Archive of Our Own

           “O Fount of Knowledge! Why must cookies crumble?”

           “O Fount of Knowledge! Is the love I feel returned to me?”

           “O Fount of Knowledge! Will I ever escape this lonely life of mine?”

           Utter meaningless drivel.

           An endless cacophony of questions and answers. A script bled of its ink by an automaton, a heart traded for knowledge, for it knew no other purpose of living. Such was the duty of the Fount of Knowledge, and he knew nothing more.

           Days into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. A swirl of time would pass in the blink of an eye. Faces ever changing, never memorable, would come and go. Visits from his mother, the Witch that baked him, were all that began to matter, but even now, those had become few and far between.

           He would call it a lonely existence, surrounded by animated dolls and puppets that slaved to his whims with no thoughts or wants of their own. They were not too dissimilar in that way.

           Milkcrowns choked the spire’s paths, a complaint amongst those with questions to ask. As much as he might send his puppets to cut them, they crawled back like weeds shortly after. The smallest bit of life a burden to his role, he’d call it ironic poetry.

           He couldn’t focus for long; his attention was required elsewhere once more. To a village past the skim milk river that had held reverence for him for quite some time now. Their harvests had been suffering, an easy fix, thankfully. Gaggles of cookies gathered all around to watch magic seep its way into the earth, vegetables rotten and bruised, replenished in colour and shape, giving way to bulky sizes packed firm with nutrients.

           Despite having left them time and time again with methods of upkeep for their fields, poor harvests always wormed their way into his schedule. He knew why, of course, but who was he to judge them?

           And so the cycle continued once more.

           With a sigh, the Fount stepped away from the fields, torn apart by eager hands. There was no reason to stay a second longer. Yet, his gaze lingered upon a figure far from the field. Crouched out of sight, cradling a blueberrybird which had lost its flight.

           “It’s okay… Here, how does that feel? Better?” A blind beggar dressed in rags, eyes bandaged and hair dirtied. His focus was solely on the warm embrace of a healing spell, a rare sight in parts such as these. Wasted talent on a fragile bird, destined to inevitably fall.

           Curiosity piqued at this display; however, his approach was quick to frighten the blueberry bird, fluttering away on its newly repaired wings to the beggar’s dismay. “Ah!-” He gasped in surprise, hand outstretched to call for it before silently pulling back with a frown. “Is… someone there?” 

           Right, the man was surely blind if those bandages were anything to go by. “My apologies, I did not mean to scare you.” Looking closer now, he could see a basket hanging from his arm filled with flowers of all shades and types. “Are you picking these by chance?” Such flora had no place amidst the spire, lacking use in research.

           Whyever would someone want them?

           “Here. This is for you!” In the brief moment he was lost in thought, one of those flowers was offered to him with a bright smile in turn. It was a yellow tulip, simple yet vibrant. Those who curried favour with him would oft bring luxuries beyond mortal compare, silks and jewels alike draped in beautiful blues. All but offerings in the end, piled away into a corner by his rabbits at hand.

           Children would bring offerings far simpler, pure in intention, with sweets and toys they held dear. Those were the gifts he preferred most of all. Yet never until now had an adult offered him something so close.

           The blind beggar tilted his head in confusion as the tulip remained in his hand. “It’s a gift, I don’t believe I’ve heard your voice before. Ah- or, are the tulips not to your liking? I can get you something else,” he panicked, pulling his hand away before the Fount held his wrist in turn.

           “N-No! It’s fine! I was just surprised. Thank you for your gift, kind?...”

           “Healer Cookie is fine, that’s what they’ve come to call me here,” he softly giggled as he spoke. “I am a healer by trade, aches, pains and ails of the sort. But times have been peaceful here, and I’ve plenty of flowers to spare, so perhaps Flower Merchant Cookie instead? Doesn’t roll of the tongue now, does it?”

           Fount released his grip, allowing the tulip to fall into his own hands. A little gift, yet he knew all too well what such a gift meant. “What do you desire in return? Coins? Questions?”

           “Huh? Oh! No, no! This is a gift, dear stranger! I do sell flowers, yes, but for those I’ve only just met, I prefer to gift them instead. Everyone should be free to enjoy the joy that flowers bring.” As if to enunciate his point, Healer proudly held his basket out for display. “Don’t they just bring a smile to your face?”

           That they did, how strange indeed. “...Might I buy the whole lot then?”

           “A-All of them?” His soft face was pulled aghast with shock; it would appear he was the first customer in quite some time. “Well, that should be about… two hundred coins?”

           A paltry sum, barely enough to break bread. For the entire basket alone, he was undercutting himself by a severe amount. Bookkeeping was one such role he had been entrusted with, mayhaps one of the worst ones, amidst constant bickering between merchants, suppliers and the like. The worth of coin was not something that escaped his eyes.

           Perhaps it was foolish of him. Or a pitable trap for some with a heavier purse than what they knew to do with. But he had no use for the coins that piled in his palm, from the rich and poor alike; money was the source and cure of all their woes. But what was a god to do with such coin on his own?

           Rummaging through a small portal, he procured a sack of coins – a few hundred thousand or so. “I believe this should be sufficient to buy ‘joy’?” Within seconds, he pulled the basket from his grasp, replacing it with the heft of money in exchange for the flora.

           “W-What? No, this is far too much! And my basket!-”

           “Do not fret. It is no dough off my back.”

           “B-But that’s! Uhm!-”

           He had already stepped away as Healer fretted over this little predicament. The Fount was simply playing his part in duties; that was all there was to it. A tuppence would not suffice for one who shone so kindly. It was no favouritism on his part, merely due diligence.

           It would not be a week until that cookie came to mind once more. Lost in the forest that was his desk, musing at times on the quiet mockery that came with being a glorified secretary. Hidden away by a pile of papers, he came upon the basket he had procured, its wilted, rotting flowers within.

           That joy had been stolen by time – an expected conclusion, yet disappointing all the same. He should have thrown them away and returned to his work. They were just flowers with short little lives.

           For a Virtue to stoop to such lengths, he should have been ashamed of himself. To warp the form gifted to him by the gods above. And here he was, lifting a hood over his head, body far smaller than he had ever been baked with. None would pay a second thought to a stray child scuttling about, let alone his true identity.

           It was exhilarating, outweighing the same through the freedom of movement. Running through each corner and alleyway in search of that meandering Healer. Still wrapped in his ragged robes, humming a song to himself as shredded flowers were moulded back good as new by the hand of his magics.

           “Excuse me?...” A timid voice, alien to his own throat, echoed out. “Can you help me?” Even his face curled inwards, wincing at how weak he must appear. Healer perked up upon catching this unfamiliar voice, turning to face him once more with a smile ever so warm.

           “Whatever do you need, little one? Any scrapes or cuts?” He remained kneeling down at eye level, arms open in an effort to display safety and comfort. It was a strange thing to observe.

           He remained a wary distance away, fiddling with his own fingers as courage slipped from his grasp. “It’s about flowers… They wilted. They’re gone. How can I make them last?”

           “To make them last?” His question left Healer with a perplexed expression, perhaps considering words best suited to a child. “You could dry them; many flowers can keep their colours and shape well, should you dry them well enough. But I suspect that’s not what you want.”

           “No. It’s not.”

           Magic might have seemed to be the easiest solution to such a minor issue. To still its growth and freeze it in time forevermore. It was playing with life; it could not die nor grow anymore. A static thing, no different than him.

           What a disgusting existence to live.

           “I’m afraid there isn’t much you can do,” Healer softly explained, a faint false smile now across his face. “Flowers don’t live for long, so why not make the most of it? Care for them, speak to them, only then will you truly see their beauty shine through.”

           “Sounds like a waste of time.”

           “Isn’t everything?” He spoke with such grace to his words, soaked with intent with every wisp of his breath. A nudge or hint here or there, as though he was speaking to someone who wasn’t really there. As if he saw through the guise before him. “But if you think living like that, you’ll never find any enjoyment in your life.”

           Such an irony, to speak of advice to life to one immortal before him. And yet the Fount could not shake off such a feeling of intent. “I see… I won’t bother you any longer.”

           “Oh? Were you not after a new basket of flowers?” He froze in place, an embarrassingly powerful tremble shivering through his dough. “You needn’t hide behind another voice to ask for advice! Is it not you, the rich stranger?”

           “How?-” His voice cracked, true voice seeping through. Unwittingly revealing before even the idea of a trick could cross his mind.

           “It was just a thought, hearing a child talk like ah… An older adult, let’s say!” An old man in more honest terms… “Intuition, I suppose. So, did you enjoy the flowers, dear stranger?”

           The illusion of a child shattered; the form broke free of its hold. His body outstretched in a way almost uncomfortable now, even past the short period of time he remained childish in form. Disappointment ebbed in his chest at the failure to even remain hidden for long. He had thought that surely to act as a child would be no effort at all. It appeared he had underestimated disguises. “I hadn’t the time to admire them properly before they died. I came to get some more, if that’s alright?”

           Healer crossed his arms, a pout light on his lips. “And let them die again? I think not! Unless you can guarantee to me that you’ll give them the care they need, then you’re banned from my little store!”

           There wasn’t much of a store to begin with to warrant such a ban, though it was better not to point this out to the man, lest he receive more of a lashing than he’d ever think to get. “What would stop me from simply picking the flowers then?” He questioned instead.

           At this, Healer looked a bit bashful. “Well… Not much! But it’s the morality of it all at the end of the day! However, if you need a teacher, I’m more than eager to help! You’ll grow to love it, I assure you!”

           He wasn’t sure how one could live to love a chore; many a time, cookies he met across the ages made bold claims that they adored their jobs, assuring themselves and those around them of a pitiful lie of their constraining lives. Yet Healer spoke without a lack of passion; were it not for the bandage, his eyes would surely be glittering.

           It brought to mind an idea, a stupid idea, but one nonetheless.

           “I require a gardener, perhaps you might teach me while earning more coin instead?” It was a half-truth, a puppet worked away at the samples he grew. It got the job done, of course, but the garden was lonely as a result.

           “But I am no professional gardener, I’m afraid. Just a stranger with much love to share. With no education to my name, I could hardly be considered a botanist, even with my enjoyment in it.”

           His little offer was becoming a game of words, praise, and modesty, with deflections bouncing between every breath. “Such love is what I am searching for. You said so yourself, didn’t you? For a flower to flourish, it needs love and care.”

           Healer covered his mouth, an obvious grin hidden beneath. “Using my own words against me, are you? Ahh, I suppose you’ve caught me there. But to ask a stranger to move into their home, quite fast, don’t you think?”

           Perhaps he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Any cookies the Fount approached would have said yes within a heartbeat, granting trust far too great in him and his fellow Virtues. Even the children, still sticky in their dough, were spoonfed words and tales of trust unearned… The lack of awareness Healer had was insulting in a way. Mayhaps he could ask for whatever rock he emerged from for some peace of mind sometime.

           “If it worries you so… Have you heard tales of the Fount of Knowledge before?”

           A pause, the cogs turned in his head, any obvious emotion masked by bandages. “Oh! That’s right!” Healer blurted aloud, an appiphiny struck. “You’re one of the local farmers!”

           “F-Farmer?” He spluttered. “No, not in the slightest!”

           “Oh? But they always warble on about your amazing field work.” He finished off with an innocent smile.

           …Did he truly garner such a reputation assisting with their harvests? “I was helping them with magic.”

           “It truly does sound like magic, doesn’t it?”

           “Because it is.”

           “And cake boars fly.”

           He was left aghast, fingers twitching against his staff. Mouth stuttering and stammering, one as great as he was, left without words to use in the shock Healer brought. It was like nothing he had ever dealt with before. And that small petty voice within was practically begging to make use of that rebuttal and truly make those boars fly to prove his point.

