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“Headmaster!”
The Fount turns his head, a gentle smile on his face, hands tucked into his sleeves, crown shimmering a pearlish white where it rests atop his head, his being a gentle, cooling balm against the heated turmoil of the world. A student comes up to him, her plain features blending together, but her eager smile visible to his multicolored eyes. He remembers her, of course he does, he remembers everything, a student with an assisting job in the library, to record historical information for the Archivist.
“Dried Yogurt Cookie, I’m pleased to meet you.” He speaks sincerely, staring down at the shorter cookie, who chuckles nervously, wringing her hands together.
“O-of course sir, I feel much the same.. um… I just had something I wanted to talk to you about—“ The Fount reaches out, resting one hand on her shoulder, a gesture he’s done thousands of times over many years for many different cookies.
“Anything you wish to discuss I am happy to hear, especially from someone assisting in my library. Walk with me?” He says, already pulling away from the anxious student and slowly walking down the halls. She takes a moment to catch up with him, her flat shoes clicking against the tiles in a rhythm quicker than the Fount’s own, trying to match his long strides.
“Y-yes, of course… um—“ She takes a deep breath, avoiding facing him, hands clutching the straps of a satchel bag slung over her shoulders, “I hesitate to… to infringe on the teachings here but… I feel as though my learning is…”
“If you would like more support—“
“Can— can you change my records!?” She stops walking, eyes shut tightly, her voice cracking at the end.
The Fount stops. Others, who were walking through the halls of his beloved Academy, stop too. They watch with wide eyes as he furrows his brows, a frown set deeply on his pale-blue face.
“Are you insinuating that I lie? ” He asks, tucking his hands into his sleeves, something distinct and unhappy brewing in his chest. The young cookie shakes, opening her eyes, avoiding his gaze.
“No— no! Of course not, Headmaster, b-but— if you change the records, is it really a lie? I’m still passing, but for my parents—“
“I can’t just—“
“Dried Yogurt Cookie! You’re a genius!” Another student comes running up, his peers following close behind, a group of cookies gathering before the Fount.
“Yeah! If the records are the absolute truth, then changing them makes the finished result truthful too!”
The rest clamor with their noise, turning to the Fount, eyes bright and shining. They speak with such vigor that the Fount fears he could be impressed, but once they begin to grab at his sleeves, the commotion bringing others to their growing crowd, he feels his stomach drop to his feet. He could throw them off, but that didn’t seem right…
He needs to handle this. It’s his job to handle this, but he feels like he’s drowning.
“I cannot change the truth. You mustn't turn to deceit— Changing your records would be pure and utter selfishness!” He tugs his hand away from one of the cookies, watching them stumble back from their effort, falling back into the arms of another.
“Are you calling us liars!?” Another shouts, anger in their expression. Why can’t he see their faces? Why are these cookies here? Why do they tug at his sleeves, stomp on his hair, and clamour for lies?
Each of them is a blur of noise and color and information. Ingredients that thread a much larger tapestry, small pieces of a bigger world. Pieces that belong small. They try to take from him, to match him, when the distance between the Fount of Knowledge and faceless, impertinent mortal pawns is as large as the ocean. He knows, of course he knows, he was born to know, that these cookies will never understand him.
It is childish to feel this way, but he craves being truly understood .
“None of you are liars! I—“ He begins, but it’s just so loud . Even his own voice is drowned out.
He doesn’t know if the noise is from the growing crowd or the rushing in his ears. The escalation of these events is something even he cannot handle, and knowing he cannot handle something is overwhelming. The Fount’s beloved students, his Truthseekers, they wish for him to deceive them. To mend their troubles with false bandages.
He stumbles back, suddenly nauseous, tossing away the greedy fingers that clutch on to his robes, staring at their blurry figures with disgust. Why is he disgusted? He doesn’t know. The cookies fall like dominoes, and the Fount runs.
He doesn’t know for how long.
He doesn’t Know.
That thought makes him want to collapse, but his legs move against his own will, tripping over his robes and catching on rocks. The world is green, now. There are no longer any blues or whites or golds. The symbols of his beloved Academy have left him, and he runs a stark streak of cloudy azure against a verdant environment.
His foot catches on something. The Fount cannot see what, though his blurry eyes, but it brings him to his knees. His fall is without any grace. The cool grass makes his skin itch, and he feels like an avian with its wings cut. He clutches the ground beneath him, something strangled and ugly coming from his throat.
The Fount lies there, on his knees, curled into himself, chromatic eyes stinging and throat shut as tight as a locked door. His fingers dig into his hair, like clouds in his grasp, the gentle bells of his own stars ringing in his ears. His breaths come out in wheezes, and he cannot breathe .
Everything is slow and fast and witches , why doesn’t he know how to fix this?
Tears fall from his eyes. The first he’s ever spilt. An unwilling response that the Fount cannot comprehend. They bleed into the grass beneath him, falling through his hands, and he doesn’t try to wipe them away. He doesn’t know that he is supposed to. The cookies he teaches have never cried before, he’s never seen it. He didn’t know it was so painful . His chest was tight and he could barely breathe, lightheadedness making him weak.
For a while he stays in that spot, in the middle of a clearing, the forest around him dark and cold and filled with an unspoken misery. He sits there and he cries. He is incapable of anything else. The Fount of Knowledge is helpless to his own body. The notion of going against everything he was created for, the only thing that gives him purpose, reducing him to nothing more than a tiny drop in a sea of emotions. That cloying darkness clings to him, it encroaches on his mind, and infests his eyes until there is nothingness.
His body slows down, and the sounds stop. It is a peaceful, empty, purgatory. A nothingness so profound and familiar. A nothingness that lasts for hours. Blessed silence. There are no eyes that watch or hands that reach. The tears still fall, dragging down the smooth slope of his carefully crafted cheeks, baked with magical hands, wetting the soft grass beneath him.
His dreams do not exist.
After a while, it stirs. The darkness recedes, it twists and turns and contorts into something bright and golden and beautiful, a rapture in its own right. Blueberry Yogurt Cookie opens his eyes, and it feels as if his entire being has been flayed to the world. It is overhead and below and around and it reaches behind his eyes and caresses his turmoiled soul. It is warm and yellow and hums with a quietness so gentle he can’t help but cry. It lingers at the frayed edges of his gentle being, it tells him he is enough.
It tells him he doesn’t need to know.
It’s silly. It really is.
And he feels like a fool when he looks up and sees the sun shine down on him.
…But that light stays. It is assured and everlasting. He hopes that it will tell him those words again.
He blinks, weary, eyes puffy and face covered in dried tears. He looks down, feeling soft petals between his fingers, their shape curious and unfamiliar. Beneath him, lying in an oval patch, surrounding him near perfectly, are small white flowers. Their milky texture and crownlike shape is almost a mirror image of the crest that rests firmly atop his head.
He furrows his brows, rolling onto his side to stare at them, his head cradled gently on their petals. They shimmer in the warm light, and he watches their gentle sway until he feels himself be carried away, their scent comforting and warm. His eyes close slowly, his resistance apparent, the blissful scene fleeting.
Sleep claims him once more, and he rests upon a bed of flowers.