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[Truthless Recluse waits far from the crowd, maintaining a careful distance between himself and the wide-eyed cookies spelled by the sage’s honeyed words that spread the barbed cruelty of truth.]
(Crossposted on Tumblr and AO3)
Truthless Recluse squints past the dense and bustling crowd of cookies. Just barely, he can make out a blob of white, gold, and blue in the centre of the mass of gathered cookies. The Sage of Truth. Still preaching of what he calls truth to wide-eyed cookies that hang on his every word like a fish to bait, like a moth to a flame. Truthless Recluse looks away, closing his stinging eyes to rest them. He sighs, grip tightening on his staff in annoyance. It hasn't been functioning well lately. He can't use it as his sight aid, lest he risk his head blowing up in an explosion of magic.
Truthless Recluse holds his staff close as he leans against the sturdy tree behind him. It provides shade, but most importantly, it is a good distance from the sage and the far-too-loud crowds he always attracts like a magnet wherever he goes. He is always amazed by the sheer volume of noise just a few cookies can produce whenever the fount announces his presence. The sage is always surrounded by numerous cookies scrambling for their turn to ask questions. Truthless Recluse sometimes has to wait the entire day just to get a word with the fool of a sage.
The sage’s lecture of the day lasts until the sky grows red with sundown. One entire morning dedicated to teaching cookies of the cruel truth. The cookies took their time to leave the town square, many staying behind to ask the sage further questions.
Truthless Recluse can hear the sage's voice from a distance. It's faint, but he can tell that it's as jolly as ever, if a bit hoarse from being used all day without rest. Truthless Recluse wonders whether the sage has the sense to keep a supply of water nearby whenever he does his lectures. He doubts it. The sage, while incredibly intelligent, can also be incredibly foolish with the simplest of things. Such as his health and wellbeing, a mere afterthought to the sage.
Truthless Recluse knows that the sage has caught sight of him when ear ear-splitting shout calls his name. Truthless Recluse opens his eyes to glare at the bouncing blob of colors heading his way that is the sage. The colourful crowd of cookies starts to disperse once his presence is loudly announced by the sage. One by one, the cookies leave. The sight of Truthless Recluse, Keeper of The Peak of Truth, is a sight too hideous for the wide-eyed cookies that follow the sage like ducklings.
Truthless Recluse’s frown deepens as he glares at the sage. The dark smoke that constantly surrounds him grows denser. The faint, musky scent of vanilla and alcohol lingers in the air around the brooding cookie in navy robes.
“My dear Recluse!” The sage greets with infectious excitement. He clears his throat right after. Then he coughs. A pause. Another cough and another attempt at clearing his dry throat.
Truthless Recluse sighs. He digs into his robes, procuring a small bottle from one of his two large pockets. It’s a simple navy blue flask with a bright gold star in the center, more befitting of the sage than Truthless Recluse. He offers the cool water to the sage, who takes it graciously. Truthless Recluse can take the sage take hungry gulps of water. The small flask is drained within seconds.
The sage lets out a sigh of relief after his last gulp of fresh water. “Thank you, my dear.” He thanks warmly, a smile heard in his voice.
“Bring your own next time.” Truthless Recluse advised.
The sage laughs in amusement. “I’ll do my best to remember!” The sage promises.
“Your best is not enough.” Truthless Recluse declares with a glare.
The sage simply smiles in response, eyes curved into smiling crescents. “Then what will be enough?” He asks, leaning into the reclusive cookie’s space.
“A guarantee.” The recluse answers with a step back from the encroaching blue cookie.
“Ooh,” The sage says with amused interest. He takes another step closer to Truthless Recluse. “A guarantee,” He drags out the word, leaning over Truthless Recluse.
Truthless Recluse takes another step back, glaring the entire way. He holds his staff close, his grip tight as he holds it like a shield between himself and the smiling sage. The sage takes hold of the dark staff of vines. He pushes it away and, with swift movements, pulls the reclusive cookie close.
“What if you be my guarantee?” The sage asks, voice taking a teasing lilt as he grins down at the cookie frowning with displeasure in his arms.
“No.” Truthless Recluse deadpans. He squirms in the sage's arms, trying to free himself from the unwanted embrace.
The sage responds with a firmer hold as his smile turns wooden. “Now, now, my dear Recluse.” He says lightly, even as his arms wrap the reclusive cookie in a firm grip.