           Then, all of a sudden, Healer began to laugh. Spluttering first from stifled snorts before evolving into full-chested laughter. Tears were soaking through the bandages against his eyes as a hand quickly covered his mouth in an attempt to suppress the outburst. “Forgive me, I couldn’t hold it back a moment longer. I couldn’t help but tease, you see.”

           “T-Tease me?”

           “Of course, after you approached me disguised as a child, there aren’t many cookies who could pull off such an act. So I had some idea it might have been the Fount of Knowledge, though I wasn’t sure why he’d do so.” As he spoke, Healer made his approach. “I must say, you’re very easy to tease!”

           A pout filled the Fount’s cheeks. “Perhaps I ought to rescind my offer…”

           “Don’t be so glum! I meant no harm. Now, might I ask a favour quite small? Not a question but a request, I’d like to touch your face. As strange as it might sound, I want to see what you look like through my hands,” he explained, steadily extending his hand to him, watching and waiting.

           He would not move until he said so; how strange an effect he had upon that man. Many, who lacked the chances nor time ever to stand face to face with a god amongst cookies, withdrew from common decency in a matter of minutes. Fingers dug into his dough, pulled away at the starlight nestled in his hair. Words remained unspoken, not an argument to be thrown into the air.

           Just a little doll, with no choice or say.

           It was in this contemplation that Healer pulled away. His hands conjoined as he swayed side to side. “Are you still with me? Or have you snuck away once again?” Healer spoke aloud, seemingly expectant to be alone in his words.

           Be it pity for the blind, or an exception that twisted in his chest. The Fount reached on his own accord towards those entwined hands, fingernails underlaid with dirt and dust. Healer jolted at his touch, as though it were electrifying. “O-Oh, you’re still here?”

           “My apologies for scaring you…”

           “No, it’s okay! I was just surprised.” A bashful look cascaded across his expression, fingers twitched in his grip. “They must be rather dirty, aren’t they? Sorry, it slipped my mind, you don’t have to force yourself into doing this for me.”

           A pair of filthy hands, mere centimetres away from his own pristine skin. Merely knocking against them with a knuckle left the phantom of a stain behind. Nothing was filthier than a cookie already dead; all mortals were destined to crumble, and thus, from the moment they were baked, they could already be considered dead as they took their first breath.

           Cookies called the touch of death a curse on the soul; such were the phantoms left behind by their grasp beyond what they could touch. It lingered on dough without a life of its own. Even if the Healer were to clean his hands, they would still carry a filth he could not understand.

           The Fount took those hands of his and pulled them against his face. Warm and calloused, firm dough roughened by the earth itself. At his allowance, Healer palmed his face, pressing against his cheeks, running a finger across the jagged bridge of his nose. “Your cheeks are… surprisingly quite hollow. Oh dear, is the Fount of Knowledge not getting enough to eat?”

           His brows furrowed, glaring down at the gleeful man below him. “Quite comfortable teasing now, aren’t you? You ought to show more respect to those with virtuous dough.”

           “Ohh, getting serious now, aren’t you? Can’t worry about my future employer’s health now, can I? Virtuous dough or not, those need some filling in, doctor's orders.”

           “Any second opinions?”

           “They’ll all be inclined to agree with me, I’d think.”

           Slowly but surely, Healer would soon pull his hands away. His touch, etched away against his dough. It appeared to fill his cheeks with a strange warmth, a far cry from the stinging burn oft left behind.

           “You’re a strange one, aren’t you?” Fount murmured aloud. Strange, yet not unwelcome. An actor without a script, one such show he could not miss.

           Enthusiastic as ever, Healer clapped his hands together with a smile brimming with such delight that it rivalled the glow of his cheeks. “The stranger the better, don’t you think? Well then, Mr Fount. When should I expect to be staying at your home from now on?”

           At his return, the Fount’s heart was aflutter. It would be in a week, they agreed, to give the Healer time and space to pack what meagre belongings he held and to bid farewell to those he knew.

           It was the first time anyone living had stayed in the spire for an extended period. Such a move came with a whole host of issues, of course. None too difficult a fix, though by the hands of a Virtue. For one, there was little to no way to sustain a cookie, be it in a kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, or the like. Any bodily requirements were sustained by his Soul Jam after all. Though it had not stopped him from thinking or considering removing it at times, just to see how mortal cookies lived.

           But duty kept him from such curiosities.

           So, before his Healer’s little arrival, he got to work. Peeling away the layers of reality that sustained the walls around him, a cursory sketch in hand provided by the Herald of Change, a skilful architect in all accord. A basic kitchen, blushed with blues and simple milky white curtains, crevices, and appliances. Centred against a large window that looked out onto the garden from the first floor, for the ground floor was reserved for visitors and day-to-day duties.

           In a sense, the first floor was to become Healer’s abode, for the bedroom and bathroom would follow shortly after. There was little of note to be found in either of the two, following the same principle of design as the rooms before them had. Should Healer so desire, he could decorate them as he liked.

           A simple hallway and three doors. He shouldn’t get lost, right? Very little else existed in the spire after that. It was a gathering of knowledge across history and country. Endless tomes, scrolls and dutiful puppets worked without end to ensure all remained recorded through the expanse of space the spire provided.

           Dreadfully boring all the same. Rooms, the expanse of a city and at the height of a mountain, dotted every floor, towered by shelves. Function above form, lest risking any damage to the records he held. He didn’t like those rooms; they were terribly stifling these days.

           That was until one reached the very peak of the spire. Nestled within an observatory, a gateway to the stars. Whilst still one of many workplaces, it had become more personalised with time, favoured above all others. It was there that he prayed to the Witches, awaiting their holy touch once more. At times, he would meditate atop piles of cotton blankets and pillows, once offerings to him. He would not call it a bedroom, though conversely, there had been times he fell asleep amidst meditation…

           But that was neither here nor there.

           It was there that he would whisk away the time in seclusion. Where that mantle of a crown came to rest, needle in hand to poke away at curiosities clinging to his mind. Sewing was an obsolete task, at least for him. If someone could conjure anything their mind desired, there was never a need to put in the effort to create or learn a thing.

           Even so, sewing became one such skill he desired above all else. Sat alone atop his spire, with not a soul in sight, and the lights dimmed to comfort. He would create in those gaps of time rarely left to him, from little rabbits stuffed with fluff to robes wrapped in embroidery never to be worn.

           He never fancied himself a creative it… wasn’t a fate set out for him. What spare time he had to share would be best spent in his duties, but still. Perhaps it was merely another way of meditating in a way, as the voices in his mind hushed into quiet murmur through every stitch threaded.

           Tiny imperfections came with the art of crafting. It was an inevitability, a stitch just ever so slightly off centre here or there. Pinches of fabric pulled by the embroidered thread far too tight. How his touch permeated the fabric between his fingers, soaked by phantoms.

           He tried not to think too hard about them, as fruitless as his efforts may be. Pushing past the anxieties that plagued him, to think of thoughts far more fruitful for his time. Ah, yes. His Healer would need robes befitting his stay and status. The physical filths of the world could not stain the pristine nature of the spire itself.

           Even if he were a gardener, destined to remain caked by mud. 

           It would soon arrive at the time Healer arrived with nought but his cane and the clothes on his back. “You’ve brought very little, I see.” The Fount observed, bunnies scattered about at the surprise of a new visitor, crowding around his ankles in curiosity. “Behave, all of you, or else he’ll end up tripping.”

           Healer let out a delighted giggle, crouching down to palm at their perky ears. “Oh, how cute! I didn’t know you had rabbits, and so soft too.” He was swarmed in little to no time at all. Their heads pushed past each other just to snuggle against the palm of his hands.

           They were acting as though they were starved of any attention, like the spoiled little puppets that they were. Each puppet contained just the slightest sliver of his soul to enact his duties out of his control. He expected them to be more well-behaved during Healer’s stay, mayhaps a tweak was in order soon.

           The Fount cleared his throat, little beady eyes turned at his call as a stern expression stared down at the fluffle. “Give our guest some space now, I have important matters to discuss with him- Don’t you look at me like that!” He hissed as those eyes glistened and begged as though they held desires of their own.

           “It’s alright, I’m used to handling children like this.”

           “You would call these children?”

           “In a way, I suppose. Alright, little ones, I’ll see you soon!” With a few extra scratches their way, he wriggled his way out of their adoration. “Hehe, shall we then, Mr Fount?” His cane firmly slammed against the marbled flooring, as though echo alone mapped the world just within touch.

           Room introductions went without a hitch. Healer eagerly ran his hands against every surface he could find, visualising a map within his mind. It wasn’t until they arrived in his new bedroom that a budding question would finally arise. “Your eyes, why is it that they’re covered like that?” The Fount would ask, taking a seat on the freshly made bed.

           Healer paused amidst his investigation, turning to face him with a simmering smile. “They’re not too fond of the light you see. I have some level of sight, as little as that is… Where the colours and shapes of the world swirl and blend like paint, pulling together the closer I get. But the light hurts to see, burning what already aches beneath my retinas. I’m giving them a rest like this in a way.”

           “I see…” The Fount hesitated, a request sat at the tip of his tongue. A strange sensation well within his chest, as though he sat across from a mirror of himself. He was never one to ask anything of other cookies; it was a miracle in itself that Healer was here to begin with in that way. So foreign was that concept that bile boiled within his own throat, acting against commands set in stone.

           “Getting cold feet?” Healer observed, sitting beside him as though there was little concern in the matter. “I can feel the way you’re staring, you want to see my eyes, don’t you?”

           “That’s-” Yet before he could argue, hands had rushed to the tie at the back of his head, bandages falling like ribbons against his delicate face. Powdery white lashes flickered through a half-lidded expression, gold and blue were imbued with a milky complexion where his sight never quite met the line.

           Squinting his way, Healer tilted his head closer in intrigue. “You’re bluer than I had thought, in all my imaginations I was expecting a bit of green!” Healer giggled. “Is that a bit of purple too? Well, you’re certainly full of surprises, Mr Fount.”

           He was getting distracted, far too easily. “Ah- Ahem…” Returning to his feet, the Fount willed his face to behave against the peculiar twitches that threatened the sanctity of his image. “I am glad to now know this about you, which brings me to the next step of your new life here. I have some new clothes to gift you. Consider it a uniform of sorts.”

           With little time to comment, he dropped the new garments into Healer’s lap, turning on his heel to stare directly at the door. “Might you try them on for now to see if they fit?” Of course, they would without question, but it's best to be prepared for any alterations.

           Quietly, Healer rose from his bed, the shuffling of those heavy old robes following behind, landing in a pile with a gust of wind that skirted against his own feet. In turn, his new robes were significantly quieter, lighter in fabric, with the tiniest chime of charms.

           “Uhm, Mr Fount. Is this really suitable for garden work?” A trepid voice called out from behind. Finally, gone were the sack-like robes he had once adorned. In its stead were robes pure and white, sleeves cuffed with golden stitching around his wrists. His neck was covered by a collar, continuing his embroidery towards the centre of his chest. The outline of the Soul Jam of Knowledge sat wreathed in golden thread, a mark upon his clothes as to who he was bound to. Aligned with this, around his waist, were rope enlaid with blue jewelled charms, magical in nature, protection granted by a Virtue’s hand. Mayhaps his proudest achievement, though, remained at the skirting of the robes. In his preparations, he had pondered quietly and aloud to himself on the sanctity and meaning that flowers brought. He was at a loss for choice in what to include until his gaze was caught by a flower most rare and new to the world, vanilla orchids.

           He was at a loss for words in the presence of his work. How perfectly garbed Healer had become. Yet in doing so, something peculiar arose. Cheeks ruddy and head low, he was far more nervous than he had ever been before. “What is the matter, Healer? Are the robes not to your liking?”

           “It’s not that, j-just…” He picked and ran his fingers against every stitch that he could find, curling against the soft fabric with a murmur. “This is far too elaborate for someone like me… I would hate to stain it with the dirt of work.”

           “Don’t worry about that, I can simply magic the stains away.”

