Chapter Text
This night had been a long one. The Fount of Knowledge struggled to sleep, tossing and turning as a storm raged outside the safety of his spire. Each flash and clap of thunder jolting him from any ounce of sleep that beckoned him like a sirens call.
He and the other Virtues needeed neuther sleep nor food in the way ordinary cookies did. Truthfully, none of the five cookies could be what one would call 'normal'. Only their resemblance could persuade someone they might be true cookies.
Nonetheless, the cookie-like routines help them blend in with the citizens they watched over and cared for. These faux rituals soothed the mortal cookies around them and kept the fragile trust between the Virtues and their kingdoms.
They were the Virtues: Knowledge, Happiness, Change, Volition, and Solidarity. Nothing more, nothing less. Titles given by the witches themselves but no name to match.
Lately a question began to thrum at the Fount's very core. A never-ending ache that often left him pacing through the night.
If they had been baked to lead the masses, why hadn’t they been given proper names? They had flavors and mirrored the shape of the cookies around them. Yet it had been left to these virtuous five to choose what name they would choose themselves. As long as they followed the very path laid out for them. Never to stray.
It was one of the few questions he did not know the answer to. Something that scratched at the back of his mind endlessly. A haunting feeling accompanied that lack of answer.
But why had these thoughts clouded his judgement today of all days? Nothing had changed around him, nothing exceptional or shocking had occurred. So what was it? What was this creeping shadow in the corners of his vision?
A heavy sigh left the Fount's lips, exhaustion settling deep into the core of his dough as he shifted restlesly in his bed, tossing and turning. But luckily for him, soon heaviness rushed over his eyes for just a mere moment. Though, the swirling questions never ceased.
He had begun to doubt the witches. The Herald of Change had confided similar restlessness with endless sameness. It soon turned out each of the virtuous cookies, in their own peculiar way, had started to feel the same way.
In no way did they want to question the blessings bestowed upon them by the witches, but like all things, that resolve began to erode away. It was inevitable for beings who did not age with time. Immortality was a blessing. And a curse.
Curling in a little tighter, the Fount pressed a pillow to his chest and stared blankly at wall ahead. His gaze was empty, no particular emotion trumping another to disturb his schooled expression. Centuries of passionate work felt suddenly colorless. Same days, same years, same ceremonies. There was nothing new to gain nor learn. The bearer of knowledge realized he longed for something more.
He’d began to notice some of the stars in his hair glittered less and less with each passing decade. He was literally losing his sparkle with his disinterest. No normal cookie would notice, but very much noticeable to himself and his dear family.
His sister, the Sugar of Happiness too had taken notice. Nothing could be hidden from her. She could always feel his despair bubbling and threatening to spill over before he could catch it himself. Her hands would often soothingly comb through his star struck hair, soft voice always bringing him back from the dangerous edge he dared to venture over.
He missed her more than he could put into words. It had been far too long since he'd seen her, or the other virtues.
Sighing once more, he closed his eyes again and counted cotton candy sheep until his body finally let go of its self inflicted tension. Enough to allow him to drift into the realm of sleep waiting the morning hours that would bathe his room with sunlight.
When the Fount of Knowledge opened his eyes next, it was no morning light that greeted him. Instead the world was blanketed in shadows. The only illumination being a silken river of yogurt that wound its way through the dark, creating a ghostly trail to follow. It was as though it was lit from within, the cool light it gave off barely noticeable, but enough for his eyes to adjust and enable him to follow. The stream gurgled softly, its sweet call quiet and inviting, beckoning him to follow.
For a moment, the Fount wondered if he'd been sleepwalking, summoned by some unseen force. The wise cookie pressed his palms to the ground, steadying himself before rising. The air was sweet, an intoxicating scent of sugar seeming to invade every crumb of this dark place.
Barefoot and curious, he stepped onto the creamy surface. Ripples spread outward with every step, yet his feet remained perfectly dry as though the river itself refused to touch him. Intrigued and unsettled in equal measure, he began to follow its winding course, being pulled deeper into the strange, silent dreamscape.
Not far ahead, the river spilled into a vast, still lake. It was undisturbed, smooth as a polished mirror. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. The dream was beautiful and oddly comforting, something he wished he could relish in forever as opposed to the monotonous routine he repeated every day.
Then, in the distance, a shape bloomed and he blinked. A floating cookie with blueberry dough similar to his own. Very peculiar.
The stranger drifted nearer confidently. Lacking caution, they were drawn by the same curiosity that mirrored his own.
At last, the cookie paused, hovering just out of reach. Their head cocked in silent scrutiny. Strands of hair lashed and curled in unseen breeze, each movement like a silent question hanging in the air. It demanded answers the Fount could not give.
