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LOOK AT THE COMMANDER. GETTING SO SOFT.
“Custard Cookie, are you alright?” Dark Cacao Cookie asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.
He sighs, “Yeah, I'm fine, I just…”
“— Am I distracting you?”
“By standing there, no, of course not… You are, quite literally, just standing beside me.”
“Right…”
“… I think I need some air is all, I have been tinkering with this thing all day,” Custard Cookie spins the wheel, which won't move without force from something else.
“Well, you're trying to defy the first law of physics. That won't be solved in a day.”
“But I want it to be so badly… I'm so close, I can feel it…”
“There's a million, no—billions of things that the mind or soul can come up with. If you want to use the soul as the force of this new wheelchair, you'd have to account for all of that.”
“I know…”
“… You do need a break. You just got back into mechanics after being statesmen for most of your life, it's going to take a while before you can make this… I'll be in here, alright? Just go get some fresh air.”
“Fine… thank you, for staying by my side.”
“It's my pleasure… see you soon.”
“Yeah.”
The legislator nodded, and left the (almost) abandoned mechanic room. Entering the hall, he started to walk towards his room. The walls had a yellowish tint, and said wallpaper was tearing at the corners, especially when the wall bent down to a different corridor of the mansion. It stank of ink, like it was rotting inside the walls… like the papers he signed followed him everywhere.
YOU HAVE NOT REALIZED ALREADY? ALL THESE FRIENDSHIPS ARE FUTILE.
THEY WILL ROT, LIKE THIS WALLPAPER, TEARING SLOWLY, CAREFULLY, UNTIL NOTHING IS LEFT.
WE ARE DIFFERENT. WE ARE ALWAYS HERE. FOR YOU, OF COURSE.
FOR YOU.
YOUR PILGRIMAGE TO CHANGE WILL NOT ALTER ANYTHING.
YOU CANNOT RUN FROM DESTINY, BUT ONLY ACCEPT ITS HARVEST.
'I know,' he wanted to say.
But what was the use talking to ghosts?
That damned Enchantress, and her damned right-hand woman… and those damn ghouls… never wanting to leave him be. They were always there. Watching. Listening. Even his own thoughts could not be safe by their constant need for input—their constant need for control. How pathetic—so much for breaking away. Could he even when they wouldn't leave him alone? This whole cat and mouse chase was pointless, just pointless…
He turned down another hall, went up some stairs, and arrived at his bedroom. Those voices never did stop, did they? Those shadows always last… Never left him. He needed a drink… yes, that would probably soothe him after his mess…
Custard shut the door behind him, and first went to the window. Unlatching the lock, he opened the window, and took a small peak outside. It was a breezy day, but the sun was still shinning warmly. Good… that was good, maybe he could take a walk later, maybe if he couldn't get those wheels working—go ask Mulled Juice for help (even though he was probably drunk… it was Sunday, after all). Speaking of drunk… he really needed a drink right now (the hypocrisy wasn't lost on him).
He sauntered to his vanity mirror, and opened the small cabinet—which had a bottle of booze and a small shot cup. The statesman poured himself a drink, then picked up the glass—which even now glittered, even in the faint light of the room.
YOU CAN TRY TO DRINK AWAY YOUR SORROWS, BUT WE'LL ALWAYS REMAIN.
Gods, did they ever shut up?
Custard slammed down the alcohol, and considered having another before—
—Knock, knock, knock.
Quickly, he placed his stash back in his spot—shut the mirror, and went to the door.
Opening it, Custard Cookie III was there, standing with his stuffed bear.
“Ah, it's just you,” He smiled, getting down to his level, “Are you feeling any better?”
The boy nodded, “Yeah… much better. I feel really good.”
“Good… I'm glad. You look good, too.”
“Thanks…”
“… So, did you want a snack, or…?”
“No, I was looking for you. Dark Cacao said you were probably in here.”
“He's a smart man, isn't he?”
“Yeah…” Custard Cookie III sits on the bed, and his uncle sits beside him. The former asks, “… I saw that cool spinny thing in the room, can you tell me what it is?”
