He regretted the letter almost as soon as it left his possession.
It seemed as thought the very moment—the sheer instant it left his hands, he sealed his fate. The courier had to drag the note from between his fingers, pulling against resistance. Tight nerves and a palpitating jelly heart became swift company, seizing the muscles of his fingers into place. And when the courier gazed at the envelope, flickering over the name of the recipient, the cookie raised a brow in surprise.
What makes you think you're so special that the king would read this?
She didn't say it. She didn't need to say it. Affogato knew just from her look exactly what she was thinking. The very notion that a cookie from nowhere would believe his words worthy of being touched by royal council, let alone glimpsed by the king himself? Baffling. Absolutely baffling.
She knew.
She had to know: She got around. Messengers tended to get around. Messengers tended to hear things. Messengers liked to gossip.
He returned to Peppermint Bark's home in an anxious daze, half-stumbling on aching knees. The only reason he didn't fall was because of the cherry bark cane he pressed himself against. Generally, he didn't need it at all times, but in cases where his head spun and his legs hurt when stepping forward at normal angles (to the point that the muscles felt weak and shaky), it was good to have.
He didn't think about this as he limped inside at an awkward angle. Peppermint Bark Cookie was somewhere in here, he knew, but he didn't care to actively look. The sharp smell of medicine clawed at his nose as he passed nettles ground to a thick and gooey pulp, strips of candycane antlers curing close by. He was mixing muscle ointment with these ingredients before he left, half-experimenting, but he didn't return to this now. Instead, he knelt down to unroll his bed.
"Affogato?"
"I'm going to sleep for a while," Affogato explained shortly. He heard a faint clunk. A distant part of him thought it sounded like a cup.
"What's wrong?"
Everything. Fortuna, where would he be expected to start?
For a brief, frail moment, Affogato considered telling him. Not everything, of course—never everything—but just enough to feel the burden eased and shared from off of his shoulders. He considered the bleak and cold history: The scarce and hungry fire that he held his hands so close to that they burned; the years he spent knelt on his knees, praying to spirits and ghosts that didn't exist for some miracle to happen to him. The children and the wolves. The flowers and the knife. His smile.
The children and his smile.
His smile when he never said goodbye.
All at once, then, it slowed. Into some creeping, slow dread. It weighed down upon his shoulders even more heavily than before. It was impossible to move under or through or between. There was no through and no between.
Grief settled quietly, welling in his throat. He turned to look up at Peppermint Bark, who was closer than he expected. Against his will, his voice first shook. Then it grew enough nerve to be calm.
"I'm just... not... feeling great right now." He swallowed thickly and smiled, wry. The mist in his eyes cleared but tightened inside his skull. "I think I'm having a small relapse, is all. I feel somewhat dizzy."
Peppermint Bark winced, fingering at the blanket draped over his arm. Slowly, Affogato's smile faded, contemplating what the doctor saw before him—an old, fancy cookie who appeared out of nowhere to burden his establishment and offer nothing and return. A cookie who was utterly out of his element, who was sharp-tongued and difficult, who simply didn't allow himself to be cared for properly. He was a weakling who couldn't even deliver a fucking letter without an issue, who was so bothered by it that he opted to crawl in bed like a coward and sleep instead of finish his simple work.
A lazy leech. A parasite.
A heartbeat passed, maybe two. Affogato sighed, moving to stand. "You're right. I should finish my—"
"No, no." Peppermint Bark came forward as quickly as his words did, intercepting Affogato before he could stand. Hands on his shoulders, Affogato paused to squint up at him, confused. "No, no. If you aren't feeling well, you should—don't worry about the pharmaceutical work for now. I'll be fine. Here."
He pulled the blanket off of his arm and wrapped it around Affogato's shoulders, securing him within it so snugly it felt like a cocoon. It was warm and heavy. Affogato found himself letting it drag him down, sinking back to his knees, silent.
"I'll make you some tea, okay?" Peppermint Bark offered gently, easing himself to kneel in front of him. "And then I'll wake you up in a few hours for lunch. We'll see how you feel then. How does that sound?"
"That sounds nice," the silence seemed to answer. This house liked to talk, whispering giggles in the creaking of the floorboards and sighs in the gloom by candlelight. Affogato never heard a house speak before.
"...That sounds nice," he agreed with a whisper, nodding his head. Peppermint Bark Cookie smiled, giving Affogato's shoulder a reaffirming squeeze.
