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“I am uninjured. Do not worry about me, my friends.” The sweet, innocent lie ghosts beyond his lips before Pure Vanilla Cookie can really even think about it, muttered with the softest smile he can manage, even as agony tears through his body and visions of a brutal death flash before his all knowing eyes.
He stumbles, but does not falter, swiftly casting another protection spell around his dearest subjects, feeling the echoes of the amalgam’s teeth upon the barrier through ripples in his mana. His own jam is spilling out of him to stain warm on his innermost vestments, poisoned by dark magic, yet he saves his power for the cookies who need it; the Vanilla knights and Raisin soldiers on the frontlines risking their life to stop the onslaught of evil, rebuilding their crumbling bodies bit by bit as they gather injuries like mere berries.
Though his exhaustion grows and the pain echoes to his very fingertips, he casts shards of Light from the heavens, glimmering down to the battlefield from the overcast clouds like drops of brilliant diamond. They cascade once they impact, plinking away like skipping stones, erasing the darkness from his land and bringing life to his fallen soldiers.
Still, even as the battle wanes and his wound clots over with residual healing, the Enchantress’ awful magic seeps into his dough, acidity devouring his crispy flesh like gnawing, grinding teeth. When the last of the cake monsters collapse in sickly-sweet heaps, he holds still to his staff of Providence, seeing through its Eye to spread healing throughout the ranks of his army, letting himself bask in the comforting waves of it, like rays of sunshine.
“No casualties or critical injuries to report, Almighty Pure Vanilla Cookie, and it seems the Enchantress' legion has retreated away from the Raisin Cliffs for now.”
He had already seen that through his Eye, the snarling and writhing monsters fleeing back to the shadow, beaten, but not broken, and their master, expending her pawns for a larger, more sinister purpose. But still, he thanks his general anyway, appreciating the confirmation, “Thank you, dear Black Raisin Cookie. If you would, please be sure the soldiers each make trips to the healers tent and get good rest. There will surely be another onslaught in the weeks coming.”
She merely frowns, staring at the tight, white knuckled grip he has on his staff, and the crow on her shoulder eyes him critically, as if mimicking her expression, “What about you, my king? I saw a beast strike you.”
Pure Vanilla Cookie smiles, touched by her concern, knowing the bitter truth like he knows the implications of the burning, unwavering pain in his body.
“There are perks to being a healer.” Is all he says. It reveals everything and nothing to her at the same time, and Black Raisin Cookie’s frown deepens in a familiar mix of frustration, guilt, and worry. Less cryptically, to further soothe her fears, he adds, “I have healed myself long ago, my friend. There's barely a scratch on this old dough!”
And indeed, it is not a scratch that is inflicting this agony upon him now, his words a curated truth. His friend sighs, not entirely convinced, but willing to let it go for a later time, “I will do as you ask.”
His gentle smile lingers, even as the ache worsens, “Thank you. I’m afraid I must leave now. I still have many duties still left unfulfilled at the castle.” This makes her scowl in earnest, but she knows there's no use in arguing, and bows to him. Then she's gone with her crows in the blink of an eye, returning to the waves of Raisin soldiers and Vanilla knights.
Pure Vanilla Cookie addresses Strawberry Crepe Cookie, who lingers off to the side, bored, “I want to thank you for your help today. The Wafflebot defensive protocols are coming along most impressively.”
The young cookie rolls their eyes, but he can see the hidden pride buried there. “Of course it's impressive. I made them.” As if knowing Pure Vanilla could see straight through their facade, they add, “And don’t even ask me to start the clean up program. I already did that.”
He laughs, thinned with pain, before splitting his staff’s vision into a kaleidoscope to watch the Wafflebots behind them gather fallen debris and crumbled cake monsters, delicately careful of the village cookies helping underfoot. The deliberate, painstaking programming is intertwined in its code; a reflection of the young cookie’s sleepless nights and stubborn desire for perfection, something that renews Pure Vanilla’s smile and warmth, even as icy numbness makes his fingers stiff.
When he refocuses the two fractions of his vision on Strawberry Crepe Cookie, their bored expression has deepened into annoyance, picking away at their shield of apathy like a festering splinter. They’re hiding concern for him , for the pain inside him written all over their scans and statistics, surely blaring some sort of warning signal, but they have yet to admit to themselves that they care, so they don't say anything at all.
It almost makes him sigh, but instead he dares to reach out a palm away from where he’s balanced on his staff, giving them a brief, yet comforting, pat on the shoulder. Strawberry Crepe Cookie hardly reacts, but then they huff, turning away to their machines bitterly. Pure Vanilla watches them go, suddenly sad.
