Midnight in the Garden of Nurgle
"Sister Aetherion!" Sister Miranda of the Orders Hospitaller was tugging at her superior's crisp white sleeve. Curious how far away she seemed.
"Sister!" She called again. "Morgana!" Why, the impertinence of Miranda. How dare she use her given name in front of the Guardsmen? She was told that name in confidence...Was the ground always so close? And fast?
Sister Aetherion, originally Morgana Snow, chief of medicine on the Chaos-besieged world of Brontes XXII, member of the Adepta Sororitas, succumbed to the fever that had ravaged her body. She toppled over, her long robes swishing in the fetid air of the hospital tent, where wounded guardsmen lay shrieking in terror and pain as their mortal flesh melted before the assortment of macabre plagues from the tumult of the Warp.
The Sisters had been working with the medicae of the Imperial Guard regiments sent to Brontes XXII to liberate the planet from the forces of heretics and daemons before the plagues spread far enough to require Exterminatus. But as ever, the diseases that the damnable devotees of Nurgle dealt to the living were difficult to treat, constantly shifting with a malign intelligence. The pestilence that hung like a cloud of the camps of guardsmen, that had afflicted the once-loyal population and turned them to shambling monstrosities exulting the plague god, was as much an enemy as the massive mounds of slobbering, laughing flesh with mouths that extended across split bellies and spilled entrails. Aetherion had felt the cure was almost in her reach a number of times only to have it snatched away at the last moment by a surprise mutation or a sudden antigenic shift. The men fighting and dying on the field with lasguns in their hands were fighting the same war as she, and she could not help but feel she was losing a desperate struggle.
When next Aetherion woke, she blinked crust away from her eyes, which ached in the bright surgical suite lights. A harsh chemical smell lingered in the nostrils. Miranda was standing with concern at the foot of the cot. She wore her traditional robes but her hands and forearms were covered with heavy gloves and her once-youthful face, now sallow and sunken from exposure to the horrors of war, was lost within the folds of a respirator mask.
"That bad, huh?" Aetherion gasped in between shallow, ragged breaths. Her breath smelled awful, and the words stung her throat.
"Sister, I tried to tell you. The injuries on these planet, they constitute a physiologic and moral threat. This was no ordinary plague, and these are the measures that must be taken."
"Child, when you have seen as much of the galaxy, of war and pain, as I have, you stop worrying about your own life and safety. I should have died a hundred times over by now. Maybe…maybe this is my time to go." A rattling cough burst from Aetherion's lips, carrying a sizable glob of congealed blood with it.
"I refuse to believe that. You want to live. You can still save so many more. I will not let you die. I shall pray to the Emperor, that He may protect you."
"Oh ho…by all means, try, my child. It is good practice. Remember what I have taught you. But for now, I will sleep. I could use an analgesic. 2 mg of morphine ought to do, if you please." Miranda indignantly administered the drug and Aetherion fell into an opioid-derived slumber.
Morphine dreams could be odd, but Aetherion had never felt this before. The despair of her inability to cure the illness on the world mixed with the fluidity of unconsciousness that the drug brought on and the jumbled mess acted as a soaring carpet that she rode, prostrate, into the furthest and loftiest realms of understanding. Beneath her, Aetherion could see the swirling eddies of the ocean, but a sea ablaze with lightning and chaotic colors. It was gorgeous. She sailed onward, in opium bliss, chasing a dragon across the endless sea sprawled in her mind. She turned to her left suddenly, craning her neck to see something in the distance. A bright, brilliant light winked in the distance. It was alive with amazing energy, a pinpoint of fire floating in the mists of this brain storm. A shape beneath the light coalesced as Aetherion watched, as if responding to her acknowledgement. It was a lighthouse. Aetherion desperately wanted to sail to the structure, but her carpet had other plans. She lay back and let the vehicle take her where it willed. She watched the sky sparkle as it whizzed on by, an endless canopy of stars, like blinking eyes and sparkling jewels hanging frozen in three dimensions.
