Pastry directly in the eye.

She cried out, but Red Velvet didn’t offer her anything more than a quick “sorry” as he heaved another box aside. Not long after, he seemed to find what he was looking for, dragging it out of the pile unceremoniously. Pastry blinked away the tears that had welled up in her eyes reflexively, and let out a gasp of her own.

Red Velvet had pulled a corpse out of the pile of boxes. He had dove back in, and was dragging more and more bodies out. There were three in total by the time he was done.

The only sound in the storage room was the sound of Pastry and Red Velvet’s breathing. The nun stared at the clay bodies before her, her chest suddenly tightening. One of the dogs had been almost completely shattered, cracked in half down the middle so badly, it was hanging on by a shard. The other two only had minor cracks, but they were just as dead as the others.

That was something Pastry had always hated about clay beasts. They didn’t bleed or bruise, they just… cracked. They shattered into pieces, like broken glass or a regular ceramic bowl. They were tough, but at the end of the day, they were nothing but objects that should never have been animated in the first place.

They didn’t seem like objects to Red Velvet. His face was solemn, but his eyes were filled with barely-restrained sorrow. He dropped to his knees and brushed his gloved hand across the shattered hound, a shuddering sigh pushing out of his chest.

Pastry swallowed hard. She should have expected this, she knew. One soldier an entire floor above wouldn’t be the only casualty of the collapse. Hell, there were likely dozens more below. The upper floors were relatively deserted, but how far down did the destruction go? Pastry thought of bodies piled up upon each other, crushed to death beneath the rubble, and shuddered.

Pastry thought of the clay beasts that could speak. The hounds generally couldn’t, she knew, but she couldn’t stop thinking of imaginary voices calling out for help. She bit her lip, hard, drawing blood from the already cracked skin.

“I… I’m so sorry.” Pastry felt the metal of her crossbow digging into her hands. She tightened her grip. Don’t lie to me, Red Velvet had said to her last time they came across a body. She gritted her teeth, tears springing to her eyes. She ignored her own shock, and forced herself to kneel next to Red Velvet.

She placed a hand on one of his shoulders. Blearily, the general looked over at her, and she nearly flinched. Red Velvet’s eyes… they held more than sorrow. They were filled with fear.

Pastry swallowed hard. “…Are you alright,” she asked, surprised by her softness. Red Velvet stared at her blankly for a moment before a shaky, thin smile crossed his face.

He laughed humorlessly. “I’m fine,” he said, his tone entirely unconvincing. “Just fine. Seeing the crushed bodies of my soldiers is fine.” His voice cracked, and he turned back to look at the lifeless bodies on the floor.

Pastry frowned. Something was deeply wrong. Red Velvet had moved on from the other dead soldier relatively quickly, but he was reacting to these three much more emotionally. He couldn’t have known them on a personal level, since they weren’t the type who could talk, and they certainly weren’t Chiffon, so…

Oh.

Pastry’s throat felt thick. Red Velvet’s worry for his favorite hound was palpable, and Pastry couldn’t help but feel for him. She took a deep breath and clasped her hands together to pray, but no words would come to mind. She knew funeral prayers, but none of them felt right. It almost seemed… disrespectful to pray over the broken bodies of these hounds.

So she stayed silent, not daring to look up at Red Velvet. She listened to the general breathe slowly, choking on air as he struggled not to cry. Pastry knew the feeling well— the feeling of wanting to remain strong. Wanting to scream and sob, but being unable to.

Pastry didn’t notice when she reached for Red Velvet’s clay hand, her fingers gently brushing against the coarse, rough fur that covered it. She did, however, notice when he brushed her hand back.

They didn’t lock hands entirely, but they didn’t let go either. They stayed that way for what felt like hours, and when they finally separated for a silent meal, Pastry’s hand felt empty.

Chapter Text

The shattered clay hounds were given a rather unceremonious burial. There wasn’t much Red Velvet could do other than dig a hole a pile of rubble and gently place the bodies inside. Pastry thought it was a bit inappropriate and crude, but Red Velvet refused to let the hounds sit lifelessly in the storage room forever. That, at least, was worth their time.

As Red Velvet covered the hounds with stones and dust, Pastry stood over him, a tight knot forming in her stomach. She remembered Chiffon, with his— admittedly adorable— face, yipping happily. She remembered the dog growling at her, unable to speak, yet so worried for his owner. These hounds, while much larger, were so similar to the sweet-looking pet.

Pastry bit her lip, her neck itching under her cowl. It had become incredibly uncomfortable over the past couple of weeks, and she was beginning to feel claustrophobic in her own clothes. They stuck to her skin in the most uncomfortable places, chafing her elbows and riding up her crotch to the point where she wanted to just tear them all off and be done with it. The only things stopping her from doing so were her vows of modesty, and the miniature funeral being held before her eyes.

Red Velvet was just about done covering up the bodies. His clay arm swept gravel over the last scrap of visible fur, and he grew still as the dust settled. He hadn’t looked up once since moving the bodies outside, and he was almost inhumanly quiet.

Pastry didn’t dare break the silence. The instinct to pray hadn’t quieted, but she ignored it to the best of her ability. Red Velvet seemed to appreciate it, at least, as his shoulders were relaxed. Slumped, but relaxed.

After what felt like hours. The general looked up slowly. His eyes met Pastry’s, solemn and heavy. The nun swallowed, pressing her lips together into a thin line.

Are you okay, she wanted to ask. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words refused to form on her lips. Red Velvet’s eyes softened, however, and he nodded. Pastry’s message had gotten across.

Red Velvet sighed, standing up and stretching. Pastry heard his joints crack, and winced. She didn’t sound much better when she stretched in the morning, but it was disconcerting to hear those noises coming from another person’s bones.

“We should get back to work.” Red Velvet’s voice stuck in his throat a bit, and he coughed once. He sniffed, and it was then that Pastry realized he had tears in his eyes. She blinked, eyes wide, and swallowed.

“Right,” she whispered, “yes.” She wanted to say something, anything else, but the words escaped her. She averted her eyes quickly, turning and shuffling away from the makeshift grave. She felt dirty both inside and out, wishing she could peel off her own skin and exchange it for another.

Red Velvet started after her, his heavy boots clomping on the tile floor. Pastry listened to his limping footsteps behind her, somewhat comforted by the uneven sounds. To her own surprise, however, she actually wished Red Velvet was in her line of sight. Her heart tugged in his direction, and she realized that she was worried about him.

Who wouldn’t be, she reasoned with herself. She shuddered, thinking of the crudely buried bodies of the clay hounds. She could only imagine how Red Velvet would feel, so anxious about his favorite pet.

Pastry had never had pets. Perhaps the closest thing she’d ever had was a spider she’d kept in a jar as a child, poking holes into the lid so it could breathe. It hadn’t lasted long— not nearly long enough for her to get attached. Pastry wished she knew what to do or say, but all she could do was allow her thoughts to run in circles.

She and Red Velvet spent the rest of the day sorting through the remaining boxes. They worked quickly and efficiently, even more so than before. Pastry wondered if it was because they were both eager to get it over with, once and for all.

In the end, there were over a hundred boxes of pre-packaged meals, and dozens of standard-issue emergency medical packs. Far more than what Pastry and Red Velvet would need while they were inside the tower. Hopefully.

There were no more bodies, thank the Witches. The three that had been buried were alone. It was as much of a relief to Pastry as it was to Red Velvet, whose expression became lighter with each passing hour. By the time they were finished organizing the room, he almost looked back to normal, if not a little more subdued.

After placing the last box, Pastry and Red Velvet re-wrapped their wounds. They worked in silence, each taking a medical pack and kneeling on the floor. The packs were stocked with wound tape, gauze, rescue blankets, and even a permanent marker. The use of the last item was beyond Pastry, though Red Velvet seemed to know his way around the packs well.

“It’ll be nice to have blankets.” Pastry jumped and looked over at Red Velvet, who blinked at her in the light of the crossbow. Pastry had placed it so it wouldn’t beam directly into his eyes. The sky blue of his irises was almost washed out in the harsh white light.

Pastry stared at Red Velvet. “I… suppose,” she said, frowning slightly. Why bring that up? Was he just making small talk?

The general sighed, lifting the edge of his shirt to check a scabbed-over wound on his side. Pastry turned her head quickly, closing her eyes for good measure as her cheeks burned with an instinctive blush. Red Velvet’s lack of modesty was a shock to Pastry, even though he had barely shown a sliver of his skin.

He was talking again as fabric rustled with his movements. “We could use the packs as bedding as well,” he commented apathetically. “It might be nice to wake up without dozens of sores.”

Pastry shifted awkwardly, leaning on her good leg for support. “Does this matter,” she asked, hoping her voice wasn’t as loud as it sounded in her head. “I think we have bigger things to worry about right—“

”I know.” Pastry clamped her mouth shut at Red Velvet’s words. His tone was harsh, cutting into her like a knife. The room fell silent for a moment. Then, the clay general sighed.

“I know,” he repeated, more softly this time. “You’re right. We should be discussing ways to get out of here.” His voice was strained. Pastry squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself, then turned slowly to look at Red Velvet.

He had smoothed his shirt back down, thankfully. Pastry relaxed at the sight of the black turtleneck being back in place. She felt ridiculous for being alarmed by such an innocuous thing… but she had never so much as seen another person shirtless in her life. Not even a woman. She wasn’t sure if she could handle that.

More importantly, however, Red Velvet didn’t look very enthused about talking about the problem at hand. His own gaze was averted, and he stared at the floor sadly. His posture was relatively normal, but it seemed that he was still stuck on his fallen soldiers. Pastry couldn’t blame him at all.

The nun bit her lip. She looked down at the medical pack that sat next to her, and the blanket that was packed tightly into a clear plastic package. She sighed.

“Perhaps it would do us some good to sleep,” Pastry muttered. She heard Red Velvet look up, and she turned to meet his gaze. Their eyes locked, and Pastry felt the full force of her companion’s worry hit her all at once. He looked deep into her eyes, though he seemed to almost be staring past her. As if he could see Chiffon, see the sun, if he just tried hard enough.

Yes, it would definitely be good to sleep. Pastry reached for the emergency blanket, tearing the packaging with her teeth and carefully unfolding the fabric inside. It was incredibly shiny, like foil, and it crinkled loudly, but it would suffice. Wordlessly, Pastry stood, limping to where Red Velvet knelt, and draped the blanket over his shoulders.

The clay general snapped out of whatever trance he had been in, eyes widening as he whipped his head around to look up at Pastry. The nun crossed her arms under her chest, almost protectively, and shuffled.

“We’re both rattled,” she admitted, hugging herself tightly. “I think… I think we should try to put this out of our minds. It doesn’t do any good to dwell on dark thoughts.” Booming laughter and crunching bones.

Red Velvet was stiller than a statue. He barely even seemed to breathe, let alone blink. When he spoke, his voice was oddly hollow, and Pastry found herself wanting to reach for his hand.

“Fine.” It was one word, but it was all Pastry needed. She exhaled, nodding once before reaching into Red Velvet’s medical pack and opening his rescue blanket. She sniffed, wrapping it around herself and sitting heavily on the floor next to Red Velvet.

There was no point in moving, really. They already had food and medical care in the storage room, so Pastry figured they might as well sleep there as well. She scooted a few feet away from Red Velvet after a moment, but other than that, she made no effort to leave the room.

Together, in silence, the two grabbed medical packs and laid down, resting their heads facing away from each other. Pastry quietly dimmed her crossbow’s light until it was gone entirely.

Then, with images of broken bodies behind her eyes, Pastry tried to sleep.

——————

A child with lavender hair peered up at the altar before her. She was praying. If she prayed, she knew, the nice women who called each other Sister would come and deliver food. She and her the other orphans never missed their daily prayers for this reason. The Divine almost always answered these prayers, and for that, the girl was grateful.

The cathedral doors swung open, and the girl with lavender hair looked up excitedly. Right on time, the Sisters had arrived! Her favorite was the one with mint green hair and round glasses. That one called herself Mother, and the orphan girl could see why. Strong, kind, and graceful, she was the picture of the mother the girl wished she had.

The Mother and Sisters came in with bags upon bags of food. The orphans rushed them, eagerly sharing their prayers in exchange for food. The Mother smiled down at them kindly, her sharp, yellow teeth glinting in the harsh light of the cathedral.

The little girl blinked. That wasn’t right. The Mother’s teeth were growing longer and sharper, her face elongating and warping until it was unrecognizable. The orphan girl shrieked, stumbling backwards.

Her own scream joined a chorus of dozens as the Sisters began to change. They grew taller and taller, until they burst through the cathedral roof and towered above the little girl who had not yet become Pastry.

Pastry, now an adult, watched as her friends fell screaming into a cavern filled with gnashing teeth. Bodies broke and tore to pieces in the pit, and children begged Pastry for help. They called for her using her old name, and she was unable to move despite the tears that fell in torrents from her eyes.

Snap. Crunch—

“PASTRY!”

Pastry nun woke with a scream on her lips, barely able to register the floor and walls trembling around her. She was hyperventilating, her breaths coming out in high-pitched wheezes that hurt her chest as she continued to scream out sobs. A wave of nausea racked her stomach, and she bolted upright violently.

She was sweaty and sticky, and her throat burned with each raspy wheeze and shout. She was hot and cold at the same time, and she could feel her entire body trembling. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t breathe, and oh, Witches, she was going to throw up.

Pastry barely managed to hold in her vomit, clapping one hand over her mouth and swallowing painfully. She gagged over and over again, commanding herself to calm down, to not be sick. She choked on the prayer that tried to force itself out of her lips, feeling hot tears soak the wrappings on her hands.

Something warm pressed into Pastry’s back— a large hand, too large to be anything human. Red Velvet. The general was saying something, but Pastry couldn’t hear him. All she could hear were the screams that still clung to her from her nightmare, and the sound of gnashing teeth.

“…Pastry.” Red Velvet’s voice cut through Pastry’s panic for a brief moment, and she doubled over again, pain shooting through her chest and stomach. “Pastry, I need you to name five things you can see.”

Pastry didn’t even think about that for more than a second. She dry heaved again, sobs choking her violently. “Name five things you can see,” Red Velvet insisted again, far more urgently. Pastry didn’t question him. All she wanted was a distraction, and so she jumped for the opportunity.

“Th-the floor…” Pastry could barely get the words out, and she was certain Red Velvet couldn’t understand her. “B-box… boxes. My-my hands, d-darkness, a-and the w… the wall…”

“Name four things you can touch.” Red Velvet was rubbing slow circles into her back with his clay hand. It was shockingly warm, and Pastry could feel her breaths slowing.

“My… hands. My habit. Th-the t-tiles… and… and bandages.”

“Three things you can hear.”

Pastry’s hands were still shaking, but it was getting easier to breathe. Her sobs were slowing, and the image of broken bodies was floating away farther with each item she listed. “Y-your voice, the— the tower m-moving, a-and my v-voice.”

“Two things you can smell.” Red Velvet had shifted to use both hands, working slow circles into Pastry’s back. The touch was grounding, and for once, Pastry couldn’t have cared less that unholy clay was touching her.

She sniffled. “Sweat… a-and dust.”

Red Velvet’s voice was barely above a whisper now, deep and soothing in a way Pastry had never heard from him. Not even during one of her earlier panic attacks, or when grieving his soldiers. “Good,” he said quietly. “Now, name one thing you can taste.”

Pastry took a slow, deep breath, hugging her arms around her waist tightly. “Tears,” she whispered, licking her lips and tasting salt. Her chest and throat burned from screaming and sobbing, but she could barely remember anymore why she had been doing so. She knew, of course, but the nightmare itself was but a distant memory.

They sat there in silence for a while. The only sound was Pastry’s slow, ragged breaths, and the sound of fabric rustling as Red Velvet continued to rub her back.

Hours, or maybe just minutes later, Pastry sniffed, wiping the remaining tears from her eyes and sighing. “…Thank you,” she mumbled numbly, her emotions wrung out like a wet towel.

Red Velvet paused, his hands stationary on Pastry’s back. “You’re welcome,” he said quietly. He made a noise, then shifted, removing his hands from Pastry’s back. The nun tried to ignore the odd tingling that came from where the general had touched, and tried even harder to ignore the sudden hollowness she felt.

“You were screaming so loudly.” Pastry turned to face Red Velvet, who met her eyes and continued with concern visible on his face. “I’m sorry for waking you, but…”

But it was the best thing to do. The statement died on his lips, but Pastry could see it in his eyes. Embarrassment creeped into the numbness for a moment, and she tucked her knees up to her chest, curling into a tight ball.

“It’s fine,” she said hoarsely. “I… appreciate it.” She would’ve rather died than spend another minute in the hell she knew she had experienced. She’d been through it so many times before, she didn’t need to remember specific dreams anymore. They were all the same, in the end.

Red Velvet didn’t need to ask what had caused the screaming. He knew exactly what Pastry had seen. He, himself, had seen it at a young age. Pastry’s stomach churned at the thought of a little boy seeing what she had witnessed, but she tried her hardest to banish the thoughts from her head.

A hand reached for Pastry’s, human fingers brushing against hers cautiously. Red Velvet tapped her knee silently, and Pastry looked up. His eyes asked permission, and he brushed her hand again.

Pastry blinked, wiping fresh tears from her eyes. She bit her lip, thinking of the Reverend Mother. She thought of her Sisters, then of the orphans she had left behind all those years ago. She nodded at Red Velvet, and when his hand slid into hers, she did not break away.

Chapter Text

“What did you dream about?”

Pastry looked up, swallowing the tasteless chicken that she was slowly picking at. She had been working on it for over an hour, and was barely halfway done. It wasn’t like there was much else to do, and truthfully, she didn’t really want to eat. She knew she didn’t have the luxury of skipping a meal, though, even if there was plenty to eat at the moment.

She pursed her lips, a bit of her earlier anxiety creeping back in. She had been trying to put that nightmare out of her head. It was working, for the most part, but she knew deep down what she had been screaming about.

She sighed. “I think you know,” Pastry said numbly. Red Velvet stared at her with a blank expression, picking at his own food just as slowly as she was. His shirt clung to his skin, and he had massive bags under his uninjured eye. He looked like a wreck. Pastry supposed she didn’t look much better.

Red Velvet blinked at her slowly. “I do know,” he muttered, “but I’d rather hear it from you. I know from experience that talking helps sometimes. You don’t have to say anything, but honestly, I want to talk to you about this.”

His earnest tone sent shivers down Pastry’s spine. Red Velvet could definitely be pushy at times, but this felt different. This time, something in the depths of his sky blue eyes compelled Pastry to answer, drawing the words from her throat with a shaky breath. Perhaps, in a way, she was eager to get it off her chest too.

“It was the Witches.” Pastry didn’t know if her hands were shaking or not, but she balled them into tight fists anyway. “I… don’t remember the details, but…”

She trailed off, unable to continue. She sniffled, though her eyes held no tears, and shivers wracked her body. She had been freezing cold since she’d woken up, even though she was still sweating profusely. It made her want to scream and scratch at her skin until her nails came away bloody.

Red Velvet shifted, scooting closer to Pastry until their knees touched. Since Pastry had allowed him to hold her hand, he’d become emboldened. The most he had done in the few hours since they’d woken up was touch her shoulder a few times, but it was still a bit of a shock to Pastry. To her own surprise, it wasn’t unwelcome in the slightest.

The general stared into Pastry’s eyes intensely. “I figured it was the Witches,” he said softly. “I’ve heard you talk in your sleep about them before, and… well, of course what you saw in the Ultimate Ether would stick with you.”

Pastry bristled, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. “I don’t talk in my sleep,” she protested weakly. Red Velvet’s eyes flashed with irritation for a brief second, though they returned to normal just as fast. That second, however, was enough to make Pastry clamp her mouth shut.

Red Velvet sighed softly. “Pastry,” he breathed quietly, “please don’t argue with me. This isn’t the time to get defensive.”

The nun swallowed, using her bandaged fingers to push her bag of chicken and rice around on the floor. She couldn’t look away from Red Velvet’s mismatched eyes, even as they seemed to stare directly into her soul.

“…Fine,” she whispered. “Regardless of whether I talk in my sleep or not, you’re right.” Pastry rubbed her thighs absentmindedly. When her hand brushed Red Velvet’s knee, she retracted it quickly. Something in the air was thick and uncomfortable, more than usual. Pastry would have rather crawled under a rock and died than deal with this.

She sighed. “How did you know what to do,” she asked, raising her voice ever so slightly. She abandoned her food entirely, pushing it aside and focusing entirely on Red Velvet. Under Pastry’s scrutiny, the general actually seemed to shrink a little. It was barely noticeable, but still there.

Red Velvet cocked his head slightly. “What do you mean by that,” he asked. He looked almost like a puppy, eyes wide and unblinking. Pastry resisted the urge to roll her eyes, biting her lip and shifting.

“I mean,” she huffed, “how did you know that… five, four, three… technique?” She fumbled over the word technique, unsure of her phrasing. Red Velvet seemed to understand, though, as he blinked and nodded in recognition.

The general sighed, leaning back on his hands and rolling his shoulders. His back popped uncomfortably, and he winced. “I used to have night terrors like that, too,” he admitted casually. As if that sentence hadn’t given Pastry whiplash.

Pastry’s jaw dropped, though she closed it quickly. “You did?” It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Red Velvet had only been a child when he saw the Night of the Witches. He couldn’t have been older than ten years old. Yet, Pastry had a hard time picturing him as anything but the war general before her.

Red Velvet nodded with a slightly amused smile. “I did,” he confirmed, sitting up straight again. He folded his hands over his lap, looking oddly polite. “For years, in fact. At one point, it got to the point where Dark Enchantress had to use magic to put me to sleep properly.”

Dark Enchantress. Pastry had honestly forgotten about the fact that the woman had taken Red Velvet from the tower. Images of gnashing teeth and smiling corpses had flooded her brain until she could remember almost nothing else.

Pastry bit her lip gently, tasting blood as the chapped skin split open yet again. She wondered if her lips would scar. “Dark Enchantress… helped you sleep?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

Red velvet gave her a dry look. “Don’t try and take this conversation away from yourself,” he said, his smile falling. Pastry gritted her teeth and glared.

“I’m not,” she lied. “I’m curious, Red Velvet. You know my secrets, so it’s only fair that I know yours!” It was a weak excuse for curiosity, Pastry knew. Red Velvet seemed to know too. He stared at her with a flash of irritation, then sighed.

“I really don’t know much about you,” he pointed out with a raised eyebrow. “You speak as if I’ve seen your childhood through magical visions. I think it’s more fair for you to talk about yourself first.”

Pastry had never wanted to punch someone in the face more than that very moment. She tried to tell herself her anger was irrational, but that only made her more irritated. “I asked you first,” she said petulantly. Her own childishness surprised her, and her ears burned with shame, but she held her ground. She crossed her arms under her chest and glared at Red Velvet, though her anger was mostly pretend.

Red Velvet rolled his eyes so hard, it seemed like they’d fall out of their sockets. He pinched the bridge of his nose, visibly gritting his teeth. Pastry stared at his teeth, shifting uncomfortably. She felt hot, and there was an odd pressure in her lower gut, like she had to pee.

“Alright.” Red Velvet sucked in a deep breath, then pushed it out again exasperatedly. “Alright, fine. Let’s just… take turns asking questions. Okay?” He didn’t seem all too happy about this arrangement, and Pastry wasn’t either, but she nodded anyway. She would rather not get into a fight.

She sighed. “Alright,” she said. “May I go first? I already asked you a question, so it’s only fair that you answer it.” Pastry scooted away from Red Velvet a little, finally breaking the contact between their knees. She tried to ignore the hollowness her whole body had been feeling since she had woken up.

Red Velvet frowned, opening his mouth, then closing it again. He seemed to think better of what he was about to say, closing his eyes for a moment to think. When he opened them again, he looked significantly less irritated, and his voice as he spoke was calmer.

“Fine,” he said. “Yes, Dark Enchantress helped me sleep. She took care of me for the better part of my childhood, so she did her best to make sure I was happy and healthy.”

Pastry’s eyes widened. “She… took care of you?” The nun tried to picture the cackling heretic she’d seen emerge from the First Oven caring for a young Red Velvet. Comforting him after a nightmare, being gentle with him when he needed it… The image was so jarring, Pastry couldn’t wrap her head around it.

Red Velvet noticed, and he chuckled softly. “Is it really so surprising that she cares about me,” he asked. “She was once one of the Ancient Heroes. Her anger and fear get in the way most of the time, but there is still a heart in her chest.”

Pastry stared into Red Velvet’s eyes, a lump forming in her throat. The general was so… convinced. He believed what he said so wholeheartedly, and as a result, Pastry couldn’t stop herself from believing him too. She knew what the Reverend Mother would say to this information— that it was heretical and foolish. That nobody who turned their backs on the Witches that much was beyond saving.

Pastry didn’t know if that was right anymore.

Red Velvet was leaning forward on his hands now, looking up at Pastry through his eyelashes. Each eye had a different eyelash color, she realized— black on the right, white on the left. It was… oddly pretty.

“My turn,” Red Velvet was saying, seemingly oblivious to Pastry’s internal observations. “How did you become a nun? I’ve been wondering for a while now.” His tone was genuinely curious, and his earlier irritation was all but gone now. Pastry wasn’t complaining, but she did wonder why he’d gotten over it so quickly.

Pastry swallowed, biting her lip as she contemplated the question. Red Velvet knew exactly what he was doing, that much was clear. “I…” The nun sighed. “I was an orphan. In the Créme Republic.” She felt odd, sharing details about her life, but… Red Velvet was right. In a way, this was evening the scales between them.

“The St. Pastry Order would feed the orphans and teach us scripture,” Pastry continued. “When they taught us about the unholy beasts… I wanted to…” She trailed off, her face growing hot. I wanted to dedicate my life to eradicating them. It felt so wrong to say, especially right to Red Velvet’s face. Especially since she wasn’t sure she even wanted that anymore.

Darkness crossed Red Velvet’s face for a brief moment. He had understood, then. Pastry adjusted her skirts, looking down at the wrinkled, dirty fabric. She could barely tell the habit was purple anymore, it was so disgusting. She wished she could disappear.

Pastry heard rustling fabric, and a hand tapped her knee gently. She looked up to see Red Velvet, who rested his cheek on his clay arm. “So you were indoctrinated as a child,” he said evenly. Pastry sniffed and nodded, moving her legs so she could press her knees to her chest. They were cramping badly, and to top it all off, the odd needing to pee feeling hadn’t gone away.

To her shock, Red Velvet’s eyes filled with pity. He straightened his spine, staring Pastry down with an intense gaze. “That explains quite a lot about you,” he said monotonously. It wasn’t an insult, that much was clear, but something about it made Pastry squirm anyway.

She shook her head, banishing the feeling. The sensation between her legs was beginning to calm too, thankfully. “Whatever,” she mumbled. She put her knees down, crossing her legs under her skirt. She inhaled, then asked her next question: “Did you have parents?”

Red Velvet stilled, eyes fixed on Pastry blankly. The nun shifted, wishing she could pluck her words out of the air. She hadn’t really been curious about her companion’s family until he’d mentioned his apparent mother figure, but it appeared that it was a bit of a touchy subject.

The general blinked slowly. “Did you,” he asked, raising an eyebrow pointedly. Pastry frowned, but she bit her lip, more of her own blood filling her mouth. She lapped it up quickly, but she did not speak.

Her silence served as an answer. Red Velvet nodded, clearly satisfied. Pastry fiddled with the edge of the bandages on her hands, unsure of what to do with herself. Her body felt normal again, but with that normality came a blanket of numb awkwardness that she didn’t know what to do with.

“…What happened to your parents?”

Pastry jumped at the sound of Red Velvet’s voice, spikes of fear stabbing into her for a brief second before they melted into dread. “What do you mean,” she asked lamely. Red Velvet stared at her drily, though his expression wasn’t cruel. He looked almost concerned, even, and that alone was enough to break Pastry’s guard.

She took a deep breath, then sighed. “I never knew them,” she admitted. “I was left on the cathedral’s doorstep as a baby. The Reverend Mother told me that Providence delivered me to her, as a gift.” The words rang hollow. Pastry had always known deep down that those saccharine reassurances were empty and untrue. It was much, much harder to ignore that in the Godly Tower.

