estragon and vladimir are dead

Close your eyes.

Not like that. They have to be closed all the way, or it won't work.

Good.

I'm taking you somewhere safe. Poppet. My dearest. These caves are flush with vampires, and wild things fill the woods. Such beasts will eat you up. Not for hunger. For love. And it is better to be eaten for hunger, trust me, sweetheart, I would know.

Hold tight, now. Don't let go of my hand, or we'll both be lost. (Mind your step.)

How about a story while we're walking, hm?

Once upon a time, there was a man who lived alone. Every morning he would get up, make his breakfast, and walk to the fields out back to tend his crops. He owned no pets. No friends called over at the end of the day. He was comfortable. He was lonely.

One morning, before the sun had managed to crack into the great blue of the sky, he went to pick cabbages. He leaned down to pull one from the earth. Then its leaves unfurled; inside was a tiny woman who had wings that shimmered like a veil of stars. She yawned, rubbed her eyes, and looked up at the man as he approached.

Why, dear, he had no choice but to fall in love.

It wasn't long before the man found that this tiny spirit had become his beloved companion. She had stories of worlds above, below, and sideways. He told her the tricks of the soil--how to grow the biggest and most flavorful carrots, cauliflower, cucumbers. They amazed one another in equal measure. Long afternoons of conversation stretched on into the night, and the man found himself late to begin his day.

He was no longer lonely, but when the short nights began to take their toll, the aches in his back and his head woke him up to this truth:

He was no longer comfortable.

The man didn't know what this meant. How could it be that the companionship he'd sought for so long made a mockery of all he'd done in its pursuit? He read books on the matter. He asked merchants in the town where he sold produce.

He received many answers. The books claimed that she was sent by the gods as a punishment for greed, or that he should have put her to use straight away as a maid, and now that he had welcomed her into his home as an equal, he would never be rid of her. The merchants said that she was a piece of the earth; she had, they said, fallen in love with the tenderness he'd shown her as he worked her soil, and borne herself anew so that she might be his bride. Some told him that strange things did happen, and that the only choice was to move forward.

These answers confused him. No matter the reason she'd entered his life, this spirit had brought uncertainty with her. Callous. Thoughtless. Unacceptable.

It started with rat poison that he sprinkled in her food--delicate dishes from another world that smelled of unfamiliar meats and sweets. There was no reaction at first. He thought he may have made an error, that she was immune to that sort of thing--or, worse, that she knew. But he kept at it, adding more with each passing supper, some tin shavings here, some glass there, and the spirit eventually fell ill. Her wings dulled from a shimmer to a sickly matte. She struggled to walk, and then to sit, and then even lying down was a task for her. Morning dew was her sweat. Flowered perfume spilled from her mouth as her stomach emptied itself, furiously, madly. The man cooed over her and reassured her, told her that he would take care of her. She withered and withered and believed him.

She crumbled to ash within the week. He gathered up the dust and sprinkled it over his tomato plot. The fruits were enormous. Bright red and more vibrant than he'd thought possible. He took them to market. The other vendors were astonished at their size and quality and begged him to tell them their secret. They whispered among themselves that it must have been the spirit's assistance that did it, but he would not say a word on the subject, and so their curiosity went unsatisfied.

One evening, as the vendors packed up their goods and the consumers left the marketplace, one of the man's peers stayed behind to follow him back to his home. He wouldn't rest until he knew what it was that had brought the man such luck, and he tailed him from a distance on horseback, careful to keep just out of earshot on the way back to the farm. After the man had arrived home, unsaddled his mule, and gone into his house to sleep, the follower snuck around back to examine his crops.

He was disappointed. Not much to look at at all; with the ash used up and the special tomatoes sold, the rest of the crops were ordinary by all accounts. Where were the golden apples? The amethyst olives and emerald grapes? The scent of ambrosia on the way down had been nothing more than a phantom hope. He departed with his head held low.

The man woke up the next morning, made breakfast, and went out back to tend to his crops. He labored from then until evening, and after supper, he went to bed. He did the same again and again. When he brought his goods to market, they were as they always had been, but they sold well enough that there was bread for the table and milk for the glass. It wasn't long before the man forgot what it had been like to talk with the spirit and laugh at her side. But sometimes, late into the night, a heavy sense of solitude crept into his dreams.

(He never grew cabbages again. He was afraid of what might happen if he did.)

The End. I hope you enjoyed it.

This place found me when I needed it most. I take care of it. It takes care of me. The both of us can take care of you together. Two heads are better than one, they say. What do you think?

Ah, we're here.