The carpet puttered out of fuel and dropped to the ground, gliding to a soft landing in a grassy knoll. The fabric lander had been flying over a lush forest for some time and seemed to have found the only clearing for many miles. Aetherion gingerly climbed off the carpet and felt her feet sink into soft, moist soil. Her cloth slippers were soiled with dirt, but she found she didn't mind. She stood and stretched her aching limbs, cracking her neck and feeling the comfortable pop of escaping gas. She didn't feel tired or sick anymore. Strange. Of course, it would simply be unfair for a dream-self to be afflicted with bodily ailments. She looked over her body once more. Hmm, strange. Her breasts no longer sagged, her skin was tight and healthy. She felt a hundred years younger. This was better than rejuvenant treatments. She decided to take a stroll through this perfect forest. The carpet wanted her to see it, after all. She picked a direction at random and started walking, her soft slippers sinking gently with every step.
The trees here were strange. Aetherion had only ever seen trees in arboretums back at the Schola Progenium, and since then had somehow only found herself on backwater planets with hydroponics farms and endemic species that looked like ferns. But these trees seemed familiar, unlike the sprawling alien things the elder sisters cared for in their glass houses. Some had deep brown bark and strong roots, others had flakes of rainbow hues that clung like parchment to their thick trunks. Everywhere, the floor was leaf-litter, arranged in colors of fall. Aetherion carried on, her spirits raised by the scenery. She was feeling better than ever, but her left leg was dragging a bit. The leaves seemed to cling to it with particular excitement.
Despite this minor impediment, Aetherion carried on. The trees were joined by small bushes with beautiful flowers of remarkable coloration. Chartreuse and cadmium, tawny and flaxen, viridescent and glamorous, these flowers were not shy. They positively erupted into the forest, marking a sharp delineation from the wood Aetherion had been trekking through a moment ago. The smell of their nectar was sickly sweet in the air, an intoxicating aroma of life that filled the veteran Sister's nostrils like sweet mulled wine. She licked her lips and found they came away wet and vermillion. Why, the colors were seeping into her as well. She felt at peace, but she could not linger here, there was something pulling her onwards, she could feel it now in her bones: an itching to forge ahead.
Now, fruits were dangling from the curious trees. Some were tiny, no larger than a fist, and pale grey. They looked tantalizing, and Aetherion's mouth watered. In a flash, she recalled a time at the Schola Progenium.
"Morgana! Spit that out!" The Sister Superior knocked the remnants of the apple from Morgana's hand. The Sister, an aging woman with hair shockingly white, held out a hand. The terrified girl opened her mouth and let a wet mush of half-chewed apple fall into the Sister's hand. Scarcely had the fruit flesh landed on the wrinkled skin of the outstretched limb before a blow struck Morgana upside the head.
"Temptation is everywhere, Morgana. You must remember this always."
And the memory was gone, and Morgana was walking the pathless way amidst the fantastical plants. There were larger fruits here too, some the length and width of Morgana's forearm, other nearly as large as she. They were bright red, the color of roses, and seemed to pulse with lifeblood. Some dangled from branches, pulling the whole of the tree down and giving them a stooped countenance, others sprouted from bushes or vines and Morgana was careful not to tread upon these magnificent examples of pomology. She could not resist, though she knew better, from grazing her fingers along the skin of one of the largest fruit. Its skin was prickly and the whole of the drupe shuddered with her touch. It was evidently ticklish. Morgana smiled privately, a personal joke that she shared with only the garden. She did not even notice her hand falling limp and her arm hanging useless after the contact.
Here there were animals! She giggled girlishly as the silly things pranced about her, slobbering while they went. No more than adorable puppies, she knelt to pet one. It nipped at her playfully, and the bite hurt for but a moment. But it left a mark, which Morgana disregarded. The creature was just happy to see her. Larger beasts were gently grazing in the distance but Morgana was now moving at a gentle clip, pulled further on to a real destination. She could pay no mind to the misshapen lumps, the jagged horns that jutted like massive antlers from the mighty heads of these brutes.