Red Velvet hummed lightly. “I knew mine for a few years,” he said. Pastry blinked at him, and he gave her a wry smile. “They were eaten,” he continued. “I don’t remember it happening, but I do know that it was the same night I lost my arm. I think I was around four years old at the time, and I’ve had time to forget and heal.”

Pastry covered her mouth with her hands, feeling them begin to shake. “I—“ She cut herself off, her voice cracking painfully. She swallowed, the lump in her throat preventing her from doing so smoothly. “Oh, Witches, I…”

“Save your apologies.” Red Velvet’s smile softened a bit, his eyes shining with slight amusement and pity. “I don’t remember that night at all, beyond a few vague images, and the night terrors have stopped. As far as I’m concerned, Dark Enchantress is my mother, and this—“ he held up his right arm— “is my arm. This is my life, and I’m alright with that.”

Pastry stared at Red Velvet, dumbfounded. Slowly, she lowered her hands, blinking away the horrified tears that had begun to pool in her eyes. What was she supposed to do with this information? Was she supposed to go on as if nothing had changed? How could she possibly do that, knowing that Red Velvet had lost everything to her gods?

Mine. Not mine. She didn’t know which was right anymore. The church was all she had, but… how could she possibly return there, knowing what she knew? What would the Reverend Mother think knowing that she had not only failed her task of killing the clay general, but that her doubts had worsened?

“Pastry.” A human hand graced the nun’s, and Pastry looked up. Red Velvet looked blurry, and Pastry realized that she had been crying. Her face burned red hot, and she wiped her tears frantically.

“I’m sorry,” she choked. “I’m… I don’t know what…”

“It’s fine.” Red Velvet’s expression was serious, and he was leaning forward. He was barely a foot away from Pastry’s face, and the nun found that she couldn’t look away.

“We shouldn’t dwell on this for too long,” Red Velvet said softly. “We’re both in emotional states, and we can’t think rationally. We should eat, then rest a little, and try to put things out of our minds. Alright?”

Pastry didn’t like the idea of eating and resting, but she didn’t have much of a choice. So, she nodded quietly, pressing her dirty sleeve to her eyes and sniffling. She heard Red Velvet stand up and limp a few feet away. A few moments later, Red Velvet was walking back over, and a rescue blanket was being draped over Pastry’s shoulders.

She got an odd sense of deja vu like this, wrapped in a blanket like a newborn baby. She had done the same for Red Velvet not long ago. In more ways than one, they were incredibly alike, Pastry realized.

She found that she didn’t really mind.

Chapter Text

Pastry was going to go insane.

She had stopped keeping track of the days, though she knew it couldn’t have been more than a few since her last night terror. She wasn’t upset at Red Velvet, or even herself this time, but being trapped in one place for so long was bringing her to her wits’ end.

The nun felt slimy and disgusting. Her entire body itched, and she wanted to crawl out of her own skin. She could do nothing but pace the floor at this point, counting the steps over and over until she had the length and width of the available space memorized. Then, she paced them again, until her feet fell like they were going to fall off.

Red Velvet spent a lot of time in the storage room. He was clearly just as uncomfortable as Pastry. Whenever he emerged from the storage room, he was always scratching his arms and legs. He had long since removed the single glove he wore, rolling up his sleeves to expose his beefy forearms.

Pastry’s intense discomfort had gotten much worse since then. Well… she couldn’t exactly call this “discomfort.” How she felt when she looked at Red Velvet— his sharp jawline, the way his sweat-covered turtleneck clung to his toned chest and abs— was not exactly unpleasant. Pastry had no idea what to call it, though, beyond “strange.”

So, she avoided looking at the war general. She busied herself with her pacing, or trying fruitlessly to come up with ideas on how to get to the next floor. The black abyss that began about halfway across the room almost seemed to mock Pastry as she measured its length with her footsteps.

It only took a few days for Red Velvet to take a break. Pastry didn’t know what he had been doing in the storage room, but he seemed to be deep in thought as he took a seat outside the door. He carried a prepackaged meal with him, and he tore it open with a large, terrifyingly sharp claw.

“Are you going to stand there and stare at me all day, or are you going to eat as well?” Red Velvet’s voice startled Pastry, and she averted her eyes quickly. Her face was hot, more sweat beading on her forehead. She wanted to scream.

She instead sighed, forcing herself to cross her arms. Even her chest felt strange. “I’m not hungry,” she huffed, not untruthfully. She truly wasn’t hungry at all. Or maybe she had just gotten sick of the tasteless, mushy food that barely even qualified as such.

Fabric rustled as Red Velvet shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself,” he hummed. “Have you at least been thinking of ways to get down?” His tone was so casual— as if their lives didn’t depend on this. Even if they had food and water, the tower could still collapse at any second. Not only that, but Pastry was certain they would get some kind of infection from how dirty they were.

The nun sighed. “I’ve been trying,” she said, risking a glance in Red Velvet’s direction. He looked oddly relaxed, though his posture was as perfect as ever. He peered up at Pastry through his long eyelashes, flashing her a tiny smile.

“It seems we’re both stuck in a rut,” he said with a chuckle. “I suppose we could try and jump off the edge, but…”

“…That would be suicide.” Pastry completed the sentence with a bitter laugh. She rubbed her face roughly, ignoring the sting of the still-healing scabs on her hands. “Great,” she said, her voice cracking hard. ”Great. Neither of us have any ideas! Witches, we’re going to die here…”

“Hey,” Red Velvet barked. “I won’t hear any of that.” He stood up quickly, marching over to Pastry in only three strides, even with his still-present limp. It had improved since he fell in the second collapse, but he was still clearly hurt. Pastry, at least, could walk steadily now.

The nun swallowed, unable to look away from Red Velvet’s now-close face. The general wore a frown, though he wasn’t angry. Rather, he seemed determined. “You’re the one who got us to this floor by being so stubborn,” he pointed out. “You can’t give up now, Pastry.”

“I know,” Pastry said, barely able to keep herself from whining. “I know, I just… it’s…”

“It’s hard.” Pastry jumped as a hand was placed on her shoulder. She blinked at Red Velvet, who stared down at her with sky blue eyes. “Believe me,” he said, “I know it’s hard, but you pulled me out of hopelessness before. I’m willing to do the same for you if I must.”

Red Velvet was so close. His hand, his bare hand, was on Pastry’s shoulder. The woman’s mind was torn between these details and what Red Velvet was actually saying. She couldn’t quite focus on either, even as she managed to wiggle out of her companion’s grip. What’s happening to me, she wondered with a shiver that wracked her entire body. Like the feeling between her legs, it was new, but not unpleasant.

She bit her lip. “Th-thank you,” she mumbled, flinching as she stuttered. She couldn’t quite place why she was so nervous.

It wasn’t like she was afraid of Red Velvet. Those feelings had left her a long time ago, crumbling to dust with the tower itself. This was a different kind of anxiety. A kind she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Red Velvet was pushing something into Pastry’s hands. The nun gave a start, and she looked down to see a small water bottle. “It would do you some good to at least drink something,” Red Velvet said, seemingly oblivious to Pastry’s turmoil. “Take this. When you’re done, perhaps we could try and brainstorm ideas together?”

With this, Red Velvet’s voice changed slightly. It took on an almost nervous quality, less certain of himself. Pastry blinked rapidly, frowning in confusion. She opened her mouth to ask what was going on, but Red Velvet was already turning to walk away. His arm fell limply at his side, almost awkwardly. Something was definitely off.

Yet, Pastry was not one to pry. At least not when it came to this sort of thing. She sighed, her face flushing bright red, and began to open the offered water bottle.

No matter how much water she drank, Pastry felt that she would never be fully satisfied. It wasn’t like she had an over abundant supply. She and Red Velvet only drank with each meal. Pastry didn’t know much about the human body, but she was sure she needed more than three sixteen-ounce water bottles per day.

Still, it was enough. Pastry was still alive, and so was Red Velvet. They were alive together, surviving together. It was a comfort to Pastry now, to know that she had someone with her. She had even begun to feel grateful that it was Red Velvet she had been trapped with, rather than anyone else. Being stuck in this desecrated holy place with the Reverend Mother, or even another Sister, would be…

Well. It would be Hell.

Pastry swallowed her last gulp of water, trying to banish that thought from her head. You should be eager to go back to the church, she scolded herself, hearing the Reverend Mother’s voice in her head instead of her own. Her stomach dropped when that thought only worsened her feelings of dread.

She sighed heavily, tossing the empty water bottle aside and burying her face in her hands. She had long since stopped feeling bad for littering in the Godly Tower. It was ruined, anyway. It would probably never be restored to its former glory at all.

“Pastry?” Red Velvet had sat down to finish his meal, though he was now standing again. “Are you alright?” His eyes shone in the harsh white light of Pastry’s crossbow. They were filled to the brim with soft concern.

Pastry peered at him through her fingers, then lowered her hands quietly. “I’m fine,” she lied. “Are you?”

“…Yes.” Red Velvet hesitated.

The room fell silent as the two stared at each other. Two pairs of blue eyes were locked together, barely blinking for what felt like hours. Neither wanted to move, even as Pastry’s legs began to burn from standing for so long after walking back and forth for hours.

Eventually, Red Velvet sighed, breaking the uncomfortable quiet. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “shall we get to work? Standing here isn’t going to get us anywhere.” He looked away from Pastry shiftily, nudging his food waste aside. The room was beginning to fill with the smell of rotting food. Minimal leftovers were building up quickly, and some had already begun to spoil.

Pastry chewed her already-raw lip, nodding silently. She followed Red Velvet into the storage room, the wheels in her head going a mile a minute. The fluttery feeling in her stomach was calming, at least. That was one less thing to worry about.

Together, she and Red Velvet took stock of the storage room for what felt like hours. They had done it dozens of times before, but there was little else to do. It quickly became clear that neither of them had any ideas for what to do.

Pastry was at her wit’s end. The more she moved, the more her habit and tights chafed at her skin. She moved box after box, medical pack after medical pack, and each one pushed her a little closer to the edge. She was hanging on by a thread, she felt.

In the end, Red Velvet was the final push she needed. He, too, looked incredibly uncomfortable and irritated. He scratched at himself constantly, as Pastry did, and he seemed like he wanted to scream out loud in frustration. He was just as close to breaking as Pastry was, and when he finally did, it was almost a relief.

Halfway through the large storage room, Red Velvet grunted and threw down the box he had been holding. “I can’t work like this,” he grumbled, grabbing the bottom of his shirt. Pastry barely had any time to realize what was happening, and she watched dumbfounded, as Red Velvet all but tore his shirt off.

Immediately, Pastry squeaked, covering her eyes so quickly, she slapped herself in the face. She could feel her blush through the bandages on her fingers, and her head buzzed with shock. “What’s wrong with you,” she shrieked, uncaring as the building began to tremble. “Red Velvet, what— w-what the hell?!”

“Relax,” Red Velvet grumbled, his voice gruff and irritated. “I’m not entirely shirtless. And is this really the time to be prudish, Sister?”

“I told you not to call me that!” Pastry did not dare to remove her hands from her eyes, but to her own horror, she could imagine what Red Velvet looked like without his shirt. Sculpted features, rippling muscles—

Stop thinking about it! Pastry all but screamed at herself, turning to face away from her companion, for good measure. Why am I thinking about this?! The feeling between her legs returned, and the rest of her body began to feel hot. She was floating and sinking at the same time, her heart was racing, and her breathing was rapid, and…

Oh. Oh, no.

Pastry wanted to jump off the side of the tower. Some part of her couldn’t help but feel embarrassed that she hadn’t recognized what she was feeling earlier. She had felt it before— for a couple of Sisters that had been particularly enchanting. Asking the Reverend Mother about it had resulted in a very long lecture that left Pastry feeling unclean and ashamed. Those feelings, however, had never been quite this bad.

Pastry was attracted to Red Velvet. And the idea of him being shirtless was making her deeply, deeply aroused.

A hand touched Pastry’s shoulder, and she nearly jumped a mile high. She whirled around on instinct, though she pressed her hands down harder, digging the heels of her palms into her closed eyes painfully. Oh, Witches, she was going to go to Hell for this. If she wasn’t before, she certainly was now. What would the Reverend Mother say if she knew about this? How bad would Pastry’s punishments be?

Would she be made to “disappear,” as many of her Sisters had before her?

“Hello? Earthbread to Pastry.” Red Velvet’s clay hand gently grabbed Pastry’s wrists. The nun felt her hands move away from her eyes, forced by Red Velvet’s impressive strength. Pastry squeezed her eyes shut tighter, hoping and praying that her face wasn’t as red as it felt.

“You can open your eyes, you know.” Pastry shook her head, unable to speak. Red Velvet sighed, audibly rolling his eyes. “I have an undershirt,” he said drily. “Really, you act like you’ve never seen a man shirtless before. They’re practically everywhere, you know.”

“For your information,” Pastry snapped, “I haven’t. Not everyone is a— a degenerate! This sort of behavior is not allowed in the convent!”

“…Right. I forgot about that.” To Pastry’s shock, Red Velvet seemed genuinely apologetic as he spoke. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you. I was… very uncomfortable, so I won’t apologize for removing my shirt, but I should have at least told you what I was doing.”

Pastry swallowed hard, pressing her thighs together tightly. “It’s fine,” she squeaked out, sweat dampening her coif once more. She felt even more claustrophobic now, especially considering the warmth that was spreading throughout her body.

She took a deep breath, then pushed it out, steeling herself. Then, she slowly opened her eyes, bracing herself for the worst. She could do this, she told herself. Red Velvet said he wasn’t completely exposed, and Pastry had no reason not to trust that. It was okay. It wasn’t a big deal.

It turned out that it was, in fact, okay. Under his black turtleneck, Red Velvet was wearing an undershirt. It was thin, and just as sweat-soaked as his shirt, but it was there. That thin layer of white fabric was the only thing keeping Pastry from keeling over right then and there.

She let out a shaky laugh, blinking away the relieved tears that began to gather in her eyes. “S-sorry,” she said nervously. “I ah… I overreacted.”

Red Velvet blinked, crossing his arms with a sigh. His biceps were thick, muscles rippling under smooth skin and look away, Pastry, look away.

“You did,” Red Velvet said, blinking slowly at Pastry’s rapidly reddening face. “But I don’t blame you. You can’t exactly have seen much of the world before the church indoctrinated you.”

Indoctrinated her. As if Pastry hadn’t made the choice to join. Though, she wasn’t quite sure if it had ever been her choice.

Pastry didn’t voice her thoughts. Instead, she cleared her throat roughly, trying hard not to stare at Red Velvet’s arms. Still, she couldn’t help but notice the way his sweat was beginning to dry, and the painful creases in his skin where his shirt had bunched up were smoothing out already.

Pastry took a deep breath. Something broke inside of her, at long last, and she reached up slowly toward the veil that was still miraculously perched on her head.

“I can’t do this anymore either,” she whispered. Then, with that, she began to undress herself slowly.

Her veil and coif were discarded, freeing her long tresses of lavender hair. The tight bun she usually kept it in had fallen out long ago, and her hair spilled over her shoulders in loose curls. Her capelet and dress were removed as well, along with her gloves and the rope belt that she tied around her waist.

In the end, all that was left were her own undershirt, her tights, and her underwear. Even though she wasn’t truly exposed, she felt naked. Her bare skin kissed the air for the first time in weeks, and though her entire body burned with fear and shame, she couldn’t hold back the sigh of relief that escaped her lips.

Pastry could feel eyes burning into her, and she looked up to see Red Velvet… staring. His eyes were wide, and one hand was half-raised to his face, as if he had just stopped covering his eyes. Hypocrite.

“You act like you’ve never seen a woman’s arms before,” Pastry squeaked. She intended her words to be a harsh reflection of Red Velvet’s, but they came out weak and nervous. She had never been this exposed before, except to her Sisters. Even that paled in comparison to how she felt now.

Red Velvet was silent for a while, his eyes tracking up and down Pastry’s body. The nun stood her ground, crossing her arms while trying not to move enough to expose herself more. Her tights still itched her legs, but she refused to remove them. That was a barrier she would not tear down.

Finally, after what felt like days, Red Velvet cleared his throat roughly, averting his eyes. “Using my words against me,” he muttered. “How mature of you.” His words held no real venom, and Pastry let out a high, relieved laugh.

“Says the flustered hypocrite,” she said, allowing her shoulders to relax. Red Velvet chuckled as well, and the tension in the room cleared slightly. Breaking the vow of modesty wasn’t as terrifying as Pastry had imagined it to be, and the Reverend Mother’s voice in the back of her head was beginning to quiet.

The room fell silent once more, though this time it was a much more comfortable quiet. Red Velvet was staring at the discarded pile of clothing, a slight frown on his face. Pastry had half a mind to ask him what he was thinking about, but before she could, his eyes suddenly widened.

“A rope.”

Pastry blinked slowly, frowning at Red Velvet. “What,” she asked, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“We can make a rope.” Red Velvet pointed at Pastry’s discarded belt. “If we tie the rescue blankets together, and maybe add our clothes and this belt…”

Pastry’s eyes blew so wide, she felt as if they would roll right out of their sockets. “We can get to the next floor,” she breathed, excitement slowly building in her body. “Oh my Witches, you’re right!”

Red Velvet broke into a grin, his razor-sharp teeth reflecting the light of Pastry’s crossbow into her eyes. “I told you we’d figure something out,” he laughed. Pastry didn’t think she’d ever seen the general smile this wide, especially not since burying the three clay bodies that still laid under a pile of rubble nearby.

Pastry smiled back. “Yes,” she said, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. “You did.”

Chapter Text

Pastry was not very good at tying knots. That much became evident as she tried in vain to link the rescue blankets together. Every time she thought she managed to get it right, Red Velvet would comment that her knots would never hold their weight. It was getting frustrating, and Pastry couldn’t help but feel useless as Red Velvet took on more and more of the task at hand.

There was also the fact that Pastry was… distracted. It was becoming increasingly difficult for her to focus working next to Red Velvet. His arms were as thick as tree trunks, or so it seemed, and Pastry often ended up staring at them for far longer than she should have.

Pervert, she scolded herself, face burning with shame as she forced herself to look away from her companion for the umpteenth time. She had already come close to breaking her vow of chastity the night before, barely able to stop herself from giving into the urge to satisfy herself.

It didn’t help that she was more exposed to another person than she had ever been in her life. Everything was that much more accessible, and it was getting harder to resist temptation with every day that passed. She was so close to just throwing herself off the edge of the floor, she was so humiliated and ashamed.

Instead, she tried her hardest to copy Red Velvet’s knots. He was impressively quick with tying them, and when he tugged on the makeshift rope to test its strength, it seemed like it would hold. Pastry, on the other hand, fumbled.

The nun sighed exasperatedly as her knots failed yet again. “How are you so good at this,” she grumbled, refusing to look up at Red Velvet as she spoke. Next to her, he shifted, and his leg brushed hers. Pastry recoiled on instinct, though she tried to cover her flinch with a fake cough. One that quickly turned into a real cough as she inhaled her own saliva.

“Breathe slowly,” Red Velvet commented unhelpfully. Pastry finally looked up to glare at him, her eyes watering as her face burned. The general’s lips twitched into a slight smile, and he chuckled. “You look ridiculous right now,” he said lightheartedly.

“And you look like a jerk,” Pastry protested through her coughs. She cleared her throat roughly, swallowing the rest of her spit before scowling childishly.

Red Velvet laughed again, the sound lighting Pastry’s heart on fire. “To answer your question,” he said, either oblivious to or ignoring Pastry’s wide eyes and intense blush, “I’ve had a lot of practice. Dark Enchantress taught me, and I have to teach every new soldier as well. You tend to get good at knots if you tie them often enough.”

Pastry continued to glare at her companion, though she knew she wasn’t truly angry. Embarrassed and flustered, yes, but not angry. She found it difficult to get truly angry with Red Velvet, as of late. She blamed her… rather unfortunately-timed crush.

There was no other word for it. Pastry had a crush on Red Velvet. It was born entirely of circumstance, she thought to herself, and she knew that it would go away eventually. She clung to that eventually with a vice grip. Late at night, Pastry decided to herself that she would not let her feelings get to her. She would bury them deep, deep down, and watch as they withered like flower petals under the hot summer sun.

It was easier said than done. There was no one else to talk to other than Red Velvet, and it wasn’t like Pastry could physically distance herself. The best she could do was sleep outside of the storage room— Red Velvet’s location of choice. During their waking hours, however, they had to work directly next to each other. Especially now, tying knots that, much to Pastry’s frustration, still fell apart in her hands.

“Pastry?” The nun looked up sharply, trying to ignore the butterflies that formed in her stomach at the way Red Velvet looked at her. He tilted his head to the side, arching a single eyebrow curiously. “You’ve been struggling for some time now,” he pointed out, to Pastry’s chagrin. “Do you want some help?”

Pastry scoffed, her blush spreading to her ears. “I’m fine,” she insisted lamely. “I’ll figure it out. I just need to watch you.”

“You’ve been watching me for an hour.” Red Velvet tugged another knot tight, moving to add the next blanket to the chain. “I think we would work more efficiently if both of us knew how to tie a proper knot.”

Pastry opened her mouth to protest, only to shut it with a flustered pout. She hated getting riled up so easily. She remembered being scolded as a child for crying over spilled milk— literally and figuratively. It was somewhat nice to know, however, that she wouldn’t face judgment here.

Well. Beyond the amusement that glinted in Red Velvet’s eyes.

The general shifted, uncrossing his legs and moving to kneel facing Pastry. He handed her one end of their makeshift rope, taking the other into his own hands. “Open a medical pack,” he ordered, taking on a slightly authoritative tone.

Rather than protesting, Pastry held her tongue and obeyed. She pulled out a rescue blanket, and looked over at Red Velvet for guidance. He nodded at her, and began to twist his own blanket tightly. To the point where it more resembled a whip than a blanket.

Pastry copied him. All the while, she fought to keep her eyes on his hands, rather than his biceps. Though, she supposed, his hands weren’t much better to look at. Not because of the cake hand— no, that was becoming less and less of a problem for Pastry. As Red Velvet had told her, his arm was just… his arm. Even if it was unholy, it wasn’t like he could change it. And maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Red Velvet lead Pastry through the steps of tying a double sheet bend knot with surprising patience. When Pastry made a mistake, threading the end of the sheet through the wrong loop, or when her sheet came untwisted, he corrected her gently and kindly. He clearly hadn’t been lying when he said that he taught these skills to young soldiers. It was endearing, and frankly, adorable.

Shove it down, Pastry. Shove it down.

“There you go!” Red Velvet beamed at Pastry, his teeth on full display. Pastry quickly looked down at her knot, her heart swelling with pride. It looked just like Red Velvet’s, albeit a bit looser. The nun cracked a tiny smile, chuckling lightly.

“You’re a good teacher,” she commented sincerely. Quickly, she tightened her knot, pulling with all of her strength. She managed to get it just as tight as Red Velvet’s knots, much to her delight. She may not have been quite as strong as her friend, but she was not weak, by any means.

“You’re a good student,” Red Velvet replied, patting Pastry lightly on the shoulder. He turned back to his end of the rope, tying the next blanket while Pastry fought back a shiver. “You learn quickly, and you’re very good at following directions. Under different circumstances, you would make an excellent soldier.”

This gave Pastry pause. She looked up, frowning slightly. “Are you saying,” she said warily, “that you would want me under your command?” She wasn’t sure how she felt about the idea. On one hand, she was utterly repulsed by the idea of betraying the church and changing sides to the unholy. On the other hand, the silly, frivolous part of her dreamed of spending more time next to Red Velvet.

The clay general’s eyes were wide now, staring down at his hands as he sped up his knot-tying. He cleared his throat loudly, sweat beading on his forehead. “I don’t think it would be a bad thing,” he said quickly. “I’m not asking you to change sides, of course, but I believe you would do well with the Army of Darkness.”

Was it Pastry’s imagination, or was Red Velvet… nervous? The nun’s hands stilled for a moment before she banished the thought and got back to work. It was ridiculous, she told herself. She was looking for feelings that weren’t there, or projecting her own flustered anxiety onto Red Velvet. She was the problem here, the one skewing her own perceptions. Shut up, stupid heart,

“I would never join your side,” Pastry insisted, puffing out her chest with a hmph. “I appreciate the compliment, but you’re wrong. I wouldn’t last a day with you heretics.” Her protests were not as vehement as she would have liked. Oh, she was so screwed.

Red Velvet laughed, finishing another knot and moving on to the next. “I don’t know about that,” he said, his shoulders relaxing as he teased Pastry lightheartedly. “You’re very strong, and your determination is impressive. I truly think we could use someone like you on our team.” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “Besides,” he continued more quietly, “it would be nice to have someone there who I can actually get along with.”

Pastry was going to explode. No, she was going to do more than that. She was going to evaporate. Her face turned red, and she instinctively covered her mouth to hide it. “Don’t say that,” she hissed, far louder than she intended. Seeing the look of shock and… hurt… on Red Velvet’s face made her backtrack quickly.

“I…” She swallowed. “You don’t mean that. We both know that this alliance is temporary. When we get out, we‘ll be enemies again.” It would be for the best, she knew, but she couldn’t stop her stomach from sinking with dread and despair at the thought of being trapped in the church again.

Trapped? Pastry blinked. She had never had that thought before. The St. Pastry Order was her home. It always had been, even before she had officially been baptized. She shouldn’t feel trapped there, and yet… she still dreaded the idea of going back.

Red Velvet shifted in place, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I know,” he insisted. “You’re right— we are still on opposite sides of a war. I’m just making an observation.”

“A foolish one.” Pastry immediately wished she could take the words back. The Reverend Mother would hate her for feeling guilty. She shouldn’t have cared about Red Velvet’s feelings, but… it was so, so hard not to. The tenderness he had shown her, the way he cared so much about his hounds, made it impossible not to like him.

Pastry liked him. Even beyond the sense of having a crush, she liked him. He had done nothing but surprise her, and it wasn’t a bad thing. He was the only reason she had enjoyed moments of being trapped. Even through her night terrors, and their numerous injuries, she had been able to smile because of Red Velvet.

Now, the clay general was looking down, working silently with a solemn expression on his face. Pastry’s breath hitched, and she began to work on her end of the rope with shaking hands.

“…Thank you,” she said quietly. She heard Red Velvet look up, but she didn’t meet his eyes. “Ignoring the fact that we’re on opposite sides,” she muttered, “I am flattered. And… for what it’s worth, I think that, under different circumstances… you would do well outside of the Army of Darkness.”

There was a long, pregnant pause. Red Velvet tugged a knot tight, then sighed heavily. “Right,” he said. “Different circumstances.”

They spent the rest of the hour in silence, aside from the crinkling of the reflective rescue blankets. The air was thick and heavy, awkward in a way that made Pastry’s skin crawl. She scratched her legs absentmindedly. Her tights were torn and running in some places, leaving parts of her thighs exposed. It made her want to squirm, but there was little she could do about it now.

Minutes later, the rope was finished. Pastry stared at her and Red Velvet’s handiwork, picking at the bandages on her hands. She could probably get away with taking them off completely, she mused to herself as Red Velvet gathered up the rope.

“Well,” he sighed, finally breaking the silence, “shall we? This should be long enough to reach the next floor, so…”

“Oh.” Pastry labored to stand, wincing as her neck and back popped from sitting in place for so long. “Ah. Yes.” Her words caught in her throat, and no matter how hard she tried to free them, they wouldn’t budge.

Red Velvet watched her for a moment. Then, he offered a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come on,” he said softly. “It doesn’t do any good to dwell on ‘what ifs.’ Let’s just keep moving forward.”

Pastry bit her lip, frowning. “But…” The words died, and she sighed heavily. “Fine. Let’s go.” She followed Red Velvet outside, following his command to take as many boxes of pre-packaged meals as possible. She took three, barely able to balance, and thought as she walked, the pit of guilt in her stomach widening with each step.

Different circumstances. Pastry peered around the boxes to look at Red Velvet’s clay arm. She swallowed. She had never wished for different circumstances harder.

Chapter Text

“It looks like the rope is long enough.”

Pastry, to her own embarrassment, jumped at the sound of Red Velvet’s voice. He was standing at the very edge of the room, where the floor dropped off in a jagged edge. He raised an eyebrow, twisting their makeshift rope around his wrist once to anchor it. The rope was taut, weighed down by the boxes of food Pastry had brought from the storage room.

