Fungal Halo

The darkness insisted on its own finality. It didn’t so much close around me as it devoured even the memory of light. It was as though darkness was all I had ever known.

It insisted I give up, lie down, and accept this ending.

Truthfully, I never did know how to do that.

The greasy, spindly woman who wormed her way into the king’s court should not, by any reasonable estimation, have been able to get as close to him as she did. She was foul, unsavory, and with a sharp tongue that did her few favors in the great courtly games of diplomacy.

You wanted this. Keep reminding yourself of that.

You’ve been thinking about it for years. You did your research. You found a witch that carries a powerful reputation, highly regarded by its peers, and, and…

Now that you’re here, all the nervousness is catching up to you.

“Do you think we got her in time?”

“Yeah! I mean, pretty sure.”

“She was so determined to join those freaks, though… What if we were too late?”

“We’re not! She’s fine. She’s still, y’know, untouched. Still good.”

“How can you tell?”

“Just look! She’s still—”

The doll frets and paces and clenches its fists again and again, stalking through the halls of the witch’s house, holding in a restless impulse that’s filled it to bursting with an overwhelming need to release every bit of coiled ferocity in an explosion of violence.

Your coworker at the Bureau is a faerie. That’s fine, right? Everyone else obviously thinks so—or at least politely ignores this obvious fact—even if letting her roam freely seems to be antithetical to the whole purpose of the organization you work for.

“But then, isn’t that always how it goes?”

“Yeah,” you agree, laughing. Of course you agree. Independent as you are, Her personal magnetism is such that it’s still so easy to fall in line with everything She says.

“No, not like that. Say ‘yes, Miss.’”

A bar isn’t home. It doesn’t feel like home; it can’t be home. That’s obvious, though, isn’t it? Hardly an observation worth stating at all except to call attention to just how far from home it feels.

The combat doll leaves a wake of fire and blood—noteworthy in scale even by the standards of this place—as it makes its way through yet another circle of hell.

At last it arrives at its destination, the prison for the soul of its old witch.

You take your unmoving doll to the diagnostic clinic run by an eccentric witch.

“Ah!” it exclaims during examining. “I know this problem. Your doll has run out of spiders.”

You object, saying you’re pretty sure that’s not how most dolls work, but it adopts a lecturing tone.

Something in this androgynous creature’s eyes captivates me. It draws me in, inviting me to say hi and strike up a conversation.

“What are your pronouns?” I ask, after they introduce themselves, trying to be polite.

“We/us/our,” is the response.