She was almost there. She could taste it in the air, in her mouth. She found herself dribbling saliva. My, how unbecoming of a lady. Her left leg was stiff from walking and she did not think it odd that it twisted away from her midline at a 45-degree angle. Her right arm flopped about independently and her wrist writhed like a snake. A sprawling sigil of pox and vesicles was climbing up her arm, suppurating the pale skin and letting translucent, cloudy fluid ooze out to moisten her epidermis. She had never felt more alive, never healthier, and never more beautiful than she had in that moment. Morgana was almost home.
The garden's sprawling labyrinthine pattern of hedges gave way to a mound that towered over Morgana's tiny form. At the base of the mountain, a corroded black iron gate barred entrance. A cyclops with a mighty horn atop its head waited beside the gate, a rusting sword tucked away beside it, clearly lethal but rarely used. Morgana approached the figure of legend timidly. It fixed its massive, irritated red eye on her and carefully regarded her ailing form.
"New arrival? Okay, go on ahead." The one-eyed giant growled amicably before adding a hash mark to a parchment it clutched in its greasy hands with a charcoal stub.
The gate prattled open on command and Morgana, once Aetherion of the Adeptus Sororitas, stepped through to her fate.
The same story had unfolded much the same way untold trillions of times before. But fate was not so kind to Morgana, ardent worshipper of Grandfather Nurgle, Lord of Decay.
It might have been a moment. It might have been a millennium. But Morgana found herself at the base of the immeasurably massive cauldron where the Plague Lord himself toiled daily. She loved coming here and watching the great god work. He sacrificed so much every day to bring his gifts to the mortals of the galaxy. So selfless. The towering figure that dwarfed the minuscule form of Morgana swiped a massive paw at some distant repository of filth and disease, a disgusting sump at the edge of his delightful garden, and cupped some of the frothy fluid. Nurglings played in the small ocean that formed in his hand. Eyeless screeching dolphin-things breached and sprayed caustic solution from their blowholes before plummeting back into the body fetid water. The spray watered the garden and where the liquid landed, the garden bloomed into new iterations of corruption. Morgana felt a splash of the spray and delighted at the sizzling of her diseased, necrotic skin. Papa Nurgle's kindness literally rained from the sky in his garden. The great god regarded the pool in his hand fondly and chortled with joy as his Nurglings lapped and played. Then he flicked his wrist and sent the microcosm of chaotic life plummeting into the cauldron. The Nurglings shrieked with glee in the free-fall and as they boiled alive. Morgana shivered with bliss at the sound. Now the hardworking god was stumped. What next? He absentmindedly scratched his belly and his sharp claws tore the paper-thin skin there and exposed his coiling entrails to the damp, humid air of his garden. Ah, there we go! He plunged a hand deep into his abdominal cavity and rooted around there for a suitable lump of something. Removing a sizable chunk of necrotized organ, possibly a gallbladder, the god laughed heartily as he dumped the thing into the pot. Satisfied with the mix, Nurgle seized a mixing spoon from its place on his workbench and stirred vigorously. A cloud of noxious vapor rose from the toxic stew and settled over the denizens of his garden. Morgana wafted the air towards the gaping hole where once her nose sat. The scent was mesmerizing.
Once the mixing was complete, Nurgle sat back on his haunches to catch his breath. A god deserves a break every once in a while. Papa Nurgle called out to his loving family, and a gaggle of Nurglings, a spate of Plaguebearers, and a trio of Great Unclean Ones stumbled from the jungle of the garden to attend to their doting father. But Nurgle did not need servitude today, merely wanting an audience to hear a tale. Morgana sat in rapt attention, jaundiced eyes fixated on the great god's form as he belched out a story.
