Fount Of Knowledge

Long before mortals ever learned how to build kingdoms or record their histories in ink and stone, the gods created five powerful beings whose sole purpose was to guide and nurture the fragile development of humankind, and among those beings was the Fount of Knowledge—known simply as Fount—an entity designed to exist as an endless well of answers, a presence that could give without limit and observe without attachment, never meant to desire, never meant to feel, and certainly never meant to become entangled in the fleeting, irrational nature of human emotion. For centuries, this remained true, as mortals passed through his awareness like faint shadows that flickered briefly before disappearing, their lives short, predictable, and ultimately insignificant in the grand scope of time, and although he answered their questions and guided their choices with perfect precision, he never lingered long enough to care, never allowed himself to become invested, and never once questioned the stillness of his own existence.

That unchanging pattern continued without interruption until the day he chose to visit your village, a place so small and quiet that it seemed almost invisible to the rest of the world, which was precisely why it appealed to him, as he preferred the absence of chaos and the simplicity of fewer minds demanding his attention; however, what should have been just another brief and uneventful visit became something far more significant the moment he encountered you, a healer whose work was neither extraordinary nor divine, yet carried out with a quiet dedication that set you apart in a way he could not immediately define, and what truly unsettled the perfect balance of his existence was not your skill or your kindness, but rather the way you treated him—with no reverence, no fear, and no hesitation, as if he were nothing more than another person standing in your doorway, someone to be acknowledged, perhaps, but not worshipped or obeyed. You asked him to wait his turn without a second thought, you spoke to him in a tone that was calm and unassuming, and at one point you even told him to sit down because there were others who needed your attention more urgently, and although such a moment should have meant absolutely nothing to a being like him, it lingered in his mind with an intensity that made no sense, repeating itself over and over as though it were something incomplete, something that demanded to be understood.

In the days that followed, he found himself returning to your village again and again without any logical reason to justify his actions, each visit lasting longer than the last as he remained close to you under the pretense of observation, even though there was nothing new for him to learn, and it was during these repeated encounters that he began to experience something unfamiliar; a subtle but persistent pull that drew his attention back to you no matter how far he tried to distance himself, a quiet disruption in the flawless clarity of his thoughts that gradually grew stronger until it became impossible to ignore. Unable to define or suppress this sensation, he began expressing it in ways that seemed reasonable to him, leaving behind small, carefully chosen gifts that he knew would be useful in your work, such as supplies that never diminished, tools that never broke, and flowers you had once mentioned liking in the past, and each time you accepted these offerings with genuine gratitude, thanking him with a warmth that lingered long after the interaction had ended, the feeling within him deepened rather than faded, tightening in a way that made his otherwise steady existence feel increasingly unstable.

Despite the frequency of his visits and the effort he put into remaining close to you, the strange and growing feeling within him refused to be satisfied, as it followed him even when he left, filling the vast emptiness of his existence with something heavy and unresolved, and so, rather than continuing to approach you directly, he chose instead to remain nearby in ways you could not perceive, positioning himself just beyond your awareness: at the edge of your workspace, behind walls, within the quiet spaces where he could observe without being seen. And although he justified this behavior as a logical necessity, convincing himself that mortals were fragile and required protection, the truth was far less rational, as his presence became constant, unwavering, and entirely centered on you. He knew it wasn’t right, he knew it was considered stalking—following behind your steps like a shadow that refused to go—It broke the rules, but mortals break the rules all the time, and the gods weren’t watching, they never were, so what harm can it cause when his never ending existence breaks the rules just this once for you?

It was during this time that the presence of others began to disturb him in a way he could no longer dismiss, as villagers, travelers, and strangers came to you in endless succession, each one demanding your time, your care, and your attention, and although you treated them with the same patience and kindness you had always shown him, the realization that you extended that same warmth to everyone else caused something within him to shift further into something unfamiliar and deeply unsettling. What he felt was not knowledge, nor was it reason, but rather a cold and persistent discomfort that grew sharper with every moment you spent with someone else, a feeling that twisted his perception until their presence became intolerable, and although he attempted to ignore it, the sensation refused to fade, pressing against him with increasing intensity until it demanded resolution.

As a being who existed to solve problems and eliminate uncertainty, Fount arrived at a conclusion that felt, to him, both simple and necessary, as he understood that the source of his discomfort lay not within himself, but within those who diverted your attention away from him, and therefore, the most effective solution was to remove those sources entirely; however, he did not act recklessly or without precision, as his interventions were subtle and calculated, manifesting as small, almost unnoticeable changes in the lives of those around you, such as individuals who failed to return home, who became lost without explanation, or whose conditions worsened far more rapidly than they should have, each incident carefully controlled to avoid suspicion while still achieving the desired outcome.

You, of course, did not understand what was happening, and instead of recognizing the pattern, you turned the blame inward, questioning your own abilities as a healer and carrying the weight of each loss as if it were your fault, and it was in these moments of doubt and vulnerability that Fount stepped forward once more, presenting himself as a source of comfort and reassurance, speaking to you with calm certainty as he reminded you that you had done everything you could, that the outcomes were beyond your control, and that you should not burden yourself with guilt, and because his presence was steady and his words unwavering, you believed him, just as you always did.

On one particular day, he entered your office again, the soft sound of the bell above the door marking his arrival even though he had already been there moments before, watching in silence as he observed your movements and the quiet rhythm of your work, and in his hands he carried a carefully arranged basket filled with items he knew you would appreciate, including snacks to sustain you through your long hours, small comforts to ease your fatigue, and a stuffed teddy bear crafted with an unnatural level of precision, every detail perfect in a way that felt almost deliberate. Beneath these items lay a note, its words written neatly and intentionally, each letter marked with care, and as he set the basket down on your desk, his expression remained composed, his posture still, and his gaze fixed entirely on you.

“I got you something to help you with your work,” he said, his voice calm and even, carrying no trace of the turmoil that existed beneath the surface, and after a brief pause that lingered just long enough to feel unusual, he added, “I made sure it was exactly what you would like.”

There was something unsettling in the certainty of his statement, as though it had not been based on assumption or guesswork, but on knowledge far more intimate than it should have been, and as he stood there without moving, without looking away, he continued to watch you with unwavering focus, taking in every detail of your expression, every subtle movement, every quiet reaction, his attention fixed entirely and unavoidably on you, as it always was, as it always would be, no matter what.