Chapter Text
It is late in the evening when First Milk's message comes to Fount--a sudden buzz of magic in an otherwise silent room.
He's fallen asleep in the Chamber of Distribution again, slumped in his seat before a now-empty marble bench. The seat itself, being ceremonial, is also made of marble, and his back aches terribly from nodding off there. But what does that matter? She's calling for him! He leaps up and snaps his fingers for the lamps in the room to relight themselves. Smooths his wrinkled robes in a meager attempt to look presentable. Shivers with a chill that he's only caught because he apparently lacks the sense to sleep in his actual bedchamber.
The messages used to come frequently. Predictably. Always once a day, sometimes twice if First Milk could manage it. And they always came first thing in the morning. It was something he could look forward to--a drop of warmth and sunlight even if the weather was atrocious and life had done nothing but weigh him down.
Then came the first time she had to skip a day. The Sanctum of Healing took on a rush of new patients, and they needed her to tend to everyone. She warned him about it the night before, and he told her he understood. Of course he did. Truly.
He does not understand how it spiraled into a complete deterioration of their relationship.
Now the messages come once a week if he's lucky and never at a time when he can predict them. Sometimes it's midday when he's surrounded by dignitaries, forcing him to excuse himself. Sometimes, like tonight, it's when he is sleeping. A part of him wonders, against all logic, if her new form makes it too difficult to balance everything.
She's been a cookie for decades now. But it will always feel new to Fount. And it will always feel wrong. She was once a beautiful creator. A witch. They were so happy back then.
He knows it's neither logical nor kind, but he detests the Sanctum for taking what little remains of her away from him. But there's no time for those thoughts now. The communication spell manifests in full, creating a circle of light through which they can see and hear each other. Fount struggles, as always, to put on a smile when her face appears as a translucent image before him. Her face now as First Milk Cookie. A beautiful and amazing cookie, yet still a shadow of who she used to be.
"Did I call too late?" she asks as she glances over him. "You look as if you've just woken up."
"Don't let it concern you," he says, gripping his key staff a little tighter. "I'm always grateful to hear your voice, regardless of what I'm doing at the time."
She smiles, the worry on her face easing. Perhaps now would be the right moment to tell her...
"I've...been working on that experiment I mentioned last time..." he says. He's actually mentioned it several times, but she's forgotten about the first few. Or she's ignored him and pretended to forget. "The new puppets I've made...I'm sure they could be useful vessels. Then you could come here whenever you like..."
Her worry lines reappear. "Fount...we have already discussed this. Those dolls are not what your time should be used for..."
"I just want..." His body seizes. He does not use such childish words as "mama," because he is not a child and never has been. But he has observed much about the world. He's seen the wonder in many young dough's eyes as their parents carefully explain the ways of the world, hold their little hands as they can explore unknown terrain, watch them from afar so they always have a safe place to run back to...
He's never experienced any of that, and yet if he had anyone in the world he could equate the role of parent to, it would be First Milk.
Now First Milk Cookie.
"I just want to interact with you face-to-face, not feel as if I'm talking to a ghost." He doesn't cry in front of her. He mustn't cry in front of her. She trusts him with the responsibility of all Knowledge, and she worries that he's come to lean on her too much. To show weakness will only worry her more. Then it will be a sure thing that she won't come home.
"Please..." he begs her when he's sure his voice won't crack. "Please come back to the Spire. You'll want for nothing here."
"My place is in the Sanctum of Healing," she tells him. "You have everything you need to do the work you were born for." There's a hint of pain behind her smile. "Did you practice your healing magic today?"
"I..." The words catch in his throat. Fount has never been anything less than truthful. The idea of a lie disgusts him. And yet, whenever she asks him that question, he cannot deny the temptation to simply say what she wants to hear. "I did not. I am sorry."
She frowns. "Why not?"
"Because..." His lips press tightly together. As long as he is forcing himself to only speak honestly, perhaps he would do well to continue. "Because we have plenty of clerics here. There are things only I can do, and I want to do them before--"
"What you want," First Milk says sternly. "Is for the world to always remain the same. But life changes, dear one. For witches and cookies both."
"I will not change."
A deep frown crosses her face; the puffiness around her eyes suggests she needs sleep as much as he does right now. "Perhaps if you tried speaking to the Herald--"
"No." His hands ball into fists, and he finds it difficult to keep looking at her. He wanted to talk to her so much, and yet he feels more angry and speaks more childishly than ever.
Why do you bother?
Fount's breath catches. The voice is not unfamiliar. And he does tend to hear it more often at night. But right now...
She won't come back. It's out of your control. Whatever joy you hope to get out of bringing her here, you'd best find it elsewhere.
He does not reply. Experience has shown this will only make the thing try to agitate him more. He and First Milk Cookie exchange additional small talk. She asks once more if he is alright, and he tells her all the truths he can. That he is struggling without her. That he is tired. That he needs her. But of course, he'll carry on as always.
She looks at him sadly and says some encouraging platitudes about how he is stronger than he believes. And then she bids him good-bye as the spell ends. Fount clutches his chest and sits back down in the chair. He's surprised at how dim the lamps are already getting. Didn't he just light those?
Or perhaps it's not mere time putting them out.
The voice is quiet again, but the memory of its words reinforces a particularly harsh Truth. There is a darkness buried in his Soul Jam--a Curse that whispers to him. The thing locks its jaws around each scrap of hope he finds and tries to tear it away. But he refuses to listen to it, just as he refuses to listen to First Milk Cookie when she says she won't come home. That his plan won't work.
The Curse seems to chuckle at the very idea of being ignored. If you will not look elsewhere, perhaps I will look for you.