           “That’s a peculiar use of such a power…”

           “Perhaps, but it’s worth doing so. All who exist in this spire are to be dressed in their best, which includes you. Even the flowers may fight for their own grand displays with you there,” Fount assured him, rare works taken straight from the heart.

           A smile returned, far more suitable in his opinion. Bright and light against his features, it was as though an expression as simple as that could heal his very soul. “Alright then, you’ve convinced me. But don’t get too upset if I wind up caked in mud someday.”

           He was pleased with the results, but not completely, not yet. “If I may, I have one last request to make. It’s a simple one, silly even… I would like it if you dropped the ‘Mr’ when addressing me.” For as selfish and stupid as it may seem to stand on equal ground with the dead. Just this once, even for as short as it may be.

           He wanted a friend.

           One who could understand.

           To see him as something other than a tool to use.

           “Drop it?... I can do that.” Returning the wrap of bandages around his eyes, Healer sprang up from his bed, pulling the Fount alongside him by the cuff of his sleeves. “Well then, my Fount. Won’t you show me the rest of your home?”

           How he wished to ensure the memory of that day remained with him forevermore. The world that he had grown numb to expanded itself before him, clearing away the fog. Through new lenses, what had once grown dreary and dull flickered with never-before-seen life.

           A hand closed around his, gentle yet firm. It should have burned. It should have hurt. Yet in that touch he returned. Crown lost for just a moment to venture into that tiny world of his garden. His questions were ever so eager yet simple in nature, to hear his thoughts, his feelings at every turn, every sprout.

           Oh, how he wished it would never end.

           It would be so that the crown would return once more. Hands scrubbed raw of touch, desk inlaid with fresh parchment.

           A return to a cycle, leaving his little Healer behind to work in the shadows.

           His puppets would tend to his daily needs as dearly as he wished to step away and bask in the sun's light once more.

           At the passing of the first week, a gift found itself upon his desk, precariously placed by rabbits that had ignored their commands. They scattered from the moment they were done, as though terrified of their own creator. And in their wake was left a bouquet.

           It was sweet, soft yellows and whites brightened the dim office space, bursting with sunlight at their petal tips. There were daffodils, sunflowers and daisies in such an invigorating hue of yellow, mixed in between the more peaceful sight of iris’ and more daisies in white.

           A gift, and the identity of its donor was clear as day.

           “Healer,” Fount called out to Healer, standing behind him, bouquet in hand. The man let out a short yelp, jumping up from a bed of peonies he had been attending to. In doing so, revealing the mass of rabbits that had gathered beneath his robes in the process. “...What are you all doing here?”

           Healer let out a nervous laugh, standing up straight as he peeled away a pair of dusty gloves. “They’re quite taken with me, like little ducklings! Don’t worry, I’m happy to have them here. But you didn’t come here for them, did you? What’s wrong?”

           Stuttering forward in his steps, the Fount practically dropped his bouquet into Healer’s arms. “I want to ask about this. And it being left on my desk…”

           “Do you not like it?”

           His eyes widened, panic settling in. “No!- Wait, I mean, yes, I do like.”

           “Then I don’t see what the problem is!” And it was pushed back into his arms a bit too eagerly. “They’re for you! My Fount! You’ve been so cooped up in your office this last week, so I thought a little bit of colour would cheer you up a bit.” As though he deserved further explanation, Healer pressed closer, fingertips dancing against every bloom. “In the meaning of flowers, these represent joy in one form or another. While some flowers and their variants of colour may mean something different, the most common of them all is that yellow is to bring happiness to the receiver.”

           It was such a strange habit of those mortal cookies. To give meaning to those flickers of life that blossomed without their touch. As though they could grant themselves an understanding of what stretched beyond control and the untamed depths of one's heart. Joy or disgust, should the colour of yellow mean any one of these things was null to someone without an understanding of their heart, someone such as himself.

           He looked down at them once more. Could he himself see joy in what was to rot? Yellow and white. Joy and happiness. “I don’t deserve it.” A thought spoken aloud, bleaching the light out of a shared moment.

           “...My Fount, you… You sound like quite the fool.” The bouquet was pushed further into his arms, a scowl now plain against Healer’s face. “Anyone is worthy of some flowers, especially you. God or not, everyone deserves some respite.” Arms crossed in a huff, he continued. Now I’m afraid you’ll just have to enjoy a new bouquet every week.”

           His heart leapt into his throat. “No, that isn’t necessary-”

           “The more you argue, the bigger the bouquet,” Healer argued, seemingly proud of himself for the corner he had forced him into.

           With a restrained sigh, the Fount finally obliged.

           Once a week, Healer would put his bouquet skills to the test; supposedly, he wasn’t particularly skilled in the hobby. Something the Fount remained doubtful of. Even so, Healer insisted he learn and experiment through all the garden had to offer, so long as they weren’t too dangerous.

           Such a rule came into effect upon discovering the man pondering some unique designs to make in a plot of poisonous plants.

           When it came to the upkeep of rare specimens and research materials, he had been unsure of how well Healer would adjust to caring for them. A far cry from the flowers he had been tending to before. Yet he continued to surprise him each day that passed. Even more surprisingly, the local wildlife had begun to approach the lands they had desperately avoided once before.

           Bringing him to where he was now, where a month or so had passed by.

           Sat outside in the spring breeze, all the while his papers called out to him with desperate pleas. “None of that, my Fount. I can feel you staring, whistfully into the distance. Those papers won’t run away anytime soon.” On this sunny day, Healer had practically barged into his office, blackout curtains curled against the windows. At the slightest waver in his voice, he had dragged him outside and into one of the garden’s gazebos reserved for rare guests.

           But he could not settle; this was not his usual meditation space to whittle away the hours. For as peaceful as the garden may be, his line of sight continued to catch onto the smallest of details, flowers with an uneven number of petals to patches of grass that a passing animal had upturned. Little things like that.

           It drove him mad.

           “Bored?” Healer asked.

           “I wouldn’t say so. When you’ve lived as long as I have, boredom begins to numb,” the Fount explained. “Were I not held by duty, I could sit out here for weeks without much thought.”

           “It doesn’t sound pleasant.”

           “No, not really.”

           Their conversation quickly tapered out after that, as he returned to his observations. On the opposite end, Healer was watching him. He couldn’t see, of course, there wasn’t much to watch in that sense, especially with his bandages on. But he was looking his way, and quite intently too.

           He stared back, with little more to do.

           …

           Mayhaps he was more bored than he considered. “Might I help you?...”

           Healer suddenly awoke from his daze, turning his head away. “Oh, sorry, I was lost in thought.”

           “For that long?”

           “Well, there’s a lot to consider, you see. But I think I have enough, wait there just a bit longer!” Leaping to his feet, the Fount said little more as he watched Healer scurry away. It wouldn’t be long until he returned with an entourage and a basket in hand. “It appears a few of my friends were curious about you!”

           Said friends were a flock of blueberry birds.

           “Is speaking to animals yet another hidden skill of yours?” The Fount mused, extending a hand for them to perch. Quite a few took an interest in him, in fact, perhaps due to all the prominent blues in his dough.

           Sitting beside him, Healer set his basket up with a light chuckle. “Oh, I could only imagine. I’m afraid not, but I can understand them well even without. What about you? Any bird tongue that comes to mind.”

           He humoured the thought, humming in shallow depths of thought. “If all my memory and aeons shall serve me right… No, I cannot.”

           “Ahh, such a shame.”

           “Yes indeed.”

           Mayhaps the Herald could, but it had never been something he had considered before until now. Even so, they perched without fear or fluster. Animals ran reliant on their senses; should there be the slightest sign of danger, they were to scatter or bare their fangs. In that way, it would appear they quite liked him.

           Pleased with this, Healer kept to himself. Working away on one of the benches on a new bouquet, giving him ample room to watch. Ever so slightly, he pulled away his bandages, flinching at the daylight, squinting down at the flowers before him, before covering them once more.

           They were organised in colour and type. This one spoke of spring, with shades of pink, yellow and white. And the flora of tulips, peonies, gerberas, and freesia. The craft of these bouquets relied solely on his touch, bunching them into layers from their respective piles until tied with a white bow.

           “It’s cute,” the Fount confessed, hands outstretched to receive this new gift. “I must say, watching you work has been quite the enlightening experience. I am curious, though, how much do you plan prior?”

           “Hmm… Not much at all, I suppose.” Healer leaned back in his seat, settling into a comfortable position as blueberry birds flocked to his side. “I see what I have, and what I can do with them. Like today, for example, there were many tulips to pick from, so I paired them with other joyful flowers.”

           The Fount preened his fingers against the soft flush of petals. Fearful they may tear yet enthralled nonetheless. Soon to wither away and die, as all things were bound. But they were certainly pleasant for now, reminiscent of the delicacy in doughling skin.

           Would these flowers inevitably curse him as well?

           Perhaps it would be sweeter to live in blissful ignorance.

           They would stay out there together for quite a while after that. Becoming somewhat of a habit. On days where the weather remained pleasant, and the heart was racked by tempests immeasurable. It was nice to simply sit there in the quiet trill of nature alongside his Healer.

           Though with time, conflict would inevitably arise. 

           For one to stay in the spire long enough, one would inevitably come across a flower most rare. Only to be found on its grounds. One that the Fount made an effort to squash out, no matter the cost.

           Milkcrowns.

           A manifestation of his failures, weakness shed through a tear.

           He despised them for it.

           Ever since Healer arrived, he had enhanced his efforts. While not as many had grown since, he could not risk the questions and lies that would come forth. Yet upon a day of heartache, crying out to the silent mother, they spilt out more than usual.

           Scattered by the spire itself in some twisted game, he was forced to put himself back together again, fractured as he was, to search for them. Burn them, crush them, anything at all.

           But it would all be in vain that day.

           Suspecting that they had been dealt with, he returned to his office to continue his work. A bouquet slowly wilting away in the corner, due for a replacement by the next day. He was, at the very least, enthusiastic to see what would come next. An assortment of colours and scents were refreshers along the way after keeping your neck craned for hours at a time.

           Healer would always come to collect them, reusing them for compost or, if they were still hearty enough, dry or press them to preserve some, sometimes for a light tea or a bookmark to brighten up his studies. His room had become all but consumed by them; what had begun as a plain guest room had certainly bloomed in some way.

           All of his delicate touches had breathed life into a space devoid of its own life. An envious ability, he had thought.

           As fate would have it, the figure of his thoughts came knocking soon after. Back straightened against his chair, lest he be scolded yet again, he called out to Healer. “Come in.” Against their internal schedule, it would appear he would be getting a brand new bouquet already today rather than tomorrow.

           …One that was plagued by weeds.

           And his Healer, none the wiser, stood there proud as can be, arms carrying a bouquet of misery. Some ordinary flowers there consisted of blue pansies, bluebells, and agrimonia. Yet mixed alongside them, mocking his presence were the milkcrowns he so dutifully destroyed.

           “I know it’s a bit out of our usual schedule, but I found something amazing today, and I couldn’t help but get to work.” Healer explained, voice brimming with creative energies as he exchanged the two bouquets. Utterly oblivious to the distinct displeasure that had entaptured the Fount’s expression.

           It was in these quiet and ordinary exchanges, however, that he noticed something horribly wrong. Ignoring the cries of his mind, he snapped a hand around Healer’s wrist, pulling his hand in close. “...What happened?” While often calloused with the scars of old cuts and prick, he had never bandaged his hands quite like how he was now.

           They covered the entirety of his palms and up around a few of his fingers, with some sort of medication spread beneath that soaked through the surface with a bitter stench. “A-Ah… It’s nothing to worry about. I have it sorted.”

           “But what happened? You won’t give me an answer.”

           “A plant I was handling didn’t react well to my skin; I don’t believe it’s a poisonous one like some ivies. It would seem I’m just allergic to it,” he awkwardly laughed. “It’s nothing crazy, I’ll just wear gloves next time.”

           “Which one?”

