Chapter Text
Pure Vanilla awoke early, just before the birds arrived at the windowsill. He stood on the balcony, listening to the distant cacophony of the marketplace and the trill of wind. The bluebirds arrived in great flocks, crowding onto the rim of his small water fountain until they’d squished into a great mass of twitching azure feathers. They approached, eating out of his palm, beaks nicking his dough. One by one they left.
Inside, he lightly combed his shoulder-length waves. He splashed water on his face, and slid into his robes. The soul jam came last – it was mesmerizing to the touch, and weighed nothing at all when he clipped the brooch to his chest.
So you begin anew.
Rivulets of sunlight strained through the ceiling length windows in the halls, sewing threads of dappled gold into the cerulean carpets. He passed numerous statues of himself. He’d commissioned artists to fill the castle with their talents during its construction, and appreciated the labor that had gone into each gifted piece, but there were times when he wished he didn’t have to look at these statues. They were strangers cut from marble, but the craftsmen had worked too hard to have their efforts spurned just because of his discomfort. The stone kings watched him, small as a pawn, shuffle across the shining floor.
He found himself in front of a large set of oak doors, a mirror hanging on the wall beside it. An argument reigned inside, and he could pick apart some of the words, but let them go before he could process the bulk of the conflict. He lingered there for a moment, examining the intricate carvings embedded in the wood and wiping away dust with his fingers. He turned to look in the mirror.
His orchid’s singular eye stared back at him. His robes were a bit wrinkled. Hair somewhat amiss. The ghost at his shoulder scoffed in derision, examining his untidiness with irritation.
He was dressed in dark robes that gleamed with light, like oil on his dough. His hair was an astral spill, soft curls of white and midnight black falling over the mark on his forehead. He shared the same eyes as Pure Vanilla, but they were sunken, lashes swept low and eyebags dug deep.
Go on, then, said the ghost. Console them.
Pure Vanilla’s thumb caressed the door’s handle. “Let us talk at a later time, Fount. I must focus.”
Focus is meaningless, and you are a fool to think otherwise, he told him. The Fount’s tone had always been dull, like all the emotion had been siphoned out of him in death. It only ever showed in his face, and even then, Pure Vanilla saw what the Fount permitted.
You have a strange habit, the Fount went on, staring into the mirror. Pure Vanilla tilted his staff towards the door’s carvings. You wander the castle in exhausting, ridiculous paths, as though you hope to get lost in your own home. Perhaps then, someone will be made to seek you out. You wouldn’t be avoiding your own people, would you?
Pure Vanilla’s eyebrows knit together. “I walk to clear my mind.”
Some good that did you. Fount’s lips curled into a small, close-lipped smile. The inherent restraint involved made it look grotesque.
I did much the same when I was you, he said. Walking through my small tower in search of places where I could not be found. In response to my desperation, my Spire grew into an incomprehensible home. Staircases to nowhere, doors that led unsuspecting saps into pits of tar. Touching, isn’t it?
A brief silence filled between them. Beyond the door, the argument had escalated.
“Did you like it?” Pure Vanilla asked.
It was a nice home, said the Fount, when it wasn’t filled with strangers.
“I don’t mind it, myself,” Pure Vanilla put in. “Vanilla Castle is open to all, especially my people. They are welcome to bring themselves and their burdens here.”
The Fount only laughed. Vanilla Castle? Oh, dear.
His form rippled, as though it were cast upon water, and vanished. Pure Vanilla looked at the mirror, which he was certain had not been there before, and was rather out-of-place on the tapestries. The Fount was only visible on reflective surfaces, though Pure Vanilla could hear his voice at any time, reverberating through the soul jam. When the specter spoke through it, the jewel warmed like a coal laid on his chest.
At the end of each of these discussions, he had to ask himself if he was dreaming. There was some fortune to be had in knowing they weren’t dreams, because he was unsure what these incidents would have meant if they were really a product of his own mind. Regardless, it was still surreal enough that he felt he needed to reassess: adjust the strands of his errant hair, smooth away wrinkles in his sleeves, rub at his eyes like a jeweler trying to pluck out topaz and tourmaline from mangled rock.
He couldn’t quite tell if that coolness on his shoulder, that appraising sense of scrutiny, hadn’t always been there.
