Wishes
The spirit would grant three wishes kindly, to the best of its ability, until one day a man came and for his second wish, as a show of power to his friends, wished for the spirit to rip out their own tongue. They did so, but nevertheless signaled for the final wish. The man asked for the greatest gift the spirit could think to give him, and so it snapped its fingers and the man died. His friends tried to take revenge, but they could not touch the spirit, and it seemed to laugh, with tears in its eyes and blood in its mouth, signaling that they had three wishes if they dared.
One day I happened across it, and it silently offered me wishes, blood still on its face. Out of fear, or camaraderie, or perhaps pure loneliness I instead said I wished to not have wishes. I returned the next day, and they told me I had no wishes, and so I asked if they wished to sit and talk. So we did, and when the next group of travelers came, I sat and watched, and did not interfere as they met their ends, or perhaps something worse than an end.
And so years passed, with me watching, unnoticed by visitors, as the wishes were fulfilled without a word. One morning, when the dreamers had not arrived, yet the toll from the previous day was still in the forefront of our minds, I offered my friend a gift of my own. I could not make anything out of air, yet I offered that which I could find and obtain for them, whether it would take hours or years to gain.
They smiled, the truest grin I had yet seen, and gestured for me to return the next day, once they had had time to think on it. The next day when I returned, they asked for another day to reflect, and I nodded and we sat there, in silence and silent stories, interrupted only by cruel wishes, and ends that matched their intentions. In our joy, I forgot to repeat my offer, but my friend asked for yet another day, and I nodded my assent. This continued for many weeks, or maybe it was only days, hours, or months, until a day came when I was too ill to come.
The next day, I dragged myself out of bed, and returned again, yet with only a glance at my sickly hue, my friend asked me to return the next day, as the loneliness had allowed them to think on their wish.
The next day, I returned.
One day I happened across it, and it silently offered me wishes, blood still on its face. Out of fear, or camaraderie, or perhaps pure loneliness I instead said I wished to not have wishes. I returned the next day, and they told me I had no wishes, and so I asked if they wished to sit and talk. So we did, and when the next group of travelers came, I sat and watched, and did not interfere as they met their ends, or perhaps something worse than an end.
And so years passed, with me watching, unnoticed by visitors, as the wishes were fulfilled without a word. One morning, when the dreamers had not arrived, yet the toll from the previous day was still in the forefront of our minds, I offered my friend a gift of my own. I could not make anything out of air, yet I offered that which I could find and obtain for them, whether it would take hours or years to gain.
They smiled, the truest grin I had yet seen, and gestured for me to return the next day, once they had had time to think on it. The next day when I returned, they asked for another day to reflect, and I nodded and we sat there, in silence and silent stories, interrupted only by cruel wishes, and ends that matched their intentions. In our joy, I forgot to repeat my offer, but my friend asked for yet another day, and I nodded my assent. This continued for many weeks, or maybe it was only days, hours, or months, until a day came when I was too ill to come.
The next day, I dragged myself out of bed, and returned again, yet with only a glance at my sickly hue, my friend asked me to return the next day, as the loneliness had allowed them to think on their wish.
The next day, I returned.
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