"I'll be right back," he promised, raising himself back up with a wheeze with his popping joints. Affogato watched as he left, as he brewed the tea and poured his cup, came back with a cup of something sweet with sugar and honey. He freed his hands to hold it and drink, and all the while, Peppermint Bark knelt beside, silent but there.
He took the cup when Affogato finished, looked inside, and frowned. It was habitual superstition that Affogato was used to by now. He wanted to ask what his tea leaves said, but wasn't sure if he wanted to actually know the answer.
"I'll be around," Peppermint Bark promised, grunting as he stood again. "So call me if you need anything. Okay?"
"I will. ...Thank you. For everything."
Affogato was about to lay down fully in his bed when he noticed Peppermint Bark go suddenly still, giving him a double-take. He lifted his head to look up at him, then, finding the old cookie's mouth twitching with a hint of a smile, a relieved sort of satisfaction easing his face. Affogato's face warmed, his voice sharp.
"What?"
"I'm sorry," Peppermint Bark said, lifting a hand placatingly. "It's just not every day that you hear an unironic 'thank you' from Affogato Cookie, of all people."
"Sleep with one eye open tonight," Affogato grumbled, easing himself down regardless, turning his back pointedly to Peppermint Bark as a demonstration of his annoyance. He listened, though—listened to the sound of Peppermint Bark's quiet huff of laughter, the sound of him existing in the same space he did. Living, breathing. The boiling water and the steady pour into ceramic jars, the stale smell of medicine that was accentuated by the scratch and scrape of mortar on pestle. Familiar sounds—comforting sounds. The click of disinfecting acupuncture needles. A gentle, quiet humming.
He could be happy here, maybe, in another life. Just here.
Present, here, and not alone.
Affogato didn't fall asleep in the end. All he did was listen.
-
Choco Bark Cookie returned to Snowfall Village the next day, his face too warm, his throat too raw, his body too aching and tired. At some point on way back, he managed to find himself a spare piece of fabric to wrap around his face, muffling his coughing in an attempt to keep his sick to himself. "It's flu season," he wheezed, after Affogato demanded to know what on Earthbread he did to cause this. "I just got unlucky."
"Unlucky?" Affogato demanded, gesturing toward Peppermint Bark Cookie. "Your grandfather is a doctor! You should know how to take preventative measures!"
Peppermint Bark sighed from behind his own bandanna, shaking his head, peering down the mouth of the younger cookie with a flat stick. "Choco Bark gets sick at least once a year," he explained distractedly. "If it's not the flu, it's pneumonia. If it's not pneumonia, it's a stomach bug."
Peppermint Bark Cookie seemed disappointed, if that sigh and the glance out the corner of his eye were any indication. He didn't like the uncomfortable lurching it caused in his stomach. All at once, the rest of Affogato's nerves caught up to him once again, tingling in his fingers and stumbling in his jelly heart. Anxiety broiled in his jam, making his face hot and his throat form a knot at the bottom of it once more. Affogato's eye twitched.
Forgive him for being fucking concerned, then.
"Fine," he huffed, throwing his hands up in the air and standing to his feet. "I don't care. Apparently this happens often enough that it's expected at this point."
"Don't be like that," Peppermint Bark protested, looking up and watching as Affogato grabbed his cane and started making his way toward the door. "Where are you going?"
"Away," Affogato answered curtly.
'Away' was a half-truth. 'Away' could have been leaving in the immediate moment, stepping out into the vague woods where he'd been hiding a collection of necessary equipment for when he inevitably left. It could have been him grabbing these supplies and loading them onto Choco Bark Cookie's cart, grasping the reigns of the oxen, and leaving the village for good. He had to leave anyway—why not leave an annoying inconvenience in his wake?
Because, realistically, the rational, logical part of his mind recognized that he was overreacting.
'Away' ended up being him seeing the oxen standing outside of the clinic, still attached to the half-empty cart, and sighing. Usually the cart wasn't half-empty when he came back: Not unless it was a slow week of fleece production or the roads were more full of transporters than usual. 'Away' ended up translating into 'wrapping up business'—taking the oxen to the storage facility to be processed when the time came, taking care to unload and document everything as necessary. He'd give the catalog to Choco Bark afterward, once he handled other business. He wasn't acquainted with the entire paperwork process quite yet.
