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The Sage of Truth chuckles gently, when a little Cookie balls her hands into nervous fists and works up the courage to ask him her very first question. The first, but probably not the last, given how many twists and turns any Cookie lifetime tends to take: the visitors line up for him every day, after all, winding around and around his garden courtyard. The questions never cease. Advice, predictions, analysis. Even if he stayed awake and lucid all the time, tranquil and understanding, perched untiring on the edge of a soft milk fountain, the Sage of Truth would not be able to answer them all. He is Knowledge, a Virtue, but only a Cookie, too. Everyone forgets.
“T-this will be a silly question, Sage,” the little Cookie warns.
“Heheh. No need to worry. I make time for the very silliest of questions,” the Sage of Truth promises. “And I’m sure yours isn’t one of the silliest.” He doesn’t say that he prefers the silly, surprising questions, sometimes; he doesn’t say that it has occasionally haunted him, being asked to direct the course of a Cookie’s life with his advice, knowing he’ll be held accountable and whispered about mercilessly if he fails to guide someone as well as they expect. If they still end up crumbled, guilty or sad, despite bringing him an offering of books or ink or riddles.
“Every day, I carry milk in my lunch bag… but when I don’t drink it on time, it tastes yucky. So… how do you keep something from going bad if you still love it? How can I keep milk from spoiling? The milk fountains in your garden are all so nice…”
The Sage of Truth can’t tell the little Cookie what a strange and emotional question she’s brought to him, actually. He can’t bring himself to crouch down and confess that… in all the timelines, all the possible worlds… he is the only version of himself that remains uncorrupted, unspoiled. That some things, as hard as they try, are prone to souring. That they would surely be grateful, if they could understand that they are loved regardless. That someone would still take a sip, knowing they could be sour; that someone would fight to protect them from their own tendencies.
The Sage tells this little Cookie about temperature and time, about ice stowed carefully in her lunch bag. He tells her it may be unwise to take milk with her on a hot, hot day, and confesses that… while it is kept chilled, preserved with magic… the milk in all his sweeping courtyard fountains still curdles, sometimes. Transforming into cheese or yogurt rivers if the conditions are right. Seeping into rot, if they aren’t, so that he has to change it back.
“Will you please teach me a spell to keep milk cold? What do you use?”
“Mm… what I use works best for big Cookies and grand ancient fountains. But I’ll write a little spell for you here… don’t be discouraged if it doesn’t work right away. Oh! Ask a grownup to help you, please, for everyone’s sake.”
“Oh! Okay! Thank you, Sage of Truth.
“Mm-hmm. Farewell.”
“Bye-bye!”
That Timekeeper Cookie didn’t ask the Sage about his methods of preserving himself… the paths he took out of corruption, unlike every Shadow Milk Cookie before or since. She didn’t ask, but perhaps she knows it’s something he works on day to day to day. A process that will never be over, a decision he made and just keeps making. He will never stop being a version of Shadow Milk Cookie, beneath the calm, practiced expressions he wears. All the fountains still flow with milk, with Knowledge, and not something steadier.
On a whim, he considers a guide for the process in the back of his head, as he continues answering other pilgrims’ questions.
- It’s About Time and Temperature
The Sage of Truth seems so far away to all the Cookies that come visit him, here… like another species, perched above, speaking Truth instead of opinions, never weighing in with anything too personal… but truly he’s just another living thing. A lonely playwright, scribbling on a manuscript in his tower once he’s closed up shop for the day. Lying on his stomach, kicking his feet, quill pen scratching on the parchment as he chortles, “Hohoho, that’s a good one,” like an earnest fool. He needs time away from all of this, away from himself, if he’s going to keep from letting obligation and blame and frustration consume him.
Over the centuries, the Sage of Truth has worn so many identities. Most Cookies don’t know that: if they knew it was him walking the world beside them, it would spoil the game. It wouldn’t be time away from himself, then, now would it? He’s published books and run theaters under other names… he’s had casual romantic flings and taught classes using pretend faces. If he didn’t feel that he could become serpent-quick and wiggle away, he could’ve felt so trapped here in his gardens! If he had to be the All-Knowing Benevolent Sage, So Far Away From Everyone all the time… well.