⟡
As with many things in Pure Vanilla’s life, it had started with the soul jam. His trials had left him weary enough to miss the quiet hum emitting from the curio when he first held it in his hands. The cool, smooth relic felt a balm after everything he’d endured. In that moment of goodwill, he chose to minimize his unease. The Light of Truth was in his grasp, the thing he had not known he was searching for but was inexplicably drawn to nonetheless, a shimmering bastion of hope.
The first time he’d seen the Fount’s form had been at his coronation. He recalled the day with stark clarity: the weight of the embroidered cloak at his back and the orchid crown’s intense sweetness; the light trickling through the intricately carved windows, bathing High Priest Vanilla Cream and the dias in sheets of gold. White Lily stood closest to the dias, in a place of honor, watching the ceremony with a faint smile on her lips.
When the High Priest finished her prayer, he bent to allow her to lower the crown onto his head. The chapel-goers’ quiet applause filled his ears. He rose and saw the priest’s gentle, proud expression, her hands planted firmly over her robes. Nearby was one of the school-children who’d wandered a bit too close to the proceedings, staring starry-eyed at the newly minted monarch and tugging her wafer-coat over her robes. And behind her was a shadow that was far too tall to belong to her.
Pure Vanilla’s sight had not completely left him, then, so he was able to make out the shadow’s velvety edges and the sharp cut of a cheek. While everyone else had donned white for the occasion, the stranger was swathed in black, a mourner standing at the cusp of celebration. The sunlight which so brilliantly lit the chapel somehow evaded them, but there were clusters of glittering pinpricks around their shoulders, reminiscent of the smarting white spots Pure Vanilla got in his vision during migraines. Trying to make out where the individual started and the shadow began was making his eyes hurt, despite the minimal distance between them.
His first thought was to invite the stranger into the sun. There was no need for them to be sequestered away like that. But soon he was surrounded by his people, their tongues tasting the words your majesty for the first time, the children falling into clumsy bows, and the silhouette eluded him.
The Fount made it a point to appear in crowds after that. When Pure Vanilla was speaking to larger groups, in the midst of them would be the stranger dressed in a long column of ink-colored silk, imposing as an obelisk but producing no shadow or rousing the attention of his peers. Wind tore through the street, pulling hair and pinching at frothy dress ruffles, but the stranger remained untouched. And, in the sunlight, it was easier to notice the color of his eyes, and the strange mark pulsing on their forehead.
No one in the kingdom dressed like that. Many of the Vanillians had been shepherds or farmers who’d chosen to abandon their homesteads to follow Pure Vanilla on his trials. They were a simple people, who preferred light robes and knitted shawls or ponchos when they had colorful fabrics to spare. No one owned silk - not even the king, though he could likely afford it, and had shared silk garments during his visits to Dark Cacao’s kingdom - much less a silk so shining and pristine. If they were an esteemed individual from someplace else, they were being unusually withdrawn. Was he not being forthcoming enough? Was his hospitality lacking?
The day the Fount spoke to him, it was following the aftermath of a particularly devastating storm. The citizens were still getting used to the abnormal weather patterns of their skybound kingdom, and the internal waterways that had served to supply them with water so effectively before proved to be a hazard when the streets flooded after a surplus of rain. Pure Vanilla had ushered everyone affected into the castle, and after checking on those who were well and dry within their homes, spent much of the evening tending to the sopping cookies in the infirmary. The few attendants he had on hand scurried about carrying hot towels, blankets, and cups of freshly brewed tea.
He stood by one of the empty cots, resting from magical overexertion. There weren’t many wounds, but he was thoroughly exhausted from his search earlier. He didn’t want to sit around while it was possible someone was in need of his aid, so he kept himself standing to make sure no one would hesitate to approach. After tending to a few more shallow cuts, he was pulled into his councilroom with a few other cookies.
Court magi and a handful of sages were present. High Priest Vanilla Cream’s student, Priestess Vanilla Crumble Cookie, was one of them, her hair arranged in artful curls around her blue stole. All of them wore some sort of jewelry resembling the soul jams, blessed by his own magic. Pure Vanilla nodded to them all and took a seat at the table. The discussion centered around the waterways and what enchantments needed to be inscribed in the stone to fix the flow of the water and prevent flooding. He’d expected this and had prepared for it, but not the sudden questioning.