“Hello? Are you alright, Pastry?” Red Velvet began to draw the food back up, making quick work of the task with his impressive strength. Pastry supposed it made sense for him to be so strong, considering the massive sword he usually carried around, but that didn’t stop her from feeling a bit intimidated.

No, intimidated wasn’t the right word. Pastry was attracted to Red Velvet’s power. Even his clay arm was beginning to look less unholy, and more enticing. Even after arguing with Red Velvet mere hours ago, it seemed that Pastry couldn’t go for long without her urges making an entrance.

The nun sighed. “I’m fine,” she answered after a pause that dragged on for far too long. She dug her nails into her palms, feeling her healing scabs sting. “Just thinking about what the plan should be from here.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. She had thought about that a little bit. Food transportation would be the biggest issue, in her opinion, but she had no idea how to fix the problem. How were they supposed to lug around enough food to last in the case of an emergency?

There was no way to tell how easy it would be to get from floor to floor. Either collapse could have caused more floors to cave in. In that case, Pastry and Red Velvet would be stuck again. Even if they weren’t, and the rope was long enough to take them further, there could be more obstacles.

Of course, if there were no obstacles… Pastry and Red Velvet could be out of the tower within a day. It had only taken Pastry a few hours to climb up the first time, and going down would arguably be easier, depending on the state of the stairs. It wouldn’t be long before the nun and the general parted ways, likely forever.

Pastry didn’t like the way her stomach sank at the thought.

She sighed, blinking out of her thoughtful trance just in time to see Red Velvet hoist the boxes of food up fully. The end of the rope had been tied into a sort of harness, somehow managing to hold all three boxes Pastry had brought over.

Red Velvet sighed, setting down his end of the rope and stretching his arms toward the sky. “Well,” he said with a sharp exhale, “like I said, it looks like we’ll be able to get down. There seems to be a bit of a drop after the rope ends, since the boxes never hit the ground, but I know how tall the ceilings here are. It shouldn’t be tall enough to hurt you.”

Pastry blinked at Red Velvet and bit her lip. “Me?” The phrase rubbed her the wrong way, adding to the pit of dread that had opened in her stomach. Red Velvet’s face did nothing to assuage her fears, a tiny frown twitching onto his lips.

“Yes,” he said, ”you. You’ll be going down first.” His tone was so certain, so commanding, Pastry’s first instinct was to agree with him. Before she could, though, his words finally registered in her head, and she balked.

“What? Why?” Pastry didn’t think that it mattered who went first. Whether the rope could handle Red Velvet’s weight was a concern, yes, but he had seemed confident while making the rope. The idea that his confidence had been faked didn’t do anything to lessen Pastry’s anxiety.

Red Velvet hummed, testing the knots on the rope one more time as he talked. “There isn’t really a good place to anchor the rope here,” he said calmly, even as Pastry blinked in surprise. That hadn’t been the reason she had anticipated at all.

“It would be easier for me to lower you down first,” Red Velvet continued. “That way, you get down safely, and I can figure out what to do about myself. Is that alright with you?”

He spoke as if he hadn’t already decided for Pastry. The nun frowned, crossing her arms. “I’m not leaving you up here by yourself,” she protested stubbornly. “We can find a way to hold the rope!” It crossed her mind to suggest weighing it down with rubble, but she knew it was a bad idea. It wouldn’t be stable, and Red Velvet would never approve of disturbing his soldiers’ makeshift graves.

Red Velvet gave Pastry a dry look. “Don’t play hero,” he sighed. “This is our best option. I don’t see you coming up with any ideas.”

Pastry huffed, warmth creeping into her cheeks. “I told you I was thinking,” she hissed halfheartedly. Red Velvet chuckled in response, shaking his head. Clearly, he didn’t believe her.

“I was,” Pastry snapped. Her hackles rose, and she planted her hands on her hips. She felt like a petulant child, much to her own chagrin. “I was trying to think of ways to transport the food easily, for your information! Trying to push around boxes will be really inconvenient!”

“Oh? What are your ideas?” Red Velvet’s voice didn’t have a trace of mockery in it. His eyes were slightly widened with genuine curiosity, and he tilted his head ever so slightly. He almost looked like a curious puppy, and to Pastry’s embarrassment, it was cute.

The nun shook off the butterflies in her stomach and ignored the way her dread deepened even further. “I was thinking…” She trailed off, even more heat rising to her cheeks when she came up empty. She flitted her gaze toward the storage room, racking her brain for something she could use. The boxes were out, but…

“The medical packs!” Pastry caught herself, lowering her voice and clearing her throat. “The medical packs,” she repeated, more quietly this time. “We can empty a few and stuff them with food.”

Red Velvet blinked once, then let out a soft “huh.” He looked at the stack of boxes harnessed to the rope, and sighed. “I’d rather not untie this after I spent an hour trying to figure out how to do it properly,” he muttered, “but we can pack the backpacks downstairs.” He turned to face Pastry again, a small smile on his lips. “That’s a good idea,” he said sincerely. “I feel a little foolish for not thinking of it myself.”

“You aren’t foolish.” Pastry corrected Red Velvet too quickly, but she pressed forward. “This place… it gets to people.” Or at least, it gets to me. Pastry didn’t know if it was being trapped that was getting to her, or the tower itself. Regardless, she still found herself unable to think rationally more often than not.

Red Velvet didn’t comment. He gave Pastry an odd look, then exhaled softly. “Well,” he said, “we should probably get the medical packs, then.”

Pastry opened and closed her mouth, feeling rather like a fish. “Okay,” she said plainly. Together, she and Red Velvet made their way toward the storage room, wordlessly picking up scattered medical packs and beginning to empty them.

The packs came in the form of large backpacks, meant for field nurses. The supplies inside were minimal, but effective, and Red Velvet insisted that they each take one that hadn’t been emptied. Two packs per person was the final consensus— one for food, the other for medical supplies.

“It’s better this way for if we get separated,” Red Velvet explained as he heaved a fully stocked pack onto his back. “You have to prepare for every possibility on the battlefield. I’d rather have my so— you be able to survive on your own if something should happen to me.”

Pastry froze, halfway through binding her crossbow to her wrist with bandages. “Were you going to… call me your ‘soldier?’” She frowned slightly, looking up at Red Velvet from where she squatted. He looked away shiftily, clearing his throat loudly.

“I misspoke,” he insisted. “I respect your decision to not join my army, of course. But… the idea has been on my mind all day. I apologize.”

“Under different circumstances, you would make an excellent soldier.” Pastry would have been lying if she said she hadn’t been thinking about Red Velvet’s words too. Her own comments had been buzzing around her head like flies as well, and she regretted having said anything at all.

Different circumstances. She and Red Velvet both knew what those circumstances would be. If Pastry had never been found by the St. Pastry Order. If Red Velvet had never been found by Dark Enchantress. If he was normal. So many “ifs” that left Pastry with a bad taste in her mouth. She despised the guilt she felt, and she hated even more that, no matter where she turned, she couldn’t escape it.

She shifted on her knees, hefting an empty backpack onto her chest and a full one onto her back, looking like a particularly rotund beetle. “There’s no need to apologize,” she muttered. “Like you said, we shouldn’t spend too much time on ‘what-ifs.’ Let’s go.”

With that, the nun stood up, wobbling on unsteady feet. Her limp was almost entirely gone now, but her leg still acted up sometimes. She brushed off her dust-covered tights, and strutted out of the storage room.

Her hair tugged on her scalp, caught between her back and the backpack. She carefully pulled it out when she came to a stop at the edge of the floor, listening as Red Velvet caught up to her. He stopped right next to her, looming at his full height, and Pastry couldn’t help but feel small in comparison.

“…Shall we go?” Red Velvet’s voice was quiet. Pastry glanced over at him, and while his expression was unreadable, his eyes seemed distant. The nun bit the inside of her lip, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Yes,” she said curtly. “We shall.” Her stomach dropped as Red Velvet moved to grab the blanket rope, tying the open end to his wrists. He then dangled the boxes of food over the edge. He looked over at her, almost as if looking for directions or orders. Pastry swallowed. Then, she nodded, and Red Velvet began to lower the boxes.

It didn’t take long for the rope to end. Red Velvet braced his feet on the floor, adjusted his grip on the rope around his wrists, and nodded back at Pastry. Go ahead, his eyes said.

“Are you sure,” Pastry whispered, shuffling her feet. “You still need a way to get down, and the light will be with me…”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll figure it out.” Red Velvet jerked his head downward, toward the crossbow Pastry had tied to her wrist. “I don’t need a light to see, remember? And it isn’t like anything will hurt me up here.”

The floor could collapse again, Pastry thought. “Right,” she said instead, letting out a nervous laugh. “I forgot.” She breathed deeply and slowly in an attempt at calming herself. “You’re right,” she exhaled. “It’ll be fine. As long as you don’t drop me.”

It was a poor attempt at a joke, but Red Velvet laughed anyway. With a smile, he nodded toward the rope. “I won’t drop you,” he promised confidently. With another deep breath, Pastry offered a shaky smile of her own. Then, she dropped to her knees, scooted over to the dangling rope, and took hold.

Suddenly, the drop seemed much higher, despite the pitch dark of the floor below. Pastry swallowed audibly, clenching her fists on the rope tightly. Slowly, her heart racing, she lowered her feet to the nearest knot in the blanket rope, and carefully transferred her weight.

The rope jerked, and Pastry squeaked. The sound died before it could become a scream, and Red Velvet grunted. Pastry swayed in the air, clinging to the rescue blankets for dear life. Oh, Witches, this was a terrible plan.

“Pastry!” The nun snapped her head upwards, her arms shaking. Red Velvet’s teeth were gritted, but his grip held. “I’ve got you,” he said, his voice strained despite his words. “Trust me. Please.” The plea filled his eyes, and for a second, Pastry truly felt like she could.

The nun’s words caught in her throat, so she nodded instead. Silently praying to the Witches, she forced herself to move, one hand after another. It was a shame, she thought to herself as her hands passed the first knot, that the Witches would never answer.

Pastry turned and swung slowly in the air. She was more stable than she would have been without the boxes below weighing the rope down, but she still felt far from safe. Her hand slipped once, and she was barely able to hold back a shriek. Hot tears rolled down her face as her heart thudded in her ears.

Her pulse was so loud, she almost couldn’t hear Red Velvet’s voice drifting from above, getting quieter and quieter as she descended. “…Got you,” he called. “Just keep… Can do this…” His words were an anchor in the stormy sea of fear, even if Pastry could barely hear him. She had never been so grateful that Red Velvet was with her in her life.

Then, her feet touched something hard that bobbed underneath her. The cardboard boxes of food, still tied together in a slipshod harness. For the first time since beginning her descent, Pastry allowed herself to look down.

The floor— Witches, she could see the floor! It was only a few feet below, close enough to jump. It would be difficult to get around the boxes, but it could be done. Rubble covered the tiles, remnants of the floor above, but this floor seemed significantly more intact. The light of Pastry’s crossbow flitted across the stairs, and she nearly wept when she saw they were intact.

She decided to take a risk and jump straight from the rope. Securing her feet on the bottom knot to the best of her ability, Pastry took a deep breath and leapt. She landed in a painful tuck and roll, scraping her knees and arms bloody. She cried out as she hit the ground, and she heard Red Velvet call down to her.

“Are you alright,” he barked, concern filling his voice. Pastry groaned, sitting up and running a hand through her bangs.

“Yes,” she shouted back, wincing as the building trembled. “Did you find a way down?” She couldn’t lower her volume, or she wouldn’t be heard. She just hoped the tower wouldn’t decide to cave in on itself for a third time.

Above her, Red Velvet sighed. “No,” he answered. “Any pipes or supports are too unstable. I would break my neck if I fell.” The general was completely enveloped by shadows, a disembodied voice filled with resignation and worry.

Pastry’s heart sank. “Are you sure,” she asked uselessly. “There— there has to be a way! Did you check everywhere?”

“Yes, Pastry, I checked.” Red Velvet’s eye roll was practically audible. “One pipe has a slim chance of holding my weight, but I don’t want to risk it.” There was a long, heavy pause. Then: “You should go on without me.”

Silence filled the tower. Pastry’s stomach rioted, and she felt sick. “No,” she whispered. “No,” she insisted louder, pushing herself up to stand with shaking knees. “Are you insane?! I’m not going to leave you here alone, Red Velvet!”

“It’s not like we have a choice!” Red Velvet’s voice caused another wave of tremors, echoing through the lower floor. “You always do this! You always want to take unnecessary risks! That’s not how life works, Pastry!”

“All of these ‘unnecessary risks’ have worked out,” Pastry shot back, anger and fear boiling in her gut. The Reverend Mother’s voice whispered for her to leave him, but Pastry squashed it.

“I’m not leaving you to rot,” Pastry shouted, dust falling from above and onto her face. “If the church and Dark Enchantress haven’t come for us yet, how can we be sure they’ll come for you at all?”

“Pastry—“

“No!” Red Velvet shut up, and Pastry continued angrily. “Think of Chiffon! Think of your mother! We’ve come too far for you to give up now. I’m not leaving this tower without you, whether you like it or not. Butter 9:17– thou shalt resist!”

Pastry was trembling. With anger, or with fear, she didn’t know. Her fingernails dug into her palms, slick with her own blood, and she realized that fat tears were rolling down her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to cry, but the idea of proceeding alone made her want to sob.

Red Velvet was silent. Then, his voice cut through the air like a hot knife through butter. “And what if I fall?” He was quiet, but Pastry still heard him loud and clear.

The nun gritted her teeth. “I’ll catch you,” she said firmly.

“We both know you can’t,” Red Velvet said with a bitter scoff. Pastry exhaled slowly, wiping her tears and trying to calm herself. She looked back up, and even though she couldn’t tell, she got the sense that she had locked eyes with Red Velvet.

“Trust me.”

Pastry’s words reverberated, like the echoes of a hammer nailing a coffin shut. She held strong, waiting for Red Velvet’s next words. Drowning the Reverend Mother’s teachings in a flood of determination, Pastry vowed to not leave Red Velvet. Her ally, her crush, her friend. She would either leave with him, or climb back up and wait for a rescue that seemed like it would never come.

Above, Red Velvet shifted. The boxes moved with him, still dangling several feet above the ground. A sigh echoed through the chamber, and Pastry held her breath.

“Fine,” Red Velvet said at last. Pastry nearly began to cry again, relief washing over her. “I will hold you to that empty promise,” Red Velvet called as the boxes began to sway with his unseen movements.

Pastry let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Feel free to,” she breathed. She watched the boxes jerk and move as Red Velvet went to tie the end of the rope to the most stable pipe jutting out from the edge of the floor.

When the rope bobbed with a new, heavy weight, Pastry held her breath. Despite her promise, she would not be able to see Red Velvet if he fell until it was too late. She could only pray— no, not pray. She could only hope that he wouldn’t fall at all.

Pastry waited anxiously as she listened to Red Velvet’s grunts of effort. Time stood still, it seemed, with only the two of them in existence.

Pastry watched as Red Velvet’s boots appeared from the darkness, then his legs, and his torso. He was moving quickly, clearly pressed for time. Pastry held her breath, noticing each jerk and pull of the rope under Red Velvet’s weight. Far above, a pipe creaked.

Then, when Red Velvet was about twenty feet above Pastry, the pipe screamed. Pastry barely registered what was happening before a blur of red and white approached the ground with a shout. Red Velvet was falling.

Pastry’s feet moved on autopilot. She dove, driven by a promise she had hoped she wouldn’t have to keep. All she could hear was the rush of blood in her ears and the pounding of her heart as she ran, and when Red Velvet’s weight hit her, she did not feel pain.

They tumbled away from the rope, hearing the end tied to the pipe hit the ground with a metallic clang. Pastry bounced, the wind knocking from her lungs as she landed. Limbs tangled together, and twin shouts of shock and pain filled the air.

“Shit,” Pastry squeaked. On top of her, Red Velvet groaned, flopping to the side. He coughed, spitting out a string of curses of his own. His voice was music to Pastry’s ears, though, and as she fought to get her lungs working again, she managed a smile.

Red Velvet was curled up next to her, pushing himself to sit up with a pained hiss. “Fuck,” he muttered. “That hurt like a bitch…”

Pastry didn’t have the heart to tell him I told you so. “Yes,” she said instead as she sat up, her heart rate slowing the tiniest bit. “It did.”

Red Velvet chuckled breathlessly, sweat dripping down his face. “You were right,” he said shakily. His entire body was trembling. Pastry supposed she wasn’t much better.

“So were you,” she pointed out. Red Velvet laughed at this, and Pastry’s stomach filled with butterflies. She wasn’t sure if it was due to relief, or her unfortunately-timed feelings. Perhaps it was both.

And perhaps it was both that lead her to lean forward, barely stable on her own legs, and pull Red Velvet into a tight hug.

They were both sweaty and sticky. Pastry could feel dirt and grime rub between her and Red Velvet, and her face burned at the proximity, but she did not let go. When Red Velvet slowly returned the embrace, Pastry only held him tighter, more tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

“Never do that again,” she whispered. “Never try and make me leave.” She didn’t know why she was begging. She almost wished she wasn’t. It was getting easier and easier to ignore her guilt, however, especially wrapped in Red Velvet’s arms.

The general made an unintelligible noise. His entire body was burning with heat, and Pastry could feel him begin to shake harder. He swallowed loudly.

“I won’t,” he promised, sounding robotic with shock. “I… we’ll stay together until we leave the tower. If that’s what you want.”

“Yes,” Pastry insisted. “That’s what I want.” Until we leave. She didn’t want to think about when that would happen. She was delaying the inevitable, but Red Velvet seemed to be doing the same as he finally held her tighter and whispered in her ear.

“…I want it too.”

Chapter Text

Red Velvet and Pastry spent an hour or so checking over themselves and each other. Both winced in pain whenever they moved, but it seemed that nothing was broken in either of them. It was, in Pastry’s words, a miracle.

“I’d hardly call it a miracle,” Red Velvet said, hissing sharply as he shrugged off the medical pack on his back. “I thought I told you not to play hero.”

“If I didn’t ‘play hero,’” Pastry scoffed, “you’d either be dead, or unable to walk. I think a thank you is in order.” She smirked, body still buzzing with relief. She remembered the sight of Red Velvet falling with their makeshift rope, and shuddered. She would take a few bruises over losing him any day.

It was strange, in a way. Pastry tried to remember how much time had passed in the tower, but she couldn’t make sense of it. It felt like ten years, or ten hours, or both at the same time. She knew she hadn’t known Red Velvet for long, but she had been willing to risk injury for him. Thinking about it more, she realized that she would do it again. Over and over, as many times as it took.

Pastry was clinging to Red Velvet like a lifeline. From his clay arm to his deeply human heart, she did not want to let him go. Yet… she knew she would have to soon.

Red Velvet was standing now, dusting off his pants futilely. The white fabric had long since turned gray with dirt and grime, and so had his undershirt. He rolled his shoulders, flinching as they moved, and cracked his knuckles loudly. “Right,” he sighed. “Thank you, Pastry, for saving me from falling to my doom.”

He almost seemed sarcastic as he said it. His eyes, however, showed nothing but sincerity, heavier than the weight of the tower above. Pastry swallowed, forcing herself to stand. She stumbled on weak knees, only to feel a hand larger than her waist grip her shoulder to steady her.

Pastry’s face turned red. She pulled away slowly, clearing her throat and swallowing her dread. “You’re welcome,” she said plainly. “Now, I… suppose we should get going?”

Mismatched eyes regarded her with an unrecognizable emotion. Red Velvet looked like he wanted to say something, anything, but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded, unzipping the empty backpack on his front. With surprisingly deft hands, he untied the boxes still harnessed to their blanket rope, and began to fill his backpack with pre-packaged meals.

Pastry didn’t take long to do the same. She welcomed the distraction from her thoughts, and even though it didn’t last long, it was a relief to take her mind off of the prospect of leaving the tower. As her backpack grew heavier and larger, she was able to delude herself into thinking that she could just… stop time. Stay like this forever.

Then, the boxes were empty, and she and Red Velvet were standing before the stairs.

An intact staircase. Pastry’s light bounced off the walls, illuminating most of the way down, and even a bit of the room below. It didn’t seem nearly as empty as the previous floors, filled with what looked like training equipment and weapons. Pastry swallowed as metal reflected the light of her crossbow, and she found herself unable to take the first step.

She turned to look at Red Velvet. He, too, was frozen, still as a statue as he stared down at the floor below. He barely even blinked, clenching his jaw so hard, Pastry could see veins bulging on his forehead. His expression was not one of anger, however. No, it was one of hesitance.

Pastry took a shallow breath. “Well,” she said shakily. “Let’s… let’s go.” Then, slowly, she peeled her foot away from the floor. She felt like she was moving in slow motion as she finally touched the next step, and a shiver tan up her spine. Suddenly, the idea of leaving the tower seemed that much more real, and it was absolutely terrifying.

Behind Pastry, Red Velvet shuffled. She heard his footsteps echo hers as she forced herself to move again. The repeated sounds were a comfort, and when Red Velvet came up next to Pastry, the nun nearly teared up.

They passed the first two floors in silence without stopping. Without speaking, they had decided to walk for as long as they possibly could before taking a break. Normally, that would have been not at all. Pastry and Red Velvet were both more fit than the average person.

Yet, they were only a few floors down, and Pastry was already beginning to feel tired. She descended steps with shaky legs, and her stomach began to revolt. She kept as quiet as she could, hoping against hope that Red Velvet wouldn’t notice.

When the man spoke, Pastry nearly jumped out of her own skin. She resisted the urge to turn around, fearing that if she did, she would never start walking again. Instead, she listened to Red Velvet’s voice as he finally broke their mutual silence.

“What are you going to do when we get out,” he asked quietly. His voice was soft and casual, but Pastry knew the question was anything but casual.

The nun swallowed. “What do you mean,” she asked lamely. “I’m… going back to the church…” The words felt sour in her mouth, and she felt the urge to spit, just to cleanse her taste buds.

Red Velvet was silent for a moment. Then, he sighed with a soft chuckle. “I was actually thinking of taking a shower,” he said lightly. “I feel like a rag that’s been thrown in a swamp and left to mold. Witches, it’s been so long since I’ve felt clean.”

Pastry let out a shaky laugh, relief pooling in her gut. She forced away thoughts of the Reverend Mother, welcoming the idea of a hot shower. She lived a life of asceticism, but she found that she didn’t care much about living without luxury anymore. The Witches did not care what she did— she knew that. It was a relief to finally admit that to herself.

“I… a shower sounds lovely,” Pastry admitted, scratching at her dirt-covered arm. Her fingernails were just as filthy, and much longer than she had ever kept them. It was uncomfortable, like her whole body had been for weeks, but at least it would be over soon.

Soon. Pastry took a deep breath, trying not to think about soon. “I’m looking forward to better food,” she said in a poor attempt at a joke. “No offense, but these rations are… garbage.”

Red Velvet barked a laugh that made Pastry’s heart sing. “You’re right about that,” he said, a smile audible in his voice. “The meals we pick are cheap. We do have to feed large numbers, after all. At least some of the hounds take regular dog food. That’s the easiest thing to take care of, really.”

Pastry chuckled. Her steps were steadier now, and she and Red Velvet managed to walk down the stairs at a decent pace. It was easy to imagine that it was only the two of them in the world. Nobody else, not even the Witches, could touch them. Here, there was no Reverend Mother. No mysterious black veils disappearing around every corner. The collapsed tower was a prison, but Pastry found herself wishing she would never have to leave.

The two fell into silence after a moment. They passed a few more floors, Red Velvet calling out their numbers as they descended. Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight…

On floor fifty, Red Velvet spoke again. This time, his voice was lower, and far more solemn than before. “You… don’t have to return to the church, you know,” he whispered. Pastry shivered, finally breaking her forward stare to look at Red Velvet. He was gazing at her as well, and their eyes met. It was a miracle that neither of them tripped as both of their faces turned darker.

Wait… both? Pastry blinked, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her. They weren’t. Red Velvet’s face, already red in complexion, was a slightly darker shade now. Pastry had no time to think about this, as the general looked away and continued to speak after a very short pause.

“I’m not saying you should join my side,” Red Velvet said quickly, as if correcting a mistake. “There are other places you can go. I was just…” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and collecting himself. He looked ahead, leveling his tone to a more even one.

“You look like you don’t want to go back,” Red Velvet explained calmly. Pastry stiffened as she walked, stopping mid-step. Her stomach churning, she felt like a deer caught in headlights. Red Velvet stopped a few steps ahead of her, turning to regard her with a serious expression.

“I understand why,” he continued more softly. “It can’t be easy to spend time around people who force you to relive your worst memories. Trust me, I should know.” Red Velvet’s voice turned bitter as he rolled his eyes. Pastry got the sense that he was referring to someone specific, but she didn’t dare press. She could barely even open her mouth to breathe, let alone talk.

Pastry swallowed thickly. “You’re… you’re right,” she admitted, her voice cracking despite her low volume. “But I have nowhere else to go. Even if I did, I…” She began to shake, hugging her waist in an attempt at stopping the tears that welled in her eyes.

“I don’t think I’d make it out if I tried to leave,” she whispered, barely audible even to herself. Red Velvet stared at her with a frown. He was at eye level with her, a few steps below, and Pastry wished he wasn’t. His gaze was piercing, and she couldn’t bring herself to look away.

“…What do you mean,” Red Velvet asked quietly. His eyebrows knitted together, and his lips were slightly pulled back to expose his top teeth. He tilted his head like a curious dog.

Pastry blinked rapidly, forcing herself to walk forward. Red Velvet followed her, and she sighed. “I mean…” she swallowed. “I-I’ve heard of Sisters— Sisters who expressed doubts— who have… ‘left’ before. The Reverend Mother always said that they went to other convents, but… but they just d-disappeared. I… they…”

Pastry was hyperventilating, her breaths coming in short gasps as she marched down the stairs. She almost didn’t notice when a hand gently grasped hers, squeezing it tightly. She kept walking, even though she wanted to stop, and silently thanked Red Velvet as he gripped her right hand with his left.

The general was silent for a moment, listening to Pastry’s labored breaths. Pastry squeezed his hand harder, ignoring the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach at the prolonged contact. It was almost enough to distract her from the idea of the Reverend Mother, and the Sisters that had never returned from “confessionals.”

“…Did you say that your ‘Sisters’ disappeared?” Red Velvet’s voice was soft, and it practically dripped with concern.

Pastry took a deep, shuddering breath, then exhaled slowly, trying to calm herself down. “Yes,” she muttered. “We… never talked about them after they did. It was as if they never existed at all. I… I lost a few friends that way.”

Pastry held her tongue about the shadows she had seen following her over the past few months. The way she always felt watched, even when she was alone. She had a sneaking suspicion about what exactly that was. Or rather, who.

Red Velvet stiffened, drawing his hand back. Pastry wanted more than anything to cling to it, but she let him go. She moved to hold her own hand as Red Velvet spoke, even though it didn’t feel quite the same.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly. “If your Sisters are gone, then somehow I doubt they’re still alive.“

Pastry felt a bitter laugh push past her lips. “No,” she said cynically. “I don’t think they are.” She had always suspected this, even before her faith had begun to waver. Had her Sisters been as afraid as she was? If they had still been alive… would they have helped Pastry?

They continued in silence again. Pastry’s thoughts ran in circles, a never-ending loop of what ifs. She thought of a life free from the church, free from pretending. Despite herself, she found herself wishing for Red Velvet to be a part of that life. All she could think about, though, was the fact that it would never be possible.

The floors passed by quickly, and with each one, Pastry’s heart sank a little further. She wanted desperately to stall, taking as much time to eat as possible when they took breaks, but it was never enough. All she could do was scoot closer and closer to Red Velvet, until their legs were touching, and try not to think about what would happen when they left the tower.

The tower grew hotter as they descended. Pastry didn’t know if this was because of her fatigue, or because of something else. Red Velvet seemed to be sweating as much as she was, though, and as they descended onto the fifteenth floor, he finally spoke again for the first time in hours.

“The oven is operating.”

Pastry jumped, looking up quickly. She brushed her sweat-covered bangs away from her eyes, frowning slightly. “What,” she asked dumbly. “Why would it be operating?”

“I don’t know…” Red Velvet’s tone was distant, and he was frowning deeply. “I usually oversee its operation. It shouldn’t be running without me.” He took a deep breath, pushing it out slowly. “Something isn’t right.”