“Oh, sure. It's a wheelchair, son… or rather, the wheels of a wheelchair; I've yet to put the parts all together…”
“Who has a wheelchair that I've met…?”
Baumkuchen Cookie… He owed him… everything, really;
His nephew was getting worse. Again.
He'd tried everything by now. At first, he thought it was a spirit, a demon sent by Dark Enchantress. Try spells. Nothing. Next, the flu. Soup. Medicine. Still nothing. Thought it was something like an infection. No infection marks, still more medicine. Again, nothing came of it. What else could it be? For gods’ sake, he'd even thought he should try an exorcism, (which he didn't do, luckily). It had the symptoms of a rather nasty cold, yet it could hardly be that. Either that, or his nephew had the worst fever in the history of mankind.
The poor boy was as pale as a sheet of paper, sweating through his pajamas—yet still clutching onto that stuffed bear like it would save him. He shivered every so often as well, along with the occasional groaning of the insanity of the entire mess. Once more, someone was suffering right in front of him and all he could do was be useless and watch them in pain. Custard sat on a chair at the edge of the bed. He had been for days. It was only going downhill from here, and—
He reached out practically into the air, his arm reaching towards the door instead of him, “Papa…”
“I'm here, son, I'm here…” The statesman took and held his hand, causing the boy to look at him again.
He couldn't just do nothing…
… Well, there was one person he could ask.
Carefully, Custard swaddled his nephew in a blanket. Glancing outside, it was raining (of course it was)…
He had to do this though. There was no stopping him.
The statesman picked up Custard Cookie III, and left the mansion.
“Wait… I think I remember! He's the guy with the really long name!”
“Baumkuchen Cookie? Yes, that's the man who helped you… saved you, really. I was just the one who brought you to him.”
“Wow… what does that wheelchair do?”
“It's supposed to make him travel faster than being pushed or rolling on his own… which isn't really a hard task…”
The rain came down in buckets, you could hardly see anything rather than drops of rain.
He needed to get to his house. It was just up the street.
Sooner or later—he reached it, and banged on the door.
“BAUMKUCHEN COOKIE! ARE YOU HOME—I NEED YOU!”
Nothing.
It was cruel of him to do this—but he was running out of time.
“BAUMKUCHEN COOKIE!”
He kept banging on the door, over and over.
Nothing, nothing—
—until he opened the door himself and barged in.
He was on his way there, a few feet away from the door.
“… I need your help. Please.”
“That's cool…”
“Yeah. It's a gift for fixing you up so well…”
“… How did you two heal me?”
“Well… Baukuchen knew what he was doing, and I got the stuff for him.”
The healer commanded, “Get the third bottle from the sixth row, and that'll be all…”
Custard reached from the latter, and soon grabbed the small bottle from the shelf. He slowly came back down, and placed it next to the rest.
“Great… now use a teaspoon of each for the next two weeks, or when he feels better.”
“You use this many herbs for healing people?”
“Yes—how have you been healing your wounds?”
“Bandages and washing them…”
“Just… stay here until the boy gets better. I don't want you to do anything stupid.”
“Thank you, so much…”
“Your welcome. Now go make some tea…”
“I will…”
“Cool… so like a team?”
“Sure… whatever you think is best. Speaking of best… I think my break time is over… It's for the best, after all, I have someone waiting for me downstairs.”
He picks up the boy, and starts to walk down the hall. It doesn't seem as overwhelming anymore, unlike before.
Down the steps he goes, and into the room again.
Carefully, he sets down the boy, sitting next to Dark Cacao Cookie.
“So, how did your break go?”
“Pretty good… thanks for forcing it upon me.”
“Your welcome.”
“… Come to think of it, I owe you something.”
“What?”
Custard pecks him on the cheek—and the king soon does it back, chuckling,
“Are you ready to go back to work?”
“Yes, I am… are you?”
“Watching you? Yes.”
And they both rise up, and return to the bench.