Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Rumors weren’t a new thing. The Fount of Knowledge was well aware of them, and did nothing to stop them. They were the natural course of Knowledge that was not yet solidified and it was his duty, once upon a time, to nurture it.

He had long since grown used to how mortal cookies would assume whatever they want, spin tales that suited their narrative and be upset if it was taken apart by the Truth. The Fount of Knowledge knew that they adored their lies and Deceit, so he let them indulge in it occasionally. There was no Truth without Deceit, no Knowledge without facts.

It didn’t mean he liked it. He hated the way these useless mortal cookies would create stories about him and his ‘friends’. They were gods, they were angels sent by the Witches. They were anything but what they were. Cookies with emotions and feelings like them, cookies who could hurt and cry.

They all had to be perfect. Give their all and get nothing in return. Rid the world of suffering with Happiness, keep the tides of Change moving. Bring them together in Solidarity, Bring their wishes to reality through sheer Volition.

He hated it. He hated it all. The Fount barely managed to save Whi-... Mystic Flour. With everything he had, he still was barely able to save the one cookie he’d known since the beginning. Even then he knew it was pointless. The cookies would find another way to get after the ‘riches’ that his ‘friend’ held within her Pagoda without caring for the destruction they would bring in their wake.

The Fount hated them, hated them all. He wishes they would crumble and let him and his ‘friends’ live in peace.

But they wouldn’t. So the Fount continued to pretend to care. He pretended to care for days at a time, years at a time. He pretended to feel sad, to feel happy at their woes or joys. He had long since given up caring for them eons ago.

There was NOTHING left for him anymore. No one to care for, no one to talk to. His ‘friends’ had long since disappeared from his life anyways. The only ones who've stayed even close are the ones he’s raised by hand. Only one of them is alive now after all of his effort, all of his care. Even if Sweet Sapphire has so many friends that would follow him anywhere, follow the Fount anywhere.

Even if he fell into the whispers that plagued him everyday, that told him he could just let go. He knew that there would be those to follow him but they didn’t know him. No one did anymore. Not even himself. Did he ever truly know himself? Those answers felt so easy to answer before, now it felt like they were miles away.

Snap .

The Fount flinched, looking down at the needle and thread he was holding. He hadn’t even realized his grip had gotten that tight until the needle snapped in half, one side burying itself in his dough and the other hanging from the thread that was still threaded through the eye.

Carefully, he pulled out the needle in his hand and threw it away with magic. It dissolved as it floated through the air and a new needle was brought to him by a little bunny assistant. He did not thank it.

Truthfully, he didn’t even know why he was doing this. He stared at the clothing in his hands, clothing made for a doll. He had snapped the needle on the final stitch on the pants he made for it. The Fount quietly snipped the thread instead of trying to rethread it into the new needle. With shaky but gentle hands, he gently knotted the two thread sides together and finished the stitch.

The pants were beautifully hand crafted as usual and he carefully put them on the doll that they were intended for. Its eyes stared at him unblinking, unfeeling and never to be alive. The Fount didn’t even know why he was doing this anymore. The child that he would’ve made this for was long dead. Had been dead for nearly four millennia now. He can’t even remember the last time that her descendants visited him

… Lemon Meringue was her name, wasn’t it? The Fount could still remember her biological mother begging him to save her after he arrived at their destroyed village. He still remembers the screams of cookies who were being crumbled by the monsters that decided to attack.

The Fount had agreed to the dying mothers request, he had to so many other mothers. But he can’t remember the reason why he decided to raise Lemon Meringue. Witches, he can’t even remember her face. He just remembers the way her voice would shoot up so many octaves when she showed him her report card, when she showed him a new spell she had managed to pull together from just his teachings and what she learned from spying on her classmates…

He remembered how she always admired his handwork, she was the reason he learned how to properly sew clothing. She threw a fit every time that the Fount tried to dress her in something that wasn’t hand crafted by him. 

She was a hassle, even more so when she learned about dollmaking. He… He did pick it up from her, didn’t he? That was the first and only time she ever managed to get something over him. The Fount stared at the doll in his hand. Even remembering her barely made him cry.

If anything, he barely felt anything at all. She existed and died like all cookies do. But here he was, making a doll that existed to be given to no one. At least it was beautiful.

One gold eye, one blue. Tan dough that held no warmth in it. Long golden hair that was pulled into a low ponytail at the base of its neck. Its curtain bangs revealed the four pointed star marking that sat on its forehead. The Fount just stared at it.

