kingdom hearts -- bone garden
title: bone garden
wordcount: 1285
rating: PG-13
summary: Why have reverence for the dead and the gone, for the condemned and the hopeless, when nothing can help them by that point?
notes: Somewhat-based on that myth of how cherry blossoms originally had white petals, which were stained pink by the blood of corpses buried at their roots. Interpret this how you will, really. I honestly wonder what I was thinking when I wrote this.
More than once, he is eager to see for himself if there is truth behind the myths and urban legends of far-off worlds.
The library becomes his second home away from the conservatory which squats atop the northern wing like a dome-headed behemoth, and it is there that he devours book after book with voracious greed, restlessly thumbing through worn pages in search of his elusive quarry.
When he finally finds what he is looking for, there is no time for delay; the next afternoon, he returns to the Castle with several awkwardly-shaped burlap sacks which are carted towards his garden by squirming Dusks that stagger and totter beneath the weight of their burdens. As he follows this quaint little procession, he is met by a range of reactions-outright disdain from Vexen, frowning appraisal from Lexaeus, pointed disinterest from Zexion, irritation from Xaldin, polite bemusement from Luxord.
He only smiles at them, dispelling their inquisitive glances with a lighthearted giveaway clue about a ‘new pet project’ on which to test his theories and speculations. He says nothing about his past investigations, does not attempt to explain why the prisoners brought back for the creation of potential Nobodies to add to their number vanish soon after, and new Dusks invariably appear around his conservatory, converging in the unhallowed grounds like clots of wriggling white maggots clustering over rotted flesh.
He does not explain the reason behind the vivid vibrancy of the blooms of grotesquely oversize Venus flytraps in his garden, does not explain the uncanny health enjoyed only by the plants of the conservatory, the arcane impulse which compels them to grow ever-luscious as everything else organic in the Dark City withers and dies.
Vexen’s disparaging laugh of contemptuous disbelief does not go unheard by anyone. Marluxia grins at him in the infuriating manner of a cat ponderously savouring a mouthful of the richest cream, and resists the urge to introduce a shovel to the pernickety researcher’s face. At the other end of the room, Zexion’s nose wrinkles as he turns narrowed eyes upon the heavy sacks, dawning disgust glinting in his overbright eyes.
In the midst of it all, Lexaeus’s brow furrows at the dull reddish stain which blots the bottom of the sacks, but he remains silent, his gaze wary, mistrustful.
As it should be.
Out of them all, he alone knows the quiet strength which suffuses the winding roots of the towering oak, knows the stifling, choking greed of the parasitic banyan which strangles the life out of its unfortunate host. He alone knows of the vast array of poisons derived from the leaves and flowers of innocuous plants, knows how belladonna can bring both pulchritude and pain to those who use it. Out of them all, it is only Lexaeus who understands the danger plants hold within their willowy stems and verdant foliage, the death which slumbers within heavy-headed blossoms.
In the beginning, it is difficult going. There is much digging to be done, many branches to be pruned, preparations to be made. Bit by bit, he lavishes near-tender care upon ailing plants left neglected during his absences, and empties his burlap sacks upon the garden-beds, depositing their mouldering cargo upon the grounds. It amuses him to be this self-aware of the lengths he goes to ensure that his plants flourish so, to know that the time of having a conscience, of having reverence for anything, is long gone.
Perhaps it is his way of severing all ties with the past. The superstitions and folklores of his childhood fall away like wilting petals, and he crushes them underfoot without a second thought; it is only when he sees a glimpse of himself in a moonlit puddle that he realises just how much he has changed.
And whatever happened to the wide-eyed boy who trembled like a leaf when the hunters thundered by the farm on fleet-footed horses, urging their baying hounds on towards a fleeing brushtailed fox? What happened to the boy who could scarcely stand the sight of blood when his father tried to teach him how to gut a rabbit?
Whatever happened to the boy who huddled beneath his blankets during All Hallow's Eve, scared stiff of the tales told to him of wandering, malign spirits that would tear him apart without a second thought? Whatever happened to Lauriam, who feared the unknown more than anything, who could never bear to set eyes upon weathered headstones, worn by the elements?
Ah, but. Marluxia’s boots crunch over brittle shards of shell, terracotta and bone china as he begins to dig with haphazard vigour, never stopping until he creates a hollow in the earth large enough to be some sort of mass grave. I’m not Lauriam.
When, at last, his toils are complete, he settles back to admire his handiwork: white petals shiver in the faint draught which ghosts through the cavernous chamber, pallid leaves stirring drowsily in the erstwhile still air. It will take time before his fruits of labour reveal themselves in all their vibrant glory, and until then, he resigns himself to waiting, to watching, searching for a sign of change every day.
