An Ill Fated Tale about Rosencrantz & Guildenstern

It had rained overnight, though it looked clear in the morning. The moisture covering the trees and ground could be mistaken for dew, if it weren't too late in the day. The ground threatened muddiness, but was only spongy -- adding a strange spring to your step except for the few spots of unexpected slickness.
It was hardly as if it had rained at all... The same effect could have been achieved with a few buckets of water and a strange sense of humor.
"You see, its all dead here." Guildenstern waved at the would-be plants as if there were actually something to show, instead of dripping beige-deadness. The tension between them was gone, and Guildenstern was being quite friendly... almost fraternal, asking Rosencrantz to stay around to keep him company during the morning meal, and then taking him out to the garden. Neither of them had mentioned the previous night, and perhaps it was just as well.
Rosencrantz stepped further in, something that might have been a hanging ivy smacked wetly against his shoulder. It probably was quite beautiful at some point of the year -- the garden seemed a victim of poor planning and general apathy. 'Why tear the whole thing up? Its lovely during the spring and who wants to go out any other time?'
"There has to be something..." Rosencrantz offered, yet the monochrome of beige/brown (with occasional splashes of black because of the recent rain) seemed to stretch from one wall to the other. It was only because he was watching his feet to stop himself from hitting a slick spot that he finally spotted a bit of red/green.
They both marveled at the small unprepossessing flower that had the nerve to grow where nothing like it was sown. Perhaps the gardener had half-heartedly planted it there, on the off chance that someone might decide to go for a walk before everything had bloomed properly. Perhaps it had been dropped, and some accident of water and light allowed it to bloom. Perhaps some kindly bird dropped it, and some passing mole covered it in dirt so it would be there at that exact moment for them to see. They excitedly discussed the possibilties... Until Rosencrantz was stopped by a thought.
"It's all alone."
"Yes... yes..." Guildenstern was stirred to action, "We'll have one of the servants get a pot and move it inside. Then we can appreciate it properly."
"Wouldn't it be better to just plant more flowers like it?"
"We don't know what it is. And this isn't about planting flowers. If we put it in a pot, it will be a beauty of solitude, whereas here it is an isolated bit of foliage."
"Maybe the gardener would know... I think you need to get a new caretaker, either way. It wouldn't be alone if we planted more."
No..." Guildenstern put his hand to his face in frustration and slight dismay, "We have no guarentee other flowers will grow here. And even if they do, its still and isolated convoy. No, what this flower needs is solitude. Solitude is an intellectual sacrament of beauty and silence. Isolation is just being alone, even if you're surrounded by others -- the worst fate of all. Solitude is chosen; isolation isn't."
"It's a plant." Rosencrantz responded, though there was a slight lift to the end of his sentence as though he were asking a question. There was a moment while they both shifted awkwardly, and Rosencrantz's eyes went to the sky, bringing a new question. "What do the stars say right now?"
Guildenstern looked up, "That its daytime."
Rosencrantz laughed nervously. "I mean, in general... I noticed you had some books on astrology."
"I don't believe the stars shape destinies; I thinks its an interesting way to make ourselves think differently about what's happening. See new opportunities... rethink failures. I don't know enough to figure out for myself, and I don't have enough money to have someone figure it out for me. Just a passing interest."
"I used to be very interested in the stars. Once, I made an instrument out of old spectacle lenses... I think it worked. But when I looked in the sky, I though I saw a planet... but there was something small and round next to it that wasn't a star. I grabbed my brother, who was just coming back after a trip and told him to look." Rosencrantz picked up a branch, and bent it experimentally -- the brittle wood broke easily. "I guess in my excitement, I moved the telescope a bit. Instead of the sky, it was pointed to a neighbors window. I don't think he minded at first, but seemed to take exception when I said 'Did you see that" little round thing up there?' Everyone treated me differently after that. And neither of my brothers let me live with them." Rosencrantz's usually cheerful face became momentarily somber at the memory of the strange looks he got from his family. He wanted to ask, but somehow suspected it was better not to.