His hands moved without his permission. First put on were the pants that he just finished sewing. Navy blue flared ruffle pants with a black corset to bring it together with a white button up shirt with long puff sleeves. Quietly, he adjusted the brown shawl tippet around its shoulders and made it settle properly.

He heard a little crack from somewhere on the doll but he ignored it. Why should he care?

It was perfect. It was hideous in every way and the Fount hated it for existing. He only made it just to ignore the outrage outside of his Spire, to ignore the cookies who demanded he stop telling them ‘lies’.

Lies. Lies they called the Truth . He did nothing but his duty to them and yet he was a liar, the grandest. That he hid the world's truth from them and they DEMANDED to know. To know what? That the Witches only made them out of chance, that their original purpose in life was to be eaten? They would reject that Truth and demand he tell them the ‘TRUTH’.

Worthless. All of them. None of them were important enough to dance on the stage that he and his fellow Virtues performed on. None of them could understand the pain or struggle to exist as they did. All of them demanded the power of their Soul Jam’s and he would rather crumble than give them his soul.

… Tomorrow he would go to the last temple that the Witches created before disappearing. Tomorrow he would beg his creator, his ‘mother’, for guidance. If she didn’t finally listen to him in his hour of need…

Well. Then it just meant she didn’t care what he would do to the cookies of this world next. That they could do whatever they wanted to the actors who tried to overstep their roles in this play. The Fount… He’d decide how he felt about that tomorrow. Tomorrow he will be fine no matter the outcome.

He unceremoniously put down the doll in the stand he had made for it. Depending on how the morrow went, he would probably discard it in the flames of this world. In the flames of the life that he considered his.

… He was tired. The Fount leaned on his desk quietly. He could still faintly hear the outrage burning outside of his spire, demanding he tell them their truth. The Fount ignored it. He had to. He had to he had to he had to he had to.

Sleep came to him steadily. The grace of the moon lulled him into a sense of security, attempting to wash away the woes he felt and give him respite. Soft whispers of comfort instead of the grating, mocking voice of the cookie he would become. The cookie he was happy to become. The Fount let her gentle coaxing steal him away one last time.




His dreams were always odd flashes of colors and feelings. Premonitions of things to come, to things that have happened. The Fount’s more usual dreams consist of arguing with the Light of Knowledge, how it seems to be frustrated with his growing unhappiness and anger. It just didn’t understand. Why couldn’t it understand?!

But his dreams didn’t usually begin with the knowledge that he was still awake. They did not begin with the feeling of someone running their hands through his hair. The Fount’s dreams did not begin with him opening his eyes to see two very familiar mismatched ones staring down at him with eyes that shined in curiosity.

It was like a bucket of ice water was splashed all over him. The Fount’s eyes widened in surprise and he shot up to his feet from where he was sitting down. The Doll he had just created stared back at him with wide, innocent eyes. It moved like it was alive . But that couldn’t be possible. It shouldn’t be. The Fount can’t make life, he’s tried and tried before and-

“You’re… the one who made me.” The doll spoke. The Fount’s world was shattering and rebuilding itself within seconds as he stared at this little doll. He watched it reach a hand out to him like a child asking for him to pull them up. He…

The Fount gently took the doll’s hand and pulled it up. It squeaked in surprise and stumbled straight into the Fount’s arms. The doll was like a little baby fawn that had just been born. The doll’s legs were trembling beneath himself.

He found it cute. It was odd. The Fount knew this doll wasn’t real and yet he still found it cute.

“This is… weird.” The Doll spoke as it slowly got control of his feet and legs. It was smiling brightly, innocently. It made the Fount so angry at its innocence yet at the same time he felt so charmed.

“You aren’t meant to be alive.” The Fount spoke what he thought without care. If the Truth hurts it, then it has no business being alive.

The Doll nodded instead of cried. Very slowly pushing himself off of the Fount and beaming as if he had done something that the Fount should be proud of. “I’m not meant to be, yet I am.” His hand was gently taken by both of the dolls. The Fount stared in amazement at it.

“You made me, didn't you?” The doll was so sweet. The Fount wanted to puke. “My name. You gave it to me, didn’t you? Pure Vanilla? Is that what you called me?”

Had he? He didn’t remember giving it a name. Yet the doll, Pure Vanilla, stared back at him in wonder and amazement. He looked so alive, so precious like this. It was revolting. It was fascinating. The Fount wanted to know more about it.