           Silence followed his question. The answer clear as day. A weed amidst the flora. Toxic to the only one who dared to bear his heart. Even past the bandages, he felt Healer’s gaze burn through him as he slowly unwrapped his hands, chest tightening as they fell against his desk.

           Red splotches and bumps swelled beneath viscous balm. “Healer… What flower did you touch?” At the tone of his voice, the man flinched, guilt settling deep into the Fount’s chest. “I… I’m not angry at you. Only worried.” For all the horror it brought him, he ran his thumb against the rash. Disgusting, putrid dough-

           No, such horrific thoughts were best buried for the sake of his Healer.

           “...The white ones, the ones I’ve never seen before. They’re not poisonous, are they? They had such a sweet scent, and I just thought-” Of course. Of course it was. Even a part of himself burned and blistered the very hands that caressed and cared.

           “No, they’re not. You’re right, it just causes reactions to your skin. These are milkcrowns; you can think of them as residual magic from the spire,” the Fount explained, a careful lie twinged amidst his words. He wasn’t quite sure why—embarrassment, maybe, a product of his pathetic nature.

           Enclosing his hand against Healer’s, he let out a deep sigh. “Avoid them next time you see them, and tell me where you found them. They’re pests, draining the life out of everything around them, amounting to nothing in the end but burdens on the land… Ah, we should get this fixed, shouldn’t we?” Of all the things to have hurt him, it came from himself…

           Though his Healer, rightful to the name, was an expert in healing magics, the status of a rash did not react well to magic. Such wounds were to be healed by time and medication wherever possible. Even as the Fount of Knowledge, his healing capabilities could not defy such nature; at times, the natural process was the best medication anyone could ask for.

           At least, that’s what he assured himself with as he rewrapped Healer’s hand. “Thank you, my Fount. I’m sorry for bothering you like this,” Healer murmured, pulling away from the hands that curled for his warmth. “I-I’ll get a new bouquet ready for you by tomorrow!”

           He rose from his desk in an instant, chair screeching against the floor in his hurry. “Don’t! It-It’s fine! Any gift of yours is greatly appreciated, Healer. I only ask that you refrain from hurting yourself for my sake in the future.” The Fount all but begged, approaching him, arms trembling as he forced them to outstretch.

           It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, wrapped in equal parts guilt and lingering affections for his Healer. As his breath hitched beneath his cloying embrace, he could not help but be stirred by the reality before him. Cookies were such fragile things, the way that every bone could be traced beneath the skin. That tactile heartbeat that thrummed against his chest. The warmth of jam rushing through his body, a pulse, a breath, a life.

           He clung tighter.

           “My Fount I… I’ll be alright, thank you,” Healer murmured, returning the hug with a light squeeze. “Hehe, I never thought of you as a cuddlebug.”

           “I’m not…”

           “Mmm, could have fooled me. You seem to be enjoying this, despite your aversion to touch.” So he had noticed? It was foolish of him to expect otherwise; they had been together now for quite some time. Yet never as close as this. “It’s not a bad thing to do, hugging. Everyone needs one now and then.”

           “...I see. And would you?...”

           “Of course.”

           Companionship, that is the term he would eventually land upon regarding his Healer. The fear of vulnerability, of loss, weighed far heavier on his heart than it had ever before. And he was selfish for it, for the truth that lay before him in the touch between life and death.

           The cursed and the accursed, the reality of those roles became flipped.

           And for once in his life, he ignored it.

           For the comfort it brought, no matter how paltry. Hands held, hugs squeezed, palms that embraced cheeks. His Healer was bold, eager and sweet. Just as a pitcher may beckon bugs, the Fount had fallen in a way that he could not explain.

           What was it? The answer teased the tip of his tongue, eluding him through the days between rest and work.

           Soon, to simply forget about it, to be better off without it. Tossing such complexities aside, far easier now to enjoy the time they had side by side.

           “Good evening, my Fount!” Healer eagerly greeted him, another bouquet resting in his arms. Tonight was one such night, a night of indulgence. An offering now rested in his hands, that of blue morning glories and roses, paired beside purple lilacs and asters.

           He could not help but smile just as brightly. “A fitting pairing, I’d say, thank you once again.” Yet they were all too easily put to the side, for as dearly as he adored them, there was something else that called to him far greater than any flower might hold sway over. “Come with me, Healer,” he beckoned him further within his chambers.

           It had been a stray word or so, whilst the Fount had been organising documents regarding starcharts for a seaside village that had requested them before setting sail. “The stars, hm?... Those have always been a difficult thing for me to catch a glimpse of. Some fragments of light cut through, but in the end, they don’t make themselves known easily to me.” Healer had murmured after learning of his work.

           “Is that so? Well, why don’t I just bring the stars to you?” Was all the Fount put in stone. Leading to his invitation into his quarters, one of the few rooms Healer had yet to visit, having kept to the main two floors, for there was little to do elsewhere.

           With a hurried excitement, he all but dragged Healer into the centre of the round room, to a pile of pillows and blankets used in his meditations. Soft, clean cottons brushed against their skin, fresh with the scent of softeners and a dabble of lavender. “Oh! So cozy! Did you put this together for today?” Healer laughed aloud, settling into a comfortable position by the Fount’s side.

           “Well, I cleaned them for today. I suppose you can consider this my bed.”

           “And a comfortable one at that. You’d best count the pillows later.”

           “Count them? You’ll not leave the spire alive if that’s the case.”

           Healer let out a snort, covering his scrunched-up face behind a sleeve. “Well, you’d best share then! Now, what was it you were so eager to show me? Not these pillows, I would have guessed?” 

           “First, I would ask that you remove your blindfold.” The Fount did not ask this lightly, dedicated to the comfort of his Healer in preserving what remained of his sight. It was so that he had dimmed the room dark enough to serve his purposes tonight.

           Heterochromatic eyes slowly blinked, adjusting and squinting free from their veil. Such was a sight he would never forget, for as dulled as they may be, there was no denying the light of a flickering life mirrored itself within his gaze. Glinted by the innate joy of discovery and the beauty of the stars that shone before him.

           To grant him a first-hand account of the stars, he needs only to look the Fount’s way. Magic and lifepowder were tightly interwoven beyond the sky, celestial bodies that whispered life for all those below with a mere pinch of their power. Those were his roots, plain as day in the curtain of hair that now glistened in the darkness.

           As though a part of the sky had been torn away for his sake, his Healer sat there in awe, reaching out for the slightest touch. Galaxies entwined themselves within the locks of his shimmering navy hair. Shifting and pulsing between celestial bodies, a veritable sea of an untouchable world.

           “It’s beautiful…” Healer gasped, breath having caught itself in his throat. Fingers curled carefully, wrapping them and pulling them close. Lips that brushed against the cooling call of the abyss of the stars. “Has it always been like this? A sight that I missed this entire time?”

           “In the light it dims. But in the familiar dark, they can't help but come forth.” It had been a peculiar gift of his baking; no answer was given as to why he was granted such a power in his own hair. One that he had once regarded as a curse, for all the beauties in the world, they are destined to bring about ambitions, selfish and cruel.

           For that reason and others, it was unheard of for him to be seen outside of his spire as night fell. In that same vein, he, too, had been drawn to the ire of vanity in stealing this gift away from the world. Cookies had deemed themselves unworthy of sharing his gift, proving their selfishness through action time and time again.

           Now, with those same selfish mortal hands, a cookie cradled a piece of him, ever so softly. Carefully combing it with his hands, the first since… His mother… The Witch, how she would often curl it around her finger, a light laugh on her lips. Speaking of stories, tales of worlds beyond, lessons to be learnt.

           Only silence remains in her stead.

           The creeping monotony of breath that echoed amidst the barrens of her calling chamber. Utterly hollow, leaving only the creeping dread that came with the responsibilities baked into his dough.

           He hated her. He missed her…

           To have all answers but one. It was lonely.

           “My Fount, is something on your mind?” His Healer whispered against his ear, far closer than he had ever been before. Voice quivered with concern, so disgustingly sweet he felt himself choke.

           Gazing back, he steeled himself against that sight reflected through those blinded eyes. A god aghast with exhaustion, pallid and ill, where the dregs of sleep dragged themselves beneath his eyes. “I’m alright. Don’t worry yourself about me. It wouldn’t be acceptable.”

           “Acceptable? Whatever do you mean?” His Healer’s hand slid against his own, its warmth quick to envelop him. “There’s nothing wrong with sharing your troubles and worries. If you could… I wish you would open up to me more… It’s like there’s a wall between us, and I can't climb over…”

           The Fount spoke not a word, lost in his own shame that weakness of the heart wrought. One mortal cookie alone could not understand, the agony brought by eternal life. “Is it not lonely?” His Healer prodded once more.

           And to that, he would confess. “Yes. Quite. Even so, I must bear it. No matter what.” Yet his words threatened to tremble, a lie sweet atop his tongue. He could only hope that his Healer would take the bait.

           Instead of continuing his arguments and pleas, his Healer made a step most unexpected. Returning to those star shaded locks, reaching up towards the top before carefully splitting a small part into three sections.

           “My Fount, how often do you think of the stars?” He gave a new question instead, beginning the slow task of dutifully braiding his hair. “Perhaps that’s a silly question to ask. You chart them after all, don’t you?”

           The Fount raised an eyebrow, but held no objections, allowing him to speak further. “Do you ever wonder to yourself if they feel lonely? They must see us the same as we see them. Distantly glittering in the sky, far from reach. If you had the chance, wouldn’t you say hello back?”

           “Why should I?...”

           Lower the braid went, reaching its mid-point as their little discussion continued. “Why not? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to meet someone new? I think so. If its as you said, emptiness and void as far as the eye can see… We should allow ourselves those little moments of kindness the stars bring.”

           Beneath his rambles were words of wisdom buried beneath. Yes, it was an undeniable fact the Fount could not refute. To cling to that light amidst the dark, never to let it go. Lest it too fade as all had done so before it…

           “Oh dear. I don’t have a hair-tie with me,” Healer murmured, his thumb running through the spine of the fully formed braid. “Hehe, it’s like a little belt. Perhaps I could try even more styles someday, how about it?” With a grin, he released his grasp, hair left adrift, unwinding itself like silk.

           Not one to confess aloud the Fount curled his hand against his dead heart. Of one agonising desire, selfish in his very nature. Mayhaps it was the cuddling, the care, the little whispers he'd leave at the shells of his ears.

           As his Healer fully embraced him in his arms he muffled his words against his shoulder. “Thank you for giving me a glimpse of the stars above…”

           He couldn't let him go.

           His Healer, his-

           …

           What was it that stirred in his chest? Unfathomable in its grasp, drowning out all that was good and bad. To the touch of those scuffed hands, abstaining from the beauty of the celestial arbour for divine dough instead. To hold, touch and admire in the physical.

           How strange it was, to be lost of answers.

           Not another word was said, a comfortable quiet settling over them. Curtained by starlight, he would whisk his Healer to sleep, surrounded by pillows and blankets to cushion their bodies. The Fount kept watch over his slumbering form, taken by the simplicity of his Healer’s hair and the sweet comforts it brought.

           One curiosity would elude him, however. That of his Healer’s heart, a constant drumming beat that battered against his chest. It hardly ceased, only calming in the deepest of sleep. A strange curiosity of mortal cookies once again caught his eye.

           …Months would pass after that night. His Healer was planning something; he could feel it even in the air itself. Bunnies that skittered away from his line of sight. The garden had turned far too quiet, devoid of his usual presence. And words, short yet still sweet, from the man himself. It was as though he was reducing his presence and hiding away. Did he wish to leave in some way? No, he would be upfront if that were so.

           So he waited, knowingly watching the busy bustle of rabbits trailing at Healer’s heels. Grins and whispers shared in the sanctuary of gazebos just out of sight of the Blueberry Beholders. He could intrude all too easily, such was the power he held over the spire. And Healer knew this, too, but they continued this game of secrets, feigning obliviousness.