'Other business' was bringing the empty cart to where the processed goods were awaiting transportation, all the yarn and thread and fabric that'd been made over the last few months. It was a relatively small stockpile, compared to how much had come in during that time. A steadfast shepherd could sheer tens of sheep in a day if they were determined enough, but it took about that long if not longer for one cookie to spin one bat. Even if they were using a spinning wheel, and especially if they intended on maintaining some air of consistency.
It'd fetch a pretty penny, delivering a full cart to the edge of The Silver Platter to be picked up. With Choco Bark Cookie sick and the trip itself taking about a week and a half there and back, it seemed like it might be a good way to help the doctor and his grandson while also giving himself some time to cool down. So, with a huff, he began loading up.
He was in the middle of preparing his cart to leave, struggling to get ahead of the game with heavy bags of woolen fabric and cotton wrappings, skeins of yarn dyed no less than fifty different colors. Dying was yet another factor that extended how long it took for shipments to go out—in the cold climate, it took quite a bit longer for the yarn to dry, even if it was over a pit of fire as they often were. They had to dry inside, insulated so that it didn't end up freezing and jeopardizing the quality and structure of the yarn.
"Affogato."
Affogato jumped, reaching quickly to brace himself against the edge of the cart, half-turning to look behind him. He ignored the way his back ached so strongly as he did so, sore muscles pulling against the gesture, both eager and hesitant to straighten fully. The face of the cookie who spoke to him was one that he'd seen frequently throughout the village, pale and milky and wrapped in a hood of light blonde hair. If he were out in the wilds, he'd have a hard time seeing her, were it not for the pale, earth-hued clothes she wore.
He could never remember her name, and he was too afraid to ask. Every time she approached him, alone and with one hand braced on the sword at her hip. Swords and other manner of weapons weren't a frequent sight, especially in town, which meant she was a Watcher. Knowing that was enough.
It felt like she always knew more than she should, and she was just waiting for Affogato to step an inch out of line so she could have an excuse to attack.
"What?" he bit back, straightening himself up. His spine cracked as he did so, muscles tight and strained but slowly easing into a less strenuous position. His knees hurt, and they felt weak, not painful in the sense that he wanted to scream, but painful in the sense that they felt warm and there was a certain, indescribable sensation that made it difficult to ignore. He gestured with one hand to the goods settled around the floor of the cart, gathered around his feet. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
"Busy with what?" The Watcher circled from around the back to the side Affogato stood, hand resting against the edge as she peered inside. Understanding seemed to clear her vision, easing into her gentle demeanor. Unfortunately for her, Affogato wasn't easily fooled.
"I'm loading up the cart for tomorrow," he said pointedly, voice clipped.
"Where's Choco Bark Cookie?" she asked, glancing around. "Usually he's helping you with this... or—you're helping him?"
"He's in quarantine. He caught a flu on the way back."
"Who's going to be driving the cart, then?"
"I am."
"You are? Do you have a permit?"
"What do you mean, a permit? Why should I need a permit to drive a cart?"
"It's to hold you accountable for the goods if something happens to them," she said, looking at him up and down. "If something happens to you. Choco Bark never told you?"
"So if a group of bandits comes to attack the cart, it's so I can be held responsible and punished for it?" Affogato scoffed, rolling his eyes so hard he could feel the strain. "What a marvelous system."
"No, it's so that we can keep track of who's transporting what where. If bandits do hijack the road, and you don't make it safely to the location you're going to, Watchers will know something's wrong and be aware they should go out and find you."
"What if the driver is associated with the bandits and ends up with a cut of the profit of the stolen goods?" Affogato countered. "You wouldn't be able to tell one way or the other."
The Watcher opened her mouth for a moment before closing it, brow furrowing in thought. "I mean, it could happen," she finally said. "I'm sure it has happened before. But no system is perfect, and this is the best we've got right now."
He couldn't really argue against that.
"It's not really difficult," she added. "You just pay a deposit and sign some paperwork. When you come back with a Certificate of Delivery, you get your deposit back."
Affogato felt his face furrow, getting lost for a moment in how that would work. How did that apply to the ranches and the farms? Did the carters have to pay a deposit every single time, and would it be made to the independent establishment? How was the deposit amount determined—by quantity of the cart or by the value of each individual product amount? How did the deposit get transfered into a shared account? Was it all sent straight back to Snowfall Village? If so, did that mean all carters needed to return to Snowfall Village to collect?