“Excuse me? Can I help you?” The Fount inquired, his voice steadier than he felt, expression threatening to betray him.
A hand jut forward onto his chest with a sudden uncomfortable, almost painful, heaviness. Sharp and unfamiliar, it seized him without warning. The Fount grimaced, the sensation similar to that of a stack of books weighing down on his chest. It was almost as though they were making sure he was real with abrupt, and rude, physical touch.
Silence followed.
The stranger’s gaze lingered on him, unblinking, as though weighing and measuring every crumb of his being. The endlessly silent moment stretched for what seemed like forever. Then the cookie's expression shifted. First puzzled, then irritated, and finally edged with anger.
The Fount’s breath caught in his throat, he saw the stranger’s claws flex, curling into tight fists too late. There was no escape.
The cookie's grip shifted quickly from where they lay on the Fount's chest, clawed fingers clamping down onto his shoulders with near crumbling force, lifting him clean off the ground. A strangled cry escaped the Fount as his dough strained against the pressure. Pain was sharp enough to draw tears. And as they slipped down his cheeks, falling to the floor below, each drop blossomed into a pale, beautiful, milkcrown flower.
“Well, well, well! Having this nightmare again, am I? Isn’t that just delightful.” The jester appearing cookie's voice hissed, equal parts venom and laughter. A crooked grin split his face to match.
“You look even more pathetic than the last time. Funny how some things never truly change."
They paused, then gave a callous shrug with every eye on his being rolling. He had so many.
"Oh well, it’s time I wake up! I’m tired of this dull dream already!”
“W-wake up?” The Fount echoed, breath catching as his body twisted free of the claws anchored into his shoulders.
He tumbled onto the yogurt’s unforgiving surface, the impact jolting through him like lightning. It hurt, but only in the hollow way dreams allowed. Pain here was a performance, a stage prop. And yet, the dread that clung to him felt far too real.
The stranger leveled him with an icy glare.
It was true that dreams were influenced by the things around the dreamer. Life’s experiences, memories, stray emotions, even the environment itself. Yet no matter how he turned it over in his mind, the Fount could not place where he had seen this cookie before or what could have conjured such their strange looking apparel on a cookie whose appearance resembled his own.
“This is an odd dream or…perhaps a nightmare fits more.” The Virtue murmured, forcing himself upright once again and brushing down the folds of his robes. With a grounding breath, he steadied his voice as best as he could. There was no reason to be stricken with fear, right?
“I’ve had lucid dreams before but-” he paused, casting the stranger a wary, curious glance. “You seem unusually aware for a denizen of a dream.”
A solemn laugh slipped from the scholar lips, soft and tired as he pressed a hand to his forehead, almost in disbelief. “Of course. Only I could imagine something like this. I suppose it's reasonable I'd begin having dreams, or nightmares, like this.”
“Dream? Nightmare? Hah!” The visitor spun lazily through the air, coat tails flaring behind him, every movement a performance. The many eyes embedded in his hair swiveled as one, pinning the Fount in place like an insect on a scholar’s board.
The shadows closing in around them made the Virtue feel like a rabbit being circled by a vicious, starving, Beast. And he was nervous, helpless, prey.
“Ugh. I can’t stand looking at my old, ugly mug." The cookie jeered. "So let’s move this little show along and pull the curtain, shall we? Oh, and try following the script a bit better next time.” He ridiculed.
With a dismissive flick of his hand, he rolled onto his side midair, lounging as if gravity itself bent to his whim. His unblinking eyes never relenting, studying the Fount with an intensity that made his dough prickle with unease. He couldn't even breathe without it going unnoticed by the dangerous stranger.
An icy anxiety knotted in the Fount’s stomach. Why did this stranger seem to know him? He was baked to know everything and he couldn't shake the feeling that this might not be a dream. If this cookie knew him, the Fount surely would know the cookie in return. Yet there was no fleeting hint in his memories.
“I apologize. You must have me confused with someone else. I am the Fo-”
“YEAH, YEAH! Fount of Knowledge.” The beastly cookie cut him with a mocking laugh, throwing his hands into the air in an exaggerated fashion.
“Hardy har har. Been there, done that. Bought the robe, threw it out. Honestly, what a dull role. Standing tall in your lonely little tower, pretending your lectures mattered to anyone. Well, news flash! NO ONE CARED!"
He twirled midair once more, coat tails whipping dramatically as he threw his arms wide! “But me? Oh no no no, I’ve upgraded! Traded in that dull Spire of Knowledge for something more grand! A stage of shadows, a theater of lies, a carnival where only I pull the strings. And let me tell you, the audience adores me. The beloved playwright, director, and main character, Shadow Milk Cookie!”
The Jester’s crooked grin stretched impossibly wide, sharp and toothy gleaming as he leaned in close. Eyes glinting like shards of glass as he gave a dramatic bow.