Pure Vanilla began going on about something but the Fount ignored him, instead looking around at where the two of them were. The area that both of them had woken up in was the garden in the center of the Spire. The yogurt lake of Rebirth was nearby alongside with his personal garden from one of the cookies that he had raised eons ago.

He could tell immediately that it wasn’t the real one. The lake was too pristine, too perfect. None of the scorch marks from the last time that he let another cookie into this place were there. It almost looked straight out of his memories from the time that the cookie who helped make this place was alive.

It felt… safe. Comforting, even. The Fount quietly looked back at Pure Vanilla who had begun looking around too like he had been almost as if mimicking him. He could see the way Pure Vanilla was so curious about everything, anything. It was practically like looking into a mirror that reflected his younger self. The Fount hated it.

“Do you know this place?” he asked to try and figure out what was going on. It was new, it was strange. He hated not knowing everything but at the same time it felt so good to not know.

Pure Vanilla shook his head slightly, shuffling back and letting go of his hand finally. The Fount silently thanked the stars. “I woke up here and saw you lying on the ground. I thought you would be uncomfortable like that so I put your head in my lap and you woke up a few minutes afterwards.”

So they had no clues. Just that they weren’t here one moment, and then they were the next. That Pure Vanilla was a lifeless doll one minute, then alive and staring at him with such wonder the next. The Fount didn’t know what to make of it.

He didn’t stop Pure Vanilla from taking his hand again and dragging him forward. “We should explore! Who knows what's here?” The doll reasoned. Dolls can’t reason  — why is he even entertaining this idea? Surely this is just a trap made by the Light of Knowledge to try and keep him caged.

But it was so normal. The Fount watched Pure Vanilla wander the garden in wonder. The doll would kneel down to observe animals that didn’t move. He would gently hold a hand out and touch plants as if they were sacred and fragile. The doll lived with such innocence that made the Fount angry .

How dare he be this innocent in a world so cruel. How dare he. Kindness didn’t belong to this world and it didn’t deserve such gentle consideration.

“Creator!” Pure Vanilla smiled up at him with the radiance of several suns. “Do you know what this is?”

…

“It’s a hydrangea flower.” The Fount floated slightly over to where Pure Vanilla was knelt down in front of the hydrangea.

He watched Pure Vanilla’s eyes widen and sparkle. He hated how precious it looked like this. Like it was truly alive. The Fount watched as Pure Vanilla launched himself up and over to the azalea bush. “And this?”

“Azalea.”

Pure Vanilla gently carded a hand through the azalea buds with gentleness that no life deserved. Why was it so gentle, so kind? It reminded the Fount of himself when he was younger. It was disgusting.

The name game of flowers and plants around the garden continued. Every bit of Knowledge that the Fount gave Pure Vanilla only made him seek out more with an even brighter smile and softer kindness. It was almost like the earlier days when cookies didn’t know anything and sought him out in earnest for what he knew. Before they…

…

It felt nice to share insignificant pieces of information. Things that didn’t matter, things that were so small that he would have forgotten if he wasn’t baked to be unable to forget. It was nice to see the doll that he had made, that couldn’t have been influenced by him, to be so fascinated by the world. To be so captivated by the secrets it held like he was. Like he still is.

Pure Vanilla was a nice audience. He kept asking questions about meaningless things that the Fount barely had to think about. How plants spread and bloomed, why some animals were vastly different from the others. The Fount struggled for the first time to explain why a bird was so different to a little rabbit that Pure Vanilla had found.

How could he explain the concept of the Witches baking their entire world and evolution via magic exposure to a doll that knew nothing of the world? The Fount didn’t know for once. He struggled and Pure Vanilla didn’t once yell at him. Never once seemed disinterested, always enamored by the Fount even if he struggled for words.

He wanted to gag .

“Creator,” Pure Vanilla caught his attention again. The doll was holding up one of the frozen bunnies. It moved like a doll instead of Pure Vanilla. “Do you have a name?”

The Fount had been talking and stopped mid vowel when he was asked that. He knew that Pure Vanilla meant it in innocence but that question made him spiral. Cookies have been demanding the name beneath his title for nearly three millennia now. Demanding to know who he was and how to use him. He’s heard the rumors about what his ‘true name’ could give a person. Infinite wisdom or control over him. No one has ever been worthy enough to know who he was beneath the Virtue they wanted him to be.

