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The Fount of Knowledge had known that he was, in a sense, othered from other Cookies. That much was obvious now, of course—none but the Virtues had Soul Jams. However, it was more than that, baked into his dough, into him, physically.
Very few, after all, had adornments such as his. Icings that shifted and shone like a galaxy, interwoven between the strands. Eyes, slitted to be as discerning and sharp as any scholar must. Dough speckled with constellations, that silvered when he used magic. Clawed fingers, for precision.
Traits that, simply put, most Cookies did not have. Some, yes, some–the half-spices from the Spicelands that the Herald watched over so diligently. Haetae Cookies of the Ivory Pagoda, of course, with lion forms that shone through. The faeries and their wings. Accidents, curses, singular traits that spoke to a sense of difference.
However, all of those things were few and far between. Exceptions. Interesting ones, of course, but nothing like The Fount, who was made to be–Other. Akin to mortals, but not. They were a blueprint, a base, perhaps–and he was the result of refinement. He and the other Virtues.
At least, that was how the mortals often viewed it. He wasn’t entirely sure of the accuracy of their statements. His excess traits were usually convenient. He enjoyed sharp eyes to pick out the smallest details and hair that illuminated scrolls long into the night. That did not have to mean anything, right? Such were his thoughts, in the beginning of his baking, alongside the other Virtues.
He had long abandoned such musings, tapping his claws against his golden key staff rhythmically, as he searched for one of the few Cookies who shared his first ideals regarding such.
Healer Cookie was odd. He had not spared a glance toward his excess traits (though initially Fount had believed that may have been because he had nothing to glance with). He had not once thought Fount greater than he was, though he did think that he was, still, great.
Great, but never greater. Yes, yes, that was it. An intoxicating yet suffocating feeling, being great, not greater. One that he had learned was impossible to live without, now. Just like air, in a room filled with steam. Warm and heady, and yet necessary to life.
Healer Cookie was an odd one. For more than just his open mind. He was so… clueless. Yet his questioning was soft and child-like, genuine curiosity over any greater or overarching plan. Gentle curiosity, simple and true.
Not true as in accurate or correct, but true as in genuine. The type of truth that Fount did not dispense, in exchange for information and whole-hearted Knowledge. A subtle distinction, but an important one, because while Healer embodied truth, at times, that did not mean he did not lie. That did not mean he did not keep hidden.
And indeed, did he hide. He hid from his past, a veneer of amnesia and memory that he only half-heartedly tried to parse through, even with the Fount’s help. He hid from shame, tucking his face away when he flustered and choked on his words. He hid from knowledge, at times, not smothering it with deceit but simply abstaining from it as he pleased.
Infuriating, to Fount. Perhaps even a little blasphemous. That only made it more intriguing, though. Especially when Healer kept pieces of himself away from Fount, even seemingly innocuous things. Even, seemingly, without realizing he was doing so. Such as now, keeping his entire self away from Fount’s presence, sequestered away without a trace.
“Healer Cookie?” Fount called, striding through the halls of his own Spire, the moonlight outside catching on the silver bricks of his home as he walked past windows and up stairs. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since the morning, when Healer had managed to convince Fount to partake in a meal. If only to assure Healer would eat, too. For a Cookie named Healer Cookie, he was terrible at taking care of himself. Did he not know the effects of malnutrition? Perhaps that was something Fount could teach him, though the fact that he needed to did not bode well for Healer’s patients.
Then again, it was never about his patients. Healer could easily preach to those around him the effects of their unhealthy habits, but when it came to himself? Oh, what a terrible hypocrite he was! Fount huffed, wondering if it would be today he would find Healer collapsed in a heap in some forgotten corner from magic overuse or physical exhaustion. He quickly shook the thought away. He wouldn’t–he wasn’t that bad.
Though perhaps he was, considering he wasn’t responding to any of Fount’s calls, even as he stood in front of Healer’s given bedroom. It would be the only place that he would be at this hour. Fount was rather late tonight. Perhaps he was asleep already, no time for conversation or tea? Fount pursed his lips, thinking.
Oh, it would surely bring his most diligent skeptics some amusement to see him hesitant over such an inane thing. The barrier of a door, of ignorance, he did not know how to approach. Ignorance because he did not know the habits of his… friend. Oh, humor indeed. The Fount of Knowledge, bastion of information, learner and giver of all things written and said. Stalled by something as simple as this! He shook his head, willing those thoughts away; they would do him no good and distracted him from the matter at hand.
Fount sighed, not wanting to knock. If Healer was asleep in bed, he did not want to wake him. It would be better to check, quietly, unobtrusively as he could, and then wait for dawn to break before he continued onward.