“It was oddly sudden,” Priestess Vanilla Crumble was saying, tucking a curl behind her ear. A scribe nearby jotted down her words, their head disappearing into the tall, wafer cone hat they wore. “Warm and pleasant one minute, tormented by torrent the next. I simply cannot fathom it.”
“Weather is often unpredictable,” Pure Vanilla offered, “and the best thing we can do is learn from our efforts to-”
“Can you not glean such a thing, your Majesty?” she asked abruptly. One of the sages looked at her, aghast at her brazen interruption. She looked the picture of obedience, snow-white hair and hands planted in her clean robes. Her eyes, however, were appraising.
“The weather?” he repeated. “No, such manipulation is not within the realm of my capabilities. I sorely wish it were.”
She frowned. “Surely the power of the soul jam is not so limited.”
“My speciality lies in the healing arts,” he admitted. “And white magic is not so useful for clairvoyance.”
Her lips flattened into a thin line. She was staring at his soul jam with a sharp, scrutinizing look, but said nothing for the rest of the meeting while they drafted plans for new enchantments and scheduled a second. Pure Vanilla sent out the sages to clear the streets once the rain had stopped, and the Court magi retreated to their chambers outside the central castle. When it was just him and the priestess left, and gathered up her skirts and swept past him.
“My mother crowned you king because she’d received a vision,” she said. “She saw you crowned with a halo of light. And when you returned from your arduous trials, you had such a circlet, and its light emanated from the relic in your possession.” The priestess’s head turned slightly, her lips pursed with concern. “A vision like that can’t possibly be an ill omen. I would rather you not give me reason to presume as much.”
She left in a flourish of white, slippers swish-swishing against the tile. The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind her.
So it begins. I wondered when that would be.
Pure Vanilla flinched. Behind him stood his shadow - up close, he could make out gold detailing on his cuffs and scarf. In the hollow of his sleeves, he carried a glowing sphere, bony fingers tapping its delicate surface.
“It’s you,” he mumbled, half incredulous. He rubbed his eyes out of reflex, though he couldn’t see through them anymore. “The one I’ve been seeing…are you a vision?”
You could call me a premonition. He made a vague motion with his hands, and the sphere vanished. What is your plan?
“My plan?”
Your allies are beginning to distrust you. Your people will return to their homes to find their belongings carried out by the current. Your primary source of water is filled with sewage gunk, The stranger rattled off, voice dull. The only thing that keeps this incident from being called a catastrophe is the meager population. But I suppose even you have enough time to cultivate hatred among your historians.
“Distrust? Hatred?” he echoed. “What are you talking about? This was a tragedy, but it needn’t remain that way. Sorcerers are out replenishing the water supply and helping families locate their belongings. We will rebuild, as we always have.”
That woman, the stranger said. Did she ask you about those things?
“No,” he admitted.
She asked about your soul jam. She is concerned with the source of your power, rather than the issues you’ve addressed. Do you know why? Because she thinks she could use it better than you.
“She is only curious!”
She thinks wouldn’t have failed them all so horribly, the stranger hissed. She would have been able to reach into the soul jam and wrangle out any type of magic with ease. Better than that king. Too weak, too ill-informed about the light which chose him. Her mother sees visions, so the daughter must be a god.
Pure Vanilla shook his head. The stranger’s claims struck him, gavel to block. He spoke like he knew the priestess personally, but that couldn’t be possible, or else Pure Vanilla would have heard word of it. “Her harshness stems from grief, not greed. She speaks out of compassion for her fellow Vanillians.”
And in doing so chooses to strike at their king. Let us call that compassion, too, since you wish to call greed grief. A lie upon a lie upon a lie.
Pure Vanilla stared at him. “Who are you?” On what authority did he speak about the Vanilla Kingdom and its inhabitants? The priestess’s chastising hadn’t stirred him up like this conversation.
The stranger’s eyes shone down at him, glittering. More noticeable were the deep eyebags beneath, and the iridescent gleam of their floating form. I am the Fount. Pure Vanilla waited, but there was no elaboration.
As though reading his mind, the Fount’s lips twitched. They curved into a half-moon smile, or something that should have been a smile.
Worry not, Pure Vanilla Cookie. You do not need to know me, because you will become me.