Who even was in charge of that here?
"Are you in charge of that or something?" Affogato asked, slowly easing himself to settle down onto the fabrics. His knees protested as they bent, distracting him from his easing irritation.
"...Sort of?" The Watcher gave a half-shrug, glancing over her shoulder and jerking her thumb somewhere off behind her. "My wife handles that stuff. I just know some of the things about it because she does."
"Is the permit a royal decree or a local law?" Affogato asked, half-curious and half-skeptical. He didn't recall any paperwork or signage regarding it when he was working in the Black Citadel—and that was certainly something he would have seen in his line of work.
"Royal decree," she said. "King Dark Cacao decided on it shortly after the war."
There was that ghost war again.
Again, he pondered over it with great prejudice, rolling it over in his head. Within several weeks after he came here, he began to question whether or not the fabled war was the Dark Flour War, attempting to drop hints to fish for information just to be safe. All that he was able to pick up on was that the war in question ended about thirty years ago. Which made no sense, because the Dark Flour War ended nearly a hundred years ago. He still wasn't sure what to make of that inconsistency.
Affogato didn't believe her, but he wasn't about to question the cookie who still had one hand on the hilt of her weapon. There was every possibility that this whole situation was a scam—an official-sounding explanation specifically designed not to raise any suspicion. What was it, then—did they take a small cut of the deposit? Add an interest to disincentivise dishonesty?
"I mean, if you're not sure," the Watcher hummed, "it's all written out in the contract when you sign. If you don't know how to read, my wife can read it out to you."
"I know how to read," Affogato retorted sharply, before remembering himself. "I suppose I'll have to take a look, then."
"Good. You can't leave tomorrow, though. There's a blizzard in the wind."
"Oh, really?" Affogato asked dryly. "How do you figure?"
"Cotton Cookie has a keen sense for it." The Watcher smiled, lifting a hand to flick across her cheek. "They say the snow itself whispers warnings to her. She's never been wrong yet."
"Then I'll leave when the blizzard is over."
"Do you want any company when you do? There might be more bandits active after the blizzard to take advantage of the weather."
For a moment, he considered. Affogato wasn't a fighter, after all, and it'd certainly be preferable to have somebody by his side who knew how to use a weapon. But then his eyes drifted back to her blade, her hand still resting on it, lax and easy and unguarded. Watchers were not trained to be unguarded.
She was so pale that if she wore white clothes, Affogato would never even see her coming.
"No, thank you." Affogato smiled. "I may look unassuming, but I can take care of myself."
"If you're sure. I'll leave you to it, then," she said, lifting a hand to wave with a smile. "Thanks for the talk. It's been a long time since I've had the chance to talk to anyone."
"What do you mean?" he asked suddenly, but she was already turning to leave, a hum in her voice and a skip in her step. He didn't understand why she seemed so content with herself, but after a moment of staring at her, he shook his head and decided not to question it. He was just relieved that it was a little bit warmer than it was a moment before.
-
There wasn't any tax, and there wasn't any interest. The contract was clean and precise and written in the neat, familiar hand of King Dark Cacao Cookie himself, dated twenty-three years back and written with several amendments throughout the years. The most recent amendment was seven years ago, updating the list of goods that were considered 'premiere' for external export: Unless under Watcher supervision, or unless a Royal Goods License was obtained, these goods weren't permitted to be transported.
It wasn't surprising to see vicuna products listed there. What was surprising was the fact that Affogato worked for the King for near two and a half decades at this point, yet somehow he missed this. And he shouldn't have. Among the many jobs he had, handling the financials was among the most important. Even if the king were desperate to move a motion across, it would have inevitably crossed Affogato's desk, and he would have read it.
Yet the document was too well-written and the script too familiar to be forged.
"Where does one go about obtaining a license?" Affogato asked tentatively, masking his confusion over the paperwork. There was a beat of silence, eventually broken after he looked over the top of the document and at the cookie sitting across the desk from him.
"The Black Citadel." Her voice cut like a rusty knife, the kind that would grind raw against flesh and wouldn't pull out cleanly. The kind that would leave flakes to break down in your dough and make you sick and ill. "If you're lucky, His Highness will approve. It's done by appointment. It can take months to attain one."
Out of the question, then.
"Does Choco Bark have a license?"