Truthless Recluse winces, not letting up on his squirming even as the arms around him grow constricting. “You threaten me when you can't even properly care for yourself."
The sage hums. He brings a hand up to the recluse's head, knocking off the large cone hat with a swat of his hand. It was almost petulant, the swat. He then starts to run his hand through pale, golden locks. Truthless Recluse pulls his head away with a rough jerk. The sage tightens his grip on the recluse’s hair, pulling his head back to its previous position before resuming his ministrations.
“Sage,” Truthless Recluse says in a warning tone as his face pinches in displeasure of discomfort and pain.
“Yes, Recluse?" The sage answers, his voice light and airy. A contrast to his constricting grip on the recluse, like a snake toying with its prey.
Truthless Recluse groans in tired annoyance. He drops his head, letting it land on the sage’s shoulder. With a triumphant grin, the sage brings the recluse closer into the embrace. He squeezes the now limp cookie, nuzzling his cheek against the recluse's hair.
Truthless Recluse sighs. He closes his eyes as he is held limply in an embrace he has been forced into by the persistent sage.
The sage plays with the recluse's blonde locks. Limp and dull in color and volume, he frowns at the blonde's poor state of hair. “Today will be a spa day.” The sage declares firmly with new determination to better the recluse’s state of being.
“The sun is already setting.” Truthless Recluse grumbles, voice muffled into the sage’s collarbone.
The sage pauses, tilting his head at the reddening sky. “Tomorrow then.” He decides.
“You have a lecture to give tomorrow." Truthless Recluse reminds him.
The sage hums in intrigue. “Why remind me?” He asks. “I thought you would be happy. Making tomorrow a spa day would result in me missing a lecture." The sage explains. “It means I will not be spreading the ‘cruel truth’ as you call it.” He says with a grin.
Truthless Recluse grumbles into the sage's shoulder. Miffed by the sage's irritating behaviour.
The sage smiles, accepting the recluse’s grumbles as acceptance. “You will be staying at my house.”
Truthless Recluse pauses, stiffening in the sage’s hold. “Perdon?” He asks, squinting up at the smiling blue face. “When did I agree to that?”
“Just now!” The fount says with a wide smile that lights up his face.
“No-” Before Truthless Reclus could say another word, he feels himself fall. Still firmly in the sage’s hold, but the wind blows sharply against his dough as everything grows dark. A black sky of blue blurs he knows to be smiling crescent eyes, sure to be staring down at him. The blurry sight is brief, appearing as quickly as it disappears.
Truthless Recluse stood frazzled. Hair blown into a mess, and robes wrinkled and misplaced. His cloak is no longer centered, and his staff- Truthless Recluse, looks down at his hands. Empty. The staff, the tool he depends on to see and channel his magic, is missing.
When the familiar thin black and navy blob of his staff is offered before him, he snatches it greedily from pale blue dough. He runs his hand along the length of his staff, checking its condition. He finds it's no worse than it was when he was waiting for the sage to finish his lecture.
“Where are we?” Truthless Recluse asks as he holds the staff beside him.
“We, my dear, are at my humble abode!” The sage answers, his voice so saccharine and joyful, Truthless Recluse could see the smile and dimples just from the sound of his voice.
“Why?” Truthless Recluse demands, mood souring further at the answer. He holds his staff closer, a measly attempt at shielding himself from the sage’s blinding and unpredictable behaviours of joyfull impulse.
“Why,” The sage says, a fabricated act of sympathetic shock in his voice. “Because it’s late! I could not have simply let you leave on such a long journey home when the moon is already rising!”
Truthless Recluse feels the sage’s familiar, nimble hands on his forearm. Hands with fingers that enjoy digging into his shoulders and waist during impromptu hugs. Truthless Recluse’s grip on his staff grows more firm, fingers growing pale with tension.
“So, I invite you to stay here for the night!” The sage declares cheerfully. One of his hands migrates to the recluse’s shoulder, his grip careful and light.
Truthless Recluse takes a step away from the sage, and the intruding hands let go, falling off his shoulder and arm to return to the sage.
“No.” Truthless Recluse declares as one hand moves to bring his cloak closer, moving the dark fabric further from the sage’s reach. “I refuse your invitation.” He clarifies.
“Ah,” The blurry form of the sage, sways. If he could see, Truthless Recluse would see the wide smile on the sage's face gain a predatory glint as he politely clasps his hands in front of his chest. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, dear Recluse.” The sage says, voice smooth as silk. A false lull of safety, like a charming politician soothing the public. “This is not an invitation you can refuse.”