But Pure Vanilla was staring up at him with such innocence. The little doll had no possible way of knowing who he was or what he could do for it. Yet the Fount still felt so terrified of that question. But he was expected to answer…

“Creator?”

If he shared his title, would Pure Vanilla want to know more about the world? Would he lose this disgusting innocence? Would he become like those cookies that were still outside his spire, still trying to break down the door and demand all of the knowledge that he harbored deep within his soul?

“Creator-!”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. This bit of innocence to life was so new and fresh. Even children never had it! They had long since been influenced by the adults to disregard any and all kindness they could have from a young age. All of them were greedy and despicable. All of them were monsters and disgusting!

But like this... He could nurture Pure Vanilla into the perfect cookie. He could make this doll into the perfect companion! He could get a friend, finally a friend that was HIS . Perfect for him and just like him. The Fount wouldn’t be alone anymore in this crushing duty and he could have someone aaaalllll to himself.

It could be perfect. THEY had to be perfect-

Crack .

The Fount finally looked at Pure Vanilla. Black tendrils had risen from the depths of his shadow and wrapped around the doll. They squeezed it tightly and there was a crack running across his face, barely missing his eyes. He hurt him. The Fount hurt another living creature.

He stumbled back. The shadowy tendrils came with him and stopped suffocating the doll. Pure Vanilla collapsed onto his knees in confusion, staring at him with little tears already falling from his eyes. The Fount nearly crumbled him.

“Creator..?” Pure Vanilla still was gentle. Even after getting hurt by him, it was still looking up at him in curiosity. “What was..?”

He…

The Fount ran. He ignored the faint call of ‘Creator!’ behind him. He was disgusting for hurting someone else. Pure Vanilla didn’t even deserve it like the other cookies of this world did. He did nothing wrong. It was brought into this world barely hours before and yet it was already hurt. By the Fount of all cookies.

He was meant to protect, he was meant to care for cookies. He wasn’t meant to hurt them or crumble them. The Fount was worthless and useless and nothing good ever came from his existence!

It would be better if he-


Woke up.

The Fount shot up from where he was laying on his desk. He was hyperventilating wasn’t he? All over a dream? Pathetic. He was the main actor, the Fount could not be this weak. He forced his breathing to come back together, forcing himself back under control. He had to be perfect, he had to be godly. Gods do not break apart over dreams .

It took only moments before his heart slowed down and his breathing silenced itself. The Fount buried his head in his hands quietly. What a disgusting dream. Was this the Light of Knowledge trying to taunt him, deceive him? Give him something he’s always wanted, someone who could understand him, and then let him destroy it?

…

He stood up and the doll stand rattled ever so slightly. The Fount barely glanced at it, expecting it to look the same. He was a few feet from the door when he let himself understand what he had just seen. Ever so slowly, he turned back around and floated towards the desk.

The doll… No, Pure Vanilla was silently standing there in his stand. Eyes lightless, and body cold. By all means, the doll should not have been changed. Nothing about it should have changed since it was his dream that he escaped from.

…

But there was a crack on its face, trailing from the middle of its neck up to the top of his head. Against all logic and reason, the doll was damaged. The Fount gently picked it up in his hand, letting it sit limply in his hand.

There was no other damage to it besides for the crack on his neck and face. The crack that the Fount had made. He blemished its perfection and ruined its innocence. The Fount stared at it and gently pushed a thumb against the crack. The crack in its dough faded away and mended itself. Pure Vanilla was perfect again.

He put the doll away so he could never hurt it again.







The Fount forgot about visiting the temple. Instead, for the next two days, he waited. He waited for the doll to come back to life. He waited every time he fell asleep to suddenly see Pure Vanilla’s eyes staring down at him in disgust. It never came and it confused him deeply.

He checked the garden and the yogurt river of rebirth. They were the same as they had been in recent memory. The hydrangeas were withered, the azaleas had been burnt to a crisp two millennia ago. The rest of the garden was in similar disrepair besides for the river. The yogurt river wasn’t pristine like it had been in the dream, the depths of its waters was still a murky darkness that called to him over and over. Whispering that it could give him freedom, that it could save him.

The Fount ignored it like he had several times before.

But everything was how it always was. That piece of history in that dream was odd. It felt so real, and he felt like he was wide awake but none of it was real. The Fount could barely even feel any lingering magic that wasn’t his own. No one else had been there, nothing else had cast magic.