"He does. You are not allowed to use it."
Black Cherry Cookie was a curious one. She watched him closely, dark maroon eyes narrowed over steepled fingers. The light of flickering candles danced about in the air, casting heavy shadows in the dark-lit room. Her hair was so dark it almost looked black, eyeshadow subtle enough to be humble but saturated enough to be noticeable. She put herself across as a cookie to be taken seriously.
The very air hummed with a threatening note, thick with the smoke of frankincense and myrrh. Yet she wore her hanbok in a vaguely discoordinated way, as if the mere act of putting herself together was something of a struggle.
Frankincense and myrrh. Messy clothes. Makeup that could serve a dual purpose. A no-bullshit attitude.
He could guess at what her deal was.
He could respect it.
"I understand." Affogato nodded, looking down once again at the contract, skimming it over.
Each product, it seemed, was relegated a different cost based on rarity, the amount of work put into it, and utility. Some were cheap—he noticed cotton bandages and woven wool among them, relegated by bundles (cotton bandages were always the same length and width rolled into the same-sized ball) and bolts (wraps around a sanded wooden board that was always of similar size and width). More luxurious fibers—alpaca and lambs' wool, for instance—were more pricey.
A bat of unprocessed vicuna wool started at 1,200g per pound on top of requiring a license.
Affogato shivered a little. It never struck him until he worked this circuit just how much he took his own clothes for granted, or how much work went into making fabric. Even when he was a child, it never occurred to him that the scratchy, woolen fabric at his back may have sliced fibrous splinters into the cookies who wove and spun those very same threads. Don't even think about how much more work went into making the clothing itself. Don't think about it.
The price was immense, but he understood now. It was rather humbling.
Vicuna was the prized export of the kingdom itself. It was understandable that it'd also stand to be the most regulated, though where it was being exported to was still a mystery to him.
"I'll come back to you on this," Affogato promised. "May I have a copy of the deposit list?"
Black Cherry Cookie moved her hands down from her chin, lifting and shifting several stacks of paper in a very deliberate way. Affogato watched closely as she adjusted her position, moving one arm in one way before withdrawing it to move it another, tentative and careful. He wondered if there was a scar there—torn muscular tissue that didn't have the time to heal properly, or perhaps it did and it still left phantom pain regardless. Was it by an animal that prowled the streets one night some months ago, or a bandit's blade cornering a cart some years back?
Or was it something deeper, something genetic, that affected the bone? Something that made her muscles strain and her shoulders pop?
To use frankincense and myrrh, it had to be something that hurt chronically.
Eventually, she passed two sheets to him, written in a different script than the King's—smaller and tighter, wringing out the paper's use for all that it was worth.
"I'll have a list when I return," he promised, grunting as he unfolded his legs and rose to his feet.
"List or not, it still needs to be checked over." She was already extending her hand to a dip pen, sliding an empty sheet over toward herself before setting about diligent work. The way she started writing, it seemed she almost had it memorized.
I know, Affogato wanted to grit out. I read the fucking contact.
And then he wanted to say, If your shoulder's bothering you badly, it might be a good idea to try to improve your posture. I'd recommend seeing Dr. Peppermint Bark if you haven't by now.
He didn't.
Instead, Affogato thanked her with a short, polite bow before turning to head out the building through the entrance. He folded the sheets into quarters to tuck away into his pockets for later—when he stepped out into the damp, chilly air, he turned his feet back toward the stables where he'd been loading Choco Bark's cart. He still had work to do, after all; and that entailed offloading all of the vicuna back to where it was before.
-
He spoke comparatively little to Peppermint Bark Cookie and Choco Bark Cookie as the blizzard ran its course, even though in as little as an hour later, he found his stomach twisting more with guilt than anything. He was in the wrong, being angry about such an insignificant detail—but he'd be damned if he was going to be the cookie to admit it. The time spent inside the clinic was fraught with grinding roots to a pulp and minerals into powder, steeping the blend in covered jars of water over low heat for hours. Peppermint Bark filled out orders, making notes about what supplies he was running low on. Choco Bark mostly slept.
The force of the blizzard was shielded in Snowfall Village. The howling winds found themselves broken to pieces in the wake of the mountain's embrace. It was still snowy and temperamental, but compared to being caught out in the open, it was nothing.
