Chapter Text
Fount's head is pounding to put it mildly, there's something sticking against his dough and his chest is burning with a bone deep pain he didn't was possible. Managing to get up with his vision swimming his legs are unwilling to cooperate, but he manages to walk enough to to lean up against the cabinet. Taking bandages from where they always are in case more stones get thrown, which those always are too, wrapping them around his chest, stifling as much bleeding as possible with a hole so large it's in his chest.
It's hardly the first time Fount has been hurt the scrapes and bruises that cover his body beneath his robe are evidence of that, but this is the first time he's been damage to this extent. Though, with the way things were going, it was only a matter of time before it escalated to his is bleeding. Isn't it funny that he managed to wound himself worse than any mortal ever did? They tried so hard, and yet he was the one to actually spill his own bloods.
Witches he's tired, Fount didn't know he could feel this tired until now, his eyes finally deciding to cooperate as he finishes bandaging his chest as much as he can at least. Seeing the fully healed scars that now run across his arms like broken porcelain haphazardly put back together running deep enough that it should have cut nerves and blood vessels, but the scars only feel sore if you could call them scars and he can move just fine. How odd. Although it's hardly the thing he's focusing on at the moment.
Looking over the Fount of Knowledge sees the pool of ink black blood staining the floor beneath and he sighs. That's going to be an absolute pain to clean, especially with how tired he is, but it's going to be worse if it dries any further. So what choice does he have? Getting his body to cooperate as much as it's going to he begins the work of getting cleaning supplies and getting rid of as much of the black substance as possible. His Soul Jam still sitting in the pool of black ichor the edges of the blue gem tainted by blood, but it's still intact even with its vessel disconnected. Fount can't even find it in himself to care about the artifact or what the Light of Knowledge thinks of his decision with the cleaning of his own blood much more important.
Meanwhile somewhere else entirely.
The Salt of Solidarity feels a hollow ache in his chest as if something has been disconnected.
The Commander had always relied on his Soul Jam to make sure the other virtues were okay, he should have been able to sense if they were unraveling. He should have. But then one of his kin were just gone without warning, completely disconnected.
The Fount of Knowledge still lives or so Salt tells himself but he can't sense them anymore, a empty void where their Soul Jam should have been. That shouldn't have been possible he knows that deep in himself, they can't have just vanished, he would have known if they were dead. What could have possibly happened?
Confusion floods Salt's mind, it doesn't make sense at all, he's trying to make sense of what he's feeling or the lack of it. The Commander can't focus on his knights he knows he has to talk to Elder Faerie, taking Nox's rains he rides knowing his troops can handle themselves, and he has to know if his dear king knows what's going on with Knowledge and why he can't feel them anymore.
The Fount finishes with cleaning as much of the spilled ichor as they can, placing the still brilliant blue artifact that used to be a part of them on a shelf away from prying eyes. Just in case someone decided to get a bit too curious as mortals tend to do. They are utterly exhausted, their chest still aching from the hole they carved, Fount ends up slipping into something comfortable, one of their more fancy robes if making sure to cover up all the damage that currently laces their dough.
They end up making a nest of pillows in blankets hidden in the shadows of the bookshelves, a cocoon of comfort they haven't allowed themselves to have in centuries, curled up and as close to sleep as is possible for them. Utter silence filling they're personal liberty, not even the false beat of the Soul Jam piercing the quiet, as the starry sky reflected in their hair turns from dusk to midnight, the darkness only pierced by the glittering stars.