One time, the Anathema, the big bad boogeyman the mortals call the Emperor, wanted to make some sons! Can you believe that? Him, a father? Laughable. The man only wanted children to fight for him, not to sit on his lap while he told them stories, not to run about his ankles as he toiled, not to enjoy all the wonders that you children have brought to me. No, he did not deserve those artificial manlings he called sons. So, I helped to steal them away into the night and place them in the tender love and care of folk who would really watch over them. My favorite, he had a strong tolerance for poison, so I brought him to a world where he could flourish into a brilliant young man. And he did not disappoint! I later adopted the child as my own, and love him dearly. He is a good son. Did you see the gift he sent me last month of a shrunken head filled with flies? It really shows he cares. But don't worry, my darlings, you don't need to bring presents to win my love, I love you all the same. But it sure wouldn't hurt! Haha! Alright, the workday is done and I am tired. Let me rest now. I shall pack up a dinner and bring it home. My lovely wife must surely be waiting. Have I told you all about my wife? Oh my, the most perfect creature…such loveliness. How lucky am I, in all the universe, to have so many loving children, and such a beautiful, caring wife? Okay, enough sentiment from me, go on! Shift is over! Go and enjoy yourselves!
The monstrously huge god stood on his stubby legs, accidentally crushing a Great Unclean One in the process. The daemon popped like a great pimple-balloon, spewing guts and garbage about every which way. Nurgle's boomed an apology and scooped up the deflated skin. With a smooth motion, he dunked the corpse into the stewpot and let it soak like a sponge. He removed the refilled daemon, which jiggled with fresh vigor. But Nurgle still had one more labor for the evening and lifted a gleaming metal cylinder, perfect for carrying delicious stew, and squeezed the Great Unclean One's contents into the flask. He tossed the empty skin back into the pot where it swelled up again and the daemon grumpily swam to the edge and began the long process of climbing out of the pot. Morgana watched with a grin at the comical sight of the daemon's fat stubby arms scrabbling for purchase on the coarse black iron. Its pudgy fingers slipped, and it went tumbling back into the soup. Morgana wished it well on its adventure back from the mixing bowl. She turned to watch Nurgle retreat from his workstation. She had seen this pattern unfold many times now, but she today, she wanted more. This wife of his…surely, she must be a sight to behold. Morgana sat up from her picnic spot and made her way, slowly because of her malformed leg, toward Nurgle's mansion.
The building was more a greenhouse than a castle, and the heat-retaining panes were blackened with filth. Nurgle strolled through a screen door thousands of miles high and whistled as he went. An assortment of carnivorous plants nipped at him as he passed and he took a moment to smell his roses. The potent neurotoxin was rich in the air, and Nurgle contemplated how a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Poetry. Pure poetry.
Darling! I'm home!
Silence. Morgana wondered why she wouldn't respond. If only she was his wife, O, she would lavish him with love and rain kisses upon his bald, rotting head. Her still heart pulsed once with longing, pushing grey, congealed fluid through the tangled mess of pipes that was once her circulatory system.
Darling? Ah, there you are! Come, come, I've made you dinner! Don't look at me like that, you know I love to. Oh, did you bake cookies? My, it smells delicious. But first, let me give you a kiss.
Morgana was around the bend, kept from seeing this mysterious wife by a kitchen island made of black granite. She was almost there…damn this bad leg.
Oh, Isha, what would I ever do without you?
Isha, a name needs a face.
So, tell me about your day. Ah, were you missing your family again? You know I wish I could do something about that, but s/he hates me as it is. I can't ask a favor like that.
What more family could she want? All the recipients of Papa Nurgle's gift were a family.
Attack the pleasure palace? My love, I would move mountains for you, you know I would, but you ask too much. The mortals have been curing many diseases recently, the garden is not in bloom. It is fall, you must wait for spring. Then I shall bring decay to that miserable hedonist's nightclub of terror. But promise, you'll wait until then? And please, try to be happy. Now, drink up your soup. You need to stay strong.
Great Nurgle's arse! Morgana gagged. She was hideous! That flawless skin, that toned musculature, that lithe and slender bodice, that voluptuous bosom, those terribly pointy ears! Utterly distasteful! Morgana had to look away, such did Isha's purity hurt her eyes. But when she looked back, the Eldar goddess had placed the flask on the island and wiped a froth mustache from her lips. Her eyes twinkled and she draped her arms over Nurgle, hugging him in a deep embrace. For some reason, Morgana could not hear any of her words, but she could see the syllables formed on her alien lips. In a language dead for millennia, the meaning was clear: I love you, Nurgle.