“So pardon me if I don’t feel like running through your worn out script anymore. I think it’s time for something new.”
Shadow Milk snapped his fingers.
Nothing happened.
The smile froze, then right eye twitching. He snapped again, more forceful. Nothing.
“…What?” Shadow milk’s playful facade broke, suddenly jagged and uncertain as he turned his hand over, inspecting it with sudden suspicion. His claws flexed, then snapped once more. Still nothing.
“This…isn’t right.” He forced a chucked rang hollow, an extremely sudden and troubled look painting his guise. “Cute trick brain. Real cute. This dream just keeps getting weirder.”
Shadow Milk rolled his eyes.
"Haven't had a dream of being powerless since... Well, since that damn tree became my icy prison."
He spoke as though the Fount were not there, monologuing as his gaze finally lifted from its prey to glance in curious, changing, directions.
The Fount only watched with an anxious, unbreaking, stare. If he even so much as blinked, he didn't know what this unpredictable cookie would do to him.
“Shadow Milk Cookie, I have a theory." "I’ve studied the idea of shared dreams, where two cookies are influenced and joined in the same dream. But I have never seen it in practice with two complete strangers. I thought it only a theory until now. Though, you keep referring to me as if I am you. Or at least was you? But, I can assure you that I am not a.. Clown."
“Woah woah woah! No need to be calling someone names now! I’m a jester, not a clown! There's a big difference.” Shadow Milk gasped dramatically before beginning to laugh, holding his stomach as though it were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Just as soon as it had begun, his expression dropped to something far more serious with a hint of something deranged.
“You are the clown here. An absolute joke of a cookie. And not a funny one at that." He snarled, hair curling and whipping like an irritable cat's tail. Each eye in his hair seemed to convey a similar, yet eerily different, emotion towards the scholar.
"And then? Well, I couldn’t take it anymore if you couldn't guess. I threw away my silly little dunce hat to wear a crown woven with deceit and power!” Shadow Milk exclaimed, a burning rage flaring like gasoline on a fire.
If he looked hard enough, the Fount could almost see that very fire burning in that soul jam worn on the jesters collar.
Glancing up to his own staff, that coiling, dreadful, feeling in his stomach worsened. He knew deep down, that very scenario was something he longed for.
Known only to himself, the idea was inviting. Breaking free of his chains and showing the cookies of his kingdom that he was not just a doormat, a cheat sheet for their lives, was an inviting and beautiful mistress. Though she was cruel, always seeming just out of reach of due to his morals and loyalty to his creators.
“I know you understand that feeling. I can see plain as day that you envy the freedom paint the picture of. That hatred in your soul jam, that craving to snap, to give them what they want. What they deserve..." Shadow Milk drifted, circling around his past visage. The Beast was circling his prey.
"It's absolutely enthralling. Empowering." That toothy grin stretched impossibly wide, sharp teeth nearly covering the entirety of the lower half of his face as it suddenly seemed to be shaded completely in void, like a mask covering his face. "You know I'm right, too."
“I’ve never told anyone that before. How could you possibly know that? Unless you truly are-” The Fount gawked, a terror sinking into him, shivers bolting up his spine as he was interrupted.
“BECAUSE I AM YOU!” The words thundered out, loud enough to crack the silence. Shadow Milk dropped to the ground until they stood eye to eye, only a breath apart. The threat was unmistakable. He leaned in, breath sharp with mockery until the Fount’s staff quivered faintly in his every tightening grip.
They locked eyes, nausea churning in both their stomachs. The surface of the yogurt river shifted beneath them, and in its reflection each saw not themselves, but the other. The scholar’s reflection was the Beast’s grin, the Beast’s reflection was the scholar’s steady gaze. Their mirrors were swapped, their identities entangled.
“If you are my future… if this corruption is inevitable, then tell me. What can I do to prevent it?”
Shadow Milk’s smile withered into a bitter sneer. “Prevent it?” He laughed, hollow and humorless. “You can’t. You will become me. The witches wrote it into your dough. Free will is their cruelest joke.” His words trembled with rage disguised as mockery, mourning beneath his madness.
Then, softer, a sigh that barely carried: “There’s no way it wasn’t meant to be.”
Before the scholar could give any attempt at a comforting remark, the invisible force that kept the cookies above the yogurt river dissolved. The yogurt lakes maw opened like a serpant that swallowed them whole. Darkness faded into a blindiny light as they plunged into pale white unknown. They had fallen into the yogurt river below and were sinking impossibly fast, no chance of swimming up. It felt like rocks had been bound to his feet.
With a fear that drowned him more than the blinding lake around him, the Fount prayed his terror might be enough to wake him from this awful dream.