He knows too well what happens, then. So he can feel less guilt when he locks the spelled golden gates all around his gardens and sets mechanical sun-and-moon-guards patrolling before disappearing for a while. As long as he needs to feel right again: maybe a day, maybe a handful of months. Of course he thinks he’s letting Cookies down, but would they rather see what he could become at his worst?
The Sage of Truth answers questions about a dispute between siblings, and then which degree path someone should pursue at Parfaedia University. The sun climbs higher, leaving him uncomfortably warm in his fancy twinkling blue robes. He casts the spell he taught that little Cookie on his own dough to keep from stewing, from sweating. Some Cookies can roll up their sleeves, in weather like this, but not the Sage.
Not unless he’s walking in disguise, at least.
2. It’s About Avoiding What Ails It: Stay Out of the Hot, Hot Sun
It’s hard to stop spinning a question around and around, for someone like the Sage of Truth, with a sticky, curious mind. If he keeps asking himself a corrosive, rotting question… why did the Witches create us only to abandon us? Why did my friends betray me? Why was I designed to stand alone? … it will seep into everything else about him, like spilled milk spreading, sinking into the carpet. So, what he has to do is keep his thoughts entertained! Keep the world full of intriguing questions and theories; keep himself wondering about so much more than his own sorry lot, his own pile of infuriating unanswerable questions. He has to become a spectator, sometimes, and let the world amuse him.
When the Sage of Truth can’t stop himself from ruminating through his own will… when he can’t pry his mind away from curdling hurt and pain and resentment as easily as usual… he turns to the Cookies beyond himself. He is so used to being the storyteller, he sometimes can’t bear to do this, from world to world, probably. But anyway, he can manage it, here: he goes to watch other interesting Cookies live their lives, pretending they’re the protagonists of the universe. He reads novels, becomes invested in what choices other Cookies will make all by themselves. The world is wide, and funny, and inspiring! If milk keeps being poured from vessel to vessel, it will have less chance to clot. If the Sage is trying to work out a complicated formula, he has something fresh to live for. He can hide from his shadows for a while.
The Sage of Truth answers questions about unhealthy patterns, about Cookies who want so badly to stand up for themselves but don’t know where to begin. Then he answers questions about what gummy crops would grow best on a newly-purchased plot of land.
Finally, he meets a shuffling, soft-smiling Cookie who looks like a shepherd, with golden-cream hair and dusty boots. He carries a bandaged staff, with even more bandages wound over his eyes. His smile is so pure, regardless, without calculation or apparent pain.
He says, “I didn’t realize I was supposed to bring you an offering. I’m sorry. I have a pack of homemade tarot cards… with the designs raised a little, and braille, because I have trouble seeing without magic. Would those work, for a question? Or… two questions, really.”
“Two questions?”
“Yes, please.”
If the Sage of Truth weren’t doing well in his own mind… if thoughts of being used and alone were already circling around and around inside him… a request like this would have stung. He might have wanted someone else to taste the oppression of it, the injustice. But as it is, he curls the Cookie’s hand back around his homemade tarot deck and refuses to take it. He says, alright, fine. Let’s have your questions.
3. Sometimes, There’s Help
“I am my village’s Healer — ahh, in what used to be the Vanilla Kingdom,” the Cookie says, bowing his head politely. “My first question is about a sickness I’ve been facing back home, untouchable by magic and herbs. I can ward off some of the symptoms, but they always come back… no Cookies have crumbled, thank the Light, but… but…”
“But you traveled a long way to find me,” the Sage says, heart softening. “Describe the symptoms to me in detail, and let’s see what Knowledge I have to give.”
