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Sage has always been the sentimental type. He’s an expert at recognizing patterns, creating symbolisms and connecting dots. So every evening, as he’s packing up his things in the town square and watching the sun roll slowly over the horizon, bathing the skies in warm bright-red hues, he cannot help but giggle to himself. In front of him there’s an echo of a dark, hooded figure. In his chest there’s a warm afterglow of a meeting that happened so long ago. Truly, how quickly time flies.
It has become a routine, over the years they’d known each other. Almost every evening, once the streets are completely empty, once the books and props Sage uses for his lectures are safely stored away in his home, he sets out on the long trek up the Peak of Truth. Or rather what would be a long trek, if he wasn’t one of the most prolific magic users of all cookiekind. Levitation was hard to master, but every day he thanks his past self for taking the time to learn it.
His feet softly thud against the grass as he comes down, staring up at the shack his companion resides in. It’s not big by any means, a simple two-story building, the paint chipping away, wear and tear apparent over the years it has been standing here. Here and there, the texture would shift and change, mismatched in a hasty attempt to repair whatever damage was done. Just like a cakehound often looks like its owner, this house is a perfect representation of the cookie residing within. It brings a smile to Sage’s face as he approaches the front door.
The usual, cheerful rhythm of his knuckles against old wood rings out in the air. His breath hitches in anticipation as he waits for a few moments, before throwing the door open with all his usual fanfare - arms open wide, chest puffed out theatrically as if his mere presence is enough to bathe the world in a warm, golden light. “I’m here~!” he sings, letting his voice hold on a high note just long enough to be impressive.
It’s now that he would hear a somber sigh and the sound of shuffling footsteps alongside the steady rhythm of a cane hitting the ground. It’s now that the air would fill his head with the pleasant smell of a plant he cannot quite pinpoint the name of. An exasperated, bored reply would greet him, a bark with no bite, because a gentle arm would wrap around his shoulders anyway. He would be pulled into a brief embrace, and the entire world would cease its existence at once. The entire world but the cookie in front of him.
Nothing comes, however. The house is still, unusually so. The floor cold, the open window creaking slightly as it is moved by the wind. Sage opens his eyes, looking around, a frown etched onto his features. What he sees is a picture of pristine normalcy. Discarded books scattered around the room, discarded in places a book should most definitely not be in. A pile of dirty dishes on the counter that somehow keeps building up despite Sage’s consistent nagging. The couch is bare, blankets strewn about over the floor, a tripping hazard for any seeing man, much less one that can barely make out anything standing beyond a foot away.
“My recluse?” Sage’s voice rings out, clear and loud from his years of practice at the theatre. It carries cleanly into every crevice of the room. Nothing answers him but the distant howling of the weather outside.
This isn’t the first time Recluse has left without saying a word. He’s fickle like this. He comes and goes whenever he pleases, and there seems to be no part of him that ever wants to warn Sage about it. Sometimes he’s gone for only a day, sometimes for a week straight, leaving the other in an anxious spiral of worry. And no matter how often Sage tries to bring it up, there seems to be no end to the habit.
It could be worse, he supposes, sighing and moving further into the house, picking up the stray blankets on the way. Might as well clean up a little, remove the hazardous mess, wash the dishes. Pretend he’s doing it out of the goodness of his own heart, and not because of the gentle look Recluse gives him every time he gets to come back to a clean space he either has no energy or ability to tidy up otherwise.
The joyful tune Sage hums as his nimble hands work slowly on the mess echoes through the house. The dishes are washed. The floor swiped. Books are arranged neatly on the shelves, alphabetically by the author. The bedroom on the second floor is thoroughly dusted, the bed sheets made. The desk next to the window is wiped clean, more dirty mugs collected from it and then rinsed. Sage has always enjoyed manual labor. It gave him an opportunity to think while his hands were busy, it let his mind drift to places previously undiscovered, get lost in the monotony of the task as he bounces ideas around in his head, arguing with himself about nothing and everything all at once. He wishes his dearest Recluse was here, if only to introduce new and exciting arguments he would never have thought of otherwise.