Did he bring the doll to life? No, surely not. It said it had a name, and the Fount knows he never gave it one. The Light of Knowledge couldn’t have done it, while it had mild sentience it couldn’t go against his wishes. It could guide him, it could help him, but not harm him. They were connected after all. The death of him meant the death of it.

So how did the doll come to life? Did his wish for a companion, a singular friend, truly go beyond what he wanted and brought him to life..? If so then… Perhaps…

The Fount stared down at the doll he had locked away in his closet as it rested in his hand. It was still pristine, still perfect. Cold and lifeless and yet the Fount found himself floating over to his bed with it. He set the stand up on his bedside table and sat the doll down. Adjusting it so that it almost looked like it was laying down as well.

He felt pathetic doing this. Was he truly so desperate for another actor on his stage that he would lower himself to a doll ? Something that didn’t even exist? Perhaps he was. That’s why he deserved to disappear and become the monster that the cookies of this world saw him as…

…

The Fount closed his eyes while gently holding the doll’s hand in his own. He was nothing but pathetic. He really should just give into the whispers that promised him freedom from this hell…



Like before, he woke up with his head in Pure Vanilla’s lap. Just like before, Pure Vanilla was carding his hand through the Fount’s hair with such gentle reverence. They met eyes and instead of fear, confusion or anger… Pure Vanilla looked relieved. Happy, even.

“Why are you happy?” The Fount asked before he could try to pull himself together and appear as he should as the proper creator of such a life. Pathetic… “I hurt you. Yet you are happy to see me again… Why..?”

Pure Vanilla’s more gentle smile relaxed into something that felt comforting. He wasn’t even scared, the Fount could tell immediately.

“Because you fixed me, didn’t you?” Pure Vanilla didn’t even have to explain what he meant. The crack that had been there previously was gone, after all… “And then put me away to try and not hurt me again.”

“You were conscious?”

“Vaguely. I knew what was going on but I couldn’t feel, see or hear anything.”

So he was spared from the monstrous two days it's been since they last met. Spared from having to hear the Fount slaughter cookies that broke into his spire to try and steal ‘back’ his Soul Jam. He could still feel the jam on his hands even if it wasn’t there in this dream.

The Fount wondered just how much Pure Vanilla knew. Was he aware of everything that happened in the Spire, or just the room he was in? Did he know that Black Sapphire had been reborn in the waters of the Yogurt River of Rebirth? He wondered deeply and yet…

He didn’t ask.

Something told him that the little doll would have asked if he knew. So the Fount did not reveal what the little doll did not need to know. Pure Vanilla had the mercy of ignorance, and the Fount would let him stay that way.

“Your hair is soft.” Pure Vanilla’s hand that was brushing through his hair came to rest on the Fount’s cheek. “Is it always like that?”

Was it? He… “I don’t know.” The Fount answered truthfully. “This is the first time anyone has touched my hair in a long time.”

Pure Vanilla hummed in response and went back to carding his hand through his hair. The Fount let himself lean into it silently. Pure Vanilla didn’t stop and kept just pampering him. It was nice to be pampered for once. Without strings attached, without the expectation of having to give himself up. It was… sweet.

“Creator. What’s it like out there?” Pure Vanilla was so sweet and innocent with the dagger he just stabbed into the Fount’s chest. “You seemed so scared when I asked for your name before and… I’m sorry.”

…

The Fount raised a hand and covered the doll’s mouth. He enjoyed the surprised expression that was given to him from Pure Vanilla. Perhaps he hadn’t been expecting that, perhaps he had expected to grovel for forgiveness and mercy from his ‘creator’.

He didn’t like being given such a grand title. He wasn’t… No. The Fount did not want to be a god to the doll. Pure Vanilla was alive, and reminded the Fount of himself back when the Witches were still around. Innocent and needing answers.

“You’re practically a newborn.” The Fount pulled back his hand and rolled over onto his side. He felt comforted by Pure Vanilla even if it wasn’t real. But maybe it was… He couldn’t tell if it was or not anymore. But he… He could pretend. “You didn’t know what would make me upset.”

“So I made you upset?” Why did Pure Vanilla have to sound like a kicked puppy like this? It was… Revolting? Cute? He couldn’t tell.

“... No. I simply… I got lost in my mind with your question.” The Fount raised a hand and took Pure Vanilla’s free hand in his own, gently rubbing over the knuckles of the doll. Its dough was cold but he felt alive.