Pastry’s stomach sank. She opened her mouth to ask Red Velvet to elaborate, only to be interrupted by a sharp, high-pitched noise from below.

Red Velvet froze. His eyes widened, and he reached out and grabbed Pastry’s shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. She squeaked, but went ignored as Red Velvet shushed her.

The noise came again, and it became clear that it was the sound of a dog barking. It tugged at the edges of Pastry’s mind, vaguely familiar. She frowned, opening her mouth to ask Red Velvet why he was acting so strange, only to yelp as he tore away from her side and broke into a full sprint down the stairs.

“Wha— hey!” Pastry ran after her friend, nearly tripping and tumbling down the stairs as she did. Briefly, she lamented the fact that they would part ways sooner now, but these thoughts were overshadowed by the now-stifling heat, and the barking that grew closer and closer with each flight of stairs they descended.

Pastry barely saw the blur of white and tan as it barreled toward Red Velvet. She skidded to a stop on the landing of the seventh floor, tripping and falling painfully on her side. She tumbled over herself, grunting, and when she managed to sit up, she was greeted with a sight that made the fall worth it.

The barking belonged to Chiffon, Red Velvet’s beloved pet. The dog was a bit dirty, its fur matter and dusty in some places, but it looked unharmed. It barked and whined happily, jumping up to lick Red Velvet’s face. The general’s lips were stretched into the widest smile Pastry had ever seen on his face, and he was laughing. A true, overjoyed laugh that made Pastry forget about the bruises forming on her body, and one that brought a smile to her own face.

It was… adorable. The sight of Red Velvet greeting his pet with tears of relief in his eyes banished Pastry’s negative thoughts in an instant. It gave her hope, more hope than she had felt in weeks. Possibly even months. She didn’t know, and she didn’t care. She could have spent years in that tower, and seeing such a wholesome, human scene would have made it worth it.

Years. That would have been torture. Although, only a few months or so had been torture as well. Pastry’s smile fell slightly. A few months, and not even Chiffon had found them. Pastry told herself that it was good the dog had found them at all, but…

Why had it taken so long? Pastry’s mind began to race again, but this time she wasn’t thinking of a life she would never be able to have. Her thoughts turned to the weeks spent on the top floors of the tower, the utter silence from the floors below. If Chiffon was loose in the tower, and if it loved Red Velvet as much as it seemed to, would it not have looked higher up?

The top floors. It had been unusually easy to get downstairs. Each and every staircase after the broken one they’d bypassed with their rope had been intact. They hadn’t even had to use the rope again, even though more of the tower should have been destroyed.

In fact, the entire top half of the tower likely should have crumbled, if the explosions had come from the oven, like Pastry had thought. That made the most logical sense, but if the oven was running, and only a specific part of the tower had fallen…

Pastry stiffened. “This is wrong,” she whispered, a shiver running up her spine. Here, so close to the tower’s exit, pieces of a puzzle were connecting in her head. Nothing made sense. Chiffon, the destruction, the fact that nobody— not even Dark Enchantress— had found them, or even looked at all…

“This is wrong,” Pastry repeated, loud enough to catch Red Velvet’s attention. Every bone in her body screamed that something wasn’t right, and when Chiffon began to growl, her stomach dropped through the floor.

Red Velvet frowned. “What is it,” he asked warily. He turned to Chiffon and repeated the question, and Pastry nearly laughed before Chiffon barked, as if answering the question.

Before Pastry could so much as stand, Red Velvet’s eyes widened. He shot up like a rocket, scooping chiffon into his arms and running over to Pastry. The nun yelped as she was hauled upright by her arm, the noise cut off as Red Velvet covered her mouth with his other hand. Chiffon rested on his shoulder, quiet and shaking.

Pastry shook as well, staring at Red Velvet with wide eyes. What’s going on, she asked silently. Red Velvet’s eyes darted away from hers, flitting toward the stairs, and he spoke in a whisper. “I think,” he said, “we may have walked into a trap.”

“How observant of you!”

Pastry froze, her entire body seizing up as ice-cold terror shot through her veins. That voice. She knew that voice. She looked to the stairs sharply, searching for a veil and face she had known since she was a child, heart racing.

Then, she heard a noise— a sharp, quick whistle from above, one she had heard countless times while unleashing bolts from her now-destroyed crossbow. A scream died on her lips as she realized what was going on, and bile rose in her throat as Red Velvet grunted with pain, an arrow piercing his shoulder and sending both him and chiffon tumbling to the ground.

Pastry heard herself scream from outside of her body. She was distant, detached, and she barely registered the head of green hair that emerged from the floor below as Red Velvet and Chiffon cried out. From above, a blur of black fabric dropped, standing tall to reveal a woman with pastel pink hair and a shadowy veil.

There, in the tower, was the Reverend Mother and a woman dressed in a twisted version of a St Pastry Order habit. Red Velvet was on the ground, bleeding as Chiffon growled.

“Hello, my child,” the Reverend Mother said coolly. “What a surprise to see you still alive.”

Chapter Text

Pastry’s heart stopped. Or rather, it felt like it did. She knew deep down that, if her heart had stopped, she would be dead. She almost wished that were the case as she stared into the Reverend Mother’s eyes.

The woman was looking at Pastry with contempt in her eyes. She took a step forward, moving around the strange, shadowy nun with pink hair. The other Sister had her crossbow trained on Red Velvet, who was standing up quickly despite the bolt stuck in his shoulder. A small trickle of blood slipped out of the wound as he moved.

Pastry shook. She couldn’t move beyond that, stuck in place as the Reverend Mother approached slowly. Cold eyes regarded her with apathy, a sweet smile on the Reverend Mother’s face that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“My child,” the Reverend Mother said softly, stopping right in front of Pastry. “Look at you. What did this… thing… do to you?”

Pastry flinched as the Reverend Mother reached up to cup her cheeks. Gloved thumbs rubbed gentle circles into her skin, but Pastry did not feel safe. She could feel contempt radiating from the Reverend Mother, and she was suddenly very conscious of how much of her body was exposed.

She finally moved, hugging her arms over her chest. “I-I…” Pastry blinked back tears, turning her head towards Red Velvet. The man was standing now, staring at the pink-haired nun and growling like an animal. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, and Chiffon mirrored his expression, placing itself between Red Velvet and the nun.

Pastry was suddenly jerked back to face the Reverend Mother. Her cheeks stung, and her eyes burned with unshed tears. The Reverend Mother was glaring now, her watery, yellow eyes piercing Pastry’s soul like a blade.

The Reverend Mother’s smile twitched wider, and she grabbed Pastry’s arm roughly. The nun let out a strangled cry as the Mother twisted her wrist. “Look at yourself,” the green-haired woman commanded with a hiss. “What happened to you? Did this beast do this?”

She moved her other hand to Pastry’s bicep, squeezing a particularly painful bruise. A tear slipped onto Pastry’s cheek, and she whimpered pathetically. She trembled like a frightened child, and she had never, ever felt so small in her life.

A trap. Red Velvet had been right after all. Pastry’s didn’t understand. How had this been a trap? Why would there be a trap? For Red Velvet, Pastry supposed, but how could the Reverend Mother have possibly known he was still alive?

The Reverend Mother was still talking, her hands moving to seize Pastry’s in a vice grip. “Tell me, child,” she said softly, “what did it do to you?” Her voice held no affection, and neither did her eyes. She regarded Pastry as she would a piece of roadkill. It sent a shiver up the younger nun’s spine, and she blinked back more tears.

“H-he didn’t do anything,” Pastry whispered, her voice breaking. She tried to look at Red Velvet again, only to have her head forced back, tilting up to look at the ceiling painfully. The Reverend Mother leaned over, eclipsing her view and forcing Pastry to kneel.

“I did not teach you to lie, my child,” the Reverend Mother snapped. A smile remained on her face all the while, even when she dug her nails into Pastry’s face through her gloves.

Pastry squeaked pathetically, her knees stinging from where they had hit the floor. Her ears rang loudly, and all she could see or hear was the Reverend Mother. She couldn’t even hear Red Velvet anymore, though she didn’t know if it was because of the blood rushing in her ears, or something more sinister.

“I’m not lying,” she protested desperately. “Mother, please, I—“

”Silence.” The Reverend Mother tightened her grip on Pastry’s face. She turned and addressed the other nun, dressed in black. “Shoot the dog,” she ordered. “Leave the tainted one alive.”

Pastry let out a strangled cry, unable to move. She lifted her hands and grabbed the Reverend Mother’s wrists, trying desperately to move the woman’s hands, to no avail. The Reverend Mother did not budge, even as Red Velvet unleashed a low, dark growl.

“Yes, Reverend M—“ The shadowy nun was cut off by a loud thud. Pastry heard a body slam into the wall, then a high-pitched cry. Chiffon barked, and Pastry felt her tears spill over, rolling down her cheeks as she continued to struggle.

“Mother, please,” Pastry begged, the sounds of a fight filling her ears. Metal clanged against the ground, signifying missed shots. “You don’t have to do this! I—“

Pastry was on the ground now, head spinning. Her left cheek was burning, already swelling from the force of the slap she had received. Her breaths came in short gasps, numbness filling her until she couldn’t think.

She could see what was happening now. Red Velvet and the shadowy nun were locked in combat, the former dodging crossbow bolts and reaching out to strike with his clay arm while chiffon attacked from behind. The nun was fast, managing too dodge almost every blow. Neither spared Pastry or the Reverend Mother a single glance, not even as Pastry was yanked back onto her knees by her hair.

Pastry cried out, dead weight in the Reverend Mother’s grasp. She had felt the sting of the older woman’s slap before, but this was so, so much worse. Pastry couldn’t move, let alone think enough to struggle. Her head ached, her cheek throbbed. She could feel fresh bruises forming on her body already, and when something cold and sharp pressed into her neck, she almost didn’t register the thin trail of blood that began to trickle down.

A knife was to her throat now. The Reverend Mother was no longer smiling, her expression twisted into one of rage. She glared down at Pastry, tightening her grip on the younger woman’s hair.

“I’m disappointed in you, my child.” The Reverend Mother adjusted her grip on her knife. “I sent you here to kill that abomination, and what have you done instead?”

“I—“ Pastry was cut off by a sharp, condescending laugh. Her eyes widened, the dry, hot air stinging them and producing more tears. Sweat dripped, mixing with the tiny, thin stream of blood that came from the shallow cut on her neck.

“I think I can answer that for you,” the Reverend Mother said with a chuckle. “Let’s see— you spend two months in the Godly Tower with that thing, and not only did you fail your missions, but you’ve come out looking like some common whore. It seems that temptation has claimed you after all.”

Pastry’s eyes grew wider than she’d ever thought they could. Her stomach churned, and she had to physically restrain herself from vomiting. “That’s not… that isn’t…” She sobbed loudly, her thoughts split violently in two by her terror and anger.

Anger. She was angry. Half of her sobs were filled with rage at the Reverend Mother, a realization that terrified her. She couldn’t remember ever being upset with the Reverend Mother, even after falling into the Ultimate Ether.

This, however, was different. Pastry’s face burned with pain and humiliation, and she felt more exposed than she ever had before. She hated the Reverend Mother. Underneath that, however, there was still a fountain of love that had not yet run dry.

Pastry tried her best to compose herself, staring up into the Reverend Mother’s eyes. Her knees were too weak to stand, but she held her ground. Raw terror and guilt warred in her gut, spilling out of her lips in the form of a desperate plea.

“Mother, please.” Pastry’s voice was choked as she sobbed. “Please, don’t do this. I-I tried, I tried so hard, but…”

“You couldn’t pray.” Pastry blinked in shock as the Reverend Mother’s cold eyes stared down at her. “I know,” the older woman said, pressing the knife further into Pastry’s throat.

“I had faith in you, my child,” the Reverend Mother cooed. “I believed that you could persevere in this time of trial, so much so that I told the Shadow Sisters to keep you alive.” She tutted, moving the knife to tilt Pastry’s chin gently. “It seems,” she said with disappointment in her eyes, “that my faith in you was misplaced.”

The shadowy nun let out a pained cry. Pastry couldn’t see what was happening, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She could barely see as tears poured from her eyes. The faces of her Sisters flashed in her head— the Sisters that had disappeared, erased from the convent as if they had never even existed.

Pastry had nearly met the same fate, she realized with a sob. “Mother,” she choked, trembling like a leaf. “I-I’m sorry. Please, let me go…”

She had known this would happen. Even if she hadn’t walked into a trap, she would have been made to vanish when she got back to the church. But she hadn’t been ready. She didn’t think she ever would be.

The Reverend Mother was smiling again, that sweet, soft smile that Pastry had seen so many times as a child. It almost managed to be a comfort to her, were it not for the knife at her throat. “My dear, sweet child,” the Reverend Mother said gently. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You have failed me in every way imaginable. You couldn’t even die in the collapse.”

The last statement was punctuated by a laugh that drove a stake through Pastry’s heart. The nun heaved a shuddering breath, gagging on her sobs. “You… p-planned it?” Her voice was small, and she felt even smaller. She didn’t even need the Reverend Mother to answer. Some part of her had always known.

After all, if she was meant to return, the church would have tried to rescue her.

The Reverend Mother was cruel enough to nod, confirming what Pastry already knew. “I had Sister Phyllo keep watch to make sure things went accordingly,” she said, nodding toward the pink-haired nun. The Shadow Sister. “It didn’t, sadly. It was a bit of a hassle to keep that beast under control while we waited for you to come down, but it turned out well enough. After all, it provided an excellent lure for your… friend.”

Red Velvet grunted across the room. Pastry could hear footsteps running up the stairs, light and almost imperceptible. Her stomach sank, but her cry of warning was cut off by the Reverend Mother dropping her hair and slapping her in the face again.

Pastry fell, only to be grabbed by the front of her undershirt. The dirt and grime on her face and clothes had stained the Reverend Mother’s pristine white gloves, leaving streaks of brown and gray behind. Pastry sniffled, anger bubbling in her gut again, mixing with her guilt until it became a storm of emotion.

“If you’re so ashamed of me,” Pastry sobbed, “then kill me. Why are you dragging it out?” Across the room, Red Velvet shouted something unintelligible. His voice sounded more like a growl, that of a feral beast.

The Reverend Mother sighed, something soft and sad flickering in her eyes for a brief moment. “Because I love you, my child,” she whispered. It rang deep and true, the words stopping Pastry’s heart for a brief second. The Reverend Mother’s conviction, her sincerity, sent shivers up Pastry’s spine.

The knife on her throat shifted.

Something broke inside of Pastry. She moved without thinking, all but throwing herself backwards. The Reverend Mother yelped, losing her grip on Pastry’s undershirt and stumbling slightly. Before Pastry knew what was happening, her leg had jutted out, striking the Reverend Mother in the knee and propelling herself even farther away.

The Reverend Mother cried out, her legs crumpling underneath her. The knife clattered to the ground. Pastry’s head spun, horror at her own actions filling her until it overflowed in the form of tears. Oh, Witches. Oh, fuck.

Pastry scrambled, fumbling to grab the knife. She managed to grip its handle, stumbling to her feet and staggering away from the recovering Reverend Mother. Wildly, Pastry pointed the knife at the woman who had been her mother for most of her life, and finally looked up at Red Velvet.

There were more Shadow Sisters now. Pastry couldn’t count them, as they moved too quickly, but there were many. The first one, Sister Phyllo, was lying unconscious on the ground. Another was crouched in place, firing bolt after bolt at Red Velvet, who stood in the center of the action.

He was outnumbered. He managed to land a few blows on the Shadow Sisters, staining his clay arm with blood, but they were fast, and were able to maintain a distance. When one went down, another took her place, firing another volley of bolts that stuck into Red Velvet’s arm like the quills of a porcupine.

Chiffon leapt through the crowd, tearing into cloth and flesh. Even with the extra help, Red Velvet was faltering, his human arm and chest slick with his own blood. Pastry’s heart pounded in her ears. She could no longer think. All she could do was run, sprinting toward Red Velvet, knife in hand.

“GO,” she shrieked, locking eyes with Red Velvet briefly. His pupils were slits, and he looked more like a frightened animal than a man. His eyes widened.

Trust me, Pastry begged with her eyes. The world seemed to move in slow motion as she ran, blindly slashing at anyone who attacked her. She ducked and weaved, dodging crossbow bolts and knives with a desperation she didn’t know she had in her.

When she reached the stairs, she felt a bolt land in her side. She kept running, unable to feel the pain as the metal plunged into her side. She didn’t dare stop, skipping steps and tripping as she descended. She heard footsteps behind her, but she did not look back. All she could do was hope that it was Red Velvet who was following her.

Floor after floor went by. As Pastry descended, it got hotter and hotter, and more noises drifted up from below. She grunted, tripping on the stairs, tumbling down the rest of the flight she was on. The wound on her side tore open wider. Blood ran down her body, cuts and bruises tearing when the fall finally, finally ended.

Pastry forced herself to stand. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, and even though her legs burned, and her lungs were barely functioning, she carried on. She pushed forward, running down the last flight of stairs, and emerging into the first floor of the tower.

The First Oven was glowing brightly. Pastry froze at the sight of it, despite the terror that seized her heart. Nearby sat the Ultimate Ether, unclaimed souls wailing in an endless pit. More Shadow Sisters bustled around the oven, and in the distance, Pastry could hear something shattering.

Clay.

Clay pieces were being shoveled into the oven. The bodies of hundreds of clay beasts, cast back into the flames that had given them life. Wails of desperation and pain came from an unseen location, and Pastry’s heart stuttered.

Shattered bodies. Gnashing teeth. Happy faces that never blinked, just stared and stared and stared with those Witches-forsaken corpse grins—

“MOVE!” Pastry snapped out of it, whipping her head to look at the stairs. There, barreling down the steps, were Red Velvet and Chiffon. Crossbow bolts jutted out of them, and Red Velvet was limping hard, but Pastry didn’t think she had ever seen anything so wonderful in her entire life.

She obeyed the command quickly. The Shadow Sisters had turned to face her, and were closing in, but she about-faced and ran toward Red Velvet. He reached out with one hand, his clay hand, and Pastry lunged for it.

Their fingers laced together. Red Velvet squeezed her hand tightly as they ran, pulling her along faster than she would’ve been able to run on her own. Their footsteps blended together, and Pastry could’ve sworn she heard Red Velvet’s heartbeat pounding in tandem with her own as Chiffon followed behind them.

Together, they sprinted toward the exit. The large, double doors were shut, and multiple Shadow Sisters blocked it. Eyes wide and wild, Pastry extended her arm, brandishing the knife she still held. She slashed at her Sisters, tearing their robes and skin and spraying blood on her own hands.

Red Velvet reached the doors. Without stopping, he reached out and shoved them open with a grunt. The large stone doors scraped and whined as they were forced open faster than they were ever meant to move. In the distance, Pastry heard a screech of anger, one that she knew in her heart belonged to the Reverend Mother.

Then, Red Velvet was pulling her out of the tower, away from the Sisters of the St. Pastry Order, and into the harsh, mid-afternoon sun. Fresh air hit Pastry’s lungs, and the scent of grass filled her nostrils. She squinted in the light, but she continued to run, feeling almost as if she were floating.

Hand in hand, she and Red Velvet ran into the light.

Chapter Text

Sticks and stones battered at Pastry’s shins, ripping her tights to shreds. Her lungs burned, and her eyes stung with unshed tears. Still, she continued to run, her heart performing somersaults in her chest and threatening to stop entirely.

The Reverend Mother’s face flashed before Pastry’s eyes. The look of shock and anger she had worn when Pastry kicked her legs out from under her. The love that had shown in her eyes seconds before. Pastry choked on her breaths, tears finally spilling from her eyes. Oh, Witches, what had she done.

Red Velvet’s grip on her hand tightened. He was a couple of paces ahead of Pastry, pulling her along roughly. He did not look back, his long hair whipping in the harsh wind as he made a beeline for the forest that stood not far from the Godly Tower.

Pastry could hear footsteps behind them. Crossbow bolts whistled, and though Pastry couldn’t feel anything but the burn in her lungs, she knew a few had stuck into her. Red Velvet already had multiple jutting out from his body grotesquely, and more were being added to their numbers the closer they got to the woods.

“We have to split up!” Pastry’s voice was more of a shriek as the idea came to her. Red Velvet squeezed her hand once, in what Pastry knew to be an acknowledgement. The tree line approached rapidly, short shrubs giving way to taller pines that loomed over Pastry. They cast thick shadows, even in the middle of the day, darkness passing over Pastry’s body before it swallowed her whole.

Her feet hit damp ground, and in an instant, Red Velvet was gone. Pastry did not dare look back at him, taking a sharp turn in the opposite direction. She ignored the emptiness that lingered in her hand, trained her eyes ahead, and ran for her life.

She didn’t know how she would find Red Velvet again, or if she would find him at all, but that didn’t matter. Not now. For now, Pastry would run. She could do nothing else, her every thought banished except for one word. Go.

In the distance, Chiffon barked. Pastry ignored it, pressing onward. She ducked and weaved through the trees, knowing she was nowhere close to safety. Fatigue was already sending pain shooting through her body, wrapping around her nerves and tangling them with thorns. Still, she felt lighter than the air that rushed through her lungs, overcome with the primal instinct of being hunted.

Go, Pastry chanted internally. Run. Go. Run. a branch whipped at her face, and a figure dropped in front of her. Pastry shrieked, reaching out with the knife she still held and stabbing blindly at the Shadow Sister before her. She couldn’t see where she had hit, but warm blood sprayed her chest as she pulled the blade out.

Without pause, Pastry resumed her flight. Her feet barely seemed to touch the ground, even as she hacked and slashed her way through attackers. One of the crossbow bolts tore out of her skin, fresh blood running down her arm. This time, it was her own.

Pastry was no longer human— or at least, it didn’t feel that way. Her teeth were those of a beast, the knife in her hand like claws. Her heart pounded in her chest, barely able to keep pace with her feet as she sprinted. She was alone and afraid, but she would persevere. Go, go, go, GO.

She ran for what felt like hours. Her lungs stuttered as the sun crept across the sky. Her attackers had thinned out as she moved deeper into the woods, but she refused to stop, even as her legs threatened to cave. Even as the sun dipped closer to the horizon.

Pastry was going to escape. She was going to leave. Never in her life had she wanted to run away more than right at this moment. Not after the first time the Reverend Mother had slapped her. Not after falling into the Ultimate Ether. Now, her cheeks still stinging from her mother’s hand, and her neck still crusted with a thin trail of her own blood, Pastry was determined.

Never look back, she told herself as she stumbled over a fallen tree trunk. Never stop running. Pastry repeated the words in her head like a mantra, eyes blown wide despite the tears that flowed out of them. She refused to think about why she was crying. She couldn’t afford to get distracted.

Minutes, or perhaps hours later, Pastry tripped. Her foot caught on the root of a tree, and she was sent tumbling head over heels. Her head swam as she came to a stop, and her entire body burned. Before she knew what was happening, her stomach was rioting against her, and she had vomited onto the forest floor.

Pastry felt sick. Witches, she had never felt this sick in her life. She vomited again, her body trembling as if she had been caught in an earthquake. Her lungs burned, and as she choked on her own vomit, she found that she couldn’t breathe at all.

Panic flared in Pastry’s heart. She gasped for air, coughing as spit and bile entered her windpipe. She allowed her saliva to leak out of her mouth as she bent over, desperately trying to breathe as her thoughts returned with the force of a sledgehammer bashing her skull to pieces.

The Shadow Sisters. They would surely find Pastry like this. There was no way she could’ve lost them, not when they clearly wanted her dead. Like the Reverend Mother. Like everyone.

Not everyone. Red Velvet was still out there… or maybe he wasn’t. Pastry gasped, her breaths coming out as pained wheezes. She had no way of knowing where Red Velvet and Chiffon were. She couldn’t call out to them without revealing both of their locations, and she couldn’t hear their footsteps. Hell, she could barely hear anything over the sounds of her stuttering heart and labored breaths.

Visions of her friend lying broken on the ground, impaled by hundreds of crossbow bolts, flooded Pastry’s mind. She choked on the thought, more bile forcing its way out of her stomach. She had already evacuated her most recent meals, and her throat burned with the extra acidity from her bile.

Everything hurt. Pastry groaned, fighting to stand, only to fall back onto her knees. She failed to catch herself, landing sideways and curling into a ball on instinct. Her limbs cramped violently, and she dropped her knife. She couldn’t think straight, the world spinning around her.

Everything felt fuzzy. Even Pastry’s vision seemed to be failing. Was it just her, or was everything getting darker? The forest blinked in and out of focus, and Pastry could’ve sworn she heard angels singing. It was a high-pitched sound, like the ringing of a bell, but long and drawn-out. It was beautiful, Pastry thought numbly as blood pooled underneath her.

She was cold. Her legs were almost bare with how torn her tights were, and she could no longer see the sun. It was strange, really. The sky was still blue, just barely beginning to darken, but Pastry could barely see anyway.

She exhaled, curling into a tight, shivering ball. She was so, so tired. Don’t fall asleep, she commanded herself, to no avail. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her body sank into the earth. The sky vanished, then the ground, and finally, the chorus of angels faded away, until all that was left was silence.

——————

“Oh! She’s waking up!”

Pastry’s eyes cracked open, and she could’ve sworn she heard them creak with the effort. She groaned, her throat dry, coughing after a weak sound escaped her lips. Her entire body was sore and weak, and she could barely process what was going on around her before something cold was pressed to her lips.

“Please drink this, Miss,” a soft voice commanded. It was masculine, albeit a bit high-pitched for a man, and oddly calming. Pastry obeyed blindly, unfocused eyes trying to lock onto the source of the voice. Where was she? What was going on?

Cool water slid down Pastry’s throat, washing away an unpleasant aftertaste she couldn’t quite remember the name for. She had thrown up recently, hadn’t she? Not because she was sick, but because she had overexerted herself. What…?

Pastry gasped, inhaling water and coughing it up immediately. She sat up quickly, and regretted it the second she moved. She cried out in pain through her coughs, feeling her arms and side tug uncomfortably. Her limbs felt like jelly, and there were multiple points on her body that burned with a searing pain.

“Oh, dear…” the voice moved, and suddenly, there was a man kneeling before Pastry. His fluffy, white bangs framed eyes of the same shade. He looked at Pastry with concern, setting down the glass of water he had been holding.

“Please, try not to move too much, Miss” he said with a soft, worried smile. “You weren’t doing very well when we found you. I’d recommend that you rest as much as possible.”

Pastry ignored the man, looking around the room she was in wildly. It was completely unfamiliar to her. The room was small, the walls painted a pleasant shade of green, with minimal decorations. There was a wardrobe, another door that seemed to lead to a bathroom, and a small bookshelf. Pastry sat on the only bed in the room, and the young man before her was kneeling on the ground.

“Miss?” Pastry flinched, her stomach sinking rapidly. The man frowned, his eyes filling with concern. “Are you feeling alright? Besides your injuries, I mean.” He chuckled slightly at this, and Pastry felt her shoulders relax instinctively. This man didn’t seem dangerous. In fact, he was a calming presence, even though he was a complete stranger.

Pastry swallowed, her mouth dry despite the small bit of water she had managed to drink. “I… I’m fine,” she croaked unconvincingly, purely on instinct. Her mind still felt foggy with confusion. Where was Red Velvet?

Red Velvet. Pastry’s eyes widened, and she let out a strangled noise. The stranger opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Pastry forced herself to stand.

She wobbled on unsteady legs. She heard the stranger stand, and large, strong hands wrapped around her torso to hold her up. This wasn’t right. Pastry was out of the woods, that much was obvious, but this was far from what she had expected on the other side. She hadn’t even thought she would make it to the other side.

Pastry had almost died. She remembered now— lying on the forest floor, shivering from blood loss and weak with fatigue. How she had made it that far, she had no idea.

That only made her more worried for Red Velvet. The general was, as far as Pastry knew, a much greater target for the St. Pastry Order. A human tainted with the unholy, and to top it off, one that stood directly against the church and everything in its faith. If the Shadow Sisters hadn’t found Pastry, then perhaps they had found Red Velvet instead.

Pastry’s stomach gurgled, and she gagged. The man holding her up gently walked her back to the bed, and held up a small trash can in front of Pastry’s face. The nun— no, not a nun anymore— dry heaved, trembling under the weight of her realization.