Soon enough the house is spotless. There is not a single item out of place, just the way Recluse likes it. A single note is left on the kitchen table, the neat braille writing reading:
“ My darling, most precious Truthless Recluse,
I do hope that you are back soon. I have taken the liberty of cleaning your humble abode in the hopes that it may lift your spirits. If you are back before my next visit, I will be there soon with a wide assortment of jellies, all for you. If you are not, please check the pantry. I do hope you enjoy them.
With boundless affection,
Sage of Truth ”
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Truthless Recluse doesn’t come back.
Sage is standing on the doorstep, theatrics put aside in favor of a solemn, almost hurt expression on his face. He stares at the room in front of him. Neat. Tidy. Not a single thing touched or moved since he last cleaned it. Heels click against wood as he takes a few steps forward before dropping on the couch with a huff and a pout.
Almost two weeks. His friend has been gone for almost two weeks, no hide nor hair seen of him anywhere, not on the Peak, not in the town square, not in the meadows just below the mountain. Every time Sage comes, he can feel the protective barriers that have been put up, stronger than ever before, but still open to him. So Recluse isn’t mad. If he was, Sage wouldn’t be able to even set foot on the outskirts of the Peak, much less waltz into the other’s house uninvited.
That means he has to be on his annual trip to witches know where. For longer than he ever has been before. Without telling Sage. Again.
Sage groans loudly into the empty air, doubling over and putting his face in his hands. His ear twitches in irritation, fueled by too many sleepless nights spent worrying over a cookie he really shouldn’t be worried about. Truthless is so much more powerful than him. He knows it. He can feel the magical energy practically radiating off of the other, an endless well of unused potential. Recluse has survived far, far worse than a simple trip. There are hundreds, if not thousands of years that Sage is yet to know about.
So why is he so worried? Why does his heart feel empty? Why are his thoughts more disjointed than ever, floating around in his head in a maddening cacophony of “What if something happened to him”? Why is the other still not back?
He writes another letter. Hands shaking lightly as he presses the stylus down on the page, tracing the newly made words with his finger to make sure no mistakes have been made.
“ Dearest, most wonderful Truthless Recluse,
I hope you find this letter soon. If so, I would greatly appreciate a swift contact. Do not worry about interrupting my lectures or infringing on my personal time. I want to know that you’re okay.
With sincerest worry,
Your Sage ”
- - - - - - - - - - - -
The book in front of him stubbornly refuses to come into focus as Sage sits at his desk, head cradled in his palms, gaze heavy enough to possibly burn a hole in the paper if he tried. It’s awfully late, the moon outside shining down on him through the open window, rivaled only by the candle on his right. The flame casts ominous shadows all over the walls of his quaint home, as if threatening to consume everything in sight, should it only be given the opportunity.
Sage takes a deep breath, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. He counts to ten, thoughts racing. His other half still isn’t back. The two week mark came and went, no fanfare, no celebration, not even a moment of mourning. The days go by just like they usually do, the eager students listen to his lectures, they pester him endlessly with questions, curious and full of boundless enthusiasm. The market is full of vendors, each selling various goods and providing services. The Peak stands as it always stood, looming over the horizon.
The only thing that’s different is the Sage himself, the sudden empty void he carries within his chest. His smiles are dulled, his eyes never staying in one place for long. He pauses mid-sentence whenever a dark figure crosses his field of vision, only to continue where he left off when the cookie turns out to be nothing but another villager. He’s searching, desperate for something, someone to finally grace him with his presence again.
That someone never comes.
And so he’s left alone, exhaustion threatening to overtake him and yet never quite managing to as his overactive imagination believes overthinking to be its top priority right now. The thought stays, loud, deafening, clawing at his consciousness, sinking its nails deep into his mind, dragging out any sort of reprieve and murdering it on the spot.
What if something happened to him.
Would Sage be able to do anything about it? He is incredible at magic, but he never specialized in offensive spells. His energy is much more efficient when directed towards protecting others, towards helping them find a way to a new future. He doesn’t like combat, he doesn’t like physical altercation. What could he do that the Truthless Recluse himself couldn’t?
Nothing. The answer is nothing. Nothing but a bunch of cheap theatrics. He’s completely and utterly helpless in the face of the unknown. In the face of darkness the light of Truth cannot pierce. Not a shade that invites curiosity and exploration, but a heavy curtain falling in front of the stage, hiding a disappointed audience behind.