The worst part about it, actually—for Affogato—was probably the heavy air pressure, infuriating his joints and itching at the muscles surrounding his kneecaps. He couldn't stand sitting in one place for too long because they needed to move. He couldn't stand moving them too much because walking, kneeling and moving things around made them need to rest. He couldn't sit still for too long, or they'd go stiff.
A special, hellish paradox.
As if a little pain ever stopped him from getting work done.
He came in through the stable doors, slipping through the massive weight and shivering in the colder than usual air, bundled up in a thick, furry coat. The air was colder outside than it was in here, warmed only by degrees by the body heat of the animals. The musk was strong even before he pushed the hefty doors closed, subsiding the chilly air that tried to sneak its way in.
He did what needed to be done—checking on the oxen, making sure that the blankets clasped around their bodies were still secure and warm. He filled their feeding bin with oats and grain and took a pitchfork to the soiled hay to swiftly thereafter be replaced. It needed to be taken outside, to be composted into fertilizer for the grain that grew to feed them in the distant future, when they would once again eat a meager meal of the driest oatmeal in the world. Affogato didn't envy them, but he did marvel at how proactively Snowfall Village took advantage of its waste.
Affogato Cookie debated on picking their hooves clean and tending to them, but found that he very much didn't like the prospect of getting kicked in the face if Summer Sprinkles decided he didn't particularly like Affogato today. Instead he settled for patting the oxen's dappled neck, catching his blank, thoughtless eye for a brief moment. The animal munched methodically on the blandest meal on Earthbread. And then he left, closing and securing the door to the stable behind him before making his way to the loading dock to check on Choco Bark's cart.
It was here that interest piqued him. He heard distant, muffled voices swirling in the air behind the door, voices that he wasn't particularly familiar with at all. It was impossible at this point to tell what it was they were saying, but it seemed that they were speaking at an average, even level. Were it not for the blizzard, Affogato wouldn't have thought much of it, but he suspected blizzards could make for swell cover to conduct illicit business under the table.
Or—in another manner of speaking—stealing goods to sell them for a profit.
Affogato slowed his footsteps, moving at a quieter, more deliberate pace to ensure that his presence wasn't detected. By impulse, his hand wandered to his sleeve, making a meager effort to reach inside of it only to remember himself and pat down the sides of the coat instead. When he found the pockets, he dove in deep, the fingers behind his gloves fumbling for purchase. It didn't take long to find the knife: It was the only object he had in there.
He held it tightly in his hand, pausing by the sliding cargo door, leaning his side against it while his ear pressed against the chilly wood. His body shivered, cold.
There were two voices behind the door, voices that he felt certain now in saying he didn't recognize, huffy and intermittent with grunts and sighs. If Affogato listened closer, focusing with every essence of his being, he could hear the familiar thud of heavy weight hitting half-rotten wood, the creaking of old cart planks.
"—which is kind of ridiculous, when you put it that way." It was a rough and deep voice, androgynous enough to be impossible to tell the rough gender of. "Do you really think Golden Cheese Kingdom actually uses any of that wool that they buy? Or does the queen just hoard it and resell it when she can make a profit?"
"I don't pretend to know the state of trade between the kingdoms," another voice said, scratchy and dull, sounding almost bored. She grunted, accompanied by the creaking of wood, the sound of a particularly harsh thud striking against the floor of something. "I don't think speculating about it is a good idea. She's one of the King's friends and allies. I'm sure there are reasons for it."
"I heard," the first voice said, raising their voice conversationally, "that Golden Cheese Kingdom makes clothes out of camel fur! Can you imagine that?"
"I wonder what camel fur feels like." It sounded like a sigh came from her lungs. "Maybe someday I'll be able to buy a bit just to see for myself."
Affogato pulled away from the door, shaking his head and giving it a stern stare. There's no way that they mentioned Golden Cheese, of all cookies. After the Dark Flour War, all of the rulers of the kingdoms went missing from their kingdoms entirely—save King Dark Cacao, who ultimately ended up secluding himself from his own denizens instead. If Dark Cacao maintained contact with Golden Cheese—especially in matters of trade—Affogato would undoubtedly have known about it.
And maybe he wouldn't have given it a second thought. Maybe he would have let it pass him by, taken it as meaning that Dark Cacao only recently—within the last several months—opted to open the borders. But then, why would they mention kingdoms? As if multiple parties were involved? As if the Dark Flour War hadn't brought the entirety of the continent to its knees nearly a century prior?