The Healer Cookie does, sounding genuinely, effortlessly worried about all the Cookies back home. It’s curious how nothing in him seems like a performance. How calming and sweet his voice is. He kneels at the Sage’s feet, hands pressed together piously, and the Sage suddenly feels embarrassed, compelled to ask him to stand. To go sit on a bench, together, and talk this out. He doesn’t, but he wants to. For a moment, he imagines it, the two of them there as equals, shoulders brushing.
They concur that a sickness quite like this one hasn’t been recorded before; they come up with a concoction the Healer can try next, a blend of magic and medicine. The Sage of Truth writes it down for him, but then hesitates for a moment before handing the page over.
“If this doesn’t work, come back before you…”
Before you blame me. Before you hate me. Before you tell anyone that I tricked you. You’ve been kind, so please don’t be like them…
“You’re inviting me back?!” The Healer Cookie beams. “Then maybe that answers my other question.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Your other question.”
“It’s… it’s actually partly a confession, too. I heard something I wasn’t supposed to. A couple days ago, before I joined the back of the line.”
“Oh, Witches… you waited in the line for days? As your village sickens…”
“Many Cookies wait longer. You’re very wise and popular. But my point is, I didn’t know where the line started, at first, and I ended up wandering in your hedge maze for a while.”
“Mm… sorry about that.”
“No, no! I found my way through. And when I did, I realized I’d taken a terrible shortcut! I was in your private home! So, I backed away quickly, don’t worry. But before I did… um. Please don’t be angry.”
The Sage of Truth sighs. A few days ago, he was visited by Timekeeper Cookie; a few days ago, he had that strange, fateful conversation about all his other selves. Every other Shadow Milk Cookie variant, somehow corrupted. And how can he be sure it won’t happen to him, eventually, if he slips too far? How can he be certain it isn’t just a matter of not yet…?
“Let me guess,” the Sage offers. “You heard me speaking with a visitor, caught scattered words about other timelines, and perhaps you wonder about your other selves. Or perhaps you’ve grown afraid… or you want me to change the past somehow…?”
“What? No!”
“No?”
“I heard you tell your visitor that no one ever asks you about yourself. That was shocking, really… I’m sure other Cookies are interested. But I heard how happy it made you, to get a question about who you are, so I decided it might not be a huge imposition if I asked to get to know you better.”
“Get to know me. Really?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to become pen-pals.” The Healer laughs, a gentle, self-deprecating laugh. “But please, feel free to say no. I promise, I can think of lots of questions to ask about you. And you’d only have to answer the ones you want to.”
“What an odd request. Intriguing. Impertinent.”
Do you know what I am? What I was made for? A Virtue, a forever-stranger, a voice of Knowledge. Do you know what I’m afraid you could do with my letters? All the many ways you could ruin my position and credibility, if I put my honest self in your hands?
Do you know how long I’ve waited for someone to ask something like this?
“Sage of Truth…?”
The Sage of Truth says yes. Yes, please. Yes. He gives the Healer Cookie a spell to slip letters to him instantaneously, and tries not to get his hopes up.
He doesn’t have anything to worry about.
Here are the Healer’s first questions:
What was your name before it was the Sage of Truth? If you don’t like it, do you want a new one? Is there a nickname I should call you? I won’t mind if you keep calling me “Healer,” but you could call me “Vanilla,” too, for now.
Do you like raisin jellies? Where I live, a lot of things are made of raisins. Plenty of raisin crows try to steal my pens as I am writing! Haha. If you don’t like them, what do you like?
If I tell you that I added a little to the medicine plan we came up with and now it’s working, would it make you happy? Would you like this new recipe, to add to your library?
The Sage of Truth thinks of the little Cookie trying to keep milk safe. How do you keep something from going bad if you still love it? Really, this life can still be so, so fun. It can still surprise him, too, and maybe it’ll get better than even Knowledge incarnate could’ve imagined. Maybe it’s getting better right this moment, and he has a response letter to write back in braille.
The Sage doesn’t realize he’s crying until… suddenly… he has to hide the Healer Cookie’s first letter away before it’s ruined.