           At their exchanges, in the crossroads that were the spire’s halls, smiles and laughter would fill the stale air. Fingertips brushed, hands curled, and breath fanned their cheeks. Closeness that few could afford in a lifetime. But it would not grant him peace.

           Fear of the unknown was an all-consuming force, variables he could not control and the ticking clock that would never turn back.

           “My Fount, I have a request to make…” Healer would ask, his fingers curled tight against the Fount’s sleeve. “Tonight, at the back of the garden, where the hedge parts between the apple trees. I’ll be waiting for you there.” With that, he would slip away, one little flower to be tucked into his shimmering hair, an apple blossom, a reminder.

           Afterwards, Healer vanished for the rest of that day. He had little time to question his request, stewing away in contemplation as to what awaited him later. Even the all-seeing eyes of the spire could not find his Healer, who fled between the hedges into a world beyond his domain.

           It would be impolite for him to squander this little game of theirs out of curiosity. So the Fount kept to himself, whittling the hours away in his office until the chime of midnight and breaking the curse his dear Healer had placed upon him, granting him the freedom of escaping that shadowy room.

           Beckoned by the dapple of moonlight, the garden stirred in his presence. A calming breeze brushed against the trees, their leaves rustling a tune of their own. Of the peace wrought by nature whilst the birds and bugs slumbered. Even his own trepid breath felt like a threat to disrupt that balance.

           But his Healer was not to be kept long; he had been waiting for him long enough. Entering beyond the bushes, where twigs tugged and pulled at his hair and robes, scratching away, he persisted. Reaching out towards that pull of moonlight that called out to him at the end.

           To his Healer, secluded in a secret abode free of the tree’s embrace. Where their elongated trunks pulled away, freeing the land of their shade, a blanket of flowers now flourished. Wild flowers of all kinds swayed softly, brushing against the one who waited for him, head turned and eyes free to the world around him.

           The Fount made his slow approach, a scene torn straight out of a fairytale in its picturesque surroundings. He had no prior knowledge of this place, for how long had it waited until now to be discovered? Wrapped in eternal serenity, untouched before they made their approach.

           Healer turned to face him, warm sun dappled dough illuminated by moonlight. Milky eyes shimmered with a glint of recognition, the star that glimmered, reflected through his eyes. For the rest of the world had become null in this moment, his focus entirely set upon the god among cookies, an offering in hand.

           A brand new bouquet, equal in tact and care as those before it, yet extravagant in its display as a gift. It was to be special, ripe with meaning and intent, even in a glance alone at the sugar-spun twine that held it in place, hugged by pearlescent wrapping that glistened amid the darkness.

           Purple roses created a large bulk of the bouquet space, not a bruise nor a tear in sight, precisely selected out of the bunch with their petals fresh as can be. By their sides, fragrant lavender brushed by, while, smaller in size, they speckled themselves throughout where the roses did not touch. While the azure forget-me-nots burst through all the purples, tiny bunches of white heliotropes snuggled their way in. Reflecting the skies above through gifts plucked from the earth.

           “My Fount, might you amuse me for a moment?” His Healer whispered, careful as can be in his steps towards him. To him, he held the bouquet out, to take and appreciate, yet his hands never left it as they had done before. One by one, he brought his finger to attention for each little blossom. “I thought that, as terrible as you are when it comes to reading flowers, this time I’d give you a little lesson instead. See here, roses mean many things; every colour and shade has a message to give. These ones, they’re… love at first sight, a-and admiration…”

           There was a slight, curious stutter to his voice as he spoke, swallowing after each sentence as though anxiety would eat him whole. After lightly clenching his hand, he returned to speak on the next one. “Lavenders, you’ve grown to enjoy them quite a lot, haven’t you, for their calming properties? But, they also symbolise purity and devotion! Handy, don’t you think? Heliotropes have quite a cute shape; it was one reason why I picked them, but just like the lavender, they represent pure devotion. Then there are the forget-me-nots, they… reminded me of you. I suppose their name alone tells you all you need to know.”

           Remembrance, to keep some in mind and heart at all times, no matter what.

           The weight of those flowers only grew heavier in his arms, a slow, dull ache that reared itself upon Healer moving away. “Why?” The Fount questioned him. “Why here? Why now?” Never until now had these gifts been granted such an occasion, rife with meaning exhuding from every petal.

           His Healer hesitated, hands clutched to his chest as those eyes simmered somberly. “Ahh… I had hoped that these flowers might tell the tale enough. It’s far too embarrassing to say aloud…” Plucking up the courage, Healer looked at him straight into his eyes. A shift so sudden, the Fount found himself bracing for what was to come.

           “I’m in love with you!” That confession alone echoed past the trees, a witness to his grand confession. “Oh dear, I really did blurt that out…” He gasped, hand quick to cover his mouth as cheeks warmed a ruddy red. Nervous laughter slipped through the cracks, half-lidded eyes pierced through him, inebriated yet gentle. “Haha… My heart won’t stop racing, I-I really can't contain it…”

           Petals picked up by the midnight breeze brushed past his cheek. Carrying with them that question of great import. “My Fount… I’ve been by your side for quite some time now. I know it could never hold a candle to what waits tomorrow, a world I’ll never be able to see. Maybe one day you’ll forget about me, but for today, for now. Won’t you let yourself love, just for a while?”

           Love.

           Was that what that was? To beat his still heart?

           Mother had spoken of love much, a trepid yet powerful thing she had explained. She said she loved him and that she loved all of cookie-kind, just like him. Yet she could never find the words to explain it further, only granting a wistful stare as she spun a finger around his hair.

           What did it mean to love someone? And to be loved in turn. The Fount could never quite grasp the answer. For all the ‘love’ he had given to cookie-kind, whatever it might have been, had run utterly dry.

           So, how could he love? When duty alone was all he could give, the answer to love had become just that. One cannot love if they were never truly alive. It was one burden to bear only by the dead.

           Thus it was so, the Fount could only answer. Face flattened, expressionless, even the flap of his lips pulled away from any motion. “I do ‘love’ all of cookie-kind. Don’t worry. But I cannot love you. I- That is not to say I do not care for you, but…” There was a pause, cold and drawn. That flush on his face, it drew away cold and pallid.

           “As the Fount of Knowledge, I am bound to ‘love’ all cookies. But the love that you search for… Is one I do not have an answer for. Please wait until the Witches return for an answer.” One that would never come.

           Desperation was soon to seep in, to grab and beg, knees quaking onto the floor as they cried out, ‘Why?’

           “Why?... Why do you do this to yourself?” Was a question most peculiar, hiccuped by his dear Healer. How crystalline tears began to well in the corner of his eyes, bathed in the moon's light as they trickled down his cheeks. “It’s not about duty! It’s about your heart!”

           That flutter, that pull. Was that the love he spoke of?

           How peculiar. How strange it was. To face the unknowable as the bastion of all knowledge. He did not hate his Healer, far from it. His presence brought him nothing but joy and relief.

           The love in his heart…

           “...I don’t know.”

           Something higher than admiration? To be worshipped? To be adored?

           Why couldn’t things stay the way they were?

           The Fount could not ask for more. In denial came serenity, want not lose not as it were. It should be as simple as that. “I don’t believe my heart can give what you so desire.” He would respond with finality, even though his words were unsure, lost adrift in debate. Many a time before, cookies questioned him on the trials of their own hearts, concepts so foreign to one built on knowledge that he could only offer some few comforts.

           A short sob cut through the breeze, his Healer choked on his breath, lips pulled taut, trembled to speak. “Those words, they don’t come from your heart.” Before the dam broke, his hands pressed against his cheeks to still the flow of tears.

           Such tears were inevitable when confusion coalesced, tears he himself could never shed. The Fount did what he could, the only way he knew. Sugar had shown it to him once before, those magic little words. In his approach, the bouquet fell from his arms, those petals that whispered of an unknowable love scattered to the floor as he encroached physical comforts onto his Healer despite the shudders that trailed through his body. “There there, it’ll all be alright.”

           Alas, such words were useless without their true magic touch.

           Merely hollow encouragement, cold and out of tune.

           His Healer slipped away back into his room upon their return to the spire. Speaking not another word sooner, only the echoes of tears from beyond his door. The Fount let him be, to stand and pace alone in his office. To query and consider this mountainous issue on his lonesome.

To one side, they asked:

“Are you a fool amongst fools? His loyalty is clear as day; he wishes to spend the rest of his short life by your side. That is love.”

To the other, they asked:

“To love is merely a delusion. Your body is hollow, a tool to be used. How can somebody like you believe so?”

“We disagree, to love is to become more than a tool. It will allow you to grow and prosper.”

“We disagree; it is nothing but an idealistic distraction from your duty. Pray tell, what did loving your mother bring you?”

“For every unknown we must enquire.”

“Not all questions have their answers.”

“So answer this.”

“So answer this.”

“What will you do?”

“What will you do?”

A voice, so quiet it was but a gasp, asked the final question.

“Why, love is happiness, is it not? And happiness is such a fleeting thing, like a flower crushed under a heel! Such a dangerous little delusion you’ve infected yourselves with.”

The unknown voice all but laughed and cackled in his mind.

“It’s been here this entire time, don’t you know? Every word, every touch. You’ve infected each other with love! So, why not drown in it a little longer… You already know the answer after all, don’t you?”

“Tell him the truth.”

“Tell him the truth.”

“He’ll be waiting for you… Whatever will you do to quell his sorry little heart?”

           …A week soon passed since that night. It all went by in a daze, not a word shared, let alone a stare. He had not seen his Healer ever since, at least in the flesh. While the spire’s eyes knew full well he continued his duty as usual, any meetings between the two screeched to a halt.

           That vase on his desk quietly haunted him now, empty as can be. Quietly haunting him with its hollow presence, to be bare of flowers now felt entirely wrong. Even after the same vase had been left just so for centuries before.

           Beneath the skin, discomfort grew through each passing day. An unsettling veil of dread pulsed through his chilling dough, that something was wrong, terribly wrong. Be soaking himself in sacred milk baths or drowning himself in incense beyond mortal strength. Nothing could settle this sickening feeling that welled up inside of him.

           It had reached its peak on the last day of the week. A bouquet was due, and it was late.

           The Fount wondered if they had been quietly cancelled ever since his Healer’s outburst of sorrow. Through the spire’s eyes, he had shown himself as quite exhausted. Accidents were a common sight, sluggish and slow, he had grown, to watch him fill a watering can nigh a million times was exhausting in itself. It was worrying all the same.

           Had he fallen ill, perhaps? It would be the first time beyond the light sprinkle of springtime allergies or sneezes at snowfall. His Healer was a well-kept cookie, very little bothered him so. Lest they were ailments of the mind, those were far harder to seek a cure for.

           Perhaps it was time he ought to visit him; there was only so much time he could hold off until they met once again. Perhaps the discomfort that plagued him might settle in his presence. Perhaps he may find the answers he sought now that the tides have settled…

           Following a faded magic trail, he tracked him down towards his kitchen, lost in thought by the door. The Fount’s hand stood frozen in the midst of a knock, words suddenly lost to him now on how to approach. “Um… Healer, are you in there? I would like to speak with you, if you’d allow me.”

           No response.

           “Healer?... I’ll be coming in now, if you’re there,” the Fount mumbled, cracking the door open to take a peek. It was empty, at least that is what it seemed at first sight.

           Scattered and battered, a trail of white flowers had been left across the floor. So close yet far from the purpose they were brought for. A sombre sight for sombre flowers, white lilies and poppies and a broken laurenstina, its tiny blooms torn and plucked by fate. It brought to mind a strange irony of mortal cookies he had learnt. White flowers were the flowers of marriages and funerals.

           Besides that sight, there was one most frightful of all. “Healer! Are you alright?” The Fount rushed to his side, having seemingly fallen, hair splayed to the side in a golden cascade. How had it been that he had not noticed the length of its growth until now? And for how long has his Healer been living here?