They were talking again—Affogato moved forward to quickly latch back onto the conversation.
"It's just very strange to me," the androgynous voice continued. "I'd get if the vicuna were sent to Hollyberry Kingdom instead. They're incredibly luxurious over there, from what I've heard, so it'd make sense if they wanted to use the fancy, expensive stuff just to show off."
"It's very tropical, though, so it's also hot. It's probably worse because of the humidity. The Vanilla Kingdom would make more sense—the climate there is more intermediate, you know? It sort of fluctuates from hot to cold. Plus I heard that the main castle floats in the sky."
"What kind of king builds a castle in the sky?" Androgynous huffed out, spitting. "Who is he hiding from? Is he that much of a coward that he can't bring himself down to his own civilians' level?"
"He's probably scared of being invaded," the second cookie teased, her voice lightening for the first time in coy, cruel amusement. "Doesn't he know that paranoia doesn't proper suit a king? If he can't handle being among the common cookie, then—"
"King Pure Vanilla Cookie didn't build the Vanilla Castle."
Affogato winced.
The third, thusfar silent voice spoke suddenly and sharply, with a tone that sounded like how copper tasted between a cookie's teeth. It bristled with repressed agitation, simmering under the veneer of silence and only just now boiling over. He thought that there were only two cookies in there, conversing together companionably. Obviously he was wrong.
Perhaps the two cookies had forgotten, too: For a few seconds, they were silent.
"His ancestors did," the third cookie continued, tone sounding only a degree less angry than before. "And I'd discourage you from speaking badly of the Vanilla Kingdom. Pure Vanilla Cookie is a trusted ally of His Highness, even in spite of our history. Keep that in mind."
"...Okay, yeesh." The second cookie huffed out a breath, some attempt at laughter. "It was just a joke. You Watchers take everything way too seriously."
In the silence that followed, Affogato could imagine the scene that the door concealed. There were two cookies, one standing at the edge of the cart with a bag of some miscellaneous product dangling in their arms while the other paused mid-crouch to grab another. He gave up on the idea of them being thieves not long ago. Thieves would be more tactful and attentive, and perhaps have someone about to keep watch of the area. They seemed too casual to be thieves.
He could imagine the faceless Watcher, frowning at them. His arms were either crossed or resting on the hilt of his sword, or his scythe, or his spear or whatever other weapon he had in his possession. The ghost of eyes glared sternly at the other two in some phantom color, silently telling them exactly how funny he thought that their so-called 'joke' actually was.
Affogato didn't think it was funny, either.
There was a long minute that felt like forever that was concealed with a loaded silence. During it, Affogato let his mind wander, perusing this new information with the methodical thoughtfulness of a librarian in a library. He wasn't sure what to make of this. Apparently by some dumb stroke of luck, the Vanilla Kingdom was prospering and the Vanilla King was alive and well. A peculiar turn of events, considering in his decades of dutiful work under King Dark Cacao, he learned just the opposite. Pure Vanilla Cookie was dead, the kingdom reduced to a burnt husk of its former glory. Affogato didn't think he'd ever seen a Vanillian cookie ever before in his life.
There was a kingdom there that didn't belong, a king and a queen whose puzzle pieces miraculously were found.
None of this made any sense.
Eventually he blinked and started listening again, latching onto the sound of a quiet movement that frightened disturbing the pregnant silence. They were back at work again, loading the cart, creaking wood and thudding bags and huffing breaths. You could cut the tension with a knife.
"...I heard the king was attacked recently," the bored woman said quietly. Affogato stiffened, tightening his grasp around his knife. "How is His Highness doing?"
The silence pressed against itself like a scab picked free. The Watcher sighed, anger waning into exhaustion. "...His Highness will survive, from my understanding. I don't know any of the details that surrounded the incident."
"It happened at the Great Chocolate Wall, right?" the androgynous voice asked, wheezing with a slight pant for a moment. "Was it the beast?"
"I'm not supposed to talk about it—it's a private and delicate matter."
"You Watchers are no fun," the bored woman groaned. "There's not even anybody here! You're fine to talk about it!"
"...I don't know," the Watcher stressed, his voice a low and quiet hiss. "I don't work at the Wall, and I don't work directly for His Highness. I wasn't there. The only cookies who know what really happened are the ones who were there."