One week later, Luxord ambles past, and cranes his head to peer through the translucent doors at the moonlit conservatory.
He sees, standing at the very middle of the garden, a tree in full bloom, sees formerly white petals stained pale pink; he sees dark red-black bark and knobbly branches, sees splinters of bone and shreds of desiccated tendon peeking from between arched roots. He sees the graceful curves of bleached-bare ribcages peeking from under broad, swaying leaves, sees enterprising mockeries of mimosa sprouting from gaping black eye-sockets and virulently-bright scarlet pimpernels peeking coyly out from between snaggle-toothed mandibles. He sees Leechgrave saplings which rock and sway in time to some silent beat like monstrous, sentient metronomes, the caskets dangling from beneath florid, poison-bright bulbs leaking dark droplets of foul-smelling sap and ratting emptily as they digest their macabre feed. His appalled stare finds bloated Tentaclaws undulating lazily alongside the cobblestoned path at irregular intervals, snapping idly at one another as they fight over a dark, indistinct lump in the manner of vultures squabbling over reeking carrion, and, despite himself, he turns away, nauseated, unnerved.
Last of all, he finds Marluxia standing by his shoulder, gazing impassively into the room filled with all manner of exotic flora, with eyes only for the pastel-pale tree in the midst of the riot of noxious colour which is his garden.
The air is rife with the scent of death and decay, heavy over the cloying perfume of monstrous plants vivid with the fervid flush of uncanny health. Marluxia nonchalantly hums the beginnings of some aria, and even without looking, Luxord can hear the steady drip drip drip of blood which falls from a tapered scythe-blade, spattering the floor on which they stand. He hears the hissing swish of the weapon’s razored edge snicking softly through the air as its master swings it idly to rest upon his shoulder, hears the rasp of leather and telltale clink of coat-ties as Marluxia takes a reverent step closer towards his garden of horrors.
Luxord cannot help but wonder whether any of this is real, or if he is trapped in yet another waking dream wrought by a bored Zexion deprived of fresh research material and entertainment. Only the sudden sound of Marluxia’s voice wrenches him from his frozen reverie, and with dawning disbelief, Luxord turns slowly towards him, as though truly seeing the other man for the first time.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Marluxia’s smile is a sickle-shaped arch, slashing his face into two. “The poor dears just needed better fertiliser.”
back to index.
wordcount: 1285
rating: PG-13
summary: Why have reverence for the dead and the gone, for the condemned and the hopeless, when nothing can help them by that point?
notes: Somewhat-based on that myth of how cherry blossoms originally had white petals, which were stained pink by the blood of corpses buried at their roots. Interpret this how you will, really. I honestly wonder what I was thinking when I wrote this.
More than once, he is eager to see for himself if there is truth behind the myths and urban legends of far-off worlds.
The library becomes his second home away from the conservatory which squats atop the northern wing like a dome-headed behemoth, and it is there that he devours book after book with voracious greed, restlessly thumbing through worn pages in search of his elusive quarry.
When he finally finds what he is looking for, there is no time for delay; the next afternoon, he returns to the Castle with several awkwardly-shaped burlap sacks which are carted towards his garden by squirming Dusks that stagger and totter beneath the weight of their burdens. As he follows this quaint little procession, he is met by a range of reactions-outright disdain from Vexen, frowning appraisal from Lexaeus, pointed disinterest from Zexion, irritation from Xaldin, polite bemusement from Luxord.
He only smiles at them, dispelling their inquisitive glances with a lighthearted giveaway clue about a ‘new pet project’ on which to test his theories and speculations. He says nothing about his past investigations, does not attempt to explain why the prisoners brought back for the creation of potential Nobodies to add to their number vanish soon after, and new Dusks invariably appear around his conservatory, converging in the unhallowed grounds like clots of wriggling white maggots clustering over rotted flesh.
He does not explain the reason behind the vivid vibrancy of the blooms of grotesquely oversize Venus flytraps in his garden, does not explain the uncanny health enjoyed only by the plants of the conservatory, the arcane impulse which compels them to grow ever-luscious as everything else organic in the Dark City withers and dies.
Vexen’s disparaging laugh of contemptuous disbelief does not go unheard by anyone. Marluxia grins at him in the infuriating manner of a cat ponderously savouring a mouthful of the richest cream, and resists the urge to introduce a shovel to the pernickety researcher’s face. At the other end of the room, Zexion’s nose wrinkles as he turns narrowed eyes upon the heavy sacks, dawning disgust glinting in his overbright eyes.
In the midst of it all, Lexaeus’s brow furrows at the dull reddish stain which blots the bottom of the sacks, but he remains silent, his gaze wary, mistrustful.