           Such thoughts were useless in the moment; there were far more pressing matters to attend to. His breaths were ragged, a pitiful wheezing sound squeezed past his lips as though his lungs were being crushed. The Fount’s mother had taught him well, yet such magics were rarely touched; the power to heal flickered at his fingertips. He rubbed them against his Healer’s chest, soothing it in a balm of light to mend what might have broken.

           Except… Dry, violent coughs clawed their way through his trembling body. Utterly consuming him, choking him from the inside. He hacked and heaved, the Fount left powerless, having seemingly worsened the effects through magic. Whatever ailed him, it must feed on such powers. That, at least, was his burgeoning theory, interrupted by the horrific howl of wretching.

           The least he could do was hold him properly, turning him closer to his stomach to keep his head facing down towards the floor. It was a stomach-churning sight, sticky-sweet jam poured past his lips, leaving a disgusting stench in the air. Healer stilled, quiet as can be.

           Had fate reared itself so soon? Bringing about the inevitable, for no matter how blind the Fount may turn to its call, one cannot stop the march of death.

           And he could not help but wonder. Had he brought about that curse?

           …A petal peaked out from between his jam-stained lips. White pure as can be, cradled by the scent of soured milk, curdled in misery. A Milkcrown, there was no doubt about it.

           In an instant, the Fount pried his mouth open, prying out the petals trapped within. “No, no, no! Did you eat them? Why would you do something like that! You could die!-” A hand squeezed against his prying. Healer clung to his wrist, eyes watery with exhausted tears.

           The desire to speak was plain in his gaze, yet the exhaustion of his body forbade it. How cruel would it be to leave him writhing here on the floor for much longer? The Fount would not allow that, pulling him into his arms, frightfully light to transport him back into his bed.

           Puppets near and far spun to his silent commands; they supplied him with whatever he would need. It would come to be a long, arduous night. One in which even the tepid breath of death itself wheezed into his ear with every petal plucked. It took all his might not to simply recoil at the acrid stench of jam that clung to his fingertips.

           There were exhaustive amounts… Disgust prickled tightly in his stomach, churning for every stain he must cleanse. Agonizing lengths of self-restraint were pulled across his heart, to temper himself for the sake of one writhing in fever pain by his side. For that, a question was to be raised but with no voice to answer it through the twisted canals of that jam-ridden throat.

           At the very least, he knew that bitter chill which plagued his dough would serve as a small comfort as he pursued answers. To speak into someones mind was a paltry trick for one such as himself, yet when the mind becomes clouded and mired by illness and distress, those tones become lost under a sea of noise. Connection was required, through touch came vulnerability, mortality.

           As foreheads pressed against one another, the Fount whispered into closed ears. “Tell me everything. So that I might free you of your pains.” The waters, they calmed. A soothing flow, words unheard.

           “My heart… My lungs… My throat… The flowers, they’re… Tearing me apart, from the inside and out…”

           …

           “I see…” Dangerous as it may seem, he left his bedsite to the care of his puppets. To ponder, to think.

           It was a disease like none he had ever seen the likes of before. Where flora engulfed the infected’s lungs, choking them out from the inside as they writhed and coughed out flower petals. One way about it may have been the side effects of the magics that filled the spire grounds, highly reactive to its surroundings.

           That would explain its reaction to his attempts to heal, further worsening it… Mayhaps something to destroy the flowers would suffice? Milkcrowns were weak, feeble flowers; a droplet of acid could simply rot away their roots…

           The Fount could smack himself for daring to think of such a suggestion, to force his Healer into a drink that would further burn his lungs beyond the damage they were already facing. But he was utterly strapped for ideas; no solutions or similar ailments existed in the records of current cookie history.

           And it was… Invigorating.

           How horrific of him… To reap pleasure from the unknown that brought nothing but suffering. He couldn’t help himself, as dearly as he wished to pry even his own jam from his body in repentance for such disgusting desires… It only grew. To be the Fount was to be voracious, for all knowledge and understanding to gather at the palm of his hand.

           What sight would await him, should he pry open his Healer’s chest, a meadow of grief nestled beneath…

           He turned to writing missives instead, quill scratched against sugar parchment with aggravated haste. There was no ink to waste on pleasantries; he needed information and quickly. If not by the Witches, then by his fellow Virtues, as distant as they may be. Each snapped to their sides by a simple teleportation spell, a surefire way to get the attention he sought. It would not take them long to respond… at least, that was a hope he held onto.

           There was much left to do, with entire libraries' worth of content far too vast for even a mind such as his to contain all at once. Not to mention nipping away at parts of this mysterious illness on Healer’s part. Any amount of allergens was bound to cause inflammation and rashes on the dough. His throat was already highly inflamed as is, left long enough, and he would surely choke to death before a cure was to be found.

           It was an effort in itself to tear himself away from his research, that fragile thread that distracted him from dread. Even resting his palm against his Healer’s door carried far more weight than it had before. To even consider pushing against it was a threat in of itself. As if the miasma churned by those accursed flowers would take hold in him next. For all he knew, it was airborne. Scouting for further victims, to implant its seeds within the very lungs through which he breathed.

           Beyond the wood came a murmur, pained and muffled. A reminder of time itself, wasted and dragged against that throat. Enduring suffering for the cowardice that bound him. A curse hissed between his teeth, before the door creaked open the way to his hands.

           “I… Made you some tea,” The Fount quietly announced as his puppets parted from the bed. Turmeric, to be precise, a root Spice had gifted to him many times before, it would aid in reducing the swelling of his throat, at least he hoped so. He even blew puffs of air to cool the tea somewhat so as not to instantly scald an already sore throat. “Careful does it….” He murmured, pressing the rim against his lips.

           Slowly but surely, the cup was drained of tea, only leaving some granules behind at the bottom as Healer let out a strained sigh of relief. A ‘thank you’ spoken silently before his eyes shuttered closed for a brief moment of respite. Alas, such basic desires were all but torn away by the constant lashes of illness, for the coughs and splutters soon returned. To force him into magically induced sleep ran the risk of him choking in such a state, leaving the Fount bereft of options.

           Swallowing harshly against the words of grief that threatened to consume him, The Fount stood up. Steering clear of those hands, longingly reaching out for his touch. “I…Ah!-” Just as he became lost on what to do, an idea sprang forth out of old memories. As though a magician on stage, the Fount took his crown and out plucked one of his many rabbit puppets.

           The little thing was quite confused at first before taking note of the sickly healer and practically bounding into his arms to comfort the benign cookie. A soft smile perched atop his Healer’s lips, holding it in close for whatever little comforts he could afford before his lungs heaved once more.

           ‘Stay’, he could read those words unspoken.

           ‘Please’

           ‘Stay with me’

           … ‘I’m scared’

           How the sounds of his door deafened the very halls. Even the quietest click that came from his exit resounded with a groan of disappointment. He needed to continue his studies… surely Healer would understand? Better to live than be bereft of comfort?

           Whatever kept his mind sane, he supposed…

           Returned to one of his many libraries, the stench of dusted, aged parchments curled against his nostrils, and even the sting of ink had grown overwhelmingly sour in that brief stint of absence. Shelves towered, spines crusted over with cracks; what was to be cared for dutifully in shadows had become looming and consuming.

           He had never held any strong dislike prior to these pockets of knowledge. Far too vast and grand for his hands alone, that’s what the puppets were for after all. Yet this one relief came with a clause, an indifference to care. One puppet alone could not preserve a book as well as one cookie could, for all the flaws of touch came the heart to care. It was clear as day to lower himself to them now, as though the paper were to crumble against his own breath.

           There was no cure but the administration of said lacking care, to take note of what ailed those storied tomes. Far from the collective and equalised granted by the puppets. In that revelation, he failed to resist the sigh that pushed past his lips. For it could never truly stem the tides of time. To care was only to delay the inevitable as paper turned to dust between your fingers.

           He would need to rewrite those in such a state entirely when the time came, an unknowable amount that littered each floor and shelf. Such a miserable task to ponder. With a snap of his fingers, those puppets which tended to those libraries froze in place, a demand now overwritten instead.

           To gather all that they could on botany, curses and a variety of ailments. As the first book fell into place upon a simple wooden desk pulled from beyond, many others would follow suit. A cage built by his own making, piled on high, one more brick laid as they scurried without end. Even the desk began to buckle beneath the weight of a multitude of discarded tomes left to the side, with not a puppet in sight to clear them away lest they be swept back in their gathering daze.

           He was far too adept at reading, brushing through words like a breeze in what would have taken any ordinary cookie weeks to pursue. A constant flux of information flowed through his mind, imaginary hands sorting through papers of worth.

           It was a never-ending torrent.

           Eyes tapered, dry, shallow, with an exhaustion that would decidedly kill any but himself. And his fingers, he couldn’t stop them from their tremors; they wouldn’t stop, no matter what. His head, most of all, ached with indescribable pains. All manner of knowledge had its space, yet so much in such a short time was far beyond the limits he could handle.

           Yet the books did not cease.

           Their piles only grew the longer he sat, stewing in misery. Sorrow was one emotion the Fount could not afford. Other cookies were lucky in that regard, the bastards.

           Anger, on the other hand. That was a peculiar one, like a wound that festered and pulsed. It never fully healed, clinging to your skin like a plague, refusing to go away. There was no choice given by anger’s existence; it was free, even to the gods.

           It desired to spread, flourish under his grasp. And who was it that left such a gash, who cut so deep upon his very dough that even his veins thrummed in the call of rage. Was it his mother? The origin of all misery he was forced to endure. His fellow Virtues? Even more selfish in their nature, connected by purpose yet hollow in companionship. Cookiekind? Whose greed knew no bounds, their hunger no solace?

           His Healer? A gentle hand that guided him through the night, a smile that brightened the very day itself. All the joys, all the agony, confusion, clarity, wants and satisfactions. To love or to ‘love’.

           The unknown, a gaping maw of intrigue that called to the all-knowing. That sliver of mystery, a chance to grow, to explore and learn. 

           The unknown, a gaping void of fear. How the darkness hides all answers, best never to be found.

           It scared him. He scared him.

           And that made him angry, oh so angry.

           His Healer was a curse, a confusion that uprooted the very principles of his existence. The joy of the unknown was to tame, to control those variables once beyond reach. And yet time and time again, he found a way to slip beyond his reach, running further and further away.

           Why? Why him?

           A cookie who was surely beneath him.

           A mortal, decaying in an inescapable march of death.

           A flower, destined to wither.

           The Fount of Knowledge had failed to grasp the truth of one man.

           It was as though his entire world came crashing down upon him. All the worth penned within such delicate books, scattered without a thought. Bookshelves to splinters, papers shredded into a fine dust.

           And the puppets, oh the puppets.

           Left to twitch, worthless as can be with strings cut.

           Once again, his duty had been too heavy to bear. The truth, ever so close yet out of reach.

           A singular paper remained, unsorted within the depths of his mind. His one answer, his one reward from the torment he wrought.

           Healer would die under his hands.

           The world was covered by haze, each step heavier than the rest. Slowly crawling back towards the inevitable, as the curtains began their call on that little life, no different than the rest. And before that, a split revealed itself. They would converge into one; there was no way about it. In equal length, prickled by thorns eager to tear into dough.

           Yet one path, each thorn left the dough poisoned by the dulling of every cut and prick. Almost as though the pain could be feigned as durable, despite the damage being equal in turn. At least, you wouldn’t have to think about it.

           Upon his return, the Fount was met by an abhorrent sight. Rabbits so closely attuned to Healer’s distress, curled against his chest, a foreign sense of comfort that fabric could never truly give. Scattered by his pillow were petals, drenched in jam and a fragile smile, as though he was being told everything was going to be alright, whether they believed it or not.

           So, at the tip of his tongue.

           “You’ll be alright,” the Fount said. “It’ll pass with time,” the Fount explained. “I promise.” The Fount lied.

