Fungal Halo

The witch who planned so hard to achieve immortality did not plan for the end of the world.

Her magic—the magic of permanence—proved itself more durable in the end than the clockwork of life itself.

Small consolation, she felt, bound forever to her own buried bones.

There is a Good Doll and an Evil Doll.

And they are girlfriends.

"If your mistress does not deign to reveal herself to us, well, to move against one of our own would grieve this council terribly, but—"

YOU THINK YOU KNOW GRIEF

The doll in front of them was not speaking aloud as the other had. This scraping voice echoed within my own mind.

Most people were put off by their encounters with the two dolls who sometimes claimed to be witches.

Well. One of them claimed they were both witches, since the other never spoke. Or rather, claimed that the other claimed so.

Most people found this very confusing.

Somewhere out there, among the countless worlds and timelines that could ever be, is a dead, forgotten, and utterly barren world.

No more gods or witches or people or purpose or even stars in the night sky.

A lonely rock. An indifferent sun.

And one last, abandoned doll.

In a reality in decline, crumbling, decaying, nearly gone, one last island holds out for a while longer against the erosion of everything.

Once there was a whole world here.

Once there were stars overhead.

Once there was night and day and a sun and a sky for it all.

Who am I anymore? What do I want?

I know what I was. Once upon a time I was a witch of some renown. I was the foremost expert on Permanence. My research dolls and I were going to, at last, unlock the secret of true immortality.

I never noticed that reality itself was sick.

The other doll holds my hand and leads the way. Its proportions are so very unlike mine—limbs as long as I am tall—and its firm hand squishes my soft one just like my old witch's used to, but a doll is still a doll, and it knows how to smooth out the knot of anxiety in me.