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For as long as he could remember, during the years when he was merely known as the Fount of Knowledge, the concept of slumber was a ridiculous notion. For mortal cookies, it was a necessity— to lay in warm sheets, the moon hanging high as consciousness sweeps away in the heaviness of lids sealing tight, their spirits drifting out of their bodies as it traveled into the clouds, making its way into the ethereal world of endless possibilities befitting the cookie who dreams of it.
But knowledge never rests in its conquest to exist.
How could he assist the cookies under his watch if the body he possesses lay dormant, consciousness somewhere adrift in the sky through scenarios that will never come to be? How will he fulfill the purpose he was given to provide boundless heaps of knowledge to its denizens, if his mind is preoccupied with dreams that don’t matter in the slightest?
Oh, how he once thought that.
That mindset he once held— deeply enough to settle in his dough— was now nothing more than a sickening drivel that brings a churn to his stomach the moment it invades his thoughts.
At some point, he indulged in it— guilt and shame creeped into his skin — he justified it, telling himself it was out of mere curiosity, a quest for understanding the necessity that is submitting oneself into deep slumber. But he knew he was deceiving himself. Even so, the result was the same.
Just the attempt to bring himself to sleep brought him a multitude of peace. The first bit of tranquility in the storm of responsibilities he held in his eons of life. It was a strange feeling to feel so light after carrying such heavy burdens. Even guilt and shame couldn’t follow him into the sensations of pure bliss.
His mind flowed through the cosmos, floating in the endless void of twinkling stars and beats of countless hearts — perhaps the warmth that spread through his dough spoke volumes of his deep exhaustion, or perhaps it was the way he held his own body in replication of an embrace.
Nevertheless, the sight was beautiful— but even as he couldn’t tear his gaze away, his eyes grew heavy. He fought it off with rapid blinks, afraid that if he let himself drift, that he would never be able to have this exhilarating experience again.
Despite his battle, the exhaustion won, lids drooping as the sensation of unconsciousness began to settle in.
Then suddenly a glimpse of a light shone— a light that seeped through his senses. It should’ve deterred him, but he felt the light didn’t seem to harbor harm. It was gentle, warm, comforting— an entity that seemed to aid in his pursuit of rest and cast him deeper and deeper into what felt like heaven on earthbread.
Finally, he succumbed into stupor, contemplations and emotions leave him behind in pure and soothing seclusion.
The world disappeared, no longer bounding him in chains, even for just a moment.
Hours passed in what felt like eternal bliss, that to him felt like mere seconds. A wish to remain in this was powerful, a grip on meaningless dreams tight in its hold.
Alas, such a sensation is only temporary— only made to recharge fragile dough, only done for a moment's rest. But the idea to be in it for eternity was tempting.
Tempting, but could never be done, for his duties of life exceeded far greater importance than the feeling of elation. Consciousness inevitably greeted him a moment later, as did his burden of purpose and shameful penance.
Since then, he found it difficult to bring himself to that feeling of nothingness again. Even when he broke free from the shackles of obligations, there was never a point in time where he could doze off and quench his thirst for even a second’s peace.
Not even in imprisonment surrounded by nauseating reflections in the giant silvery prongs that dug it into the ground of his cage and the shrouding darkness was he able to escape the misfortune of existence.
Or even now, in the confines of the hut his ever so eloquent and disgustingly kind partner handed to him in the neck of the woods, away from the busy streets of the vanilla kingdom, was he able to prevent himself from the frequent tossing and turning in the sheets.
Frustrating is what it is that despite all he’s been through, all he’s grown from— the moment he allows himself to take even a sliver of time to rest weary eyes— that he is angrily incapable of doing so.
A loud groan escaped into his echoey chambers, eyes shut tight in an attempt to thrust his consciousness into nothing.
As he rolled onto his stomach throwing a pillow over his head, the mattress absorbed his screams of agony, hands flailing around in raging tantrum.
This body cannot sleep.
Hands grip tightly on the pillow, slamming it onto his head repeatedly in growing aggravation. By the will of the witches, is it so hard to succumb into the pleasantness of slumber?