Sage drags his hands down his face, eyes stinging as he turns his gaze back to the book. The letters swim in his vision, the words don’t make sense. He stands, furious, the chair toppling and falling to the floor. The sound only overwhelms him more, throwing him into a fit of despair as he swipes the book off the table, along with his quill and lecture notes. The ink, miraculously, stays standing as Sage’s rage simmers down to a slow, steady boil, pacified by the singular act of destruction.
He goes to bed.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
There are about a dozen letters arranged neatly on the kitchen table in front of him. All in perfect order, from first written to last. All signed with a cursive signature for no reason other than pointless flare. Sage stares mutely at them, shoulders drooping, a pained look in his eyes.
A month passed by quickly. Swallowed by the endless march of time, the unstoppable force that only the greatest of mages could ever hope to even reason with. With each ticking second it feels like the pit in his heart grows wider and wider, swallowing him whole. The room is completely, utterly still. Not a single book is misplaced. The dishes haven’t been used. Rotting jellies are still in the open pantry, each and every piece laying the exact same way Sage has left them. There is a thin layer of dust gathering on the neat bed sheets.
Sage’s palm rests over a new piece of paper, stylus gripped tightly in a fist, hands shaking violently. He tries to keep his cool, tries to take deep, calculated breaths, but the silence is oppressing. It bears down on him like a weight of a hundred mountains. Funny, how an absence of something can hurt so, so much more than any actual weight pressing down on his fragile body. A sob wretches itself out of somewhere deep, deep down in his chest. He doesn’t know why he’s crying. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing has happened, not a single thing changed after the first time he came in here with no Truthless Recluse in sight.
Somehow, that makes him sob harder.
What if something happened to him.
Would it truly be this way for the rest of time? Would the world simply forget Truthless Recluse existed in the first place? Would the village at the bottom of the hill keep going, forever and ever, in an endless cycle of monotony? What a horrible fate. To be forgotten by everyone except one single person. To disappear without a trace and have no grave, no funeral, just a lonely professor standing in the middle of a room that is far colder than usual.
He lifts the stylus up, the very tip of it pressing down shakily onto the paper.
“ Recluse,
Please come back. ”
- - - - - - - - - - - -
The abyss in front of him feels just as alive and heavy as the one inside his chest. It writhes, slithers along the edges of the cliff, as if desperately begging the mountain to give in, to fall into its open, waiting maw. Sage stares down at it in return, breath quick and shallow.
He remembers Recluse standing in the same spot, just a little closer to the edge, teetering over it. He remembers the other’s robes swaying harshly in the wind, his frame suddenly feeling too frail, too unstable. He remembers the way the ground shivered under the other’s feet, ready to crumble, ready to swallow him whole.
The hermit’s voice had been so quiet, barely audible as his dull eyes stared down into the pit. Sage’s own had matched it perfectly, as if afraid that being too loud would shatter the fragile illusion of peace. He hadn’t made a single move, standing rigidly a few meters away from Recluse, ready to cast a spell and yet daring to trust him all the same.
That trust had paid off. He remembers the relief, the way his entire body trembled from the energy that left it, when Truthless finally stepped back, finally turned to face him, and Sage beamed at him as if the entire world had just been saved from a great calamity. He remembers that night being the first time they shared a bed, tucked in under the covers, Recluse’s breath soft against his neck.
It feels like the abyss is mocking him now. Sage is suffocating, unable to move, unable to conjure up a single thought except the dreaded
What if something happened to him.
His knees give out as he falls to the ground, gripping the wilting grass beneath his fingers, ripping it out along with the roots in a futile attempt to steady himself, to have something, anything to hold onto. It feels like the ground itself is giving out under him. It feels like his vision is unable to see anything but the damned darkness that is lurking just over the edge. He’s shaking like a leaf during a heavy storm, tears falling on the ground like raindrops, taking a piece of him with every wet splash. They sink into the soil, trail between the grains of dirt, down, down towards whatever horrible truth lies at the bottom.
For the first time since his enlightenment, he chooses ignorance. He stands, turning away and bolting towards the house, past the kitchen table with a pile of letters on it, up the staircase and into the cold bed. He buries himself under the covers, the familiar scent enveloping him better than any blankets ever could. And he pretends it’s warm here. He pretends the ache in his chest is manageable.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
The room is in a worse state than the house at the top of the Peak could ever be. Books are thrown open on the floor, the pages torn, the covers are broken in and disfigured beyond recognition. There are shards of glass in the corner, a dark liquid pooling under, crawling up the wall in what is almost a beautiful painting. The bedside table is tipped over, as is the chair, the wood resting miserably, expensive, natural materials begging for a sliver of care, of attention, of love.