"Things like that happen... I guess." Guildenstern said, for a lack of anything else to say and patted Rosencrantz on the back.
He didn't cheer up immediately. "It won't be happy."
Guildenstern, still trying to cheer Rosencrantz up, was confused. "The planet?"
"The flower. It wouldn't be happy in a pot. It was meant to be outdoors. It will die before the other flowers bloom, therefore it has its solitude here."
"It would adapt." Guildenstern said dismissively.
"Yes," Rosencrantz said with sudden passion, brushing Guildenstern's friendly hand away. "It would. It would become week and frail and die... maybe it would rebloom... eventually. But it wouldn't be happy." Guildenstern pulled his hand back as if burned. His brow creased at this sudden outburst, but he didn't say anything. "Everything... everyone needs some things just to be happy. Without them you'd exist... Its not a matter of existing -- anything can exist -- but you need certain things to be happy and be truly alive. It would live, but it probably wouldn't want to."
"Its a plant." Guildenstern said flatly. He looked at Rosencrantz penetratingly, who, having calmed down, shugged and smiled faintly. "Well, far be it from me to assign a living death to an innocent flower. Shall we go inside?"
The garden seemed much more treacherous leaving than it had when they came in, odd slippery spots were somehow more difficult to see. Rosencrantz seemed on the verge of slipping almost constantly.
"Don't get my shirt dirty," Guildenstern said without thinking.
That morning, they had discovered Rosencrantz's shirt had landed on the broken pipe; it was covered in pinhole burns and ashes. Rosencrantz said it would be fine, because he did things like that to his clothing all of the time... but there were some other damage to the shirt that they both pretended to not notice, and Guildenstern decided it was better to destroy it and lend him one of his shirts,
They retired to the house, where a servant informed them that the lady of the house had left. They already knew this, of course. For the past week or so, on occasions like this, Guildenstern pretended to work in his room, while Rosencrantz hovered outside, trying to think of a reason to bother him.
On this particular day, though, Guildenstern suggested they play a game or two of chess. Rosencrantz lost quickly the first few games, but Guildenstern's style was formal and preplanned with little practical knowledge of the game. Rosencrantz had him cornered, and Guildenstern declared that they were in a stalemate. It didn't seem like a stalemate, but Rosencrantz had tired of playing and agreed.
Rosencrantz put the pieces away (You lost every other game...) while Guildenstern sullenly meandered around the room.
"What do you usually do with other people?"
"Gamble." Rosencrantz said immediately. "You don't really lose much, as long as its a matter of genuine chance. We could bet on..." his eyes lit on the chess pieces he was putting up, but Guildenstern caught his gaze and stopped him.
"How about the flip of a coin?" pulling one out "Tails I win, heads you lose." He flipped, but Rosencrantz grabbed it in mid-air.
"I fell for that once, and thats enough." He smiled.
"How many flips did it take?" Guildenstern answered his smile with one of his own. It looked strange and unnatural, but it was genuine.
"Two... maybe three."
So they spent the day betting on predictable household matters. If a maid who usually breaks a dish or two would break a dish. How long it would rain when it started, and if it would start again when it stopped. How many logs would be put in the fire.
They had a full and pointless day. Guildenstern re-counted it to Joliana at the dinner table, telling her.
"Rosencrantz had bet that when you came home, you would shake your skirts once for every two boot stamps, while I bet you would shake your skirts with every boot stamp. I wish you had told me you were buying a new dress, neither of us expected you to shake your skirts continously while stamping your feet."
She was never one to keep her opinions to herself, nor to remain silent while eating... but they were too involved in betting on where a fly was going to land, to notice the look she gave them under lowered lashes.
She went straight to bed. Guildenstern did as well, but his comfortable room no longer had its comforts. It was cold and the bed felt strange, as if it weren't his own. He went to Rosencrantz's room, just for the company.
The next morning the world was a brighter place, even considering that Rosencrantz wasn't there.