Another scream escaped into the bed, struggling to wrest away his concerningly stubborn wakefulness. He twisted himself onto his back, breathing out deeply. Many thoughts start drifting into his mind.
It was so easy before. And he was flooded with perceptions of anxiety, dread, fearfulness, and shame back then. What made him surrender into it so effortlessly? How did he allow himself to give in to an idea he thought foolish to do?
Thoughts wander into the past— the environment, the stage, the sounds— what was it? Would he be able to recreate the scene and atmosphere? Will it assist in achieving his goal if he succeeded in doing so?
Questions followed one after another in the train of rationalizations running through his crumbly brain. Visualizations of ideas come and go as he sifted through them, huffs came out as none of it was to his standards of a proper solution to his oh-so-woeful problem.
One idea seemed to flicker the most amongst his sea of propositions. It made him scoff to even consider it, but he couldn’t deny the pull he felt towards it no matter how many times he brushed it off. Yet it made so much sense— it was the one with the highest chance of succeeding, even as his face contorted in displeasure at the thought. He breathed for a moment. A sigh escapes his lips. Alright— fine.
To the castle he goes.
Legs hover over the pristine halls of the Vanilla castle, wafer walls plastered on either side of him as he flies through the dark corridors. His hands fidget at each other, fingers battling while he silently breathed in the sweet scents invading his nose. Nauseating, but at the very least, familiar.
His fingers ended their battle as it moved to trace over the intricate design of the surface beside him, allowing it to guide him through the hallway in search of the room he was searching for.
Eyes darted around as he finally noticed the emptiness of the hall. It was odd, seeing it in such a peaceful state. Perhaps he had gotten used to the bustling presence of staff ushering back and forth to tend to their duties around the kingdom.
Nevertheless, dawdling around to relish in the lack of cookies wasn’t his goal here, in any case.
Finally arriving at his destination, his hand grabs at the doorknob, moving to turn it slowly and quietly. The door creaked obnoxiously as he pushed it open. Do they always do that? They should probably fix it at some point.
Managing to slip into the room, he carefully closed the door behind him with a click. His head darted left and right, as if expecting an audience in an otherwise empty room. He released a breath he was not aware he was holding— curse the dramatic flare of unnecessary nervousness— before properly scanning the room for the treasure he was searching for.
Pure Vanilla Cookie.
There he was, sprawled out on his king sized bed, sound asleep. Almost mockingly, with the way his snores filled the air.
A grumble of jealousy came out as he glided towards Pure Vanilla, hovering over his body like a cat prepared to wake its owner for food in the dead of night. How dare he sleep so easily while he struggled to do so by himself?
Another snore pierced through the silence, his eyes narrowing and brows furrowing at the sound. He was beginning to wonder if this was a good solution anymore.
The only thing preventing him from retreating back into the tossing and turning of sheets was his sweet utter desperation for a moment's rest.
He released an exasperated sigh. There was no backing out now.
He leaned in over the bed, hands finding purchase at Pure Vanilla’s arms— it was steady, deliberate, and far too fond for what he was about to do.
And then, a shove.
Not enough to push off the bed, but enough to jolt the other out of that infuriatingly peaceful sleep.
Lips curled into a smirk at the shout he heard, and just like that, the snores were gone. A petty victory, perhaps— but he didn’t care.
He jumped onto the bed, mattress bouncing at his sudden weight as his hands wrangled the comforter up to his chin. He’s vaguely aware of a bewildered sputtering of his name, but his eyes were already closing, not bothering to dignify Pure Vanilla’s scoldings with a response.
His head nuzzled into the pillow, eyes shut tight as incessant and tired mutterings blurred into his ears. He caught a tone of concern in the other’s voice, to which he replied with a murmured acknowledgment. He was unsure what he acknowledged exactly— he could only hope he didn’t just ask him if he was being murdered on the way here— but it seemed his reply was enough to quiet down the blabbering of distress.
An exasperated sigh beside him. Then a pause while white noise filled the room in the stead of silence.