"All that I know is that he was overseeing the repairs on the Great Chocolate Wall." She hesitated. "...Was it really... one of the ministers who tried to—?"
"Why do you think the Minister of Trade and Treasury has his face plastered across half the kingdom?"
Affogato's heart lurched backwards into his stomach, sending him recoiling away from the door, almost half-stumbling over his own two feet. That's me, he thought—that was one of my jobs.
Oh. Oh, he had to leave. He had to leave. As soon as this blizzard was over and done with, he had to leave.
His heart was racing in his chest at the pace a rabbit running from a cream wolf, leaving his head dizzy and filled with fog. The cookies on the other side of this door knew who he was—if they knew he was here, they'd recognize him instantly. They'd chase him down to the very ends of Earthbread to find him. They knew what his face looked like. And with their weapons, they'd slice his neck wide open, dragging his corpse by the scalp to be tossed unceremoniously before the king's expectant feet.
Affogato gulped, lifting a hand to press at his neck. It did nothing to abate the stones in his throat.
Oh, Fortuna. He didn't want to die.
Why did he have to send that letter?
That letter was an open invitation that more or less said, 'Come see the problems that I've found. Come here and see for yourself.'
Fuck.
Fuck.
Oh, he had to leave. He had to leave.
They probably already knew he was there.
He felt sick. His lungs felt tight. The freezing air bit through the coat, through the fur, through his body, so cold it burned. The world twisted itself five degrees off of its axis.
Affogato turned and ran. He met the door to the outside of the stables and clenched his hands around it, desperately pulling and tugging. Something pulled in his shoulder blade, something that made him hiss and grimace, but he ignored it. He opened the door just enough to push himself through, and then he ran. The cold outside was no colder than he already felt.
He didn't bother shutting the door behind him. He ran like he was being hunted, like somehow the cookies behind the door knew that he was there. And they were just waiting for the moment that Affogato would realize so they could savor the hunt.
He didn't even know where he was going until he crashed his way into the clinic. The warmth hit him so harshly that it was suddenly sweltering. He found himself crashing onto his knees just inside the door, jolts rocketing up his body. Affogato's lungs stung and wheezed and tried to breathe in the air. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his feet, fit to bursting.
"Affogato!"
Minty scent swiftly closed in on him, hands pressing against his forearms, tight and secure. Affogato grimaced, half pulling back, snapping his head up to scream and shout before the faded red and white colors clicked in his brain. He didn't know where he thought he was going, but he didn't think it was here. He didn't want to come here.
"Affogato," Peppermint Bark echoed, soft brown eyes hardened and stern. "What happened? Are you all right?"
Affogato gulped in greedy breaths, tasting medicine and mint. He couldn't think of what to say. Some part of his mind was still left beside that door.
Affogato swallowed. It did nothing to abate the stones in his throat.
"I... I thought I heard cream wolves," he gasped out, turning to look over his shoulder. His hand clenched at the fabric over his chest, pressing against the space over his heart in a desperate attempt to try to still it. He felt the knife clenched in his hand and tried to find comfort in it. "I-I think. Was it—was it just the wind? It was just the wind. Oh, Fortuna. Oh, Fortuna, help me."
Peppermint Bark pulled Affogato against him, wrapping his arms around his figure, squeezing and rocking and holding him close against his chest. Affogato's body stiffened almost instantly, alarm slicing its way cleanly over the prominent panic.
"You're okay," Peppermint Bark promised into his hair. "You're okay. There's no wolves. I didn't hear any howling. You're okay. There aren't any wolves outside. And if there are, they can't come in. I won't let them."
Peppermint Bark was warm, and his grip on him was firm and solid, rooting him in place and refusing to let him go so easily. Affogato wasn't sure if he found himself easing into the embrace, breathing in the smell of medicine that clung to old clothes and worn fabrics mended and sewn many times throughout the years. He wasn't sure if he was still tense, or if the hand he lifted up to press against the doctor's back wanted to hold him back in his desperation for comfort or stab him with the knife clenched in its fingers to drive him away. Wasn't sure if the way his throat choked up and his eyes began to water was because of how badly he wanted to fully break down or if they only stung because of the peppermint in the air.
What he did know was this: He couldn't stay. No matter how desperately he might have wanted to before.
How foolish he was, to imagine for even a moment that his second chance could be wasted on the dream of comfort and company.
-
About the Original Cookies:
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