saint mocianne’s arboretum (hard) (body horror)

time is of the essence, and he needs to acquire these samples for severian tonight— if only for the chance he might finally bed him once and for all. arnar has been his errand boy long enough, he thinks, and it’s high time that he be rewarded for his ever-reliable services.

arnar uses his tomestone more like an electronic rolodex for flora and fauna when his extensive memory meets its limit, but the deeper into the dungeon he goes, the lack of connection turns it into nothing more than a paper weight and his linkpearl into a cacophony of static and off-key chimes. the rustling of grass behind him isn’t quite enough to shake him away from his failing technology.

the vine wrapping steadily around his ankle, however, is.

having strapped a knife to his thigh before this expedition, arnar quickly tears it from its leather holster and brandishes it, sickened by the crunching noise that comes from stabbing it. a thick, molasses-like liquid comes bubbling up from within the hollow and broken vine, still twitching and now sizzling as its blood pulses out of the open cavity and slaps into the ground near his feet. the smell is acrid; thick and overwhelming. it leaves him with impossibly blurry vision and a hitch in his breath. he drops the knife, unaware it never clatters against the ground and rather, became encased in the growing mound of throbbing slime surrounding him. it laps at his shoes and arnar stumbles as he realizes he is being approached by plants and creatures of all sizes, rustling and chittering as the slime covers his ankles, then calves— one of the many white flowers surrounding him spat a powder-like substance into the air and the dizziness and numbness that follow rob him of his eyesight completely. he distantly feels his body break down in the hold of viscous slime and the thick tendrils of vines, deftly wrapping around his torso and face. even with his head so lost and cloudy, arnar still thought to protest, but was quickly silenced by one of the pulsing vines pushing into his mouth and down his throat with no hesitation. it happened too fast for arnar to vomit around an object plunging so deep, though his stomach still tensed and jerked with intent as he gagged around the too-big intrusion. as it pushed further into his guts, deeper than he could believe possible, arnar was struck with the hazy fear that he could be impaled on this thing, trapped as a decorative threat to anyone else who enters this place.

he’s still being groped by vines and eagerly covered by slime when he loses consciousness, feeling a heaviness sink into his limbs and a coarse static fill the space between his ears.

arnar briefly awakens from time to time, head hanging heavily and eyes unable to open themselves. while he can’t discern what is lucidity and what isn’t, what he can tell is that he can’t feel his limbs. he can’t feel any of his extremities— only the sagging weight of his torso and head, pulling his neck uncomfortably downward. though he mentally tries to fight it, he cannot stay awake.

by the time arnar can maintain his consciousness, every part of his body is no longer his own. his eyes discolored and his complexion sallow, he gags weakly at the vine still stubbornly stuck down his throat. he can’t move much, realizing that his arms and legs have become wrapped completely by vines and branches, making him one with the lush greenery surrounding him. idly, he hears the wet atmosphere of the arboretum. he wants to vomit; he really wants to vomit. even with his body flushed and sticky with humidity, arnar can feel a distinct dryness in the pit of his guts, a lump, stuck like adhesive. he shivers as he can feel it crackling, feeling things sliding through the broken shell of its core. his voice makes no sound as it’s locked tight from disuse. his upper body twitches as he tries to pull himself free, but such a feat would prove impossible. the flora surrounding his body has long since grown into the moist soil underneath him and it’s only now that he notices that tiny pieces of plant life have come to sprout from his own body; tiny leaves and moss decorating his face; along his ears and between his fingers. his stomach turns again, lurching against the mass adhered to the inside of him. the motion his body jerks in mimics a sob, nearly silent as his vocal cords attempt to rattle inside his thoroughly abused throat. vines creak and move to cradle his face in an attempt to placate him. his eyes grow hot and wet. what little strength he had left is gone. while arnar has mostly lost the concept of time, he can feel leafy branches, thin and pliant, take up space in his guts and push outward, putting pressure on his lungs and other organs he had forgotten were even there. he hadn’t the faintest clue what he was incubating, but he often entertained the horror of it remaining firmly stuck in his gut while it grew larger and wrenched its way out of his mouth before splitting him open entirely. or maybe it would pierce through his sinewy insides, leaving him to hemorrhage and die before then. that seemed preferable.

the moss speckled across his cheeks and around his eyes now, as tiny buds flowered through his tear ducts. peculiar as it was, it didn’t hurt. arnar couldn’t help but morosely wonder about his pain tolerance and if it had any sort of tether to reality now that he’s become some kind of disgusting abomination of plant and flesh. how pathetic he must look, tied into this wall of dirt and having taken root. at this point, arnar doesn’t know where he ends or begins. he longs to be lost in his senses again with a face full of pollen, so at least he could let go of the sickening weight of his lucidity. if he is no longer allowed autonomy, then he may as well not be cognizant either. he desperately craves the electric current sensation of dopamine in his temples. something beyond the blurry view of his tear ducts flowering. they were violet. the last remaining pretty thing about him, he wagers.

he no longer tries to shift or free himself from his bonds. he no longer tries to speak. giving up, he allows himself to flower and green. arnar is struck with a sick interest in what he has become, though he often still fights bouts of consuming disgust. vines sporadically rustle and curl around him as they push themselves deeper into the flesh of his arms and legs, delivering nutrition directly into his bloodstream. with an eerie sort of disconnect, arnar realizes that this abused husk of a body is actually thriving.

whether or not it could without this vegetative intervention is another matter.

as he has long since been freed of his lack of humility, he can’t help but indulge in the fantastical daydream that he may still be worth saving.