Chapter Text
A heavy mist settles on the forest, cool and refreshing after the guardian's long journey.
There is nostalgia within a forest after the rain; fresh leaves and soil give under the soles of his boots, each step rousing a rich scent unique to the land. Differing from place to place – from year to year – Hades is confident in his ability to determine location through the wood's scent alone.
Rather, he would be able to if he did not find himself returning to Halmarut's most curious domain.
The Words of Halmarut – a title dictated by a tradition far predating Hades – is unique, even amongst the many civilizations dotting the star. Flora from every corner of the forest and beyond occupy the secluded corner of Amaurot known as ‘The Word;’ samples are cared for with the utmost respect, be they herbs for meals or simply rare plant variants, grown that they might one day be returned to their original ecosystems.
Glowing bulbs twine around protective huts and the larger branches, coiling until they reach the wooden platform that makes up the floor, illuminating Hades' path. Even after the rain has ceased, a complex system of drains and aqueducts for water dispersal fill the air with a gentle tinkle, amplifying the aroma of fresh, well fertilized soil.
Though outside his senses, the presence of a visitor inevitably rouses the garden from its slumber. Depending on variant, the plants react to aether, heat, or sound, and, as Hades unfortunately learned upon an early visit, Halmarut's children are not fond of their guests departing and in order to prevent it will incapacitate them with a variety of tightly coiling tendrils and inhaled spores. Wanderers are fated to remain by their side – or within their innards – forever.
If Azem hadn't come -
Hades dismisses the memory with a sigh of irritable fondness.
Fortunately, or perhaps less so, Hades is no stranger. Weaving his way through the sanctuary, he reaches one of many central tables without issue. Intended for repotting specimens that grow beyond their smaller beds, his chosen location is topped with pots of a variety of sizes and shapes.
Picking out a large rectangular bed, Hades opens his travel sack, the scent of distant earth – far different from the wet forest of his surroundings - fills in his nostrils as he spills the rich present in the bed, patting it down evenly.
As if on cue, he hears them, the pat-pat-pat of their leafy root-feet soft and barely audible above the persistent water's drip.
"Hello there." He greets his hosts as always, the little mandragoras tugging excitedly at his trousers.
They shriek their strange, incomprehensible shrieks in reply; loud, but not panicked, theirs is a familiar welcome.
The mandragora are not native to Amaurot's forest; brought in as bulbs by a foreign merchant, they were abandoned when he fled in a panic, leaving his merchandise behind. Enough water and care resulted in their sprouting and it was only once the unintended consequences of their mobile nature revealed themselves that Hades passed them to the far more capable Halmarut's care.
Though not terribly complex organisms, they are still perceptive; one of Hades’ small friends observes a wound on his leg, patting the area around it gently.
"I'm fine, you needn't worry."
The mandragora pats it again, more persistently, rubbing its leafy head onto the raw skin. Though unsure if they can understand or if they simply mimic observed behavior, nonetheless the mandragoras are willful little creatures and will persist until obeyed – or until they begin screaming, which also inevitably results in obedience.
It seems he has no choice.
"Oh, very well." Hades accepts its offer, taking the leaf and very carefully plucking it from the mandragora. Pressing its salving oils into the wound, the redness nigh immediately dissipates. "Thank you." He pats its head.
Greetings complete, Hades lifts the bed and carries it over to the familiar corner. Though shaded by the overcast sky and shadows of the trees, each bed remains well lit, cared for by Halmarut, even in Hades' absence.
Placing down the new bed full of rich, foreign nutrients, he replaces the old, returning it to the table as the mandragoras test their new supper, carefully stretching their roots in and claiming sections.
Duty complete, Hades kneels to pick up his sack, but before he makes it more than a few ilms, he's stopped; a short, strong tentacle encircles his arm, preventing motion.
More through preservation instinct than logic, Hades draws away, keeping the arm and tentacle at a distance.
On his arm sits a morbol bulb; its purple, immature sporing orbs are interspaced with glowing red, identifying it as one Hades knows well. When it was little more than a glowing spore, it had been attacked – as are many immature plants – but had fortuitously been able to defend itself. Wounded when Hades came upon it, he very carefully brought it to the Word for safety and a meal. Hades has little knowledge and even less access to the specialized carnivorous section, but it’s clear that the young creature thrives in Halmarut's domain, roaming the grounds and greeting Hades whenever he returns.
-And upon each visit, it conspicuously grows larger, its weight no longer easily held as its life stage progresses past 'bulb.'
Hades extracts the morbol to the best of his ability, but each motion only deepens its accursed breaths; though pleased at the attention it receives, the morbol has not realized the unpleasant effects that accompany its affections.
"I've nothing for you." He scolds gently, but the persistent bulb does not seem to care, its only desire is nearness to the warm forest dweller of whom it is so fond. Were it any other specimen, he might not be so averse, however –
His thought is interrupted by more shuffling and, as if on cue, another pair of occupants rounds the corner; larger and more mobile than even the mandragoras, little green is visible underneath the thick layer of wet mud clinging to their moss.
Hades knows the mischievous new arrivals well; acquainted with Azem, their tiny beaks and oversized eyes stare with longing innocence as they pad forward to meet their master's companion.
He'll need to make the korpokkurs presentable for Azem’s return.
Morbol Bulb at his feet, Hades lifts a nearby spillage bucket; filled with overflowed water, he replaces the full bucket with an empty one to catch any excess rain and drainage, before motioning the little creatures over.
With a displeased hiss, the morbol blessedly keeps its distance from the bucket, but the korpokkurs approach with an eager waddle. Waving their little arms excitedly, they all but crawl into Hades' lap when he lifts them, one by one, into the makeshift bath.
Clear water darkens as the mud slips off in chunks; hidden beneath, their soft green fluff is revealed as he pours the water over their leaves and stalks. Scrubbing their moss deeply to free them of the mud, it soon instead covers Hades from ear tip to toe instead, and the korpokkurs' beaks tug at his attire as if to aid him in turn.
Splashing about and ready for more mischief, Hades struggles to wrangle the excitable pair and, with unexpected strength, they tug him forward.
In an instant that is eternity, time stills, every detail ingrained into his memory; the Mandragoras observe, the morbol hisses, the korpokkurs dance, and with a shocked gasp, Hades falls forward into the bucket, its contents spilling across the floor.
With a heavy grunt, time resumes; the mandragoras shriek and the morbol breathes its heavy, excited breaths; with the water gone, it approaches Hades eagerly, tentacles encircling his ears and neck, its scent overwhelming his senses, leaving him reeling as he futilely waves off the excited flora.
"What is going on here?"
Above even the chaos, the singular force that is Halmarut stands at the Word’s height, looking down at her visitor with disapproval.