“I’m sorry.”

The Fount sighed. Was this what the Witches felt like with them? When he and the other virtues were so curious and so quick to hurt themselves and the Witches as well... He felt so angry at him and yet he felt… relieved? Pure Vanilla was just like him and yet so different. No duty, no witch-given power. He was free with no destiny to tie him down.

Perhaps instead of trying to destroy himself by pleasing the mortal cookies of this world… Perhaps this was a sign that he didn’t need to destroy himself. The Fount could show this little doll how to be alive, how to be himself . He could try and teach the little thing to break free from the shackles of destiny.

Something he could never do. But… but he could teach Pure Vanilla.

“... my name.” The Fount looked back up at Pure Vanilla. The Doll looked upset, sad even. But he lit up in surprise and joy when he spoke. The Fount couldn’t understand why. “You… wanted to know it.”

Pure Vanilla’s hand hesitated in its movements for a moment. The Fount could almost feel the fear radiating from him. Pure Vanilla looked conflicted for just a moment. The conflict faded away back into a soft smile. The Fount knew that smile and felt disgusted that such a new existence knew how to do it immediately.

That wouldn’t do. He would teach Pure Vanilla otherwise.

“You don’t have to, Creator.” Pure Vanilla’s voice was soft and considerate and the Fount hated that being used for him. He wasn’t fragile. He was the lead actor — not some idiot who couldn’t perform his lines. “I don’t wish to make you upset.”

The Fount sighed gently. He pushed himself up to sit back on his legs and be face to face with Pure Vanilla. The poor doll looked scared for just a moment before pulling together the kindest and softest face he could. It made the Fount sick to his stomach. He would need to teach Pure Vanilla how to pretend better.

“I am not some god to worship.” The Fount gently scooted forward and began to adjust Pure Vanilla’s hair. Gently pushing back strands of hair that had gotten into his face and began to cover the star on his forehead.

He felt amusement in the soft yelp that Pure Vanilla let out when his blue strings wrapped around him and turned him around so that his back was facing the Fount. With gentle hands, he undid the ponytail he had given Pure Vanilla originally.

With an even softer touch, he began to braid the long golden hair. His blue strings keeping his fellow actor in place faded away when it was clear that Pure Vanilla didn’t plan to move away.

“... But you made me.” Pure Vanilla’s words were quiet, if there was noise anywhere else in this garden, the Fount wasn’t sure he would’ve heard those words. He hated hearing that phrase. “You are my god… How else should I..?”

“... I'm a friend.” The Fount refused to be a god. He would not be like the Witches when he eventually threw Pure Vanilla away to live his life without his guidance. There would be a day that Pure Vanilla would not need him anymore and the Fount would throw him away and embrace Deceit with his soul. “Not your god.”

“But-”

“I don’t care what you think.” The truth didn’t feel so hard to speak like this. “I am not your god. I… I am too imperfect to be a god.”

Pure Vanilla sat there quietly and nodded. The Fount continued to braid his hair. It was eerily quiet in this garden besides for the Fount’s own faint breathing. Predictably, Pure Vanilla did not breathe like he did. Would he get lonely like the Fount could, though?

If the little doll could be fearful and pretend not to be… Then he could be lonely. Perhaps he should make more dolls, just for Pure Vanilla to not be alone. He didn’t know if they would be alive like Pure Vanilla. Perhaps he should make some of his bunny servants into dolls instead.

Companions that would fill up the silent void. They could also help him keep watch of Pure Vanilla when he woke up. Even help him in teaching Pure Vanilla to stop being so kind and compassionate. Or maybe he should encourage it…

But that kindness and compassion would kill the little doll.

… The Fount would figure it out later. For now… For now he needs to give his new friend the name he asked for.

“... You want to know my name.” The Fount spoke again. He saw the way Pure Vanilla’s shoulders tensed up. He was still fearful and yet the doll was still being brave. It made him both disgusted and very slightly proud.

Is this what the Witches felt when they were made? It was an awful feeling. It was… a nice feeling. The Fount quietly finished the braid he was making and pushed it over Pure Vanilla’s shoulder. The doll sat there for a few moments before turning around again to look at him face to face.

It was sweet. The Fount found he didn’t mind being eye level with someone like this. For once, it felt like he was seeing an equal. Someone who could be just like him, someone that the Fount didn’t need to hide away from.

…

“Please, call me…”