The stranger said something Pastry couldn’t make out, and his footsteps hurried out of the room. Pastry appreciated the sudden solitude, her eyes filling with tears that soon fell into the trash can as she sobbed.

She wanted more than anything to believe that Red Velvet was alive. If she couldn’t have faith in anything else, she would try and have faith in her friend. He was more than capable of defending himself, and he had Chiffon at his side.

But he was outnumbered. Pastry clutched the sides of the trash can on her lap, even as her gagging slowed to a stop. She could only hope that she had managed to draw enough of the Shadow Sisters away for Red Velvet to make his escape. She didn’t know what she would do if he hadn’t.

Heavy footsteps approached the door. There were two sets now, and when the door swung open, two men walked inside. The first was the man Pastry had woken up to, and the second was completely new. His bright purple dreadlocks hung around his shoulders, and his face wore a scowl that would’ve made a lesser person cower.

Pastry set the trash can down, wiping her eyes and sniffling. She felt smaller than she ever had before, but it was somewhat of a comfort to not be alone. Even if she didn’t know the people keeping her company.

Pastry shifted on her bed. “I… who are you,” she asked quietly.

The taller of the two men, the one who had been there upon Pastry’s waking, smiled and gave a short bow. “My name is Milk,” he said gently, “and this is my friend Purple Yam. I’m so glad you’re alright, Miss.“

Purple Yam scoffed. “Alright,” he barked, his voice much louder and harsher than Milk’s. “I’d HARDLY call her alright. She lost a LOT of blood!” Pastry flinched at Yam’s volume, and Milk shushed him gently before turning back to Pastry.

“Don’t mind him,” Milk said with a chuckle. “He was worried about you. We both were.” He beamed at Pastry, dimples forming on his cheeks. Yam rolled his eyes, but he didn’t dispute the claim. Instead, he crossed his arms and went to lean against the door frame, looking out into the hall with tensed muscles. He looked like a guard on duty, waiting for a threat to appear at any moment.

Pastry tried to move, only for her entire body to scream in protest. She winced, looking down at herself. She was covered in bandages, and she wore a nightgown instead of her undershirt and tights. Panic rose in her chest, and her face flushed.

“D-did you undress me,” she asked shrilly, folding her hands over her chest indignantly. Milk’s face turned red, and he shook his head frantically while Yam barked a laugh.

“The DOCTOR did that,” Yam called. “She isn’t in right now, so you’ll have to WAIT if you need something.”

She. Pastry exhaled, her shoulders relaxing. “Okay,” she said shakily. “Okay.” She chewed on her lip more, hugging her arms to her body and frowning.

She looked up at Milk. “How did I get here,” she asked quietly. The pale man blinked once, his cherubic face calming down from the intense shade of red it had taken on.

Milk smiled at Pastry. “Yam and I stumbled over you in the woods. Literally.” He chuckled at his own half-joke, and Purple Yam snorted.

“This DUMBASS heard the sounds of a fight,” Yam said irritably. “I told him we SHOULDN’T get involved, but he ALWAYS has to play hero!”

“I wasn’t about to let anyone get hurt on my watch,” Milk insisted with a slight frown. “I’d hardly call it ‘playing hero!’”

“You got fuckin’ SHOT, idiot!” Yam turned to face Milk with a glare. “Don’t you DARE talk to me about ‘not letting anyone get hurt!’”

Pastry looked between her rescuers with wide eyes. Despite their words, they seemed more worried about each other than angry. Pastry thoughts of Red Velvet again and curled in on herself. Please, she begged, though she didn’t know who she was begging anymore. Please let him be okay.

The woman swallowed. “Was I alone when you found me,” she asked, using her eyes to search Milk’s body for signs of injury. He wasn’t visibly hurt, but then again, most of him was covered with padded cloth. There was a torn area on his side, a wide gash in the fabric. He had been grazed, then. Pastry sighed with relief. She already felt guilty for someone getting hurt on her behalf, but she felt better knowing that it was only a minor injury.

Milk nodded in response to Pastry’s question, and her stomach sank. “Oh,” she said numbly. “I… no attackers, or anything? No dogs?” No clay-human hybrids?

This time, Milk shook his head. Yam was the one who spoke, though, his back turned. “Just you,” he said harshly. That seemed to be the only time he was capable of taking: harsh.

Milk shifted, moving to Pastry’s side again. He bent over, picking up the glass of water on the floor and handing it to Pastry. The woman took it, taking tentative sips as her rescuers spoke.

“Were you traveling with someone,” Milk asked with a frown. Pastry nodded, thinking of mismatched eyes and a smile full of sharp teeth. “Can you describe them? We might be able to go back and look.”

Pastry opened her mouth, then closed it. How would these strangers react to Red Velvet’s arm? To Chiffon? They seemed kind enough, despite Yam’s rudeness, but Pastry knew better. She thought of the Reverend Mother’s face, twisted with rage as she held a knife to Pastry’s throat, and shuddered.

“I’d rather not.” Pastry’s words rang out like a death knell, and tears sprang into her eyes. “I… I’m sorry, but I can’t.” She could imagine Red Velvet locked in a dungeon somewhere, chained and tortured, all because she opened her stupid mouth. The thought terrified her more than the St. Pastry Order.

Oh, Witches. Pastry’s hands shook. She had betrayed the St. Pastry Order. Her mother. She would never be able to go back. She didn’t want to, not in the slightest, but she had absolutely nothing else. She didn’t even have her own clothing, the nightgown draped over her bandages likely having been provided by the unknown doctor.

Pastry had nothing. And now, she didn’t even have Red Velvet.

She sniffled, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her hands and face were clean, she realized as she wiped away her tears. She thought back to the Godly Tower, and let out a tiny sob. She hoped that, wherever Red Velvet was, he had finally gotten that shower he’d wanted so badly.

Milk and Yam shared a look. Their expressions were impossible to decipher, but Pastry didn’t really care enough to try. Milk turned back to her after a moment, a soft, pitying smile on his face. Pastry wanted to slap it right off of him.

“You should really get some rest,” the tall man said quietly. “Do you want us to leave you alone?” Pastry bit her lip and nodded, and Milk nodded back. “Alright then,” he whispered. “We’ll be right outside if you need us, and the doctor should be back soon. Don’t hesitate to call, alright?”

Pastry nodded again, unable to speak. She watched Milk and Yam leave, barely holding herself together. The second the door was closed, she slumped over, soft sobs escaping her lips.

It was for the best, she told herself as she thought back to her suggestion of splitting up. She wouldn’t have made it out if Red Velvet hadn’t gone along with it. Yet, she still regretted her decision, feeing untethered and broken like a hot air balloon that had been shot down.

For the first time in months, and perhaps for the first time in her life, Pastry was alone. And she didn’t know what to do.

Chapter Text

Pastry sat on her bed and stared out the window blankly, chewing on her lip and waiting anxiously for an arrow to come flying through the glass. It had been a full week since her escape from the tower, and nothing had happened. That provided little comfort, however, and she found herself watching the shadows around her for movements at every hour.

She hadn’t been able to sleep much. With each passing day, the bags under her eyes grew darker. She checked her reflection in the mirror once in a while, purely because she had nothing else to do, and she watched herself grow paler and sicker as the days went by.

She’d cried herself to sleep the first night, and the night after that. Pastry remembered her own violent sobs, and though she had tried to keep them down, she knew people had heard. There were other patients in this infirmary, after all, and the walls were rather thin.

The doctor was nice, at least. Her name was Lavender Tea, and she was a woman not much older than Pastry. She was soft-spoken and kind, her bright green eyes and round face a comforting presence. She, Milk, and Yam stayed with her, although the latter two spent more time in the town outside. Still, their presence was much appreciated.

Pastry didn’t like being alone with her thoughts. When she was, they were occupied with Red Velvet and Chiffon. Every waking hour, she imagined the worst case scenario. Their bodies broken and bleeding, Chiffon lying shattered next to Red Velvet in a crumpled heap.

These thoughts became especially bad at night, when there wasn’t even a busy street outside to keep Pastry occupied. Staring up at the ceiling, she was unable to even shut her eyes, fearing her dreams. For good reason, as when she managed to catch a wink of sleep, she always woke up screaming.

She refused to talk to anyone about why this was. Not Milk and Yam, and not Lavender Tea. The doctor didn’t pry much, but she was clearly very worried about Pastry. She left a cup of tea at her patient’s bedside every night, though it always went untouched. Pastry appreciated the help, but every time she smelled the tea, she felt sick to her stomach.

At least I can eat, Pastry told herself, sighing as she pushed around the food on her plate. It rested on her lap, and while she hadn’t eaten much of it, it was still warm. It was some kind of meat soup, seasoned lovingly and prepared with care. It was such a big change from the pre-made meals in the Tower, Pastry had thrown up her first proper meal the day she’d woken up.

It was easier to stomach now, thankfully. Pastry couldn’t eat much, her worry killing her appetite, but she appreciated it nonetheless. She tried not to think about how thin she had gotten while inside the tower, avoiding looking at herself in the mirror as much as possible.

At least her bruises and wounds were healing well, according to Lavender Tea. The doctor worked wonders, far better than the healers back at the St. Pastry Order. Pastry would emerge with multiple new scars, but she would live in relative comfort until the wounds healed.

A gentle knock came at Pastry’s door. The woman sighed, uttering a quiet “come in.” She didn’t turn around when her visitor entered, but she didn’t have to. The heavy footsteps indicated a taller man, and Purple Yam was ruled out immediately due to the visitor’s silence.

“Hello, Miss,” Milk said softly. “I just wanted to check on you. How are you doing?” He had been doing this almost every day, to Pastry’s chagrin. She didn’t enjoy being treated as if she was made of glass. Then again, she supposed, perhaps she was.

She stopped stirring the soup, allowing her spoon to clink against the side of the ceramic bowl. “I’m fine,” she said hollowly, rubbing the front of her neck. The thin scab forming there itched uncomfortably, and it stung as Pastry’s fingers irritated it.

Fabric rustled, and the bed dipped as Milk sat down on it. “The doctor said you shouldn’t scratch your wounds,” he reminded with an audible smile. Pastry sighed and dropped her hand to her lap, jostling the bowl of soup.

“I know,” she said hollowly. “It just… itches.” An imaginary knife flashed at her throat, and she flinched.

The room lapsed into silence. In the street below, Pastry could see Purple Yam arguing with a merchant. She could practically hear their voices through the glass and across the street. It was oddly amusing, and a decent distraction from Pastry’s thoughts.

Milk shifted, swinging his legs around so he could properly face Pastry. His pale face came into view, a worried smile on his face. Pastry didn’t think he ever stopped smiling. Something about it only made her feel worse.

“That’s good,” Milk said enthusiastically. “The itching means it’s healing! You’ll be on your feet in no time!”

Pastry gritted her teeth, doubt and guilt storming in her gut. She would be on her feet, yes, but she had nowhere to go. Not to mention the fact that Red Velvet probably wasn’t on his feet.

Pastry felt like a ship lost at sea, half-filled with water. For the first time in her life, she was in uncharted territory. In the tower, she’d had a mission and a friend. At the convent, she’d had her Sisters. Here, in a small town miles away from the woods she had been carried out of, Pastry had nothing and no one.

She picked up her spoon and shoveled some soup into her mouth. Swallowing, she exhaled sharply, letting out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “I appreciate your optimism,” she lied, “but I don’t think I want to be on my feet.”

Milk’s smile inverted, turning into a tiny frown. “That’s not a very good attitude to have, Miss,” he scolded gently. As if he was Pastry’s mother.

”I’m disappointed in you, my child.”

Pastry moved the soup to rest on the bed. The liquid sloshed, spilling onto the sheets. Pastry’s heart sank, but she ignored it for the time being to snap back at Milk. “I don’t care about my attitude,” she hissed. “You don’t even know my name, so you have no right to judge me.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “Just… leave me alone. Please.”

Milk’s face fell, and though he recovered quickly, Pastry felt a pang of guilt. “Alright,” the large man said softly. He stood up, the movements jostling the soup so more of it spilled. “Let me know if you ever need anything, Miss,” he whispered.

He waited for a moment, watching Pastry expectantly. The woman forced herself to nod, though she couldn’t look Milk in the eye. Instead, she watched as Purple Yam threw his hands up into the air and screamed exasperatedly. Whatever argument he was having, he was losing.

Not long after, Milk joined his partner. Yam calmed down almost immediately upon Milk’s arrival. Pastry had observed them through the window, feeling dirty and voyeuristic for doing so, even though she was just watching them perform normal activities.

The way they acted around each other was strange. Upon first glance, it appeared that Milk would be the one keeping Yam in check. In reality, however, it seemed that the opposite was true. Yam was a bit of a one-track mind, while Milk was constantly distracted by people in need. They were almost symbiotic in that way, balancing each other out and creating something unshakable.

Pastry’s heart ached as she watched them walk away, hands brushing against each other. She remembered clay fingers enveloping her hands, a human hand doing the same on different occasions, and tears sprang to her eyes. She hated feeling so vulnerable, so weak, but she couldn’t help it.

She missed Red Velvet. After two months of sleeping next to him, Pastry was horribly lonely in bed by herself. Even if she wrapped herself in blankets so soft she nearly wept, she couldn’t get rid of the creeping feeling of isolation that spread through her body.

She didn’t even know if how she felt about Red Velvet was real. She remembered the Reverend Mother’s teachings about the unholy beasts and their serpentine tongues. Words that would drag her down to the fiery pits of Hell if she answered their call. Even if those words clashed with Pastry’s new understanding of the matter, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

What if she had been tricked? If she was wrong, and Red Velvet was alright, why hadn’t he come for her? Then again, maybe he couldn’t. This town wasn’t far from the tower, so perhaps the Shadow Sisters were blocking all paths inside.

Pastry had no way of knowing what was right or wrong. She had never felt so trapped in her life. Not even in the tower, when she had known what the dangers were.

Another knock came at the door, softer this time. Pastry jumped, thankfully managing not to spill any more soup. She internally cursed herself for being so easily startled. She knew who this was. Only three people ever visited her, and two of them had already left. Still, some part of Pastry was terrified that one day, the face on the other side of the door would be the Reverend Mother.

This could not have been further from the truth. When Pastry gave the okay, Lavender Tea poked her head through the door. “Hello, Ma’am,” the doctor said softly. “I just wanted to ask if you needed anything?” Her voice always sounded like she was half-asleep, much like Pastry’s in the morning.

The nun— not a nun, she reminded herself with gritted teeth— turned and offered Lavender Tea a strained smile. “I’m fine,” she said shakily. She cursed herself internally, and did so again when the doctors sleepy expression turned into a frown.

“Miss,” Lavender Tea whispered, “providing care for you requires cooperation on both of our parts. I can’t do anything you don’t want me to, and you don’t have to tell me anything, but I can’t properly provide care if you don’t report your symptoms as accurately as possible.”

Pastry’s smile dropped in an instant. She curled in on herself, avoiding Lavender Tea’s gaze. “I’m not…” She took a deep breath, then pushed it out slowly. “I’m just tired,” she muttered. It wasn’t a lie. Her bones felt weary and heavier than ever, but she couldn’t bring herself to sleep.

Lavender Tea scrutinized her with soft green eyes. It never took much to get her off of Pastry’s back, thankfully, so it wasn’t long before she shuffled away with dragging feet. For someone who stressed the importance of sleep so much, the doctor had an abysmal sleep schedule herself.

Pastry sighed, standing up from her bed. She gently took her soup and relocated it to her bedside table, wincing as her stitches tugged. She still wasn’t allowed to remove her bandages, and she was barely able to move. Yet, she refused to sit still.

She tried not to think about the crossbow bolts that had stuck out of Red Velvet’s body. He had been in an arguably worse condition than her, despite how fast he had been running. Pastry blamed adrenaline for how far she had gotten, and she could only hope that Red Velvet had managed to get farther on his own.

Pastry paced her room slowly. Aimlessly, she shuffled into the bathroom within her room. Inside, there was a mirror that Pastry had shoddily covered with a spare bedsheet. The edges of the fabric pooled into the sink, where it sat filled with water. Pastry winced, lifting the sheet up and casting it aside.

As the water swirled down the now-clear drain, Pastry stared at herself in the mirror. She looked like a wreck still, bags under her eyes and scrapes and bruises all over her body. A thin line of crusted blood adorned her neck, and Pastry winced at the memory of cold metal against her throat, yet again.

At least she was clean now, she mused, turning on the sink and splashing water in her face. She chucked bitterly, tears stinging the back of her eyes. She hoped Red Velvet had gotten that shower he’d wanted so badly. Being clean felt just as wonderful as the two of them had imagined.

Pastry’s hair hung past her shoulders in loose waves. Her scalp stung, and she could’ve sworn she felt a gloved hand wrenching her hair again. ”I’m disappointed in you, my child.”

Pastry gritted her teeth. “I’m not your child,” she whispered to herself, staring into her own, haunted blue eyes. She looked hollow, and she felt that way too. Deep within that hollowness, however, there was a growing seed of resentment that threatened to become a tangle of thorns in her stomach.

She swore her scalp throbbed. It wasn’t right, she knew. There was no reason for her to be in pain now. The soreness from the Reverend Mother’s rough touch had worn off days ago. Still, it made Pastry want to peel her skin off and beat it with a broom like an old rug.

The woman reached up and gently touched one of the locks that had fallen in front of her shoulder. It blended into the lavender-colored hospital gown that hung off her frame, still bony from weeks of malnutrition. She felt like a husk of herself… but perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Pastry bit her lip. An idea took hold in her mind, and she carefully tiptoed out of the bathroom, out of her room, and into the hallway.

It wasn’t hard to find the small supply closet that Lavender Tea kept in her miniature hospital. As the only doctor, she couldn’t exactly run all the way across the building to get something she needed. As a result, the storage closet was right in the middle of the short hallway that contained the majority of the rooms. Pastry only had to move about fifteen feet to reach her goal.

After a moment of stealthy rummaging— or rather, an attempt at stealthy— Pastry found what she was looking for. She pulled the surgical scissors out of their box carefully, silently begging the Witches…

No. She wouldn’t beg the Witches. She couldn’t. She took a deep breath and stepped away from the closet, shutting the door and walking back to her room as quickly as her stitches would allow her. She locked the door, doing the same to the bathroom door for extra measure.

She stared at herself in the mirror, scissors in hand. The flash of silver metal made her feel sick to her stomach, but she forced herself to keep looking as she opened the scissors. She took a chunk of hair in her shaking hand, her breaths turning ragged. Pressing the blades of the scissors to her hair, she fought to hold her fingers steady.

She could imagine what the Reverend Mother would say to her for this. You sacrilegious whore. Disgusting, vile child. But she wasn’t a child. She wasn’t the Reverend Mother’s, either.

Pastry thought of mismatched blue eyes, a clay hand that had held hers with such delicateness, and a name she had left behind years ago. She thought of the Créme republic and the orphans within it.

Then, with steady hands, Pastry took the scissors, and began to cut.

——————

Red Velvet spat out blood, shooting a glare at the woman who had struck him. Watery yellow eyes stared down at him with contempt, a blood-covered paddle still in her hands. Red Velvet could feel a hollow in his gums where one of his teeth had been knocked out. His face felt like a piece of tenderized meat, but he still held the Reverend Mother’s gaze with fire in his heart.

“Is that everything you’ve got,” he croaked, his throat hoarse from screams he had barely managed to hold back. He refused to let his tormentor hear him break. Despite his resolve, however, the Reverend Mother never seemed to falter, or show signs of giving up.

The woman was short, but that didn’t make her any less intimidating. Red Velvet could understand why Pastry was so afraid of her. His heart wrenched at the memory of the look of terror on his friend’s face, her crystal blue eyes watery with tears. He hated seeing her that vulnerable.

It was funny, he mused as his ribcage received the next blow. Here he was, being beaten to a bloody pulp, and all he could think about was Pastry.

He regretted going along with her spur-of-the-moment plan. If it could be called a plan at all. Red Velvet had not been prepared for Pastry to suggest splitting up, but he hadn’t known what else to do. So, he’d let go of her hand, bobbing and weaving through the trees.

The strike of wood against Red Velvet’s bare skin punctuated his memories as they flashed by. Chiffon running ahead of him, spurred on by his voice as he insisted the dog run away as far as he could. Red Velvet turning around and sprinting back toward the tower, thinking of the soldiers he had left behind. Tearing shadowy nuns to bloody pieces and rescuing as many of his hounds as possible before his opponents had overwhelmed him. Whack. Whack. Whack.

The Reverend Mother had called upon healers. They had used magic to treat Red Velvet’s wounds. In a way, this was a far greater cruelty than it would have been to just leave him to die. With healers, his broken bones could be healed over and over again, only to be shattered once more the next day. Rinse and repeat.

It was not easy for Red Velvet to tune out the beatings, even though he pretended it was. Every strike to his clay arm shattered or cracked it, bringing to mind memories he had left behind years ago. The screams of people just like him, smiling corpses and an explosion that had rocked him to his core as a child.

But it was fine. He could handle this, he told himself as one final blow was delivered to his stomach. His ears rang, and the Reverend Mother’s voice was muffled through his shattered eardrums. “Are you willing to repent yet, beast,” she hissed.

Red Velvet gritted his teeth and growled. If she thought of him as a beast, then he would gladly play the part. At least if he was here, then Chiffon was safe, and he prayed Pastry and the other hounds were safe too.

Pray, he thought to himself bitterly as a healer stepped into the room, her hands glowing so brightly they hurt Red Velvet’s eyes. As if the Witches would listen anyway.

Chapter Text

Living with shorter hair was… strange. Pastry hadn’t had short hair since she was a child, and even then, she didn’t have the money to get a haircut. She’d lived a life of split ends and poor hygiene before being taken in by the church, and she hadn’t even been allowed to cut it short afterwards. The Reverend Mother had said that to cut her hair would be to mutilate her body.

She didn’t care anymore. Her hair just barely brushing her shoulders, Pastry felt… free. She’d had to get assistance with making her rough hacks even, and Lavender Tea hadn’t been happy about her surgical scissors being used, but it had been worth it.

She felt ten times lighter, both physically and mentally. She hadn’t realized how much her hair had weighed until it was gone. Now, she felt that she could hold her head up higher, and the memory of the Reverend Mother’s hands in her hair felt more distant.

She still thought of Red Velvet, even when she was finally permitted to leave the hospital. It had been well over two weeks since she’d left the tower, and her stitches had been taken out. Lavender Tea had even offered some healing tea, made with the very minor healing magic she possessed. Pastry had gladly taken it, and all that was left of her wounds were a few scars.

Well… more than a few. Every morning, after yet another nightmare, Pastry counted the fresh, pink scars on her body. There were seven in total from impalement, two mangled ones on her hands from the scrapes she had never allowed to fully heal, and a few more from injuries she couldn’t even remember.

The worst scar, however, was the one on her neck. It was thin, a ghost of a line, but to Pastry, it was a permanent reminder of what her mother had been ready to do. No matter how hard she tried to put the Reverend Mother out of her mind, those yellow eyes pierced her soul and invaded even her waking hours.

At least she could walk. It certainly helped that Milk and Purple Yam had been gracious enough to buy her a set of clothes from the market. Wintertime was quickly approaching, so Pastry could get away with wearing long sleeves and pants. The thick cloak she’d been bought helped hide her identity, especially when she put up the hood.

Pastry had taken to fetching herbs and other ingredients for Lavender Tea’s remedies. She had been offered money in exchange, and even though she felt dirty taking it, she accepted it. She didn’t want to think about what she would do with herself if she ever left town, since she had no real skills that could get her a job, but for now, this would suffice.

On these supply runs, Pastry found herself looking West. The town of Refuge— aptly named, in her opinion— was much farther from the Godly Tower than she’d thought. The woods she had emerged from were miles away, barely visible in the distance. The area surrounding the tower truly was deserted, most likely due to either legends, or the mass production of clay beasts.

Being so far away from the tower felt… strange. Pastry remembered the horrible itch of months-old clothes, and the pain from her injuries, the hopelessness she had felt. Yet, it all seemed so distant somehow. Like everything she had gone through had been washed away as easily as dirt, even though she still woke screaming from nightmares of the Reverend Mother and Red Velvet.

She couldn’t even say that anything else had gone back to normal, as nothing about Refuge was normal to her. They didn’t seem to follow any religion, and nobody asked any questions about her. They simply accepted her presence, and didn’t even press for her name.

Pastry had tried to tell people her name. Milk, Yam, and Lavender Tea deserved to know, at the very least. Every time Pastry tried, however, the words caught in her throat. Something in her lungs held onto them, and she would seize up.

Using her church-given name felt wrong somehow. It didn’t feel quite like her anymore. Her heart felt hollow when she thought about it. It wasn’t exactly pleasant to have something that once brought her pride turn into shame. Part of her wished desperately to go back to how things once were. Then, she knew what to do. Then, she knew what she wanted to be.

Now, all she knew was what was on Lavender Tea’s shopping list.

Pastry sighed, cold wind nipping at her cheeks. The other citizens of Refuge didn’t bother her as they went about their day. They all seemed to understand that she wasn’t in the mood for small talk, used to her attitude by now.

Pastry wasn’t used to feeling so reserved. So vulnerable. She still flinched whenever a shadow crossed the corner of her eye, even in the middle of the afternoon. It made her exhausted, but she couldn’t stop her dread from bubbling to the surface.

Her paranoia worsened with every day that passed. Where was the St. Pastry Order? Why hadn’t they come for her? The Reverend Mother hated Pastry now, surely. She would never try to kill someone she loved. Hurt, yes. Slap, yes. But never kill.

Pastry walked directly into the marketplace stall she had been heading to. The owner said nothing as she re-oriented herself, face burning with shame. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I… was distracted.”

The stall owner— a rotund elderly woman with a sunny disposition and permanently red cheeks— smiled at Pastry. “That’s alright, dear,” she said sweetly. “I take it you’re here for dock leaves?”

Pastry had become a regular at the stall in the past couple of weeks. She didn’t know the stall owner’s name, but that was a general rule of thumb in Refuge. Names were far, far from necessary. Most of the time, people were referred to by where they lived, or what they did. Pastry had been labeled as “the quiet girl.”

She hated that name, but she went along with it. She liked this stall owner, as she just called Pastry “dear” or “honey.” It was soothing, like herbal tea taken while sick. Pastry smiled at the old woman to the best of her ability, and nodded. “The usual amount, please,” she said plainly. Lavender Tea always requested the same amount of herbs, no matter who she sent to fetch them. It was one of the few consistencies in Pastry’s life now.

The old woman began rummaging around her stall, and Pastry kept her head on a swivel while she waited. The marketplace was busy, as usual, but it seemed more crowded today. The extra people made the hairs on the back of Pastry’s neck raise, and she shrank into herself as she waited.

She could’ve sworn the sky turned darker. Or maybe she was just getting in her own head. She didn’t know anymore, not after everything she had ever known had been shattered again. She felt compelled to pray, but praying made her feel sick. She wanted to run, but she had nowhere to go. She was an animal in a cage, even if she was technically free.

“Honey?” Pastry flinched, reaching into her pocket and whipping out a scalpel she had swiped from the supply closet in the infirmary. Knives still made her stomach drop, but it was better than being defenseless. Adrenaline rushing through her veins, Pastry brandished the knife in the direction of the noise.

The stall owner’s eyes were wide. Her expression was relatively calm, if not a bit disappointed. Realizing where her blade was pointing, Pastry dropped her hand immediately. Heat rose to her face, and she looked around, frantically putting the scalpel away. Nobody had noticed, it seemed, besides a couple of bystanders. Their hands had drifted to their sides, as if reaching for weapons of their own.

Pastry’s face burned. “I-I’m so sorry,” she breathed. “I didn’t—“

“It’s alright, dear.” The old woman was relaxing, a renewed smile tugging at her wrinkled lips. “I shouldn’t have startled you. I just wanted to let you know that your dock leaves are ready.” As if proving it, the old woman gestured toward small bag sitting on the edge of the stall counter. She gently scooted it closer to Pastry, who curled in on herself, hugging her arms to her chest.

“I…” Pastry swallowed, heart still pounding in her chest. She reached out and took the bag tentatively, replacing it with a bag of coin. It was embroidered with the infirmary’s logo, a simple teacup with lavender flowers tucked inside. It was a bit poorly designed, as an outsider would most likely think it was a restaurant or general store, but it seemed to work well enough.