He has just enough mana for a teleportation spell, observing the ground as the proper sigil sluggishly forms on the street tiles like water in a winding stream, before he blinks away with a bright flash of gold and white. Then, he’s senseless as he collapses clumsily onto the floor of his bedroom, dizzy from injury and vertigo as the ache tears into his dough relentlessly. The room blanketing him is silent and darkening, blurred by the loss of his staff, and he lets out agonized breaths, gasping and heaving as the dark magic spreads like poison in his veins, receiving no resistance now that his mana is gone. It’s true agony, something as miserable and gruesome as the spell it was born from.
Losing control, his vision splits into a million fractures of sight, a wash of shifting, featureless color. He sees the bare shapes of his kingdom as it is now, he sees shadows of the past, he sees murky, far off lands, and ones that haven’t been born yet. He knows every cookie by name, their emotions, their fears, their dreams and desires. It’s overwhelming, it's suffocating, and through it all, seeing the entirety of Cookiekind in mere seconds, Pure Vanilla still feels so lonely .
Then, his staff is wrenched back into his balled fists, and it all mercifully focuses into one. The Sage of Truth is crouched before him, a somber, disproving look strange on his face.
“For someone ‘all knowing’, you are quite the fool, Almighty Pure Vanilla Cookie.” Blueberry Milk Cookie says his full title mockingly, but without any true bite. His monocle reflects from the dim light of the windows, cast by clouds, and for once, he has both feet on the ground.
“I am, aren’t I?” He whispers back through the pain.
His friend says nothing, but he helps him up, propping him upright against his plush cream bed and the waffle cone frame gently. The furious wound buried in his chest aches, and he shivers weakly as if a fever has set in.
Slowly, carefully, Blueberry Milk Cookie takes his Soul Jam, and Pure Vanilla can feel the ripples of touch at his core, skirting gently like the petals of a vanilla orchid or a drop in a milk river, soothing his pain for the briefest of moments before it's gone again. After setting the brilliant gemstone on the floor safely within arms reach, the sage bundles his scroll sash into his arms, reverently folding it as if were an ancient tome with phyllo thin pages, and removes his customary Vanillian vestments, exposing the dried splotch of crimson on pristine white icing.
“May I?” He asks, despite already knowing the answer.
Pure Vanilla nods weakly, and lets the sage undo the last of his robes, and the two stained halves fall into his lap, heavy and limp with crusted jam. Underneath, his bare dough is dyed with webs of black, spreading across his chest like a network of exploding stars, branching out from the smeared impact wound just underneath his ribcage, the edges crumbling already.
The Sage of Truth does not bother hiding his furrowed concern or his anger at the ghastly sight, “Powerful dark magic. She wants you dead.”
“Yes.” He says simply and sadly, because he already knew, even before stepping onto the battlefield. The pain worsens by the seconds as if spurred by his confirmation, spiraling wildly as it overtakes him. Pure Vanilla cannot help the tight lipped groan and the shudder that steals the rest of his energy, numb to the cold sweat that works its way from his shoulder blades down his spine.
Blueberry Milk Cookie looks away as the cruel truth dawns on him, bending under the weight of despair but not breaking.
“Must you always be martyr? I’m supposed to be the dramatic one here, c’mon.”
Pure Vanilla laughs lightly, even as the hurt rips like claws through his dough, “Sorry, my friend.”
It's the last thing he can say before the poison creeps up his neck, grasping veiny hands around his throat, squeezing taut. He chokes, and his futile hope for a painless death vanishes along with his breath. Instinctually, his hands drop his staff to scratch and palm at the dough of his throat, feeling bits and pieces of himself flake away as he gets more and more desperate.
The Sage of Truth grabs his hands before he can hurt himself more, and draws him in close, pressing their foreheads together. He breathes in his familiar scent, ancient books and soft blueberry, fighting like a beacon of light against the darkening edges of his vision.
It must truly be ugly, how he breathes and pants and cries, lungs catching sharply on his ribs like a fishhook as he writhes and convulses. He wouldn’t wish this death on anyone, not even the Enchantress herself, or the mindless beasts she commands, monsters they may be. But Blueberry Milk Cookie doesn’t cringe away or squirm with pity, placing both hands on his shiny, wet cheekbones to bracket his face placatingly.
“Hush.” He thinks the sage whispers, but his head is leaden with the lack of oxygen, and his jam is roaring like the Licorice Sea in his ears. In his last moments, his friend shows him the rustling, endless fields of golden grass, and his dear cream sheep, soft and warm under his palm.
When Pure Vanilla Cookie wakes, he's in his bed proper, tucked away under the sheets delicately, free of dark crawling veins, crusted jam, and pain. He’s exhausted, but he sits up regardless, letting the blankets and their warmth fall away from him. He feels around for his staff, finding it where it’s usually propped, and sight comes with a flood of bright color, familiar hues of gold, white, and blue in the afternoon light.
“That was… unpleasant.” He talks to the staff of Providence, voice thick and quiet with disuse. The spinning, sparkling eye flickers as if it's blinking, and he laughs weakly, trying to stop his hands from trembling.