Truthless Recluse frowns, taking another step away from the blue blob before him. Before another step could be taken, he feels the wind once again as he slips off an edge that should not exist. Once again, the blurry backdrop of black filled with splotches of blue comes into his view. And once again, it only lasts a few seconds before he falls into his new destination.
Truthless Recluse lands on his back with a grunt. He lands on a soft surface. A surface he can recognize as a bed when he feels around through pillows and sheets that grow wrinkled with his disturbance. He stares up at a pale ceiling with a corner filled with blobs of blinking blue enshrouded in shadows.
Truthless Recluse sighs as he makes the effort to sit up. He looks around the bed he lies on, finding it to be a rather large one. Slowly, he moves the pillows until he finds an arrangement suitable for himself. He carefully tucks his staff beside him, lying on two pillows like a crown, or a royal dog in its pillow.
Satisfied with the new bed arrangement, Truthless Recluse unfolds the blanket. He drapes it over himself and falls back into the bed. Shifting to his side, he pulls the blanket up until it covers half his face, only leaving enough uncovered for comfortable breathing.
He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, nor falling asleep. But eventually, he did. A dreamless sleep in the abode of another. Under the constant watch of smiling eyes that gaze with fondness and a near-desperate fervor of affection.
I keep on seeing fanart of healerfount, it got me thinking, and so I wrote this:
Chapter 1: An Odd Healer's Arrival
The fount had been busy with his duties all day. He spent the day teaching ignorant cookies, reviewing the wait list of possible visitors to the spire’s library, answering questions galore, praying to the witches, and continuing his current research paper with not a moment of rest. It was only now that he had a moment to himself. He stands by the entrance to his spire, having just waved off the last of his guests for the day. The fount practically falls to the ground when he goes to sit. He groans, exhausted by the day's activities.
He barely had a second of rest before a knock sounded from the door. The fount took a sharp breath, patience already worn thin by irrationally stupid cookies. He takes a deep breath. Whoever was behind that door does not deserve his anger. After a few more deep breaths, the fount stands. He walks towards the door and opens it just a crack.
Behind the door, he finds a dirty, disheveled blonde cookie standing behind the door. The blonde cookie smiles sweetly at the fount. The sweet smile is a contrast to the dirty rags and old bandages the cookie is wrapped in.
“Excuse me,” A soft, pleasant voice comes from the disheveled cookie. “Are you the Fount of Knowledge?” The blindfolded cookie asks. He fiddles nervously with the bandaged staff in his hands, turning it over and over.
“Yes, that is me.” The fount answers with a polite smile. “What do you need?”
“I’m afraid I’m lost.” The blonde cookie answers bashfully.
‘He just needs directions, this should be quick’, the font thinks. “Where do you need to go?” He asks kindly.
“I need to get back to the raisin village.”
The fount frowns, worried and confused. “I'm sorry, I'm afraid I've never heard of that place. Does it have another name?”
The dirty blonde cookie shakes his head. “Maybe I can try describing it to you?” He suggests.
The fount nods in agreement.
“Well, the most notable thing in our village is the floating island above it.”
“Floating island?” The fount echoed with a considering frown. “Do you live in The Sugar of Happiness’s kingdom?”
“Oh, no,” The blindfolded cookie shook his head. “Our village is where the Vanilla Kingdom used to be.”
“I’ve never heard of a Vanilla Kingdom.” The faount said lowly. He huffs out a breath before deciding to change the topic, before his frustration worsens and he lashes out at the innocent cookie before him. “What’s your name?” the fount asks.
“You can call me Healer Cookie.” Healer Cookie answered, his sweet smile returning to his dirty face.
“Healer?” The fount asked, intrigued. “So, you're a healer.” He glances at the staff in Healer Cookie’s hands. Perhaps it’s a badly disguised magic staff, but here weren’t many who dabble in healing magic yet. The paper he had published on healing magic is still fairly recent. It's unlikely that such a cookie like the one before him was able to get his hands on the paper so soon after its release.
Healer Cookie nods. “Yes, I'm my village’s only healer.” His fiddling with his staff grows more nervous, turning it over in his hands and picking at the bandages covering its head. “It’s why I need to return as soon as possible.”
“Are the cookies in your village clumsy?” The fount asks, taking a light-hearted, almost teasing tone. “I can’t think of another reason a village would need its village so urgently.”