           Sat at his side, he dutifully peeled away the tear-stained bandages that covered those hopeful eyes. Even now, they glistened like sweetened sugar, rotting his teeth through sight alone. Perhaps when the morning comes, a miracle would arrive, basked by the winds early rise. Mayhaps those letters would be read, a solution compounded by those as old as he.

           …It was wishful thinking.

           He knew better than anyone that by now, those letters were left unread.

           Of course, daring to even entertain his own thoughts was met by the rasp of reality, where heaves and coughs spluttered through the air. His hands, once empty, clutched to sweat-sodden robes, leaving a disgusting peel that wretched itself against his skin.

           Those eyes, so swollen by hope, flickered. Once, long ago. Someone once said that the light of hope burned brightest through the misery inflicted against it. To hope was to remain bloodied, bruised and battered. He could not help but wonder if those, too, were sweet false lies.

           The Fount saw nought but desperation, despair and longing. Things all too familiar to him. Drenched by jam that dribbled from his lips, petals so white he could have mistaken them for teeth. It was as though Healer had been punched by daring to dream of better days ahead.

           All he could do was restrain a retch that howled in the depths of his throat, nostrils burnt by the sickening sweet stench of fresh jam. With a lukewarm towel, the Fount cleared away the stains with a steady hand. Words of an apology were whispered against trembling lips, eyes shut against what must have been an insistent ache that rumbled through his skull.

           He couldn’t stand the sight a minute longer, how it etched itself into the depths of his memory, already stretched thin. Cursed to endure this disgusting sight forevermore. Yet in turn, such thoughts deflected such disgust onto himself, a perpetual motion as the skin crawled. “I- Excuse me-” The Fount rushed to his feet, weak fingers clinging to his robes fell with ease. “I’ll get you some water! Just, just some water, okay?”

           One more half-truth would not do more harm than good, surely. Of course, he’d get some water to refresh his throat. No sooner after he blanched his skin with scalding hot waters to cleanse away the rot that threatened to spoil his dough.

           Filthy, utterly and truly filthy. How deep had his touches sunk? So spineless he had become, to accept death’s breath for so long. Invisible they may seem at first glance, but he knew full well it was there. That ebb of darkness, heavy as liquorice, doused his dough through touch alone.

           Nothing could be left to fester.

To burn is to cleanse.

To tear away is to build anew.

To live is to be clean.

…So why?

Why?

Why does the filth remain?

           Waters boiled, spuds of soap stung, interlaced by blue hollow hues. Yet it was not enough. It would never be enough. Even should the sun splutter, stars decay. Would his dough not remain? Stained and brittle. A figment of what once was, nothing more than a corpse, rotten to the core.

           No better than the rest.

           Those blackened boils continued their all-consuming growth, hallucinations of a mad mind he might try to convince himself of.

           Reality and delusion, two sides of a coin. Equal in measure. To the mad, the line is blurred, thrown away in a desperate bid. That his body truly rejected him now, for all the filth he incurred.

           No voice but his own.

           Even the heavens' gift now rejected his pleas.

           Wipe it all away. Messes at the end of the day. Sweep them up under the rug. All those stubborn and nasty stains.

           Scrub.

           Scrub.

           Scrub.

           If only his skin weren't in the way.

           Ah. He had destroyed Healer’s bathroom in the depths of his cleansing.

           The pocket of space collapsed within itself, tiles shattered into nothingness, and the physical swept away by the gaping maw of the void.

           A fraction of glass passed his way, what remained of a mirror so proud and polished. It afforded him a glance at the beast that lay beneath.

“Was this the answer you sought? Just a peek at what will come to be? Impatient now are we!

That shrill yet unknown voice boomed through the void. A cacophony of laughter, serpentine eyes that pierced through their gaze alone.

“A cure most simple. But one undeserved. Who is worthy? The living or the dead? Does it not hurt your poor heart to see him squirm? Does it not elate the soul, like an ant under thumb!”

Fingers now twisted into claws came across his face, digging in deep with desperation.

“You may try and hide, but your dough cannot be denied!”

Coughs inlaid by sobs called from beyond the door. Shallow breaths strangled by bloodied barbs.

“Ohh, don’t you hear it? The choirs call! Your fate is sealed! Just as those crowns flourish in his chest. You, too, shall bloom into a most despicable flower.”

           Behind him, the bathroom door clicked shut as quietly as can be. And the Fount returned. Static, yet tired all the same. Almost as if nothing had happened, at least to the blind. For their gazes would not permit, the dead stars enlaid within the Virtue’s hair.

           Right, he had work to do. A patient to tend to.

           The Fount lit a candle, far enough that the stray strands of smoke would not sour the rare flow of air that Healer was able to breathe. But near enough to wipe the miasma clean. At the very least, the familiar aroma of vanilla orchids would lull him into a sense of comfort before the petals reared their head yet again.

           Gloves on hands, whisping away the stench of burnt sugars and souring milk that crawled throughout his fingers. Jam and sweat were wiped away, affording small comforts trapped in bed. Puppets could automate cleaning the body; it would be better, in fact.

           Any moment spent by the bedside was a moment of duty lost. Where the curious grew irate, questions left unanswered. Their eternal slave far too busy for their selfish wants.

           Was this not equally selfish? To take away the Fount’s time in matters of health? Mayhaps that is what the Witches may have wanted. That crystal, scrying far away, locked in his staff, silent yet ever watching.

           Feelings had no place in the way of knowledge.

           Yet even if temporary. That weak smile, lips stained by his own jam. The fool continued to cling to that sweet lie. “You’ll get better. Soon, I promise…” The Fount whispered a prayer beneath his breath.

           Healer didn’t get any better.

           Of course, he didn’t.

           It was inevitable that with such high exposure to an allergen, it would only get worse with time. As Healer’s skin soon displayed signs of his body’s agony. The dough dried out, splitting in spots as it began to crack. Before long, red splotches littered his skin… Blisters followed shortly afterwards, his fever spiking with their growth.

           A rather repulsive sight. The entire body looked as though it were infected, the remains of a corpse left in the wake of a plague. A descriptor not too far off from reality, as it would seem. Were it not for the weak rise of his chest, the Fount would have assumed his breaths had ceased.

           For now, puppets dutifully wrapped him in bandages, hiding away the agony behind a veil of soft white. Layers upon layers, a present most hideous. Where jam clung between layers, clinging to the dough like a second skin.

           It did little to hide the stench, which drew murders of crows to feast should he have been any more unlucky than he currently was. The Fount stood by that flickering candle, eyes squeezed shut and claws that dug against the table wood. Electing to wish away the churning disgust that broiled within the depths of his stomach brought about by even the act of breathing, an act most selfish in this predicament.

           Howling coughs retched behind him, lungs heaving against leaping out of the throat. Over the course of one night, the bulbous heads of the milkcrown had begun to make their way up.

           As opposed to the ease of petals slipping past lips, the heads would become stuck in his weak, slackened jaw. With no energy to push them out himself, they had to be pulled out by someone else… And the Fount refused to be that someone.

           Even to graze against a petal alone was enough to sear torment through his dough. The puppet could continue to hand it alone, plucking them out with each hour around the clock, dragging its cold fingers through the jam-infested mouth, tossing them to the side without care. Piled upon the floor, intermingled with other crowns, pure and fresh, that pressed through the boards.

           The world beyond had crawled to a stop. Only the flickering candle gave any sign of the passage of time. Now it stood at half-mast, all the while the Fount remained frozen in place. His gaze at times drifted to the door, to freedom.

           Where his heart no longer duelled against itself.

           …When that illness had progressed, the starlight once so bright in his hair had all but died out. Leaving the hollow voice of space in its wake, a lonely, desolate place. Yet for all the pain and tears that flooded his eyes, Healer reached out a hand, trembling with what little strength he could afford.

           And the Fount pushed it away.

           He had rejected those small comforts. Hiding away the Healer’s eyes behind bandages yet again. To relinquish himself of that gaze, the one to fill him with an all-consuming guilt.

           Now he remained at an impasse. One of morality. After all, no matter what he might do, there was always the inevitable.

           Leave or stay, his choice served little to change fate. Merely the scale of comforts. And for one, he would argue, why must he stand and endure this torment? The world that already demanded so much of one is now locked in stalemate by a crumbling body bound to be forgotten by the world.

           Chained by a corpse, the Fount festered in place, unable to wash away the scent of decay. Bitterness had wormed its way into his already hollow heart, a natural place for one unable to love. Why should he? Why does he need to?

           That cookie amounted to nought at the end of it all.

           He had provided, granted home and succour. Work, food, all he could want. But it had never been enough for cookies like those. It never was, never will be. They always wanted more.

           Like a feeble fish, the mere suggestion of rejection left them flailing for dead. And better off for it-

           “...A-Ahhh…” A singular cry, strained and drawn against its cords. Worn and weathered, with barely a word to cling to. “...Fhh…” Hissed between teeth, unable to muster a sound below a cough.

           It was calling to him. Though he could hardly recognise it now.

           What did it want? Beyond the puppet, there was not much more he could afford to give. Let alone turn to face it. Eyes already thoroughly scarred by the sights he had seen so far.

           But his mind would not, could not cease. Curiosity eternally a curse baked into him, to turn around, to face what awaited him. A final question, perhaps? A curse spewing flames of rage?

           Gaze half-lidded, he crept towards the bedside, far more interested in the floor than what awaited above. Only for a hand, twisted in reds and whites to force itself before his eyes. The tightness of the bandages gave little in the way of imagination, another sight to sear into his retinas.

           “What?... Want me to hold it for you?” He croaked, caught off guard by the aches that pained his own throat. As though the threat of flora would come to torment him soon, too. One fate he would not fight should it come…

           Before him, mouthed words. With no voice to speak, merely its ghost remained. Leaving him to fill in the blanks. He’d hazard a guess, pleas for him to stay, please for help, or that curse he’d been waiting for.

           There was no way of knowing unless he created a link between them again. Through touch… A prospect he was not pleased with. Like a fool most desperate, he chased after prospects he knew to be false. Allowing his mind to be filled with the mire of static at the force of connection from afar. It would not work in this state, he knew that yet he allowed himself to fail.

           Such was the life of a fool. Delay it for as long as he wants; there would be no answers until dough contacted dough. How far would he willingly debase himself in such a way?

           As with all choices, the decision was torn from his grasp. The tip of a finger lightly grazed against his own. Connection seized, like a radio tuned. A voice crackled in his mind, calling out from beneath the waves of static.

           “Are you okay? My Fount?”

           He shattered.

           Shoulders began to tremble, and the tears, oh the tears. He could not get them to stop. “I… I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry!” He blabbered, sobbing and stuttering like a child, clinging tight to his Healer’s hand.

           “It’s… okay.”

           “It’s not… It’s really not…” The Fount muffled against his palm, cradling it close as jam soaked through the bandages, staining his face. “I thought of you as a burden, a disgusting cookie, less than a cookie… I-I wanted to be rid of you…”

           But in the end, he couldn’t. Not to the one who showed him such light in his lonely life. His Healer had given him much, wanting nought in return. And he had repaid him with nothing. Nothing but a lie.

           “What do I do with myself?... What can I do? I…”

           “Stay for a while, won’t you?”

           “...Even now?”

           “Unless you fancy a rabbit taking your place.” That thought came with a smile; even now, he tried to tease and jest. All things the Fount was undeserving of. And as all good things, it would not last forever. The coughing returned, as though sensing the moment of comfort.

           The Fount dismissed his puppet, relinquishing his hand for his Healer. Opposed to the bulbous heads of milkcrowns, they had grown beyond that stage. Where the stem, leaves and roots stretched out for space. Filling the throat, practically growing out of his mouth now.

           Like a parasite, those roots would surely eat away at whatever energy his Healer could supply. Draining him dry until nothing remained. A horrific end, one no one deserved to bear.

           Through the quiver of his voice, the Fount began to recount many a tale he could recall. No particular rhyme or end to them. Just stories and thoughts that came to mind, anything to distract his attention from the pain.