As it should be.
Out of them all, he alone knows the quiet strength which suffuses the winding roots of the towering oak, knows the stifling, choking greed of the parasitic banyan which strangles the life out of its unfortunate host. He alone knows of the vast array of poisons derived from the leaves and flowers of innocuous plants, knows how belladonna can bring both pulchritude and pain to those who use it. Out of them all, it is only Lexaeus who understands the danger plants hold within their willowy stems and verdant foliage, the death which slumbers within heavy-headed blossoms.
In the beginning, it is difficult going. There is much digging to be done, many branches to be pruned, preparations to be made. Bit by bit, he lavishes near-tender care upon ailing plants left neglected during his absences, and empties his burlap sacks upon the garden-beds, depositing their mouldering cargo upon the grounds. It amuses him to be this self-aware of the lengths he goes to ensure that his plants flourish so, to know that the time of having a conscience, of having reverence for anything, is long gone.
Perhaps it is his way of severing all ties with the past. The superstitions and folklores of his childhood fall away like wilting petals, and he crushes them underfoot without a second thought; it is only when he sees a glimpse of himself in a moonlit puddle that he realises just how much he has changed.
And whatever happened to the wide-eyed boy who trembled like a leaf when the hunters thundered by the farm on fleet-footed horses, urging their baying hounds on towards a fleeing brushtailed fox? What happened to the boy who could scarcely stand the sight of blood when his father tried to teach him how to gut a rabbit?
Whatever happened to the boy who huddled beneath his blankets during All Hallow's Eve, scared stiff of the tales told to him of wandering, malign spirits that would tear him apart without a second thought? Whatever happened to Lauriam, who feared the unknown more than anything, who could never bear to set eyes upon weathered headstones, worn by the elements?
Ah, but. Marluxia’s boots crunch over brittle shards of shell, terracotta and bone china as he begins to dig with haphazard vigour, never stopping until he creates a hollow in the earth large enough to be some sort of mass grave. I’m not Lauriam.
When, at last, his toils are complete, he settles back to admire his handiwork: white petals shiver in the faint draught which ghosts through the cavernous chamber, pallid leaves stirring drowsily in the erstwhile still air. It will take time before his fruits of labour reveal themselves in all their vibrant glory, and until then, he resigns himself to waiting, to watching, searching for a sign of change every day.
One week later, Luxord ambles past, and cranes his head to peer through the translucent doors at the moonlit conservatory.
He sees, standing at the very middle of the garden, a tree in full bloom, sees formerly white petals stained pale pink; he sees dark red-black bark and knobbly branches, sees splinters of bone and shreds of desiccated tendon peeking from between arched roots. He sees the graceful curves of bleached-bare ribcages peeking from under broad, swaying leaves, sees enterprising mockeries of mimosa sprouting from gaping black eye-sockets and virulently-bright scarlet pimpernels peeking coyly out from between snaggle-toothed mandibles. He sees Leechgrave saplings which rock and sway in time to some silent beat like monstrous, sentient metronomes, the caskets dangling from beneath florid, poison-bright bulbs leaking dark droplets of foul-smelling sap and ratting emptily as they digest their macabre feed. His appalled stare finds bloated Tentaclaws undulating lazily alongside the cobblestoned path at irregular intervals, snapping idly at one another as they fight over a dark, indistinct lump in the manner of vultures squabbling over reeking carrion, and, despite himself, he turns away, nauseated, unnerved.
Last of all, he finds Marluxia standing by his shoulder, gazing impassively into the room filled with all manner of exotic flora, with eyes only for the pastel-pale tree in the midst of the riot of noxious colour which is his garden.
The air is rife with the scent of death and decay, heavy over the cloying perfume of monstrous plants vivid with the fervid flush of uncanny health. Marluxia nonchalantly hums the beginnings of some aria, and even without looking, Luxord can hear the steady drip drip drip of blood which falls from a tapered scythe-blade, spattering the floor on which they stand. He hears the hissing swish of the weapon’s razored edge snicking softly through the air as its master swings it idly to rest upon his shoulder, hears the rasp of leather and telltale clink of coat-ties as Marluxia takes a reverent step closer towards his garden of horrors.
Luxord cannot help but wonder whether any of this is real, or if he is trapped in yet another waking dream wrought by a bored Zexion deprived of fresh research material and entertainment. Only the sudden sound of Marluxia’s voice wrenches him from his frozen reverie, and with dawning disbelief, Luxord turns slowly towards him, as though truly seeing the other man for the first time.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Marluxia’s smile is a sickle-shaped arch, slashing his face into two. “The poor dears just needed better fertiliser.”
back to index.