Morgana watched them all evening, a buzzing fly on the wall, a silent observer in the realm of gods. She had been a curious mortal, the Schola Progenium's teachers had seen that immediately and set her aside for medicae training. A Biologos Magi from the Adeptus Mechanicus had taught her the secrets of teasing apart biological life, and it had carried her far. So far that she was there when the happy couple lounged on sofas the size of mountain ranges, feeding each other bundles of grapes that screamed when bitten and leaked pus instead of juice. She was there when they had a brief romp beneath the sheets of four poster bed where each beam had been carved from exquisite hardwood from the endless garden outside to show Nurgle's eternal occupation of natural decay. She was there when Nurgle bid his blushing bride farewell for the evening, ushering her to a gilded cage beside the bed, which itself contained a luxurious velvet recliner and the trappings of a decadent lifestyle. Nurgle spared no expense for his darling. She was holding his hand tightly, begging him to just hold her.
Shh, you know the cage is the only way to keep you safe. What if Slaanesh should find you as I slumber? What then? For your own protection, please, stay in the cage tonight. Please, dearest? And the Eldar goddess did comply, somberly entering the protective shell for another night. She turned the key and locked the door before retiring for the evening. Nurgle too lay down to rest after a long day's work. Before darkness fell completely on the garden, Nurgle turned to whisper to his love. Sweet dreams, Isha.
Morgana turned to go, but a pleading chirp stayed her motion. She looked back and saw the emeralds of Isha's eyes burning a hole in her skull. The goddess was boring right through Morgana's soul.
"Come here." Morgana did not want to acquiesce, did not want to approach this ugly hag. But her feet moved nonetheless.
"Morgana, my dear." How did this fell creature know her name? What madness is this?
"Morgana, listen to me. We don't have much time." The wench smiled, showing an array of perfectly aligned teeth. Morgana shuddered at the sight.
"He is asleep. That is well. I have a gift for you." The goddess reached into a leather pouch bundled to her side. Morgana did not desire any gift this xenos could provide.
"Here, my child. Take it." There was nothing in her outstretched hand. A trick? Morgana haltingly placed her hand in the palm of the goddess.
And everything became clear. Healing power flowed through the joining of hands and Isha's eyes lit up with viridian fire as she purged the sickness from Morgana's system, from her very soul. The mortal gasped and regretted it, as the air here was heavy with the stench of decay. She was in the Rot God's bedroom after all. Isha leaned forward and whispered the secrets of this particular strain of illness into Morgana's receptive ears as the shock of the purging latched onto the mortal's form. The Sister was whipped backwards from that place and as she left the building, she saw Isha smiling sadly from her cage. A prisoner in her lover's home, not by his design, but her people's. Bound forever to a god who gave her purpose with his sickness, and she him with her medicine. A dichotomous duo that might have lived happily married forever had a thirsting god not decided that she belong to s/heim. In another time, another universe, perhaps. Morgana felt a momentary burst of pity, but it was gone as she soared over the black gate and the distraught Plaguebearer who had to strike off a hashmark from his list. She flew over the foul swamp where splashing Nurglings played and waited for pods of mortal souls to rupture and spill fresh despairing contents into the garden of Nurgle. She rushed through the field of stars, through the crashing waves of chaotic energy in the endless tumultuous sea, and found herself bolting upright in a room with bright surgical lights and a chemical smell. Sister Miranda leapt up with a start at the sudden revival of her master. She had just been filing the Departmento Munitorum paperwork declaring Sister Aetherion dead at the hands of the moral threat on Brontes XXII when the woman herself suddenly rose seemingly from the beyond. But miraculously, she was there, alive, and rosy-cheeked. She looked ten years younger. Gone were the traces of disease.
"Miranda! I am cured! And I know the solution to this outbreak, we can end this war!" The elder Sister exclaimed.
"But…how?" Miranda stuttered. Aetherion knew that her next words would count when the Ordo Hereticus and Ordo Malleus began their snooping. So she chose them with care and the intellect that had secured her position within the Orders Hospitaller.
"The Emperor protects."