The bed shifted suddenly as arms wrapped carefully around him. A smile formed on his lips without his say, a breath of contentment spilled out of him as he cuddled closer into the embrace. That was the first condition he recalled— exhaustion creeping into warmth spreading through his dough. The hands around his shoulders were definitely achieving that. A real embrace was certainly a bonus.
Excitement coursed through him as he felt the familiar heaviness of his lids and his body light— nothing to deter him from his chase of sleep. Nothing but the promise of a bright tomorrow arriving in a flash.
Not fast enough in any case, since he was still in this pitiful state of consciousness.
He snuggled even deeper into the embrace, curling up as he grunted with brows furrowed. Some parts of the script were still missing. Another condition necessary for his quest. What was it again?
Then he heard it. A heartbeat.
Pressed against his cheek. Slow, reassuring. He twisted his head, ears finding its way against the other cookie’s chest.
Perhaps it wasn’t the countless beats of hearts or twinkling stars he remembered, but it was a beating heart that mattered to him. A lone star that twinkled in the sky far greater than the others do. One that his gaze never failed to trail towards whenever he felt the ache of loneliness. A star made just for him.
Another sigh of content released. His consciousness began to drift in and out, his earlier excitement unable to penetrate through the defenses of slumber. He couldn’t even register the fingers that ran through his hair— a gesture he most definitely would’ve appreciated in wake.
Despite how close he was to achieving his lifelong dream of visiting the spiritual space of dreams once more, the final condition he recalled was still nagging at him, refusing to leave his thoughts.
He knew that one was an impossibility to achieve— there’s only so much he could risk without disrupting his progress.
In hindsight, it was a bit outlandish to think of such a thing— especially in relation to the cookie holding onto him. Laughable, even. Shadow Milk was indeed a clown of his own making.
But still, it was nagging at him like memories of children tugging at his robe aggressively for answers. No further elaboration.
Another sigh threatened to leave his lips. He was on the brink of allowing it to when lips suddenly pressed on his forehead.
His eyes shot open— well, almost open— squinting as he caught the faint blur of the face above him.
Pure Vanilla’s gaze was warm, his lips curved into a gentle smile.
And that’s when he saw it. The light that seeped through his senses, just as it once did the first time he had succumbed into slumber.
Oh. Oh.
It was him. It had always been him.
The light that comforted him.
The light that shone abruptly in his lonely days.
Oh, sweet witches. How ignorant was he to only realize this now? Foolish. Disgustingly sentimental. Perhaps he ought to find a way to get back at him for making him feel so ridiculous.
His thoughts were interrupted by fingers brushing at his cheek. There was a distinct murmur, a declaration of love— or a will to lull him to sleep. Either way, his eyes closed shut again, feeling his other half hold him closer in sweet, sweet, comfort. Finally, all the conditions were complete. The curtains can draw to a close, roses thrown onto the stage accompanied with a deafening applause.
Ah, but what does that matter?
The feeling of slumber was finally upon him.
It was strange. The first time it happened, he relished in the feeling of nothingness— the feeling of contemplations and emotions leaving him in seclusion. He barely remembers it, but he also distinctly recalled the sensation of the world disappearing underneath his still body.
This didn’t feel like that. Instead, he felt full. Full of overwhelming love. Even as his soul descended high above the clouds, his emotions stayed with him. Accompanying him, instead of a burden holding him down.
And his thoughts: it could only drift to the heartbeat of one. The arms wrapped around him tight as if he was something precious. The promise of waking up to that warm gaze in the morning, and the twinkling light of his star.
Fingers intertwined in his as his soul swam through the cosmic world of endless possibilities, the light beside him not blinding. Not harboring harm. Just with him. Existing with him. In his life, and in his dreams.
It was perfect. It was just what he needed.
Does an immortal being like him require the necessity of slumber?
No… but maybe he wants it now.
Did he wish for an eternity in this eternal bliss?
Hah. Maybe.
But whatever temptations he gives into, he knows the light— his light — will walk alongside him, even with his darkness.
And that’s all that matters.