“Sorry,” Pastry repeated, tucking the bag of herbs into her cloak. The old woman just smiled at her, eyes softening with kindness.

“I told you it was alright, and I meant it,” the stall owner said softly. “We’re all on edge today.” A shadow crossed her face, though her smile remained. “This is the longest our town has gone without incident after someone new arrives,” she intoned gravely. “We hope for the best, of course, but we can’t help but wonder when something will happen.”

Pastry shuddered, but she forced herself to nod. “Alright,” she whispered. “…Thank you.” With that, she turned and walked away as quickly as possible, eyes darting back and forth to watch for attackers.

The old woman had been right. Most of the people in the marketplace seemed troubled. Brows were furrowed, and Pastry attracted a few stares. Her body shook as she power walked away from the marketplace, frantically searching for the teacup sign above the infirmary door. It was like her last few months at the convent all over again, and she didn’t care for it at all.

Lavender Tea was waiting for her outside. The soft-spoken woman waved, and Pastry broke into a jog. Ignoring the slight murmur that followed her as she ran, she practically threw herself inside the infirmary. “Shut the door,” she begged raggedly, barely able to breathe. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and it took everything she had not to burst into tears.

“Miss?” Lavender Tea sounded concerned, albeit tired. Pastry gritted her teeth, trying to force herself to breathe normally, only to wind up making choked sobbing sounds. Stop it, she commanded herself. Her body did not obey.

Lavender Tea appeared before Pastry’s eyes, crossing around to her front. She reached out slowly, hovering one hand over Pastry’s shoulder, silently asking permission. Receiving no protests, the doctor closed the final distance, the warmth of her hand nearly making Pastry’s shoulders relax.

Lavender Tea scrutinized Pastry with worried eyes. “Miss, what happened,” she asked softly. Pastry shook like a leaf. I will not break, I will not cry.

“N-nothing,” Pastry quivered, her voice cracking painfully. “I’m… I’m fine—“

“Miss, please.” Pastry’s eyes widened before she blinked away her tears again. Lavender Tea never raised her voice. This was the loudest she had ever spoken, and it was just a normal speaking volume.

The doctor sighed. “Miss…” She paused for a moment, then shifted, re-orienting herself.

“Do you know why Refuge is named as it is,” she asked quietly. Pastry swallowed, then shook her head slowly. She had never thought about it before, but she supposed it was oddly coincidental considering her circumstances.

Lavender Tea removed her hand from Pastry’s shoulder, beckoning for her to move out of the main lobby. Together, the two shuffled the short distance to Pastry’s room, shutting and locking the door behind them. When they were in private, Lavender Tea folded her hands in front of her body and gave Pastry an uncharacteristically haunted look.

“This town is called Refuge because, for most of its inhabitants, this is the only place we had left to go.” Lavender Tea seemed distant, gazing through Pastry as if looking out at a battlefield.

“We don’t ask questions because we know not everyone is ready to talk,” the doctor continued. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t talk at all. That’s how we survive here. You don’t have to say anything,” she insisted, “but I know from experience that talking helps sometimes. You can’t keep it all inside. Even writing it down works… I…”

Lavender Tea paused, and Pastry realized all too late that tears had begun to spill from her eyes. She was practically quaking now, barely able to stand. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop her sobs from escaping, only to fail miserably.

I know from experience that talking helps sometimes. Pastry remembered hearing those exact words weeks ago. Witches, it felt like years. She recalled mismatched hands rubbing gentle circles into her back after a night terror, and finally, she caved in and sobbed.

Soft hands guided Pastry to sit on her bed, gently removing her cloak. The ex-nun sniffled, her shoulders shaking as she cried. Her entire body felt hollow, and she wanted to disappear, even when Lavender Tea began to gently stroke her back. The repetitive motions, moving up and down slowly, were comforting and grounding, and Pastry found herself overwhelmed by guilt.

Words spilled from Pastry’s lips as she cried. She spoke of the tower, and Red Velvet, omitting the details of his clay arm. She told of their alliance-turned-friendship, their escape, and the Reverend Mother. As the words tumbled out of Pastry’s mouth, the woman began to feel lighter.

She didn’t feel anywhere near good, but at least she felt better. The boa constrictor of despair that had choked her for weeks was finally beginning to loosen its grip. Even though her chest ached from sobbing, and even though her face burned with shame, she didn’t feel bad.

That wasn’t right. Pastry still felt awful as she spilled her guts to Lavender Tea. Yet that feeling was more distant now. Distant as the tower that lied on the other side of the far-away woods. For now, she was removed. For now, she was safe.

Even if the people of Refuge didn’t seem to think so.

——————

When the Reverend Mother came into Red Velvet’s cell, something was different about her. The expression on her face was unreadable, to the point where the usual disgust was gone. She carried no switches, no belts, and no whips. Red Velvet supposed she could have knives, but that wasn’t quite her style of torture. She favored blunt objects that would shatter bones and cause concussions.

The Reverend Mother’s glasses glinted ominously as she closed the distance between her and Red Velvet. Without a hint of apprehension in her eyes, she knelt down to Red Velvet’s level. The general strained against the chains binding him to the wall at the wrists. His jaw ached as he tried to open his mouth to growl. All he could do was let out the snort of a caged beast, unable to resist as the Reverend Mother tilted his chin up with one hand.

“How is the muzzle treating you, beast,” she asked condescendingly. Red Velvet responded with a glare, pouring every ounce of hatred he had into his eyes. The muzzle hurt. He knew that muzzles shouldn’t hurt if fitted properly. They had given him one made for a dog, he knew, which only added insult to injury. He would never have muzzled his hounds.

He would wonder how such cruelty was possible if he hadn’t lived with it his whole life. He still couldn’t remember his parents, but he remembered the years he’d spent alone. Watching humans die over and over, keeping to himself knowing that he would join them if he tried to help. Seeing his beloved clay hounds get shoved to the front when the Witches came so they would be taken first. Even back then, him and his kind had been trampled on and abused.

Now, the Reverend Mother was touching his face with greater care than she had ever shown him. This raised far more alarm bells than being slapped would have. She had something up her sleeve, for sure.

Red Velvet wasn’t stupid enough to delude himself into thinking he was being released. He knew how people saw him and the other clay creatures. Too often as a child, he had trusted others to help him, only to be forced into providing a distraction so they could get away from the Witches. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.

The Reverend Mother smiled venomously, not an ounce of warmth in the expression. “You’re a persistent thing, aren’t you,” she hissed lowly. “I honestly admire your tenacity. You would be an asset to the church if you weren’t such a disgusting animal.”

Red Velvet didn’t make a sound this time. He just stared up at his captor, baring his chained-up claws. It meant nothing, but it provided some sense of relief to Red Velvet, knowing that he still had a weapon he could use.

The Reverend Mother paused for a moment before continuing. “I can see that trying to get information and repentance out of you isn’t going to work,” she said calmly. “If you had given us what we wanted, we would have given you a quick, merciful death.“

Red Velvet doubted it. People who murdered newborn pups and beat prisoners half to death didn’t have a drop of mercy in their blood. How, he wondered, could the Reverend Mother call herself good when she did things like this? To creatures that couldn’t help what they were?

No, he wasn’t the beast here. The true beast, as far as he was concerned, had watery yellow eyes and pale green hair.

The Reverend Mother tightened her grip on the muzzle, forcing Red Velvet to look her in the eye. “I should kill you right now,” she snapped, her grin turning malicious. She paused. “…But I won’t.”

She let go of Red Velvet’s face, allowing his head to drop forward. He managed a muffled growl, thinking back to his captor’s eyes. They had shone with cruel amusement. The Reverend Mother had no holy purpose, as she claimed to. It was as she’d said— she could have, and should have, killed Red Velvet long ago. She was enjoying this, a sadist in sheep’s clothing.

She was leaving now, her feet halfway out the door. Just before she exited completely, she turned to look at Red Velvet again. “It’s cute that you’re trying to be intimidating,” she said condescendingly. “But we both know that animals only growl when they’re afraid.”

Then, the door closed, and Red Velvet was plunged into darkness. Not for the first time, he wished Pastry was there to hold his hand.

Chapter Text

Chiffon ran through the forest on tired paws, brambles caught in their fur. Their lungs heaved and their tongue lolled out of their mouth, but they kept running. They would run until their paws bled, until they couldn’t run anymore. Those were, after all, their orders.

”Chiffon, run!” The clay hound remembered their father’s voice and whimpered, dodging another branch that whipped at their face. Formally, their father was known as General or Sir. Informally, he was just dad, and here in the unfamiliar woods, Chiffon missed their dad.

They knew something terrible had happened to him. He had turned back immediately after giving Chiffon orders, running directly into the line of fire. The dog had wanted to run after him, but they were under orders. Not only that, but their attackers were far faster than Chiffon was trained to deal with. No amount of laps around the tower could have prepared them for that level of combat.

Especially not after what they had gone through beforehand. Chiffon remembered the St. Pastry Order hitting and kicking them until they whimpered and stopped trying to escape their cage. When they had finally been released, they had known it was a trap, but smelling their father had made them far too excited to care.

Now, their father was gone, and Chiffon was alone.

They couldn’t even see the Little Gnat anymore. They supposed it made sense, as it had been many, many nights since Chiffon had escaped the tower. The Little Gnat, as their father called her, was just as bad as the St. Pastry Order. She was part of it, Chiffon knew. They had heard her say it, and they remembered well.

But their father— General— hadn’t disposed of her. In fact, she had even saved him, breaking out of the Reverend Mother’s grasp to do so. That confused Chiffon to no end. They pondered it even as they launched themself over a fallen tree trunk, blindly running through the vast woods.

They’d lost their pursuers many days ago, but they still felt that they couldn’t stop running. Avoid capture at all costs, their General had said. So they ran, their paws sore and even bleeding in some places where they had struck sharp rocks.

If Red Velvet had spared the Little Gnat, then she must have been worth it. The Clay General wouldn’t do something so strange without reason. Not only that, but the Gnat hadn’t done anything to him. Even Chiffon had been allowed to walk in peace, too happy to see their father to warn him about the Order hiding in the shadows.

Chiffon, were they capable of doing so, would have hated themself for that. In a way, it was their fault the St. Pastry Order had found their father. They were, however, still a dog at heart, and so all they could think to do was follow orders and run.

They were afraid— both for themself, and for their father. In some ways, they were worried for the Gnat as well. They remembered how Red Velvet had looked at her, with such earnest trust, and even affection. It had been quickly overshadowed by fear, but it had been there nonetheless.

Chiffon was no fool. They knew that the St. Pastry Order was fully capable of playing tricks on people. Yet, they trusted their General above all else. Red Velvet was smart, too smart to let himself fall for a trick like that. If he trusted the Gnat… Chiffon supposed they would too.

The hound stopped in their tracks, a familiar scent drifting into their nose. They sniffed once, twice, their tail straightening into a stubby exclamation point. It smelled of sweat, blood, and vomit, but Chiffon knew the scent. It took them a moment to recognize it, but when they did, they growled.

The Little Gnat. There were other scents around hers, and they were several days stale, but they were there. Chiffon huffed, whimpering as they caught their breath.

Who did these other scents belong to? They smelled like sweetness, sweat, and several days gone without showering. A spot of dry, unfamiliar blood marked a spot near a tree, next to the Little Gnat’s scent. The St. Pastry Order had been here as well, their unsettlingly clean scents fading with each passing breeze.

Chiffon whined, pressing their snout to the dry ground and inhaling. Their tail wagged as they focused, picking up on a faint trail leading East. Following the trail, Chiffon travelled over tree roots, moving past crossbow bolts stuck into the trees. The St. Pastry Order had excellent aim— Chiffon still had a few bolts jutting grotesquely out of their bloodless body— but the trees had provided a perfect cover as they ran.

It seemed that the strangers hadn’t been quite as lucky. There was a bit more blood off to the side, coating the shaft of a bolt stuck into a tree. Chiffon sniffed it with vigor, and it wasn’t long before a trail opened up before them, weaving through the trees invisibly with the scent of a stranger.

Chiffon took off running. Perhaps these strange people would help them! They inhaled deeply, ears perking up as another scent joined the first. This one smelled like burnt sugar, and with it, it carried traces of another scent.

The Little Gnat had been traveling with the strangers. Chiffon didn’t like the idea of following after her, but they didn’t have much of a choice. They didn’t know where they were, or where their father was. There were no noticeable paths in the woods, and nothing was familiar at this point. Chiffon’s patrols had never taken them out this far, so they were in uncharted territory.

The dog paused briefly, chest heaving as they wheezed for air. Their legs threatened to give out underneath them. They knew they would die if they didn’t rest soon, but they couldn’t afford to lose the trail they were following. They didn’t like the Little Gnat, but she was the only lead they had as to the way out.

Not only that, but… perhaps the Little Gnat would help Chiffon find and save their father. Red Velvet had run back toward the tower, where his enemies lied in wait. There was no way he could have made it out again. If he had, he would’ve found Chiffon already. They would’ve gone back to Dark Enchantress, and hopefully reclaimed the First Oven for themselves.

Since Chiffon was still alone, that meant Red Velvet had been captured. This left the dog with no other option but to pursue someone they had only known as an enemy. However, if she had left Red Velvet alive and relatively unharmed, then perhaps the Little Gnat would be open to a truce.

Chiffon huffed a sigh, shaking out their wobbly, exhausted legs one by one. Their muscles were on fire, and their breaths came out in sharp, harsh pants interwoven with whistling whines. Still, they shook it off, and ran, as fast as they could with their short, stubby legs.

They were going to save their father. Even if it was the last thing they ever did.

——————

Pastry huffed a sigh, splashing her face with cold, fresh water. She gave herself a once-over in the mirror, noting how her eye bags had shrunk slightly in the weeks since her arrival in Refuge. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to bring a slight smile to her face.

Pastry hadn’t felt this good in many, many months. She actually couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone an entire day without some kind of fear. She wasn’t relaxed— the tension her presence brought to the town always set her on edge— but she wasn’t afraid. For once, there was no Reverend Mother to stare at her with watchful yellow eyes. For once, there weren’t thousands of tons of stone creaking above her, just waiting for an excuse to drop and crush her to death.

It had gotten even better after Pastry had spilled her guts to Lavender Tea. Only a few days later, and Pastry was already beginning to feel more like a person. More like herself, whoever herself was at the moment. She didn’t quite know how to act yet, without the church behind her every movement, but now, she stood a little straighter, her steps more confident.

Her period had returned as well. Lavender Tea was kindly providing painkillers and absorption pads, and she asked no further questions. She didn’t even bat an eyelash when Pastry shuffled over, red-faced and mumbling with embarrassment as she asked for what she needed the first time.

Things were far from perfect. Pastry still got a few odd stares and whispers, and she found herself watching the shadows more often than not, but her paranoia was already getting easier to ignore.

She turned off the faucet in the sink, checking over her shoulder one last time. Seeing nothing behind her, Pastry took a deep breath, and stepped out of her bathroom, out of her bedroom, and into the hallway.

“Good morning,” she greeted Lavender Tea, who waved back sleepily. The woman’s eye bags were significantly worse than Pastry’s, though that was often the norm, as she was the only doctor in town, and the local children often got hurt. They had shrank a bit lately, however, as she now had an extra pair of hands around the infirmary.

Lavender Tea blew gently over the rim of her teacup, taking a sip of the caffeinated drink inside. “Morning,” she mumbled, fixing a stray strand of hair that had fallen out of her twin buns. “You’re up early.”

Pastry winced, remembering how long it had taken her to even sit up in bed, watching the time tick by on the wall clock across the room. She didn’t admit this, however, avoiding the comment entirely and asking for the daily shopping list.

Pastry looked forward to what she considered to be her job. Lavender Tea had been teaching her the differences between herbs, as well as what each herb did when used properly. Pastry was eager to learn, and she appreciated the distraction from the thoughts that still haunted her.

The list was passed to her quickly. There wasn’t much on it today, to Pastry’s disappointment, but she didn’t complain. Instead, she tucked the list into her pocket— she loved the fact that her pants actually had proper pockets, unlike her old habit— and rushed out the door with a rushed “goodbye.”

The sky was overcast today. Pastry had always loved the rain. Most people associated it with gloom, but she it brought her a sense of peace. The constant pounding of the raindrops had always allowed her to escape her thoughts when they became too loud, even since she was a child. It was easy to become lost in the rhythmic pitter-patter on the convent roof.

This rain felt different, however. Pastry couldn’t help but feel trapped as she had been in the Tower, the dark clouds above akin to the cloying shadows she had barely managed to stave off with the light of her crossbow.

Stop thinking about it, she commanded herself. Just… do your job, Pastry. She swallowed the bitter taste her name left in her mouth, and sighed. Then, she moved out, resolving to get her job done before the storm broke.

Thunder rumbled overhead as she walked. There weren’t many townspeople outside today, and the few who were held opened umbrellas despite the lack of actual rain. Even the shopkeepers had stayed indoors for the most part, though it seemed that the ones Pastry needed to visit were still out. She silently thanked… well, not the Witches, but someone.

The trip went relatively smoothly at first. None of the shopkeepers wanted to talk much, eager to sell their wares as quickly as possible so they wouldn’t be caught in the rain. Pastry sped through the stalls efficiently, exchanging a few warm words before moving on.

Trouble started, however, about an hour into Pastry’s errand run. The sound of running feet startled her out of a conversation with a younger shopkeeper, and she quickly reached for the knife hidden in the folds of her cloak. She knew better than to pull it out immediately now, and she was better for it, as it turned out that the person rushing toward her was the farthest thing from an attacker.

It was a child. There weren’t many children in Refuge, at least not many that stayed. Pastry had seen a few families come and go in the month she had spent here, and this child was not part of one of them. This child, named Peanut Butter, was a permanent resident of the town. He rushed toward Pastry with wide, brown eyes, and skidded to a stop in front of her.

“Miss,” he shouted, thunder punctuating his arrival. “There’s an emergency at the infirmary! Lavender Tea needs your help!”

Pastry froze, barely able to keep a grip on her basket filled with herbs. Behind her, the shopkeep she’d been speaking with cleared their throat. “Wooh,” they whistled, “you better get goin’, Miss.”

Pastry whirled around, eyes wide. “I know,” she said hollowly, heart racing. “I’ll… I’ll come back later?” It was a question, not a statement. She didn’t know what qualified as an ‘emergency’ in a town like Refuge. Was someone dying? Had the infirmary itself gotten destroyed somehow? Was Lavender Tea alright—

Pastry didn’t get to finish her thought before Peanut Butter grabbed her hand and began to pull her along. She matched his pace easily, not daring to ask questions, fearing the worst. She didn’t know what she would do if she lost the infirmary. It was the only home she had right now, and Lavender Tea was the only person she felt safe talking to. What would happen if either of them were gone? Where would Pastry go?

The infirmary was intact when she arrived. There didn’t even seem to be a large commotion around it, though that could have been due to the fact that so few people were outside in the first place. A couple of citizens stood outside, one of whom Pastry recognized as Peanut Butter’s mother, Cashew Butter. Wordlessly, Cashew Butter ushered Pastry inside, shutting the door behind her and the rest as quickly as possible.

Lavender Tea rushed out of the hallway, eyes wide awake now. She all but sprinted toward Pastry, sending a spike of fear through the woman’s heart. Before she could protest, she was being pulled into the patient wing, through a hallway, and into one of the empty rooms.

It wasn’t empty now, though. Pastry froze, her jaw dropping as she stared at the bed. There, on the mattress, sat a dog with multiple crossbow bolts jutting out of its side. Panting and wheezing, the dog stared at Pastry blearily, whimpering pathetically. Its eyes flashed with recognition, and it whined, its tail wagging once, as if to say I found you.

“Chiffon?!” Pastry was at the dog’s bedside before she could think, hands hovering over one of the bolts as thunder rumbled loudly up above. Next to her, Lavender Tea appeared, a tray in her hands.

“I need you to move,” the doctor insisted, all business. Pastry obeyed, clamping her hands over her mouth. Chiffon looked like a wreck. Bits of his body were chipped, the superficial layers of soft clay scraped away. He had no blood to bleed, but the sight was still gruesome. Memories of shattered hounds flooded Pastry’s head, and she was barely able to hear Lavender Tea as she issued Pastry orders.

The ex-nun did as she was told. She had to, or she feared she would lose control of herself. Chiffon, Red Velvet’s beloved pet, was in her hands, his life on the line. Where was Red Velvet?

“It looks like they’ve been running for weeks,” Lavender Tea hissed anxiously, very slowly reaching for the crossbow bolts. Her hands shook with uncertainty, and it quickly became clear that she had never handled a clay beast before. Pastry hadn’t either, but at least she knew that Chiffon wouldn’t bleed.

Pastry swallowed hard, moving to grip one of the crossbow bolts. “No,” Lavender Tea insisted. “We don’t know how this dog will react if we remove them. I-I brought sterilization equipment, but… what is this…” She gestured toward the flakes of dry clay falling off of Chiffon’s side.

Pastry took a deep, shaky breath, and shook her head. “He won’t bleed,” she said quickly. To the look in Lavender Tea’s eyes, she said: ”Trust me. He won’t bleed, but we need to get these bolts out quickly, or the cracks will get worse.”

She had pulled that part out of her ass, but it made sense to her, and Lavender Tea grasped it quickly. Together, the two began to remove the bolts, Pastry whispering soft apologies to Chiffon as he whimpered in pain.

All the while, Pastry’s thoughts moved a mile a minute. Where was Red Velvet? Weeks, Lavender Tea had said. Likely as long as it had been since Pastry had escaped the tower. There was no way Red Velvet would let Chiffon go so far by himself, especially not without rest. Chiffon had been running from something all this time, and Pastry had a sinking feeling that she knew exactly what it was.

Suddenly, Chiffon was moving. They heaved themself up, more clay chipping off their body. Lavender Tea grunted, attempting to make the dog lie back down, only to have her hand bitten hard. She yelped as Chiffon fell off the bed, staggering upwards and off to the bedside table.

Pastry stood up from where she knelt frantically, gently scooping Chiffon up without thought. The dog shouldn’t have trusted her. He had every right not to, but he let Pastry hold him anyway. He whined, stirring the air with one paw weakly. Was he… pointing?

Pastry followed the direction of Chiffon’s paw, her gaze landing on a book and pen lying on the bedside table. The book was some kind of popular romance novel, left by the last patient by accident. Pastry watching with numb confusion as Chiffon leapt clumsily from her arms, landing hard on the table and nosing the book cover open.

It opened to the dedication. Pastry and Lavender Tea watched Chiffon pick up the pen in their mouth, clicking it once. Pastry was frozen with fear and fascination, and Lavender Tea was snapping on gloves, preparing something and drawing it up into a syringe. All Pastry did was watch the dog place the pen tip down on the exposed page, and drag it across with clumsy, shaky strokes.

Chiffon was writing. Pastry didn’t know why she was even surprised anymore. The clay beasts never failed to amaze her with how human they could be. Red Velvet had once commented on the fact that humans had been formed from clay as well, and that was abundantly clear as Chiffon scrawled out messy, but legible words.

Dad. Captured. Help.

The last word trailed off as Lavender Tea grabbed Chiffon’s flank and plunged a needle into his side. She was clearly flying blind, and it made no sense, but whatever sedative she had mixed, it worked. Chiffon yelped, then growled, the noise trailing off as he wobbled on his legs. Pastry barely managed to catch the dog before he fell off the bedside table, staggering under his weight in her arms.

Pastry was hyperventilating. She realized this as Lavender Tea spoke, the words sounding like they were underwater. Pastry didn’t resist when Chiffon was lifted out of her arms, eyes transfixed on the page below her. Her heart pounded with terror in tandem with the thunder outside, and her hands shook violently as she took the book in her hands.

Dad. Captured. Help. Pastry gripped the book, tiny, damp circles appearing as horrified tears fell from her eyes. Outside, with a final peal of thunder, the sky opened up above.

Pastry’s heartbeat drowned out the storm.

Chapter Text

Chiffon was asleep for days. During that time, Pastry did nothing but pace around the dog’s room, unable to even do her daily chores. Her anxiety spiraled with her, and the only thing that kept her afloat was the sleeping dog curled up on his hospital bed.

Dad. Captured. Help. The words repeated like a broken record in Pastry’s head. She had a good guess of who exactly had captured Red Velvet. She couldn’t even call it a guess, as there was no one else it could be. The St. Pastry Order was the only option that made any sense.

How long had Red Velvet been captured? It had been a month since Pastry had escaped the tower, so had he been trapped the entire time? While Pastry had been recovering in Refuge, not happy, but safe, Red Velvet had been suffering alone.

Your fault, Pastry’s mind screamed. If she hadn’t suggested splitting up, if she had turned back. If she had looked for Red Velvet sooner. Would he be here now? Could they have made it to safety together?

They could have. Surely, they could have. Together, they were stronger than they were apart. Pastry would never have made it out of the tower if it wasn’t for Red Velvet, and vice versa. They were a team, and Pastry had abandoned her teammate, friend, and unfortunately-timed crush when he’d needed her most.

Pastry took a seat on the edge of Chiffon’s bed, legs shaking too much to hold herself up. She shivered, unsure if it was due to her own anxiety, or the cold winter rain that still drizzled outside. It had been raining for days, and it showed no sign of letting up anytime soon.

Pastry tried drowning her thoughts in the white noise of the rain. Every time she got close, however, Chiffon would stir in his sleep, and she would be pulled right back into herself. The sense of helplessness she had felt so often in the Godly Tower had returned at full force. Possibly even worse, now that there was nobody there to hold her hand.

She sighed heavily, lacing her fingers together and rabbiting her heel on the floor. Next to her, Chiffon breathed deeply, tail twitching. All of the crossbow bolts in their body had been removed, and their wounds were covered with bandages.

Lavender Tea hadn’t known what to do with a patient that didn’t bleed. Pastry barely knew herself. All she knew was that she didn’t want to see another broken clay hound, especially not Chiffon. She would never be able to forgive herself if the dog died under her care, and so she bluffed her way through a veterinary procedure.

At least it had worked. Chiffon was alive, and apparently healing. That was what Lavender Tea thought, anyway. Being out of her element had clearly thrown the doctor off, and she had no idea what she was doing. Pastry could only hope that things were going well with the little dog, and that they would wake up soon.

Pastry’s hopes proved to be fruitful after all. After three days of sleep, Chiffon finally stirred, standing up painfully and barking loudly.

Pastry stood up, and Lavender Tea rushed into the room, practically tripping over herself as she skidded to a stop. Chiffon didn’t even flinch, wagging his tail and giving them a grin. Pastry hadn’t met many dogs before, but she had always loved when the animals almost seemed to smile at people.

Chiffon yipped, barely holding still as Lavender Tea checked him over. Pastry, meanwhile, rushed to the storage closet. She returned to the room with pen and paper in hand, just in time for Lavender Tea to finish redressing Chiffon’s wounds.

The doctor looked up at Pastry, then at the paper she held. Lavender Tea frowned. “I know you have questions, Miss,” she said, “but you need to give Chiffon more time to rest. He isn’t—“

“Please,” Pastry insisted breathlessly, hands shaking. “Lavender Tea, I… my friend is in danger. I need to find out where he is!” Pastry’s volume surprised even her, and she had to force herself to quiet down. Desperation clawed at her throat, and her eyes filled with tears she refused to allow to fall. She thought of the nightmares that had plagued her for weeks, of Red Velvet and her fellow Republican orphans being ground to a bloody pulp between yellowed teeth. She couldn’t allow that to happen.

Lavender Tea pursed her lips into a thin line, brows furrowing together. She opened her mouth to say something, but as she locked eyes with Pastry, she seemed to think the better of it. Her expression softened, and she sighed.

“…Alright,” Lavender Tea said quietly. “Just be gentle with him. He’s exhausted and malnourished, and he needs all the rest he can get.” She stood, dusting off her pants curtly. She gave Pastry a nod, announcing that she was going to prepare food for Chiffon, then bustled out of the room. This was the most energetic Pastry had ever seen Lavender Tea, even though the woman had slept even less than usual while taking care of Chiffon.

When Lavender Tea was gone, Pastry and Chiffon ended up in a stare-down of sorts. Beady black eyes stared into crystal blues, neither moving. Pastry trembled, anxiety bubbling in her gut as she slowly began to approach Chiffon, sliding the paper and pen toward them like she was making an offering at a shrine.