Fount cracked open the door.
Healer was not asleep. In fact, he was more than awake, completely lost in his own world as he muttered to himself. His back was turned to the Fount as he sat in the puddle of moonlight in front of the window.
He also had his cloak beside him, folded neatly to his left. His bandages were atop them in a slightly messier pile. Fount had seen Healer in many ways, in many states. He realized now that this was not one of them because of one simple truth:
He would not have missed the wings.
They were tiny things, too insignificant to be of any use. Too small to fly with, to utilize as secondary limbs. They would even be a hindrance in battle, no doubt, an easy target, and too small to wield like the faeries did to make up for it. They were almost withered-looking things.
“Healer Cookie?” Fount breathed.
Healer jolted, tugging at one of those mangy wings with a startled little yelp. He turned, likely to better hear Fount more than anything, and Fount could see the way that he bristled. Like any bird who was startled or scared. Or anyone with wings, it seemed.
“Fount! I hadn’t heard you–is it that time already?” Healer laughed, nervous beyond reason. “I’m nearly done here, don’t worry!”
“Worry?”
“I’ll be just a moment more!” He reached for his bandages once more, moving to wrap them around himself again, tucking his wings neatly against his back. Fount spoke before he could tighten them, pausing the motion with just one quiet call of his name, once more.
“Healer Cookie.”
“Please, just ignore me.”,
“I could not ignore this,” Fount said, stepping forward into the room, “How could I, Healer Cookie?”
“It… it isn’t anything to note, really.” Healer pressed his hands, still fisted with bandages, into his lap. “I assure you. Please. I did not intend to keep this from you, either!”
Fount found himself standing over Healer. He could no doubt feel the shadow Fount cast, ducking his head lower, in what had to be shame. Shame, of all things. How could he feel shame?
"Indeed, and I never would have expected it from you." Fount moved slowly, this time, as he knelt. Carefully. As if he were coming close to a wounded animal, scared and flinching. "You, who follow sincerity more than the moon follows the sun, cyclic and forever. It does not strike me that such a noble soul would bind their own beautiful wings."
"B--beautiful?"
Fount let out a low, quiet laugh. It was not often he was the one who was... confident, guiding, admiring in this relationship. He was all those things, of course, and he felt them deeply and strongly; however, he did not outwardly show them-not compared to Healer, who confidently proclaimed his love, who guided the Fount to speak his heart over his mind, who looked up at the man above him with bandaged eyes and breathless adoration
"Beautiful," Fount echoed himself. “I have never seen wings so white, akin to the purest milk. I have never seen feathers so soft, akin to the croon of a mourning dove, sweet."
Healer choked, curling into himself, only just stopped by a hand that pressed firmly against one shoulder, keeping him upright. "No, no, I could not, it is not--"
"It should never have been hidden, never be shamed..."
"It is not as you think.”
"Then show me, my Healer, what to think. Just as I am yours, allow yourself to be mine, and show me every decadent piece of you that you strive to hide away."
"I am no–I am not–"
Fount stole one wing in his hand, even softer than they looked, even more fragile than they seemed. They shook, ever so slightly, at the touch.
"I am a Virtue, praised and worshiped, duty-bound and born to serve.” Healer let his wing get pulled open, so, so slowly. His crushed marble, dove-like, lovely lovely wings. “So let yourself be my duty, to be bound and to be beholden."
Then the other, until both were stretched out proudly, and Healer, timid in a way he was never, otherworldly in the way most exceptions were not.
"Please, Healer.” Fount crooned, “Let me serve you."
"Fount..."
There was a moment of breathless silence. Healer, choking back his own words. Fount, too enthralled to speak. It was only after the tentative, delicate moment had passed that Fount found himself cupping Healer’s face, softening at the way it slotted so dutifully, even as off-put as Healer was, he always found comfort in such simple, silly things.
"May I, my Healer?" Fount asked, brushing his thumb across the soft dough of his cheek.
He didn't know what he was agreeing to, but all he could do was nod. That was all the permission Fount needed to unbandage his eyes, as well, letting him see the fuzzy light of all things around him once more. He blinked, once, twice, his squint showing a case of heterochromia that was familiar to Fount only in the mirror.
Exceptional. Not an exception. Exceptional. Wings, useless tiny wretched things, but wings nonetheless. Wings, pristine lovely silvery things, and wings nonetheless.
"There you are, my most beloved Healer."
Healer swallowed, for he could see every detail he had ever missed on Fount. They had never quite been this close before, when Healer dared himself to see. He saw the galaxy of hair, the claws, the marking that made Fount othered from almost every soul he’d ever met.
And he saw the elation, that othered Healer from any soul that the Fount had ever met.