A story about Michial, a gardener and scoundrel who runs the Jewel. Michial is a devoted gardener and capable of the most ingenious of feats. Just be aware where exactly his loyalties lie...
CW: Horror, Gore, Blood, Violence
The greenhouse was Michial’s sanctuary. His fortress, his domain, his atelier, his dank and fetid lair. Unlike most greenhouses, light did not penetrate here- not a single lume slithered through the glistening midnight of the smoky black glass that made up the roof. The things that lived here preferred it that way, and that included Michial.
The hunched and twisted gardener was stepping backward through the narrow alleys and passages of the greenhouse, bowing and scraping as a tall, blade-like figure strode between the overgrown rows of flowers in colors never dreamed of by mankind. Blade-like was not an exaggeration; the corpro-prince strode on wicked, gene-sculpted legs that ended in pale bone points. His impatient fingers that tapped against his thigh were so sharp they left little trails in the thick atmosphere, setting the drifting pollen to spinning. Though he was clad in amaranth and ivory, his cheeks and neck gilded and inscribed with the glorious legacy of his blessed forefathers, his face was like an unsheathed dagger, set in exasperation and arrogance in equal measure.
“It’s about time you allowed me to finally see my investment,” the man said, glaring fiercely.
“A thousand pardons upon a thousand pardons,” Michial whined, bowing deeper, “Once I received my instructions, I of course hurried to comply.”
“Four span you’re kept me waiting, on top of three cycles of work!” The corpro-prince was terrible in his wrath, and Michial flinched, raising his hands, murmuring softly.
“Please my gracious lord, not so loud!” he cringed, “I have facilitated this meeting as demanded, but please, you will startle the flowers.”
The savage prince raised a hand to cuff Michial, until the susurrus sound of a hundred murmuring plants reached his aristocratic ear. He lowered his hand, settling for another vicious glare.
“Enough. You forget yourself, Helot. ” he hissed in a stage whisper, “Take me to it.”
“Just this way, just a moment more,” Michial murmured back, “Behind the Aponocyum.”
The greenhouse widened slightly. Or perhaps the vegetation receded somewhat. It was hopefully in his imagination, the Corpro-Prince mused, that the plants nearby seemed to be trying to lean away from what was in the center of the clearing.
Formless, gnarled roots rose from the floor of the greenhouse to near the very ceiling, dyed in a deep purple. Creepers tangled like hair, rising further to brush indigo leaves hungrily against the smoky glass of its confines, twitching as if it were drinking the very darkness itself. It was hard to tell how big the thing was. No light made it close to the deep purple roots, and the darkness itself drained of color until it resembled nothing more than the unsight of blindness itself.
Michial stepped into the clearing, bowing to and fro.
“I have done all that you asked and more,” he said, “I’m so pleased you can finally meet.”
“This is it?” The Prince said, disbelievingly, “This is the creation that will bring my father down?”
“It will,” Michial promised, his tone honeyed now, sweet and cloying, “The Judas Root never fails. Vicious. Intelligent. Cruel. ” He raised one blackened hand to the side of the twisted root, stroked it as tenderly as any lover. His fingers left bloody streaks that the root drank greedily. The Prince’s bio-sculpted flesh was too well made to goose-bump or shiver, but that was all that disguised his revulsion.
“ How? ” he demanded, drawing a shuddering breath, “The thing seems rooted into the ground, and my father will not step foot outside the panopticon while I draw breath.”
“I followed my instructions precisely,” Michial said, his honeyed tone turning venomous, “Create a weapon capable of destroying your father. Bring you here. Feed shiver-skin and nerve-sleep into the atmospheric system.”
The Corpro-Prince glanced towards the purring filtration system, which hummed quietly as it continued its work. With shaking hands he drew one silvered claw against the back of his other hand. The sculpted flesh parted easily, without even a twinge of pain.
He was suddenly very aware that he had come alone.
That he had ordered his guards away.
That he had demanded not to be disturbed.
“I never ordered this treachery!” he snarled, his voice lashing out like a whip, “Who are you working for, miserable wretch!?” He closed the distance between the two of them, one bladed hand raised.
Something lashed out at him, a heavy blow striking his wrist. Dreamily, fuddled by the chemicals in the air, the most exalted Corpro-Prince watched the arc of his right hand as it thumped wetly to the floor, as if in slow motion, leaving the stump of his wrist to ooze and weep.
The tendrils of the Judas Root surged towards him.
“No! No, stop this!” he yowled, the thick inky blackness of the vines smothering his flesh, “Damn you helot! Who!? Who sent you!?” He lashed out, kicking with spear-like legs, puncturing deep holes in the root that wept inky sap.
“I have always followed your instructions most carefully,” Michial whimpered, his voice supplicating, “In this and in all things, I am your devoted servant,” he said, adulation upon his tongue.
“These are not my- my instructions! Was it my father!? Did he put-” the Prince gasped as the tendrils began to wind around his arms, his chest, his neck, tightening like a fervent lover’s grasp.
Michial’s strange eyes snapped to the Prince’s, as if suddenly remembering that he were present at all. His gaze narrowed, and in a furious hiss, he spoke.
“Quiet, Prince. I am not speaking to you.”
The Prince opened his mouth to scream and a tendril with inky-black leaves pierced him, lured by the darkness of his insides. The last thing he saw was Michial’s hunched body cradled against the Judas Root, his bloody hands stroking and caressing it like a favored pet.
“In this and all things,” Michial whispered to the Judas Root, “I am yours, my dear.”
