Chapter Text
A fire crackled somewhere below him, but he dare not open his eyes. He could not open his eyes.
He did not remember much, though he assumed it was because he had not been alive for long. How did he know he was alive? He wasn't sure. A soft voice tried to reach his ear, but it was muffled by a metal door.
"He's small."
Another voice.
"All young are small. He's a test for the greater good."
A sucking, cold wind hit his face as the oven door was opened. He squirmed around on the aluminum steel, his hair long and tangled around his limbs. Every nerve endings was alight with stimuli. He supposed that wasn't a surprise. After being in such a hot environment, his body was probably feeling hypothermic. How did he know what hypothermia was?
Something slowly slid beneath his back as he was lifted up, hair trailing behind him like comet tails. Another voice — was this a third one? — spoke, much closer now. Louder. "I think he's perfect. Clever too; he's the first one that's moved inside the oven thus far."
The first voice, louder but unmistakable: "Another batch?"
"Another batch."
Batch?
The little cookie shivered in the cradling hold of this giant being. His skin was exposed, his jam felt liquidy, and his hair was started to itch at his back. A thumb bigger than his arm gently rubbed at his eyes, coaxing a golden eye open.
He stared back at a being of pure white. He closed his eyes quickly at the light radiating from this being — this god.
A chuckle came from the god's lips. "Can you speak?"
Speak... Could he speak?
"Speak?" the little cookie croaked, feeling his body gently propped up by a giant finger. "I can speak.. I.. how do I know I can speak?"
"Wonderful," the god said, her smile audible. "I'm sure you have many questions. But, I am also sure you have many answers."
He noticed she never answered the question.
"Who am I?" the little cookie asked, his shivering turning to nothing more than tiny tremors that occured sparsely.
The god hummed her thumb running over his head. "You will be our Fountain of Knowledge. Yes. You are the Fount."
*****
The Fount of Knowledge stood with practiced words floating in his head. He has been given clothing to wear, a gilded staff, and a crown. He didn't know what the crown was for yet, but he could make a few educated guesses. His dough was a lovely blue, and the gods — though, he found they referred to themselves as the Witches — had granted him the grace to choose his scent. He has settled for a sweet, syrupy, blueberry smell that seemed to fill the space around him. His hair spilled down his shoulders in an annoying manner that made his neck itchy, but he didn't ask to change it. Not yet. He didn't want to seem greedy.
A sweet, fruity smell wafted from the oven door. The oven loomed before him, a hissing fire below warming his soon-to-be companion. For what, he wasn't sure. The Witches hadn't told him.
He hasn't opened his eyes since his baking, but now, he dared to crack open an eyelid.
The oven door was beautiful, both because it had made all of cookie kind, and because of the patterns carved into the steel. It filled him with a weird sense of joy.
The oven door swung open and the aluminum tray was pulled out by a large, steady hand. The Fount waited patiently to the side as the gods assessed their creation.
A pink cookie was placed before him after a moment. Her pink hair sparked under the dimly lit room, soft light breaking away in arches around her head like a halo. Her dough was a baby pink, and her face was decorated with soft brown icing for long eyelashes and gentle eyebrows. Her most notable feature was, perhaps, the large wings behind her. They were made of sugary soft fondant, fluffing up behind her like rainbow colored clouds. The Fount failed to miss the fact that she did have a second, sharper pair of maroon wings the protruded from her lower back. She had pointed teeth (much like his own) and a long, whip like tail that ended in a triangular point.
The Fount smiled at her. “Hello!”
The pink cookie stared back dumbly.
Shifting his weight between his feet, he tried again. “Oh, uh.. That was a greeting. I was.. greeting you. I was saying hi. This is usually the part where you respond, but I guess I can keep talking if you need a moment to figure things out. I know I needed a second to figure out how to speak, though, admittedly, I didn’t take this long. Wow, you really are quiet, aren’t you?”
“Fount,” one of the Witches said in an eerily calm tone. “She needs a second. Leave her to gather herself.”
The Fount of Knowledge quieted, his face burning as he nodded, taking a step back.
The little pink cookie stood on wobbly legs. How come I couldn’t do that when I first came out of the oven? The Fount wondered.
One of the Witches scooped him up into their hands. He lost his balance, falling to his knees as he crouched low to avoid falling to the floor that seemed impossibly low. Keeping his head low, he shielded his already closed eyes. He found that the Witches were bright enough that even his eyelids weren’t enough to keep him safe from being blinded. “You may study the recipe we used for her in comparison to yours, but you must wait until she learns to speak.”
*****
The Fount helped about around the kitchen. He did anything from turning recipe pages, to writing tiny notes to The pages, to measuring formulas for better, more diverse cookies. The pink cookie was named the Bringer of Happiness, but she was far from the last. They made a coquelicot cookie, full of spice and heat, naming him the Herald of Change. They made a bland, white, and powdery Cookie the Witches called the Flour of Volition. And to finish up, they made a salty, crisp cookie branding him as the Salt of Solidarity.
The Witches took very good care of their creations. The Fount of Knowledge never once felt unloved.
That was until the Witches gathered them all up for something. He sat in a sieza poistion, his legs tucked under him politely under his long robes.
Earthbread had been made.
Cookies of all shapes, sizes, colors, and flavors were placed on the vast expanse of sweet dough. It was beautiful but it was unorganized. Chaotic. In a sense, it was all the Fount could ever want.
That day, he was given the greatest gift he had ever received.
A Souljam, the Witches called it. A source of pure, righteous power that flowed into the heart of his very being.
He was to be a king.
He finally understood why he held a crown.
He was perfect.