Chiffon tilted his head, then barked once, picking up the pen in his mouth and looking up at Pastry expectantly. The ex-Sister took a deep breath, shuffling her feet before sitting down on the edge of the bed. Her weight sank into the mattress, and she felt like she was falling as she finally dared to speak.

“I…” She swallowed. “I’m sorry. For trying to… kill you.” Pastry had wanted to say those words for some time now, to both Red Velvet and Chiffon. To all of the clay beasts, in fact. She had regretted it since her first trip to the tower— almost a year ago, it was. Pastry shuddered to think of how long it had been since her entire world was flipped on its head and left to fall.

Chiffon’s wagging tail stilled, and he tilted his head with a small whine. Slowly, he began to write, and Pastry watched the words form with bated breath.

”No time for that.”

Pastry exhaled, biting her lip. “Right,” she mumbled, shifting on the bed. She didn’t know what she had expected. Even being outright rejected would have been better than being dismissed entirely, but she understood. There were more important things to worry about, and it seemed like Chiffon was doing better than her in that regard.

The dog was already scribbling out more words on the sheet of paper. His handwriting… mouthwriting?… was shockingly good. Pastry wondered if Red Velvet had been the one to teach him how to write. It was impressive, to say the least.

”Dad told me to run,” Chiffon wrote. ”He went back to the Tower after. He should have come after me if he was okay. I don’t think he is.”

For a dog, Chiffon’s conversation skills were shockingly good. Pastry didn’t care about that, however, as her heart was spasming in her chest. This confirmed her every fear, and memories of nightmares surfaced in her head. Red Velvet lying broken and bloody on the floor, his body pierced with hundreds of arrows—

Pastry’s breath caught in her throat. She took a deep breath, one that almost seemed to burn her lungs. Why was her chest so tight?

A small, wet nose pressed into Pastry’s leg. She looked down at Chiffon, who almost seemed to be frowning at her. We need to focus, his eyes said. Pastry knew that, but her thoughts were running around in circles like a frightened animal.

She hated herself for it. Now was not the time to be feeling like a terrified child. The shadows were clawing at her heart, however, and no matter how she tired, she could not focus.

She stood. Biting her lip, Pastry began to pace, and she heard Chiffon jump down from the bed to do the same. “Okay,” she breathed, “okay. We need to get him out of there.” It was more than a want at this point. Pastry’s longing, which had been slightly muted over the past couple of weeks, was now clawing at her chest at full force. It wasn’t a want, it was a desperate need.

Chiffon yipped in response. Pastry couldn’t understand, but she felt like she did. We need a plan, the dog was saying, or perhaps Pastry was simply projecting her own thoughts and feelings. She supposed that it didn’t matter either way.

She paused in her pacing, taking a deep breath and pushing it out. “We do need a plan,” she whispered, balling her hands into fists to stop them from trembling. She thought of the Reverend Mother, of the Shadow Sisters who were sure to catch her and kill her long before she reached the tower. The women who could have, and should have found and killed Pastry a long time ago.

She thought of Red Velvet. She imagined him broken and bruised, barely alive or already dead. Pastry gritted her teeth and planted her feet on the floor, realizing that she had been swaying nauseously for some time. It didn’t matter who was in her way, she thought to herself. She was going to go back to the tower, save her friend, and stop the Reverend Mother, once and for all.

Pastry— no, not Pastry. She refused to be that woman anymore. She took another deep breath, tilting her head up to look at the ceiling. She imagined that the sky was before her, towering beings with gnashing teeth cackling above.

Witches be damned, she was going to save Red Velvet.

Chapter Text

Red Velvet was awoken by the sound of his cell door opening. He squinted against the sudden light, grunting through the pain in his jaw. It felt like it had been broken over and over again, and it likely had been, even with the muzzle still clamped over it. He’d lost track of how many beatings he had suffered, how many bones had been shattered. He supposed it didn’t really matter anymore anyway.

He braced himself for another slap or hit with a switch. It didn’t come. Instead, the Reverend Mother came into focus, a thin black key pinched between her gloved fingers. She carried no visible weapons, though her hands would suffice, and Red Velvet knew that it wouldn’t matter anyway.

The Reverend Mother said nothing as she approached. She only took Red Velvet’s shackled clay hand and quietly inserted the key into its lock. Red Velvet listened, his heart sinking through the floor and into the center of the earth.

He was going to die today. Nobody had told him, but he knew it to be true anyway. As his other hand was unlocked, and the two were cuffed to each other, his death warrant was signed.

He wasn’t being released. He never would be. No, he was being marched to his doom, and while he didn’t want to die, it was a monumental task to even begin to care.

Red Velvet said nothing as his hair was grabbed by the end and yanked upward. His eyes watered with pain, but he stood up anyway, understanding his command and obeying like a good soldier. It was all he could do, all he really wanted to do by now.

He could run, he thought to himself as he was shoved out of his cell and into the hall. He stumbled, falling to the side and crashing into the wall. He didn’t flinch, used to pain by now. He could run, but… instead, he allowed the Reverend Mother to roughly pull him to his feet, and marched forward as she prodded him with the key she still held.

There was a whole squad of Shadow Sisters surrounding them, but Red Velvet was numb to their presence. The eyes constantly locked on his body were ones he’d felt a million times before during his imprisonment. At least, he thought to himself, he wouldn’t be feeling those eyes much longer.

The clay general’s legs were weak from being twisted for so long, so he moved slowly. Next to him, the Reverend Mother kept pace. They walked together in silence for a while, through the twisting halls of the lower floors in the tower. Then, when they reached the stairs leading down, the Reverend Mother halted.

“I take it you know what’s happening here,” she said coldly. Red Velvet didn’t know why she even bothered talking to him. Perhaps she took some sadistic pleasure in watching him crumble from the inside out.

He sighed heavily. He couldn’t speak with the muzzle locking his jaw, but he nodded in spite of that. He knew exactly what was going to happen to him. His death sentence had been signed the second his cuffs had been unlocked.

He was not being released. Far from it.

Red Velvet and the Shadow Sisters traveled in silence. A funeral march, Red Velvet thought with bitter amusement. Black veils fluttered around him like curtains, and he was almost at peace knowing his nightmare would soon be ending.

He had long since stopped wondering why nobody had come for him. There were too many Shadow Sisters around the tower, and Red Velvet knew his mother and coworkers were occupied with more important plans. Pastry and Chiffon were safe too, and had likely moved on without him. Good. Red Velvet could not pretend it did not hurt, but he ignored the pain. It didn’t matter how he felt, anyway.

As he descended, he felt the air grow hotter. The oven had been turned off for weeks. Red Velvet knew its sounds by heart, and they had finally resumed today. He dreaded to think of why, and yet, the thought drifted through his mind anyway.

He forced the thought away, only for it to resurface the second he reached the bottom floor of the tower. There were no clay hounds left to be burned, and yet the oven was turned on, and cranked to its maximum heat. Sweat beaded on Red Velvet’s forehead, his greasy, dirty bangs wetting and clinging to his skin. He’d never even gotten to shower, he mused bitterly. He supposed there were worse ways to die.

A fire roared within the oven. Red Velvet thought of all of the soldiers lost, tossed into the flames without a second thought, and shuddered. It was only right that he die the same way, he thought as he was violently shoved toward the closed oven doors, but he couldn’t get rid of the icy fear that clutched at his heart.

He didn’t want to die. Witches, he didn’t want to die. Red Velvet forced himself to breathe, heart thudding in his chest. None of his restraints were unlocked as he was forced to continue forward. It seemed that he would not even be offered the privilege of speaking his last words.

The clay general stared into the flames, white-hot and blinding. His eyes watered, though he didn’t know if it was because of irritation or terror. Something poked his back, and he stumbled even closer to the threshold. Flames licked his boots.

It was real. Red Velvet knew it was real, he always had, but the situation finally hit him in its entirety. He was going to die. He couldn’t help the strangled noise, halfway to a whimper, that escaped his throat.

Behind him, the Reverend Mother chuckled. “I’m surprised you aren’t fighting this,” she said condescendingly. “I expected more from you, General. Have you decided to embrace our creators after all? You are going to meet them soon, you know.”

Red Velvet growled. He had tried to escape. Multiple times, in fact. The chains had just kept being replaced with thicker ones, and the beatings had gotten worse until Red Velvet could hardly stand afterwards. Sometimes, he was left there without a healer until it was time for the next torture session. Was it any wonder, then, that he felt broken?

Besides, it wasn’t like he could run now. The Shadow Sisters would gun him down if he so much as took a step in the wrong direction. Trapped between a rock and a hard place, Red Velvet refused to move, even as he was jabbed again with what felt like a long metal rod.

He sighed heavily, heat searing his face and chest. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. There was nobody to save him, and he would never have asked anyone to put themself into danger to do so. It was better this way, he told himself as he stared death in the face. It was better this way.

He took a step forward.

Tap, tap, tap… Red Velvet’s ears twitched. It was normal to hear footsteps or machinery around the ovens, but this stood out. The Shadow Sisters and the Reverend Mother were all utterly still, and Red Velvet’s ears were extra sensitive. Either way, he knew that the footsteps were strange, unfamiliar, and slightly alarming.

Then, the air began to smell different. Red Velvet’s eyes widened, and for the first time that day, he could ignore his impending death. It didn’t smell right— a soft, sweet scent that reminded him of freshly cut flowers. On instinct, he sucked in a deep breath and held it.

The first Sisters to fall were the ones in the back. Red Velvet didn’t dare to turn around, but he heard their weapons clatter to the ground. They fell in waves, voices shouting warnings to the others. “Cover your faces,” they yelled, and all of a sudden, Red Velvet felt cold metal brush the back of his neck.

“What kind of trick is this,” the Reverend Mother hissed, pressing her dagger into Red Velvet’s skin. Her voice was muffled. She’d gotten ahold of a face covering in time then. Red Velvet’s mind was racing, yet he couldn’t think of anything useful as his lungs rapidly ran out of air.

The Reverend Mother scoffed. “I wanted this moment to last,” she said coldly. “I suppose that is not the fate the Witches have decided for me.” Red Velvet didn’t know why she bothered talking to him. She crossed in front of him, her mouth and nose covered by a piece of black cloth. Only her pale yellow eyes were showing, glaring in the light of the First Oven’s fire.

The next few moments went in slow motion. Red Velvet saw a flash of silver as the small dagger made a wide arc toward his neck, and he reeled backwards. At the same time, his burning chest forced him to inhale the sweet scent of lavender and sugar. He heard distant shouting, and as he fell, the world began to swim.

Red Velvet’s eyes were heavy. His head lolled to the side, and his eyes landed on a blur of black rushing toward him. He wanted to move, but his limbs were made of lead, and his head was so full of fog it clouded his vision as well. Or was that lavender mist something else?

He heard shouting in a familiar voice. Red Velvet blinked sluggishly, struggling to look up in his delirium. Then, something was grabbing his face— a hand?— and pulling at the muzzle still clamped down on his jaw.

Wide, blue eyes locked onto his. Red Velvet squinted, and he could have sworn he was dreaming as he realized who was right in front of him, struggling to free his face from its constraints.

Pastry. She was here. Red velvet smiled to the best of his ability as the woman began to saw at the straps on his head. If this was a dream, he decided, this wasn’t a bad dream to be having right before he died.

Chapter Text

Lavender Tea refused to let her patients go. “Chiffon still needs to heal,” she protested, arms crossed under her chest, “and you are clearly in no state to go charging into a war zone!” The woman formerly known as Pastry, however, didn’t really care about her own safety at this point.

Peony. That was her real name, one she hadn’t used in years. Not since the church had found her in the Republic, clothed and fed her until she grew into a proper soldier. She refused to follow orders anymore, and she would be damned if she ever went by Pastry again.

She supposed she was damned either way.

“Miss, please.” Lavender Tea’s ever-tired eyes were wide awake now as she insisted that the woman stay. Peony bit her lip and shook her head as Chiffon nipped at her heels with urgency, as if to say let’s go.

“I can’t just sit here and let him die,” she said quietly. “Please… as a doctor, you have to understand that.” Peony refused to even entertain the idea of being kept back. She thought of her nightmares of her old friends and Red Velvet getting devoured by gnashing teeth, and she shuddered. It couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t. Not if she had any say in it.

Lavender Tea stared Peony in the eye, nails digging into her own arms. There was a fire in her eyes that had never been there before, and she appeared haunted. Peony had seen that expression before, late at night while Lavender Tea was teaching her which herbs performed which duties. Like she was seeing right through Peony and looking at something long gone.

After a moment, Lavender Tea sighed. “I do understand,” she whispered, her hands drifting to her sides listlessly. “I… I won’t stop you, but you have to promise me you’ll be careful. You’re not just my patient— you’re my friend. Even if I don’t know your name.”

Oh. Right. Peony took a deep breath, blood rushing to her face. “Ah… I’m sorry I never told you my name,” she said quietly. “I-I know it isn’t exactly custom here, but I’ve known you for a long time now, and…” Catching Lavender Tea’s sympathetic look, Peony allowed herself a shaky smile.

“It’s Peony,” she said, the name foreign on her tongue. Even after reclaiming it, it still felt odd to say. She supposed she had never said it out loud before now. Even Chiffon didn’t know about her name change, and she reckoned he didn’t care. He was already tugging at her pant leg with his teeth, as if to say hurry up.

Lavender Tea blinked slowly, then beamed, her eyes softening. “Peony,” she repeated. The utterance of the name was somehow less strange when it came from someone else. Peony shoulders relaxed slightly, even as Chiffon’s nipping got more forceful.

Lavender Tea noticed the dog’s frantic movements and chuckled softly. “I won’t keep you much longer,” she said, backing away. “I have something for you that will help you. I can’t leave the infirmary, but I can at least support you from far away.“

She disappeared into the hall, then returned mere moments later. In her hands, she held a small ball with a symmetrical smattering of holes on top. It was completely innocuous— just a small mechanism, probably used to diffuse scents. Yet, Lavender Tea handed it to Peony with a reverence that belonged more to a baptism than to a hospital setting.

“This is something I haven’t used in a long time,” Lavender Tea said softly. “Press this button on the side, and it’ll release ah… well, put bluntly, it releases sleeping gas. Please don’t ask,” she added when Peony blinked at her. She had that far-off look in her eyes again, and Peony knew better than to question it.

Instead, Peony took the sphere carefully, inspecting it. The button had a small latch covering it, so it wouldn’t be pressed on accident. Peony knew how good Lavender Tea was at her job, and something like this wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for her. So, Peony tucked the sphere into her bag, and thanked Lavender Tea profusely.

“No need to thank me,” the doctor sighed. “You can do that when you get back.” It was a command, rather than a simple statement. Peony swallowed and nodded, hoping her hands weren’t shaking as hard as she thought they were.

“Right,” she breathed. “I will.” Then, after a few more goodbyes, Peony finally gave in to Chiffon’s aggressive insistences and left the infirmary. She was going to come back, and this time, she would not be alone.

——————

Peony watched her former Sisters fall one by one as she rolled the device Lavender Tea had given her. She prayed for it to work, forgetting herself in the moment as shouts began to rise from the crowd.

The Shadow Sisters caught on fast. Their cowls were raised over their mouths and noses, and Peony’s heart leapt to her throat. She had to move. She had to move fast, as she could see her goal standing tall, backlit by the bright light of the First Oven.

Red Velvet hadn’t struggled at all. Peony had watched him get walked toward the oven, frozen in place while she waited for the Shadow Sisters to be distracted. She wanted to scream, to rush to save him, but she couldn’t. She had to take out as many opponents as possible in one shot.

It was when she saw a flash of silver that Peony finally abandoned her hiding spot. The Reverend Mother was there, and oh stars, she had a knife. She had a knife at Red Velvet’s throat, and suddenly Peony was sprinting, taking her own dagger out of its sheath. She had only one weapon, and it was nothing compared to the Shadow Sisters’, but she had to move.

The Reverend Mother went down fast. Peony tackled her from the side, letting out a blood-curdling scream of rage and fear. The Reverend Mother yelped, blindly stabbing at her attacker. Peony felt a sharp pain in her left arm, but she ignored it. With shaking hands, she swiped at the Reverend Mother’s face, knocking away her glasses and face covering in one move.

Peony’s eyes locked onto the Reverend Mother’s for a split second. Watery yellow irises burned with recognition and rage before glossing over as Lavender Tea’s sleeping gas took effect. Peony didn’t wait for the Reverend Mother’s eyes to close before abandoning her and rushing to her friend’s side.

Red Velvet looked like shit. He had no visible injuries, but the bags under his eyes spoke of weeks without sleep. He groaned deliriously, looking up at Peony and smiling through his muzzle. He had been muzzled, and his hands were bound behind his back.

Peony’s heart shattered into pieces. Without a second thought, she took her knife and began to saw at Red Velvet’s muzzle. As the straps came undone, Peony began to feel sick. This was what her friend had been going through all this time? She hadn’t exactly been living like a king, but compared to Red Velvet…

Focus, she told herself. One strap snapped in her grip, and she began focusing on the other. Her sawing was desperate, and she barely managed to get the second strap off before she was tackled away from Red Velvet.

An arc of silver rushed toward her, and she yelped as she thrust her dagger upward. The Shadow Sister above her let out a pained shriek, allowing Peony to throw her off. No sooner than had she done this, another Shadow Sister took the first one’s place.

Peony had never fought so hard in her life. There were still around ten Shadow Sisters left after the unexpected gas attack, and Peony was horribly outnumbered. Even as Chiffon came charging in, a handkerchief covering their snout, the fight was desperate and frantic.

Pain ripped through Peony’s body with every new wound she gained. She was panting furiously, unable to breathe. She didn’t want to risk removing her face mask, so she suffered in relative silence, if one didn’t consider her desperate grunts as she stabbed her knife into a Shadow Sister’s eye up to the hilt and twisted.

Peony felt nothing as her former Sister fell to the ground, writhing and screaming as she bled out. Every single Sister in the St. Pastry Order was taught to do anything in the name of the Witches. Anything, including murder. Peony was furious and utterly terrified, but she couldn’t have cared less about the women she injured.

Chiffon tore skin and clothes to shreds between his teeth. For such a small dog, he was utterly ruthless when angered. In the light of the First Oven, his teeth flashed with Peony’s knife. Together, they ripped their way through the Shadow Sisters, barely able to feel their own injuries.

Peony knew the Shadow Sisters could move faster than this. She should have been dead. She thanked Lavender Tea silently, certain that the sleeping gas was the reason for her survival. Even with face coverings, the Shadow Sisters were sluggish and uncoordinated. Peony was lucky she’d gotten hers on before even deploying the gas.

When the last Shadow Sister fell to the ground bleeding, Peony abandoned their bodies without a second thought. She didn’t know any of them, and she didn’t really care anyway. They had done nothing but terrorize her silently for months, ready to kill her the moment she slipped up. She would likely see their faces in her nightmares after this, but in the moment, she was just returning the favor.

Peony rushed to Red Velvet’s side, scraping her knees and tearing her pants as she went down. She didn’t care about her own pain, or the blood trickling out of her countless wounds. She just forced Red Velvet to look upward, producing a face mask from her cloak pocket. She was wearing one of the same kind from the infirmary, and it had worked wonders.

She worked fast. Within seconds, Red Velvet had the mask secured around his face. He didn’t stir at all as Peony moved, but he didn’t have to yet. The woman pushed through her pain and panic, yanking Red Velvet’s arms out from underneath him to expose his shackles.

With a shout, she brought the hilt of her dagger down on the chain. She beat the metal ruthlessly as Chiffon nudged his owner with his nose. Beneath her blade, Peony saw the Reverend Mother’s face, and the gnarled teeth of the Witches. Over and over she hit them, barely noticing her own sobs until her chest hurt too much to breathe.

The chain was barely broken, but it was enough. Peony wrangled the shackles apart just as Red Velvet began to stir. Chiffon had resorted to violently biting his hand, hard enough to draw blood. That had been enough to get Red Velvet to crack open his eyes, his gaze unfocused as he groaned sluggishly.

Peony choked out another sob, wiping her tears with shaking hands. Blood mixed with her tears, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was the fact that her friend was here, she was touching him, and he was alive.

Red Velvet’s head lolled to the side. He was almost entirely limp, and it took all of Peony’s strength to pull him into a sitting position. He gagged the moment he was upright, though he managed to keep himself from throwing up. It was better than Danish would’ve done in his position.

His eyes finally locked on Peony’s, and some of the fog in his expression cleared. “Wh… Pastry,” he mumbled, sounding blackout drunk. “Yyyou’re… h-here?”

Peony winced. Lavender Tea’s attack had been far more powerful than anticipated. It was becoming hard to breathe for her as well, although she wasn’t sure if it was because of the gas, or the sobs that were just beginning to die down.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “I-I’m here. I’m here.” The words tumbled out of her like an avalanche. A dam had broken within her, and suddenly she couldn’t speak. Instead, she lurched forward, hunching over Red Velvet’s legs and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She inhaled deeply, smelling clay and oven smoke, and sobbed again.

Something sharp struck her on the shoulder. Peony’s mouth opened in a silent scream as her eyes widened. She felt Red Velvet tense seconds too late, and she turned quickly despite the searing pain that blossomed in her shoulder.

Crystal blue eyes met sickly yellow. The septic-colored irises swam deliriously, yet they burned with a fire brighter than the oven that made sweat break on Danish’s skin. Standing on wobbly legs, the Reverend Mother was holding a dagger that was different from the one lodged in Peony’s shoulder.

Its hilt was soaked in blood from where the Reverend Mother had stabbed her own leg, a red stain blooming under her skirt. Her mask had been replaced, and Peony cursed herself through her fear. She had been so preoccupied with Red Velvet, she hadn’t made sure her mother— not my mother she screamed internally— was unconscious.

The Reverend Mother heaved and shook, her veil sliding away from her long, mint green hair. She raised her blood-slick knife, pointed it at Peony, and roared.

“YOU!”

Chapter Text

Hey guys! Soooo y’all probably noticed this hasn’t updated in a while. I said on my Twitter that I was going on hiatus, but I wanted to elaborate so y’all all know what’s going on.

Basically, I think I lost interest in this fic. I mean, I want to finish it, but I don’t have the motivation or interest in writing it. I’m not abandoning it, don’t worry. I’m just going on hiatus for… an undetermined amount of time.

I’ll probably be deleting this chapter once I can actually get a proper one out, but for now, this will be the “chapter 22.” Just an update fjakgksmgk. I really am sorry, I just can’t bring myself to write this right now.

I’ll probably be working on other projects for a while. Genshin, plus cookie run. Mostly one shots, probably. Don’t worry, again, I will return to this fic eventually. Maybe after this semester is done, maybe a little longer. For now, I’ll be signing off. Thank you guys for sticking with me and waiting, and I’ll see y’all sometime soon.

Thank you,
Shen

Chapter Text

”YOU!”

Peony cycled through emotions with a speed she didn’t know was possible as she stared at the Reverend Mother. Anger, horror, disgust, and… relief? She cursed herself for that one. She should have hated the Reverend Mother, but it seemed that weeks away from her wasn’t enough for that.

The green-haired woman looked insane. Disheveled, covered in her own blood from where she’d stabbed herself to keep her awake. She seemed positively murderous, her remaining dagger shaking in her grip.

Peony could feel blood sliding down her back as she shifted. The knife stuck in her shoulder sent bolts of pain ripping through her, but she ignored this as she slowly moved in front of Red Velvet.

“…Don’t hurt him,” Peony said, her heart thudding in her ears. Her voice was shaky, and she barely noticed Chiffon growling at her feet. The pup’s snout was covered in the blood of her former Sisters, and his eyes glinted with rage.

The Reverend Mother swayed, taking a step forward. She laughed deliriously, the effects of the sleeping gas still clawing at her. “And here I thought… this day couldn’t get any better,” she said darkly. She stumbled on her injured leg, barely managing to pick herself back up. “Welcome back, my child. How kind of you to join us.”

“I’m not your child!” Peony was trembling, and she teared up slowly. A large hand brushed against her leg, and she flinched before realizing who it was. She gently patted Red Velvet’s hand, then forced herself to stand up, even as her shoulder screamed.

The Reverend Mother was laughing. “You’re right,” she hissed, grinning at the hurt expression Peony made. “No child of mine would ever betray the church like this. You are a demon.”

Peony flinched, tears running down her face in twin waterfalls. Her shoulder burned with hellfire, and the First Oven seared her vision. “No,” she whispered, tightening her grip on the dagger she held. “Th-the only demon here is you.”

The Reverend Mother’s smile disappeared in an instant. She staggered forward, shockingly fast for her injury and gas-induced sluggishness. She said nothing, only roared and slashed at Peony with startling accuracy.

Peony spun out of the way, instincts taking over as she grabbed the Reverend Mother’s arm mid-strike. The knife in her shoulder stopped her from throwing her opponent to the side, but she managed to drive her knee directly into the Reverend Mother’s elbow.

She flinched at the sound of bone breaking, the Reverend Mother’s arm bending the opposite way it should. Peony shouted as a hard punch was thrown at her nose, blood spurting while her eyes watered. She couldn’t see through her tears, and before she could react, a heavy body was crashing into her side and sending both her and the Reverend Mother tumbling to the ground.

The fight was different from spars Peony had had with the Reverend Mother before. It was desperate, filled with shouting and sobs, most of the latter coming from Peony. The ex-nun could barely see, and pain throbbed in her shoulder with every movement, but she refused to give up as she clawed at the Reverend Mother’s eyes with her nails.

Chiffon was yapping loudly. Peony rolled on top of the Reverend Mother just as the tiny dog joined the brawl, taking a mouthful of the woman’s hair and yanking as hard as he could. Peony ignored the Reverend Mother’s pained shout, driving her fist into her face over and over again.

“I hate you,” Peony cried, not realizing the words were forming until they were already released. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” Each word was punctuated by a punch, some of them missing their mark and connecting with the floor as Peony wailed in anger, pain, and grief.

Silver flashed, and Peony reared back just in time to dodge a weak slash from the dagger the Reverend Mother held. It was Peony’s knife, likely grabbed from the floor where it had fallen. Peony couldn’t remember dropping it, but then again, she was swimming in and out of consciousness. Her vision wobbled between black and red, the red of blood and rage and Red Velvet, wobbling on his knees in the corner of her vision.

Peony twisted the knife from the Reverend Mother’s hand, pressing it into the green-haired woman’s throat. For the first time in what felt like hours, she paused to look at the woman she’d called “mother” for most of her life.

Green hair splayed out like tendrils under the Reverend Mother’s head, patches of it soaked through with dark red. Her face was swollen and split where Peony’s fists had connected, and even cut with her knife in a few places. Even with all of her injuries, she was still conscious, her eyes filled with an emotion Peony had never seen on her before: fear.

“Pastry,” the Reverend Mother slurred. “P-please… I taught you better than this… mercy…”

Demon, she had called Peony. Whore. Unfaithful. Traitor. Peony stared into watery yellow eyes, a lump forming in her throat. “You didn’t show mercy to me,” she spat bitterly through her tears. “And my name is Peony.”

With that, she drove her dagger through the Reverend Mother’s eye, twisting it and feeling the woman spasm underneath her. Warmth soaked Peony’s hands, and she fought to keep from vomiting with every dying movement the Reverend Mother made.

It felt like hours passed before the Reverend Mother finally grew still, and even longer until the blood stopped flowing. Peony was locked in place, chest heaving as her vision slowly cleared. She could hear vague noises, but they sounded miles away. All she could look at was the still, lifeless face of the woman who had raised her, beaten beyond recognition and utterly ruined.

Peony retched, turning away from the Reverend Mother’s body just in time as bile forced its way out of her stomach. Her hands shook, and she sobbed so hard she screamed. She barely noticed when hands of mismatched sizes hauled her off of the Reverend Mother and pulled her across the floor.

She stumbled, dizzy and fatigued. She moved in a haze, fading in and out of consciousness as she and Red Velvet staggered away from the carnage left behind. Peony couldn’t look up, the world tilting around her. Red, so much red filled her vision, and she couldn’t tell if it was blood, or if she was passing out.

Perhaps it was both, as when she blinked next, she was in an entirely different location. It was sunset, or maybe sunrise, and the woods were cast in shadow. She was lying on the forest floor, staring into an open flame that looked like it was going to go out at any moment.