Pure Vanilla moves sluggishly so he's on the edge of the bed, using both hands clutched at his staff to support himself as he sags forward. Truthfully, he doesn’t even want to leave his room or his bed, the memories of what he had experienced creating a strange, abyssal dissonance in his mind, one that shakes him to his very Soul Jam. There are a million different outcomes from here, and he isn’t sure any of them are better than the last, watching exhausted as images of fate and war and death fly beyond his vision in minute flashes.
“Why don’t you let me do the thinking, ‘Nilly.”
The Sage of Truth floats in the great doorway of his bedroom, a breakfast tray held aloft next to him with invisible strings. Pure Vanilla turns his head to smile, but his cheeks are slow like molasses, so he’s sure what comes out looks more like a grimace.
“Good morning, Blueberry Milk Cookie.” He greets quietly.
“Wow, that was the saddest attempt at a smile I've ever seen. Three out of ten. Are you not happy to see me? Do my lectures really bore you that much, my king?” His friend pokes fun with a fake affront, waving a finger to shut the door behind him.
He huffs a laugh, and goes to stand, but he’s stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder that pushes him back into bed.
“Tsk, tsk. Always the overachiever.”
Pure Vanilla watches, helpless, or maybe too exhausted, to fight with him over this, so he settles back under the covers, laying his staff parallel next to him with a hand loose around it to keep his vision from fading into a blur.
Blueberry Milk Cookie grins, pleased he acquiesced so easily, propping the breakfast tray up onto its legs over his lap, and prepares him his tea, humming a tune as he works. His teacup floats before him to take, and when he sips the caramel brown liquid, he can’t help but sigh gratefully, letting the warmth soothe the tension in his muscles. It's the perfect temperature between scalding hot and pallidly lukewarm, with a careful balance of cream and sugar, steeped for maximum flavor, and minimum bitterness. It must be a science to him, to get such precise results.
“This is excellent, thank you, my friend.”
The Sage of Truth puffs with pride, and his tailcoat flutters as he eases back in the air, “Some cultures consider it to be an art form. And I am a master of the arts, you know.”
“Ah, yes indeed.” He chuckles fondly, softened with relaxation as he takes another sip. Blueberry Milk Cookie pours himself a cup as he floats above his bed, then picks at the prepared sides on the tray, a delicately arranged tier of jellies, sandwich slices and fresh fruit.
Pure Vanilla frowns on the rim of his teacup as a thought comes to him, “Sage, I- I have a request of you.” His friend looks up curiously, torn between complaining about him ruining the moment, or being satisfied that his help is needed.
“Anything for you, my king. Tell me of your thoughts so that I may enlighten you with the Truth.”
Pure Vanilla almost rolls his eyes at the bravado, but it's oddly endearing. “I need you to gather all the information you can about the spell inflicted upon me during the battle. I worry that if this sinister magic becomes more commonplace…” He trails off slowly as visions of fate flash behind his eyelids, futures where his kingdom lies in desolate, plagued ruin, his dear subjects choking and suffering with lesions like sticky tar spreading across their dough, begging for help that could never come.
He sucks in a breath, setting his tea cup down before he spills it onto his covers.
“Don’t you worry a single golden hair on your crispy head— I already did my homework.” Blueberry Milk Cookie keeps his posture flippant as he floats, arms crossed behind his head like he's lounging on some cushions, but the Eye can feel his underlying tension, his restless worry.
“Oh you did? That's wonderful news!”
The Sage of Truth does not agree or disagree, instead turning to him with a mischievous glint in his eye that hides his concern.
“Quid pro quo. I want something in return, my king.”
Pure Vanilla Cookie smiles, curious, “Of course. You’ve done so much for me, it's only fair I try to pay the favor.”
The sage grins wider, sharp with satisfaction, and floats back, sipping once more on his tea, “I want…” He draws it out for dramatic effect, but Pure Vanilla is nothing if not patient, “I want you to take the day off. No work, no war plans, no kingly duties, nada.”
“Oh… well, I-”
Blueberry Milk Cookie shushes him, and a wax coated hand of a medical mannequin presses a finger to his lips from the void, “Ah, ah. Quid pro quo, remember? Think of this as your royal responsibility.”
He draws away uncomfortably from the doll and it disappears into a portal while he fidgets with the limp ribbon on his staff, “Well… okay.”
His friend’s mischievous smile blooms into something softer, and Pure Vanilla can almost feel the relief radiating from him, warm and golden like the Light. “You wont regret it, my dear Pure Vanilla Cookie. Now, where to start?”
“Start?”
“Yes, yes. Finish your tea, and eat your fill, my king! Our itinerary is jam-packed, so you’ll need your energy for the day ahead!”
Pure Vanilla laughs, and his heart soars as a realization dawns on him, “Why, Blueberry Milk Cookie, did you plan this whole day out?”
His friend's mismatched eyes twinkle, “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t!”