Sage really feels like all the love has been siphoned out of him, leaving him numb, unable to even fathom the idea of caring. He hasn’t been attending lectures for about a week. He knows his dear students have been leaving presents next to his doorstep. He’s heard their worried, weak mutterings on the other side of the door, their knocks careful and quiet. He has no energy to face them. No dignity to do so either. He’s broken, he’s completely and utterly wrecked by the emotional turmoil raging inside of him. The unbearable ordeal of not knowing for sure that leaves his mind scrambling to fill the gaps, to come up with the worst explanations possible.
It should be around midnight now. Or maybe even closer to early morning. He’s not sure. He’s been rotting in his bed for so long it feels like he will never be able to get up. Maybe death will claim him. Maybe he will find out the truth in whatever afterlife awaits him.
There is a knock on the door. Sage tenses, lying still, listening for any identifying cues, but none come. Just silence. Just oppressive, painful silence that stretches out for so long it feels like the knock has never happened.
Except there’s someone still outside the door. He can feel it. He can feel the magical energy, the disturbance in the air and his breath hitches as he sits up in a flash, staring at the door like it holds the answer to every single question he ever had.
The knock rings out again. Stiff, quiet, methodical. Just two taps against the wood, enough to make a statement. There is only one cookie Sage knows that knocks like that.
He’s out of the bed faster than he thought possible, stumbling over the books and the mess, narrowly avoiding a stray shard of glass that threatens to wedge itself into the sole of his foot. Even if it did, he’s sure it wouldn't stop him from practically slamming himself against the door in a hurry, throwing it open so hard it almost flies off its hinges.
He’s there. Gaze as cold as ever, eyes wavering slightly in a futile attempt to focus, to see anything beyond a blur of color. His brows are furrowed slightly, both hands gripping the staff firmly against his side. His mouth opens, as if to say something, to try and explain himself, maybe.
Truthless never gets the chance to utter a single word before Sage is on him, gripping him hard enough to bruise, almost knocking both of them off their feet. His fingers grasp at the dark robes, pulling at the fabric, nails digging in between the stitching, tearing it. The pit in his chest is flooded in an instant, a tsunami of feelings, a flood that knocks over every building, buries any rational thought beneath its restless waves. There is only overwhelming emotion.
Arms wrap around him in return as Sage sobs into the hermit’s shoulder, the other guiding them both inside, taking care to step around the mess, closing the door with his foot. If the mess is concerning, Recluse doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t comment on anything. Not on Sage’s wrinkled clothing, not on his oily, tangled hair. Sage chuckles to himself, a hysterical sound that burns his throat and only causes more tears to spill forth.
Neither of them talk for a long time. Sage doesn’t know if it’s because Recluse is letting him stew in his emotion, or if it’s because he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t care. He’s not sure he cares about anything other than the warm, alive, hopefully unharmed body in his arms and the soft, sweet scent filling up his senses.
Recluse moves again, guides them carefully to the bed, not letting go of Sage even once. They sit there until the scholar’s flood of tears ceases somewhat, reduced to an occasional scratchy sob and soft, barely audible whimpers. That’s when the hermit finally speaks, hesitant “I’m… Sorry for leaving you.” he says with all the eloquence of a newborn deer who is just learning to walk. Sage shushes him immediately, pulling the other impossibly close.
“Tomorrow. I- Maybe the day after. Please. I’m sure you have your reasons, I just- Let me have this.” he barely gets the words out, his mind a mushy mess of relief, pain, sorrow and love. Luckily, Recluse nods silently against his head, falling back onto the bed and letting Sage cuddle up to him. It’s wonderful. It’s the best feeling in the world. Sage could drop dead right now and he wouldn’t regret a thing.
There are conversations to be had, on both their parts. Mostly the hermit’s. Sage is sure he will be mad soon enough, furious that the other left for so long without a single word. But all of it is put aside in favor of soft, domestic comfort that he was so ready to accept would never come.