She blinked groggily, attempting to push herself into a sitting position, only to fall back down as her shoulder screamed in protest. She heard rustling leaves, and a pair of boots blocked her view of the fire. Peony looked up, and the person in front of her squatted down.

Red Velvet. He was there, his bright blue, mismatched eyes filled with a swirl of relief, joy, and concern. He blinked away tears, and Peony sniffled, realizing that she was crying again too. She remembered tears hitting a bloodstained face, and broke.

She sobbed. Warm arms wrapped around her, and she sank into them, burying her face in Red Velvet’s chest. Her hands were covered in dried blood, and the front of her clothes stuck to Red Velvet’s as she cried, but as his fingers threaded through her hair, she found it easier to care less.

He was there. He was in her arms. Finally, finally… they were safe.

Chapter Text

Peony threw up multiple times once she and Red Velvet separated. Wordlessly, he held her hair back, his free hand fidgeting behind him. When Peony’s stomach was empty, and her dry heaving had stopped, she looked up with watery eyes to see Red Velvet holding a damp strip of cloth.

She recognized it as part of her own cloak. She didn’t mind it, as the garment was probably damaged beyond repair anyway. Behind Red Velvet, there was a bowl of water, where he had soaked the cloth. Softly, he pressed the cool dampness to Peony’s forehead, and she sobbed violently as water dropped down her face.

I killed her, she thought to herself, her hands shaking. Her hands were still stained with the Reverend Mother’s blood, though it looked like they’d been wiped off to the best of Red Velvet’s ability. Witches, I killed her.

The Reverend Mother had begged for mercy. She didn’t deserve it, Peony knew she didn’t, but the ex-nun couldn’t stop hearing that word repeated in her head. She had been asked for mercy, and she had given none.

She was a terrible person.

“Pastry.” The woman looked up, locking eyes with Red Velvet. His face was blurry, only to become clear when a thumb gently wiped under her eyes, catching her unshed tears.

“It’s okay,” Red Velvet reassured softly. He smiled at her, even though his jaw looked horribly bruised from the muzzle he had been trapped in. How long had he had it on for, if his face looked that bad?

Peony sniffled. “I’m…” She wiped her hands on the front of her shirt pathetically, only succeeding in chipping off chunks of dried blood. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice raw and wet from crying and throwing up. “I-I should‘ve come sooner, I—“

“You came when you could,” Red Velvet insisted. Peony shut her mouth, but her tears returned at full force. She hadn’t. She should have returned to the tower the moment she could walk. Then again… would she have succeeded in her rescue if she hadn’t had time to cool down?

Peony thought of the Reverend Mother, eyes blazing with fury, and began to shake. She would have frozen and gotten killed if she had gone a day sooner. Red Velvet and Chiffon would’ve died too, and everything would have been for naught.

Thick arms wrapped around her torso, and she leaned into Red Velvet. In the distance, she could hear barking that rapidly grew closer. Over her friend’s shoulder, Peony saw Chiffon break through the line of trees. The sun was almost entirely set, but the dog’s eyes sparkled with excitement as they returned to camp.

Red Velvet released Peony reluctantly, offering her an apologetic look as he turned to whisper to Chiffon. Peony listened to his side of the conversation. She didn’t think she would ever get used to seeing a grown man speak with a dog.

“That’s good,” Red Velvet said, breathing a sigh of relief after Chiffon “spoke.” He turned to Peony, moving to check on her shoulder. “The Order isn’t chasing us,” he muttered softly as he looked at Peony’s bandages. “They’re too busy cleaning up the mess at the tower. You two did quite a number on them.”

He didn’t mention the Reverend Mother, but he didn’t have to. If the Reverend Mother was truly dead, the Order would stop everything to deal with the fallout. Peony imagined that she and Red Velvet had been completely lost in all the confusion, and while they would never be able to be near a church again, they would likely be safe as long as they lay low.

Peony let out a shaky sigh. “Good,” she said numbly. She felt like she was being held to the ground by a single, rapidly fraying string. The only thing keeping her from snapping was Red Velvet and the promise of returning to Refuge.

“Pastry?” Red Velvet tapped the woman’s leg gently, snapping her out of her daze. “I need to change your bandages,” he said, grazing her shoulder. She winced at his touch, and he pulled away with an apologetic look.

Peony shifted, turning to give Red Velvet easier access. Her sleeve had been ripped off completely, presumably so her wound could be bandaged. The bandages had come from her own pockets. She’d taken to carrying them around while in Refuge, happy to help anyone who happened to get injured on the streets.

She was thankful for this habit, even as Red Velvet peeled back the used bandages. She winced in pain, biting back a squeak. Red Velvet muttered an apology, then gently pressed another damp scrap of cloth to Peony’s wound. She was lucky to have only escaped with a stab in the shoulder, she thought to herself.

Peony turned to look at Red Velvet as he wrapped up her shoulder. “What did they do to you,” she asked shakily. The deep bruises on his jaw were the most visible of his injuries, but it wasn’t like Peony could see the rest of his body. She wanted to do anything she could to make up for not being there sooner, but Red Velvet seemed determined to deflect.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” the clay general muttered, tearing away excess bandages with his teeth. “I’ve been through much worse.” His voice was off, though, and Peony bit her lip.

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better,” she whispered. “I know what the Order is capable of.” She remembered nightmares of Red Velvet getting burned with instruments of the Holy, being broken apart by massive, gnashing teeth. She shuddered.

There was a moment of silence, and Red Velvet sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, his voice choked. “Not in detail, at least.”

Peony swallowed. “Okay.” She tested her shoulder, flinching as she moved her arm. The pain was unlikely to go away anytime soon. She looked back up at Red Velvet, offering a small smile she hoped was reassuring.

“That doesn’t matter now,” she said halfheartedly. “What matters is that you’re here.” She choked on her words, feeling more tears forming in her eyes. She didn’t want to cry again, but she couldn’t stop herself, and it seemed that Red Velvet couldn’t either.

The man’s eyes became shiny with unshed tears as he ruffled Chiffon’s fur. The dog ran around him, rolling in the dirt and yipping with joy at seeing his friend. Peony’s smile became less fake at the sight, and she wiped her eyes fruitlessly.

The sky was almost entirely dark now. Stars peeked through the treetops. The trees were thinner here than the rest of the woods, indicating that the group was near the edge. Peony had no idea how long Red Velvet had carried her for, but she was endlessly grateful for his presence. She never wanted to let him out of her sight ever again.

She knew, though, that that wasn’t possible.

She refused to let her heart sink as she realized her months-old dilemma had returned. She and Red Velvet would still have to part ways, and they were still on opposite sides of a war. Maybe not entirely, with Peony leaving the Order, but when it came to Dark Enchantress, one was either with her, or against her. And Peony would never be with her.

She sighed, lowering herself to the ground and curling up on her side. The pain in her shoulder had dulled a bit, but lying down was still uncomfortable. Her eyes were heavy though, despite the fact that she had just woken up. She watched Red Velvet with vision blurred by exhaustion, smiling softly as she watched him pet his dog.

“You’re lucky.” The words escaped Peony’s mouth before she could process what she was saying. She bit her lip as Red Velvet turned to face her, raising and eyebrow. She sighed.

“You’re lucky to have Chiffon,” she elaborated quietly. “And… to a degree, Dark Enchantress.” She recalled the older woman cackling as the oven exploded behind her, and suppressed a shudder. Peony couldn’t shake the feeling that Red Velvet was being taken advantage of… though she supposed she wasn’t one to talk.

Red Velvet blinked slowly, then shrugged. “I am,” he agreed, his face softening. “The thought of them kept me going while I was held captive. It was… difficult… but I owe them my life. Even more so than I did before.”

It hurt to hear him speak that way. He had clearly been broken more than he let on. His voice was pinched, throaty. Peony had never felt more than a slap or occasional whip with a belt, but Red Velvet had surely gone through so much worse.

Peony sighed, averting her eyes. An apology formed on her lips, but she couldn’t seem to speak. Her words failed her again and again, even when part of her tried to fall back on the scriptures that had been carved into her head since she was a child.

Instead of speaking, she watched Red Velvet tend to the fire. His bruises were almost black in the orange light, and harsh shadows were cast over his face. He didn’t look quite right… though Peony supposed she didn’t either.

“We should head out in the morning.” Red Velvet was barely audible over the crackling of the fire. The thought would have sent a sharp stab of dread through Peony’s heart, if she was more awake. She gave a small whine, the only noise she could muster, and Red Velvet chuckled. He wasn’t smiling.

“I don’t want to go either,” he admitted quietly. “But we have to separate eventually.”

Peony swallowed, forcing her eyes to open fully. “Why,” she demanded, her words finally returning to her. “Why…? I’ve been staying in a village nearby. You could…”

She trailed off. Red Velvet couldn’t go with her. Peony knew that. No matter where he went, no matter how accepting Refuge was, he would always be in danger because of his arm. Because of Chiffon. Someone would always hate him for something he couldn’t change.

It wasn’t fair.

A large hand wrapped around Peony’s own, squeezing it gently. She looked up at Red Velvet, who brushed her bangs away from her face with his human hand. “It’s okay,” he said with a sad smile. “I… wish I could stay with you. I really do.”

Peony teared up for what seemed like the hundredth time. She felt pathetic for crying so much, but Red Velvet’s tears made her feel a little better. She sniffled, sitting up and pulling Red Velvet close. She inhaled, determined to take advantage of every second they still had together.

Red Velvet clung to her like a lifeline, holding her tighter until their bodies were pressed into one another and burying his face into her neck. They breathed in unison, and Peony’s heart thundered in her chest as she held on and refused to let go.

“I thought of you,” Red Velvet whispered. “In the tower. Along with my mother and Chiffon, you helped me stay sane.” Peony sucked in a deep breath, on the verge of breaking into sobs once more.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” she admitted, almost hoping Red Velvet couldn’t hear her. “I… Witches, I’m so happy you’re alive.” She curled up, not caring when her legs lifted fully off the ground to wrap around Red Velvet’s torso. She felt herself tip to the side as her friend lowered the both of them to the ground, careful not to jar her shoulder.

They stayed tangled together, hands weaving through each other’s hair. Red Velvet’s fingers were gentle, nothing like the sharp tug of the Reverend Mother. Peony stared into the fire, locking gazes with Chiffon for a moment before closing her eyes.

She buried her face into Red Velvet’s shirt. “I missed you,” she muttered. She received no response, but the tightening of Red Velvet’s grip was an answer on its own. Peony’s lips twitched into a watery smile, and she relaxed in Red Velvet’s arms.

She knew she would have to leave soon. She hated to think of it. But for now, Peony would pretend like she could stop time and stay like this forever. Far from the Witches, the church, and the Reverend Mother’s rotting, mangled body.

For now, everything was right.

Chapter Text

Peony woke up without Red Velvet by her side. She shivered in the cold, dewy morning, panicking for a brief moment before she noticed the man squatting next to the remains of their campfire. She breathed a sigh of relief and tried to sit up, only to gasp as her shoulder flared up again.

The Reverend Mother had done quite a number on her. She numbly touched the bandages wrapped around her shoulder, biting her lip as images of the woman’s bloody, mangled face resurfaced. Peony shuddered, swallowing bile.

She had killed before— many times, in fact, and mostly clay beasts. Never had she imagined that her fists and blades would be turned against her own mother. The very person she had never, ever been meant to harm. But she had done it, and no amount of water could wash the Reverend Mother’s blood from her hands.

That wasn’t important now, though, was it? Peony shuddered and forced herself to sit up again, pushing through the pain lancing through her shoulder. She’d almost forgotten the pain of the wounds she’d gotten during her first escape from the tower. Now, all of her scars seemed to itch and burn, especially the thin line at her throat.

Red Velvet turned his head toward Peony, hearing her move. He blinked, then offered a weak smile. “Good morning,” he said quietly. He sounded pained, and not just because of the bruising around his jaw.

Peony nodded, shifting on the ground. “Good morning,” she echoed. The slipshod camp fell silent, aside from the faint rustle of leaves from above and Chiffon’s restless wiggling next to Red Velvet. The dog held something in his mouth— two dead rabbits.

Peony shuddered at the sight of the corpses, forcing the image of the Reverend Mother out of her mind. Her mouth still watered at the thought of freshly cooked meat, and she didn’t want to be a burden. So, she asked Red Velvet if he needed help with anything, and got to work.

They didn’t speak much. Red Velvet was quiet except for when he gave Peony instructions, telling her when to gather more firewood. He skinned the rabbits alone, using Peony’s dagger. It had been thoroughly cleaned, he assured her. The thought wasn’t very comforting, but she didn’t pitch a fit over it.

They ate in silence, too. The main task of the day hung over them like a storm ready to break, and neither of them wanted to bring it up.

Red Velvet was going to take Peony back to Refuge. Or rather, Peony would lead the way there. She wanted nothing more than to beg him to come with her the rest of the way, to abandon his duties with Dark Enchantress.

But she knew he never would. He had made that abundantly clear in the Tower, and again only the night before. Peony couldn’t ask that of him, not again. Even if he agreed to stay with her, he would resent her for the rest of his life, and she would not be able to live with herself if that happened.

So, Peony left the words in her throat unsaid. She chewed on her unevenly cooked, bland rabbit meat sullenly, her stomach suddenly feeling much smaller than it had before. She ate slowly, hoping to drag out her time with Red Velvet as long as possible. She hated herself for it, but she supposed her friend was doing the same thing.

The rabbits were still gone far faster than Peony would have liked. Half of Red Velvet’s had gone to Chiffon, even though Peony had insisted that she be the one to give hers up. There was no arguing with Red Velvet though, not when his face was so solemn and pleading.

Red Velvet tossed aside the bones of his meal— picked clean. How long had he gone without proper food? Before Peony could dwell on it for long, Red Velvet extended his clay hand toward her wordlessly. She took it with her good hand, allowing herself to be hoisted gently onto her feet.

“Well then,” Red Velvet said after a pause. “We should… we should get going. Before nightfall.” It was over a day’s journey to Refuge from the Tower, though judging by the light density of the trees, they were close to the edge of the forest. They would likely be able to make it all the way back within the day.

Peony swallowed. “We should,” she repeated. She felt hollow as she echoed every statement Red Velvet said, following him numbly as he finally began to walk. He let go of her hand, and she nearly teared up as she trailed behind him.

Chiffon lead the way. He seemed impatient, running ahead a few paces and then waiting anxiously for Red Velvet and Peony to catch up. The two humans walked slowly and quietly, yet the trees passed by, and Peony watched as they gave way to bushes, then shrubs, then open grass as they finally broke away from the forest entirely.

Peony couldn’t help but look back at the Tower behind her. It looked so small compared to how it had seemed months ago, before it collapsed. Perhaps that was why it seemed smaller. There was a large portion of the top floors that was caved in, with even more internal damage.

Peony turned back to Red Velvet, staring at the back of his head. “…Where will you go,” she asked, her voice breaking. She winced, mouth still dry from sweating near the Oven.

Red Velvet jumped, looked back at Peony with wide eyes. Then, he shrugged. “There are other bases of operations I can go to,” he muttered. “I suspect my mother and the other members of the Army of Darkness are near Beast Yeast.”

That was likely why they hadn’t come to help. Peony had suspected something similar. She could not expect such a busy group to drop everything and rescue their general. He was a key part of their operations, yes, but if they were focused on other things…

Peony sighed. She fell silent again, gazing out at the endless sea of grass and dirt before her. Chiffon waded through it, his ears poking up occasionally. The dog would slow down eventually as he got tired, Peony reasoned. Then, he would match his pace to hers and Red Velvet’s.

Their slow, crawling pace. Peony stared at Red Velvet’s clay hand, hanging by his side. She couldn’t see any wounds on it, but bruises would be hidden under the shaggy red and white striped fur.

Given a sudden rush of energy, Peony closed the distance between her and Red Velvet. With a boldness she hadn’t felt in a long, long time, she grabbed his clay hand.

The maneuver was clumsy, with the size difference between their hands. Peony only managed to grip one of Red Velvet’s fingers, but the message came across, as he wrapped the rest of his hand around hers.

The warmth was a comfort to Peony as she walked. She felt her shoulders relax, and she embraced the all-encompassing grip that held her hand so gently. Red Velvet held her with such tenderness that she had never had before, and she never wanted to let him go.

She stared ahead. She was going to make these last few hours with Red Velvet count, she decided. Even if she said nothing at all.

——————

Refuge didn’t appear on the horizon until the sun had nearly set. Peony could barely see at all, trailing slightly behind Red Velvet again so he could warn her of tripping hazards. The solemn atmosphere that had lifted slightly throughout the long, arduous trek, was returning once more, growing heavier as Refuge grew closer and closer.

They hadn’t talked much during the trip. Peony had wanted to, but she found herself unable. Not even during their breaks, which were few and far between.

They were both exhausted, but they pressed forward anyway. Peony could see Red Velvet’s stamina flagging alongside hers, and she worried for him. She’d offered to look him over for injuries earlier, but he had refused, insisting he was fine. All Peony could do was trust him.

In the dying light of day, the distant lights of Refuge flickered. They drew closer with each step, until Peony could see the outlines of individual buildings standing against each other, even in the darkness. Meters away from town, Red Velvet stopped abruptly, like there was an invisible barrier before him.

Peony stopped as well, turning to look at her friend. Her heart sank to her feet, knowing what was soon to come. She opened her mouth, and choked on nothing, staring into Red Velvet’s mismatched eyes.

His face was almost unreadable, except for the slight quiver of his bottom lip. A cool night breeze flitted across his face, blowing strands of hair in front of his eyes. Without thinking, Peony reached up, craning her neck, and pushed the soft strands away from Red Velvet’s face.

“I… suppose this is goodbye.” Peony’s voice was strained as she spoke, forcing the words out. She was practically standing on her toes, but to her surprise, Red Velvet bent over and leaned into her touch. He gave her a tiny, sad smile, and sighed.

“It is,” he agreed, sounding defeated. He paused for a moment before speaking again. “I am so happy for you.” His voice wavered, and Peony blinked.

“What is there to be happy for,” she asked sincerely. Red Velvet chuckled, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Your new life, of course. I… know we didn’t spend much time catching up, but from what I’ve heard, you are doing well for yourself.” Peony felt her eyes well with tears, but she held them back. She would not cry again. She had done far, far too much of that lately.

Instead, she sniffled, and pulled Red Velvet into a tight hug. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you,” she muttered into his shoulder. His legs bent awkwardly, pressing into hers on either side as he accommodated her height. It was like being wrapped in a warm, heavy blanket, soft and perfect.

Red Velvet inhaled deeply, then pushed the air out with a chuckle. “There wasn’t much to say,” he commented. Peony felt something raw and hot bubble up in her chest, and she shook her head.

“There is,” she insisted, digging her fingers into Red Velvet’s back. “I… I need to tell you…”

The words caught in her throat again. Truthfully, she didn’t even know what she was going to say. What she had been doing during his captivity? How she felt about him? There was so much to tell, and yet she couldn’t say any of it. Time was moving too fast, and she wasn’t ready to leave, dammit, she wasn’t ready.

“Pastry?”

She flinched. Red Velvet pulled away from her, and cool night air rushed in to fill the void of warmth he left. “Are you alright,” he asked gently. How could he possibly ask that, Peony wondered, when he had been tortured for months? It wasn’t fair.

Peony gritted her teeth, looking Red Velvet in the eye. “Peony,” she blurted, saying the first thing that came to mind. “That’s my name. My real one.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shifting her gaze to the ground. “I wanted you to know it before you left.”

There was a moment of silence. Not even Chiffon made a sound, sitting obediently nearby and staring at Refuge. Peony was so focused on the ground beneath her feet, and the silence surrounding her, that she nearly yelped when a hand brushed under her chin.

Red Velvet tilted her chin up to look at him, a soft smile on his face. Peony’s heart pounded in her chest as he spoke. “That’s a lovely name,” he said sincerely. “It’s nice to formally meet you, Peony.”

The statement was ridiculous enough to shock Peony into a fit of muted laughter. “I think it’s a little late to say that,” she said through her chuckles. Red Velvet let out a sharp exhale, a half laugh, and gently rubbed his thumb on Peony’s cheek.

“I know,” he said softly. “I just wanted to see you smile.”

Ironically, the smile dropped from Peony’s face, replaced by what she could only assume to be an expression of utter shock. She could not deny the flustered heat spreading through her entire body, and yet she froze up completely, wide-eyed and unable to form a thought, let alone make a decision on what to do.

Red Velvet’s expression shifted as well. He looked almost contemplative, or even hesitant. He stared down at Peony, barely visible as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. Despite this, his eyes seemed to glow brightly in the meager light of the crescent moon.

Peony wanted nothing more than to pull him closer, but her limbs wouldn’t move. Hell, she didn’t even have a specific idea of what she wanted to do. All she knew was that she needed Red Velvet’s arms around her, and for him to never let her go.

Red Velvet made a decision for her in the end. He took a step closer and leaned down until their faces were inches away from each other. Peony inhaled sharply, heart pounding so hard it was almost painful. Red Velvet’s thumb grazed her mouth, parting her lips ever so slightly. He started forward, pausing with their noses touching.

“I’m going to miss you,” he muttered, his hot breath warming Peony’s lips. She opened and closed her mouth, unable to speak. She nodded instead, hoping beyond hope that it was enough to covey every word she couldn’t seem to find.

Red Velvet smiled. Then, he leaned forward again, closing the gap between them and pressing his lips against Peony’s.

Peony gasped, eyes wide. He was kissing her. Witches, gods, he was kissing her. She had never done this before, but she decided right away that she liked it very much. It was warm, and while it was strange, it felt so right, like she had been born to do this.

It didn’t last long enough. Red Velvet pulled away slowly, then wrapped Peony in another all-encompassing hug. “I will try to visit you,” he whispered.

Peony could barely process what he was saying, her breath stolen away. She didn’t know if she was breathing at all anymore. She had to have been, or she would have passed out. She managed to hug Red Velvet back, time slowing down for just a moment.

Then, Red Velvet was gone, and the breeze filled the void again. He was only a few feet away, but that distance felt like miles. Peony couldn’t see his facial features anymore, but she imagined a soft, sad smile on his lips.

“Well…” Red Velvet shifted, reaching out his clay arm in a gentle wave. “I will see you…” He trailed off, the word soon catching on his lips. He couldn’t promise it would be soon, but Peony didn’t need him to.

She smiled, wider than she ever had in her memory. “Yes,” she breathed, and she wondered if the euphoria she felt was what being high felt like. “Yes, I’ll see you.”

Red Velvet nodded, turning around and beginning to walk away. He whistled for Chiffon, who yipped and bounded after him eagerly. Peony watched them go, straining to see their silhouettes in the dark of night.

She stayed there until the moon was high in the sky. Even after Red Velvet disappeared from view, Peony stared after him, the memory of his lips on hers buzzing through her head. She touched her lips, feeling foolish as she did, but her smile did not break.

Even when she finally turned away from the direction Red Velvet had walked in, Peony continued to grin. Refuge looked so much brighter now, even as people turned out their lights to go to bed. Head in the clouds, Peony walked toward the town, excitement and love coursing through her veins.

She couldn’t wait to see Red Velvet again.

Chapter Text

Inhale. Exhale.

Peony furrowed her brow, concentrating on her fingers and the pulse beneath them. Lavender Tea stared at her patiently, bright green eyes filled with encouragement. Her scrutiny, while mild and gentle, did nothing to help Peony’s stress.

The woman sighed and removed her fingers from Lavender Tea’s wrist. “Fifty-six bpm,” she said, uncertain. Lavender Tea gave a soft smile.

“You’re getting better at this,” she hummed. “You might be a little off, but as long as I’m within a normal range, it shouldn’t matter much.” She slid off the bed she was sitting on, empty of a patient for now. It was a slow day, thank goodness, so Peony had taken the opportunity to practice taking vitals.

She had been training for the better part of a year now. Learning was slow, since Peony‘s education capped at counting to one hundred and learning scripture, but the hard work was paying off. It was difficult to feel proud of herself, but she was learning that too.

It helped to have encouragement. Lavender Tea was… very different from the Reverend Mother. Peony still flinched at the thought of the other woman’s yellow eyes.

Next to Peony, Lavender Tea was slipping on a pair of thin rubber gloves. She pushed her bangs out of her face and sighed, checking the time. “We should get back to work,” she muttered. The dark circles under her eyes had improved with an extra pair of hands around the infirmary, but she still struggled with insomnia.

Peony nodded, standing up from her position on the bed as well. “Right,” she said, adjusting the white coat she wore around her torso. She wasn’t used to it, even though she knew it was to keep the work environment clean. “Let’s go.”

It was a slow day. It usually was, unless it was flu season, or unless someone new stumbled into town. Peony was thankful that nothing busy was going on. She found herself enjoying the peaceful scenery of Refuge, where she could see a dark forest far in the distance as she looked out the windows.

She was just finishing up reorganizing the storage closet at the end of the day when she heard a gentle rapping noise on the wall just outside. Peony flinched, shaking off the initial fear and peeking out. Lavender Tea stood there, clipboard in hand.

“I think we’re about ready to close up for the day,” Lavender Tea said with a gentle smile. “Would you do me a favor and go downstairs? There’s someone here to see you.”

Peony frowned, studying Lavender Tea’s face. She had a shimmer of amusement in her eyes, a sign of a secret being kept. Peony had quite a bit of practice in spotting this sort of thing through the years.

Noticing her pupil’s wariness, Lavender Tea blinked. “It’s nothing bad, I promise,” she said quickly. “We both know them. It’s just supposed to be a surprise.”

In all the time Peony had known Lavender Tea, the woman had rarely ever lied. She certainly didn’t seem to be lying now, so Peony pushed out a sigh.

“Alright,” she said, trying to mask her nervousness with a polite smile. “I’ll be right up.” Lavender Tea flashed her an odd look, but she turned away before Peony could question it. Suppressing a shudder, Peony shrugged it off and shuffled downstairs.

She didn’t notice anything at first when she reached the foyer. It seemed completely empty. She frowned, looking around and wondering if she really was being set up, fear spiking in her heart…

…Until she heard a soft yap from behind the front desk.

Peony’s heart skipped a beat. She knew that voice, and she knew the bundle of soft fur that rushed out to greet her. A grin stretched across her face, so quickly and hard her cheeks began to strain. She kneeled and opened her arms, embracing the clay hound that barreled into her chest.

Chiffon was wagging his tail, as he had every time after the first few visits. It had taken some time for him to warm up to Peony, but it seemed he’d grown to trust her. This meant more to her than he could ever know. Especially since she knew what this visit meant.

Chiffon wasted no time, barking at Peony and darting out the still-open door. The woman ran after him, not bothering to remove her medical coat. She waved hello to the few people still out on the streets in the dying evening light, but her eyes remained on Chiffon and the road ahead.

The dog took her about a mile out of town. Peony could run that far easily, and she ran even faster when she saw someone standing in the distance— Red Velvet. Blue eyes locked with hers, and Red Velvet began to run toward her as well.

They met halfway, Peony practically throwing herself into Red Velvet’s arms. He caught her easily, spinning her around and grinning. “Hello, you,” he chuckled. “Someone’s excited.” Chiffon barked, energized by their reunion.

Peony rolled her eyes, though the smile didn’t drop from her face. “You say that as if you aren’t as well,” she snorted, kicking her feet in the air to prove a point. Red Velvet set her down gently, ruffling her hair just to be petty.

“My coworkers have been awful lately,” he sighed, ignoring Peony’s indignant squawk. “Pardon me for being relieved to see one of the few people I like.”

Peony huffed, crossing her arms. She couldn’t pretend to be mad, barely able to fight off the urge to let out a flustered giggle. “Shush,” she huffed. She couldn’t restrain her smile for long though, and her shoulders relaxed.

“I missed you,” she said, heat rising to her cheeks with the admission. Red Velvet’s expression softened, and he took her hand in his, massive clay fingers squeezing gently. The feeling of his hand around Peony’s would never get old to her.

“I missed you too,” Red Velvet whispered. Chiffon leaned against his heels, determined to join their affection. Peony and Red Velvet chuckled, gazing into each other’s eyes. They weren’t able to meet up often, but they cherished each moment they got together.

Even though they were still on different sides of a war, they were determined to make things work, for as long as they could. For now, this was enough.