“Oh,” The fount says, voice somber. “I apologize.” He frowns, eyes narrowing at the small scratches littering Healer Cookie’s dough. “What ails your village?” He asks. “Perhaps I can be of assistance to you.”
“Waffle bots sometimes descend from the floating island and raid our village,” healer Cookie answers as his grip tightens on his staff, turning tanned dough white with pressure. “Villagers often get injured during these attacks. So, they need me.” His lips thinned in worry and frustration at his lack of action when his people are in a time of need.
“Waffle bots?” the fount echoes softly in question. His curiosity and confusion return to frustration from his lack of knowledge. His purpose, personally assigned to him by the witches, is to know all and help cookies with that knowledge. Yet, he can’t answer a single question that he cookie before him has asked. In fact, he has had to ask questions of the disheveled cookie. Questions the unusual cookie always had answers to.
The dirty cookie shifts nervously where he stands. “The waffle bots are- were the defenders of the Vanilla Kingdom.” He explains to the fount.
The fount raises an eyebrow at the stutter, but he doesn't mention it. After all, soldiers who attack innocent cookies are not defenders. “If your village is in such urgent need of your aid at this current moment, why did you leave?” The fount asks evennly.
Healer Cookie frowns. “I didn’t.” He holds his staff close to himself. “I fell asleep in my bed, then I woke up here.” He explains, distress bleeding into his tone. “I never left the village! I wouldn’t leave my friends like that.” He cries, voice growing wobbly as he speaks.
The fount grimaces. Despite knowing how a cookie’s emotions work and having published a paper on it, he is still incapable of applying that knowledge to situations such as the one he is currently in. He hovers a hand over the smaller cookie’s shoulder. Hesitantly, he places it, just holding Healer Cookie’s shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort. That attempt seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back, as to the fount’s horror, quiet, stuttering sobs started to come from Healer Cookie. Healer Cookie’s shoulders tremble as he tries to hold back his tears.
“I’m sorry,” He manages to say through his sobs. “I shouldn’t be crying like this.”
“No,” The fount says softly. “It’s- It’s okay to cry. In fact, it’s good to cry. It’s a healthy way to process your emotions.”
Healer Cookie bows his head. One hand lets go of his staff and presses at his bandaged eyes in an attempt to stop the tears that must be building.
“Why don’t we get inside?” The fount suggests softly, already guiding the sobbing cookie into the spire.
Healer Cookie nods, not lifting his head but not struggling against the fount either.
The Fount sits before his desk with a lap full of a certain vanilla cookie. He glances away from the completed paperwork on his desk. The vanilla cookie's content face lies on his shoulder. A soft smile graces his vanilla companion's delicate face. The blue smiles softly with fondness.
When the blue cookie moves to stand, the vanilla cookie shifts to adjust. All four of his limbs wrap around the blue cookie. The blue cookie's forearms supports the clingy cookie from underneath with his hand on the vanilla cookie's thigh. When the vanilla cookie starts to nuzzle into his neck, the flushed blue cookie reluctantly pushes him away gently.
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The reality gauntlet is used. Portals are falling. Pots are falling. Living organisms are falling. A disastrous picture is painted.
People stop and gawk at the sky slowly being destroyed. As more and more rifts open, people begin to panic as the open everywhere. Asphalt disappears and portals take its place. Dust floats in the air as people disappear. The streets slowly start to quiet until there is nothing alive left.
In eerie silence, the rifts start to close. Leaving only empty streets and rooms as disaster after disaster happens. Unmanned vehicles stray off their path, fires start and grow large, nuclear explosions, power grips collapse, and many more. (I did a Google search for this.)
-His relationship with his mother feels distant when compared to his c, close relationship with his father. Since his father's condition has gotten worse he's been speaking less and less. He used to speak with his father but now he's asleep most of the time. He cares about his sister and he knows she cares about him.
- It goes through one ear and out the other. Unless it's from his parents or sister. However, if he's criticized while also being compared to his sister specifically, he doesn't hear the criticism all he hears is that he's being compared to his sister again. "I'm not a clone, but sometimes it feels like that's all I am." Sometimes on particularly bad days, he goes to the bathroom just to check. If he's compared to anyone else however he simply looks at you weirdly and promptly forgets about it. Doesn't matter who you compare him to.
- A couple of black masks in his pocket. That's it.
How do you erase a poll after you have accidentally added one?
