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The Fount of Knowledge; grand in his endless wisdom, always benevolently granting advice to the average mortals who sought him out. He was… rather tired of the monotony of it. He had felt off for a while, but dismissed it, since gods don’t get sick or change. Well, the Herald of Change did, but that was his gimmick.
The Fount wandered down the Spire of Knowledge, gazing upon portrait after portrait of himself. The mortal cookies knew next to nothing of this world, so of course they’d praise the one guiding them through this universe. They made paintings and art of him, all depicting him next to perfectly; flowing blue hair that looked like a tear in the cosmos, his elegant black and gold robes, the large key he wore that housed his Soul Jam, complimenting the key in his collar.
Those yellow and blue eyes gazed down at him, piercing through his soul. The mortals all thought of him as an untouchable being, but only he knew the cracks behind the facade. The Fount was getting quite tired of the average cookie asking him question after question, always disappointed in the answer, always hungering for more. They were never satisfied with simply being told the truth.
He was asked yet another troubling question. ‘Will my mother survive this winter? She’s quite fragile and sickly.’ The Fount had been asked a similar question earlier, and had been yelled at when he said no. So, he lied.
“Yes, my child. Your mother will most definitely survive. Why wouldn’t she? She’s resilient.” The cookie lit up, thanking him endlessly and running away. And yet, the Fount felt a weight. He shouldn’t have lied. He was a horrible being. He would be punished for this. And yet, it felt so… freeing.
He lied a few more times to save mortals’ emotions, eventually retiring to his chambers. He walked past a large mirror in the hall, intricately carved by the Saint of Volition, only to notice something. A small chunk of hair towards his neck, was black. It swallowed the light around it, and the stars in his hair near the area disappeared.
The Fount rushed to his grand desk, digging through a drawer until he found a pair of scissors. One snip and the void was gone, and the stars returned to his hair. Perfect!
The next day, he lied to a child. “Yes, little one. Prayer and rest will save you from your illness. You must believe in yourself.” Once again, after checking in the mirror later, his hair turned black in a few other spots, now with a blue eye staring up at him. He quickly cut that chunk off too, sweeping the hair under a rug with his foot.
The process repeated, and he eventually started wearing hoods and hats to hide how much hair he was cutting off. Cookies began noticing the yellow eye began turning a pale blue. His hands were becoming bonier, and people he gave his reassurances to were winding up deceased. They turned on him.
Cookies, all of whom believed him without a second thought, were outside the Spire, screaming that he was wrong and a liar. He closed his doors to the public.
The Fount walked by the mirror again. His hands began developing claws, his golden neck piece was slipping, his hair was dull and darker, and of course, his crown of purity had fallen. In a fit of rage, the Fount balled his fist and punched the mirror as hard as he could, shattering it. The mirror cracked up to the top, creating tens, maybe even a hundred fractals of himself staring back. He clutched his bleeding knuckles, wiping them off onto his robes.
He walked quickly down the halls, yanking books out of their shelves and throwing them onto the ground, tearing out pages. He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t keep smiling and being subservient to beings who hated him. The Fount yanked his hair, letting out a guttural scream of pure agony. What would the other Virtues think? What would the Witches think? Their dear Fount didn’t look the same.
After wiping tears he didn’t notice fell in the first place, he began to giggle. His shoulders shook as he burst into laughter. He didn’t have to obey! He didn’t need to listen anymore! He could be free!! The small mark on his forehead signifying his purity moved to his eye, similar to a clown’s makeup. Perhaps he was no longer a scholar offering advice, but some jester to make fun of the people and their hypocrisy.
His beautiful blue hair darkened, the under layer black and void-like, with blue eyes staring at him, judging his actions. He tore the Soul Jam out of his staff, fusing it to his collar bones, cutting his ties with the key of knowledge he had crafted.
Yes, the Fount was dead. He was insane, and no longer needed to obey the rules of morality. He was perfectly fine.