           His Healer was tired, that was putting it lightly. Clinging to what he could as his thumb circled against the Fount’s palm. After some hours, it began to slow, and the time between coughs had drifted further apart. “...’m tired… my Fount…” A voice whispered out to him in his mind.

           “That’s alright… you’ve earned your rest. Why don’t you close your eyes for a bit, try to sleep for a while? I’ll… see you in the morning, alright?” The Fount brushed aside his hair, cradling his head in turn in an embrace most gentle. To mere touch alone, those eyes slowly closed, sunk into the crook of his palm.

           Beyond sight, the candlewick had reached its end, flame snuffed out by a puddle of wax.

           As night drew its curtain. The Fount remained, a silent observer. Pillow tucked against his chest.

           “Goodnight, Healer, my dear… I…

           Healer slept well that night.

           And morning came with little fanfare.

           “Good morning, my Fount,” one voice called to him, soft and light as air, grin brimming with life. Fingers entwined, he was pulled further in, a hum across the healer’s lips. “You look exhausted. Did you not eat well? You know what I’ll have to do, right?” He pouted.

           The Fount, for one, allowed himself to be pulled along, words lost against his comforting grasp. He shivered at that touch, hissing between his teeth. “I… I haven’t. But I was worried about you. I thought-”

           …Right.

           Clearing his throat, the Fount drank deep the sight before his eyes. Although far paler than before, the threat of a ghostly pallor no longer clung as tightly. Much dough had been lost bedbound; a well-set diet would set things back in order. Why, his Healer hadn’t had the chance to eat in so long, surely he was ravenous with hunger-

           “My Fount…”

           “Hm?”

           Past the curtains, the world beyond was bathed in the sun’s pale glow, blinding the gaze of anyone searching for detail beyond the light. “I want to go outside again. The flowers must be lonely, don’t you think?” Before he could even panic, his Healer hoisted himself up on his arms, slowly but surely sitting himself up with great effort, chest heaving with exhaustion at such a simple act.”

           “It’s too early, your body is far too weak to even walk on your own,” the Fount argued, although he knew his retort all too well. “And, even if I do carry you, what if you catch a cold!”

           Because of his worry, he was laughed at. Oh, the audacity. “You worry too much, dear! Why, I’m sure a trip outside will help me recover faster than you can blink. Flowers have that effect on me, I’m sure you know. It’s not too cold out now, is it? Why I’ve been out of it for a while now…”

           The season, such passage of time had become lost to him… Spring, surely it was spring. A time for life to thrive, where blossoms yet bloomed, birds soared with pickings for their nests, and the little lambs opened their bleary eyes to the blue skies.

           Yes, it was spring.

           “Shall we go out then?” The Fount asked, cradling his Healer’s back, far too chilly to be out of recovery. “On second thoughts…” He murmured. Far too light, dough thinned by the dredge of illness, even the peaks of his sugary spine cut against the palm of his hand. It was almost as though he was…

           “My Fount.” Such thoughts were swiftly interrupted as delicate hands danced against his skin. “Don’t fret, it’ll give you wrinkles,” his Healer lightly chuckled, squeezing his cheek with a tease. “As I said, I’d enjoy some time outside. This room, it’s smothering me…”

           There really was no way about it. He would have to leave eventually, one way or another. Even as he sat there, the door itself felt as though it were mocking him. Who was the cat trapped here? The world beyond, or the world within the room?

           No one would truly know, not unless they stepped through.

           “...If you feel even the slightest bit off, tell me. And we’ll come back immediately,” the Fount gave his orders, lacking the strictness of his usual tone. He could hardly put a damper on the fun, not after all the misery that had passed.

           Nor would his Healer ever admit to so.

           Featherlight in his arms, he feared losing his grip on him for even a moment. Even as those arms coiled around his neck, they left nothing more than a chilling touch against his throat.

           Ignorant of this plight, his Healer squeezed him tight. “Now then, let’s be off!” He cheered to step beyond that box, not once looking back. As the door locked with a click, firmly echoing a brisk farewell.

           The garden was as beautiful as they had left it. From across the board, they flourished with warmth. Be it bluebells or pansies, to daffodils and forget-me-not’s. Even the blossoming apple and pear trees swayed to the breeze. Spring and all of its sensations, wrapped in one package to feast the eyes and nose.

           “They’re doing so well without me, I’m sure they’ll be alright on their own from now on,” his Healer spoke with pride at the surface. But below those words trickled a sense of sorrowful nostalgia, a desire for such a reliance not to be over. Just as a mother might bid farewell to her child.

           His words were cause for some concern, too. “What do you mean by that? Do you intend to retire?” The Fount asked.

           “Something like that.” His Healer simply shrugged. “There isn’t much more I can do for them now; they’ve grown so well. I’m proud…” Before the sorrow could dare consume him much further, his Healer sprang back into a smile. “Hey? Do you remember that clearing from a while back?”

           “The one outside the garden surrounded by forest?”

           “Mhm! Beautiful, wasn’t it? I’d like to go there again, if you wouldn’t mind.”

           “Why?...”

           His Healer looked to the distance, wistful in his gaze. “To rest. It’s a lovely spot, you see. I’d like to go there again, feel the breeze, you know.” Of all the places to pick. One as accursed as that…”

           “But if we do…”

           “It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay…”

           They could turn back now. The Fount held the power to do so; his Healer had no way about that should that come to pass. If only he were a stronger cookie, he might have refused. If he were a stronger cookie, would fate have been kinder?

           Unlikely, as nihilistic as the thought might seem.

           “My Fount, please…”

           Only now had he noticed that the birds had ceased their singing. And the breeze was just that much more chilling. Time waited for none, and so he treaded forth, slow and methodical, dragging out the seconds together. Towards the inevitable, where the hedges part between the apple trees.

           As much as he wished to deny it… It truly was a beautiful place. Where the sun dappled between the trees, like the reflections of water that danced across your face. And wildflowers, that flourished on their lonesome, united by one purpose, to live and thrive.

           And upon that bed, Healer was laid to rest. Hand outstretched towards the sun, covering his gaze from its rays. “Thank you for this, my Fount. For everything.” He spoke, a longingness clung to his voice that couldn’t quite get away.

           For his part, the Fount sat by his side, back facing his Healer to look away one last time. He couldn’t watch him for much longer, lest his resolve crumble to flour. “Are you… tired, dear?” The question passed quivering lips.

           “A bit… hard not to be. I might just fall asleep here, beneath the sun. It’ll be warm at least…” Yet a sigh followed his words, not a sense of relief to be found. “But I can’t, not yet.”

           “I know…”

           “You’re scared.”

           “Always have been.”

           That earned him a light chuckle. “Honest now, are you?... Might I be honest for a moment, too?” Of course, he needn’t ask. The door was wide open for him to speak, to confess his woes before it came far too late.

           “I… was also scared. Terrified. L-Like my body wasn’t my own, that- That I would die, and leave you behind… It was frustrating, trapped with no way out. I would think to myself, constantly, about why this was happening to me, what could I do? I-” His voice reached a pitch, teetering on a sob.

           “At times I… I wanted to die…”

           The Fount curled onto himself.

           “But I wanted to stay. I couldn’t- I had to see spring again… But that never came.”

  Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

   Why do ye fall so fast?

   Your date is not so past,

But you may stay yet here awhile

   To blush and gently smile,

      And go at last.

           Silence hung, dreadfully long. What once had been a piece of his peace had turned and twisted itself in the moment. Leaving him reaching for an answer, to fill in the space. “I know… Your favourite, right?”

           “Yeah. Any florist’s,” his Healer answered, with an odd sense of calm. “It’s a beautiful gift, where the weather’s always just right. But at times, a bite of frost will come in to crash everyone's plans. So many flowers, so many lambs. Taken by winter, even when its time is supposed to be over.”

           From behind, the wild flowers were plucked by busy hands, searching for a distraction. “How ironic then, I suppose, that what I loved most became the frost to bite me.”

  What, were ye born to be

   An hour or half's delight,

   And so to bid good-night?

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth

   Merely to show your worth,

     And lose you quite.

           “The flowers?...” A stupid question to ask, any fool knew.

           For that answer, the Fount earned a confetti of wild flowers, petals torn like sugar paper to rain down upon him. “No, but you’ll always deny it. Even as I say it now, that I love you, my Fount. With my entire heart and soul.”

           He reached a hand into the bed, one of milkcrowns that surrounded them at all sides. Awkward petals to pluck, they weren’t meant for such a childish act. “I don’t understand you.”

           “There isn’t much to understand. I’m a simple cookie; you’re the one making it complicated. Even as I say this now, you’re still demeaning yourself over it, aren’t you?” He hated how clearly he could envision the smugness on his face. “You loved me too, didn’t you?”

           The plucking stopped. “No. I can’t love. Love has no place in my heart. It was how I was made to be, and how I’ll remain.” Even should his heart weep, crying out for even a moment of relief. A pathological liar, that Fount. To believe in his own delusion so deeply.

           “My Fount… If that was true. Then why do you look so sad?”

           He had known love this entire time.

           It was here, by his side.

           “...Healer, I know it’s far too late but… I loved you. I do now, and I did then. I truly did love you. It hurt, it ached. I hated you for it. I couldn’t understand I-”

           “Shhh…” His Healer hushed him, the breeze carrying the low pulse of his chilling breath.

But you are lovely leaves, where we

   May read how soon things have

   Their end, though ne'er so brave:

And after they have shown their pride

   Like you, awhile, they glide

      Into the grave.

  (To Blossoms, Robert Herrick)

           “You know, my Fount…

           I don’t think anyone's ever told you this, but…

           You’re a very selfish cookie.”

           He opened his eyes.

           Snow had begun to settle across the land, blanketing it in a pure white embrace. Winter, for all its beauty, where the land itself was called into order, so too was death heralded by the howl of blizzards and snapping of frost. A season that the Fount had been rather fond of, for the calmness it brought. How the skies opened themselves for his study, stars far brighter this time of the year.

           But it had become a rather lonely time. With little more than the visitors at his door. There was no one to remain by his side, to sit by the fire and whisper stories against the blanket fibres.

           All that remained now were the milkcrowns. Unbothered by the searing heat or biting cold. As any weed would, they pushed through the snow, disrupting its flow. Just as they were now, surrounding him at all sides, in a lonesome clearing, eyes hollow and cheeks sunken.

           Would that those flowers, too, would bloom in his chest. That their vines wrapped his lungs, blossoms kissing his lips. Where virtuous jam spilt from split dough, life powder in abundance, dimming by the second.

           Would that he could.

           But such a sanctuary would not be allowed. He was cured of that curse after all. To love and be loved in turn. Delusional or not, he knew all too well. He was loved. Loved so dearly.

           He had feared that joy. And let it be taken from him.

           A selfish, selfish cookie he was after all. Spoken by the man himself.

           By his hand, the sanctity of love was twisted too into bitter grief and longing. To turn the clocks, to undo that regret which now stained his heart. Each of them a shackle, punishment for daring to dream.

           If the Witches would not raise a hand against their most disgraceful slave. Then he would do so in their stead. And bleed himself dry of cowardice and love. It had no place in the shambling corpse that stood amongst the snow.

           Even corpses still had work to do.

           There were papers to do, there always would be.

           An office, empty of life. A basket, hollow and dry. A bed, white sheet pulled taut across the top.

           Of course, that had been their true farewell. He had briefly considered a kiss against those frosty lips. A fairytale ending, where the once dead would rise upon an act of true love.

           He decided against it. Such desecration would not comfort the dead; they did not deserve such disturbances.

           It was after that that he left. Left the first floor. An empty hall, one that never saw much use after all. It had always been that way, had it not?

           There was no use in dwelling on questions with no answers. If there were answers you sought, why not simply create them yourself?

           For madmen, there is no one truth.

“O Fount of Knowledge!”

           They were just cookies, with short little lives.