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Mazelina was just a foot soldier, barely there, wearing ill fitted clothing and the spear given to her was too heavy against her shoulder. And yet, there she was, dirtying the pristine white halls of the Church as she was guided to the Sanctum, where the High Priestess lived.
The priest that guided her droned endlessly about something Mazelina didn’t really care about: it was the holy fungi speaking in tongues, growing out of his skin and moving him like a meat puppet to do its sacred bidding. If she wanted to hear it, she’d go to mass and drink the tea, let the spores grow in her brain for a week or two and then die off because she would not keep drinking the tea, would not step into mass again. Mazelina had had enough of it for a lifetime: conscription into the army (if being sold like chattel by the village leader counted, hungry people selling people for a bit of bread, some carrots and a few potatoes to feed themselves another day) had freed her from religious worries. Until now, that is; Mazelina had not understood this particular brand of duty they had forced her upon.
The general had given her a bare idea, and so did her religious education: the High Priestess of this church sect needed help releasing her fungal spores . That was it. What the help entailed, however, no one had clarified.
A High Priestess differed from a common priest: for one, she’d not have the holy fungi growing out of her skin, she’d have flowers, beautiful and untamed, a jewel of the church’s treasures, but beauty was not her only quality: her connection to the fungi would be stronger, thick as thieves, and the words of the underground would come clearer to her, allowing a sane mind, instead of the inane babbler of a priest. They were also responsible for the fungi’s growth, for the production of tea and new priests, but these were matters less known for common folk such as herself.
They turned a corner, and Mazelina almost hit her head on a wall of fungi, a sacrilege; shaking her head, she, instead of focusing on her mind, Mazelina focused instead on the Church’s interior, a beautiful underground cave with the holy fungi growing out of walls, while other fungi glowed in a soft white, bathing the underworld into a sunlight facsimile. Weren’t it for the smell of the wet soil, Mazelina might as well think herself aboveground.
The priest stopped in front of a door, vines instead of wood, and with a small bow, announced his presence to the priestess in that tongue she couldn’t understand.
The priestess replied in a clear voice, although in that same language, and the priest, with a nod that bobbed the many mushrooms growing out of his skin, broke apart the vine door, offering a respite small enough for Mazelina to pass through. The smell of flowers, thick and nauseating, hit Mazelina’s face like the blunt of a sword, and she had to do her best to not cough as she entered, protecting her face with the crook of her arm.
The room was small, egg-shaped, with a nest of dying flowers in the center: amid it, sat the High Priestess, the chief figure of the Church. She was beautiful, and Mazelina’s breath caught in her throat.
Her hair was long and frazzled at the beginning, a pale color that reminded her of roots; after that, it slowly morphed into a green-ish color found in stalks, and at the tips, flowers in tightly closed blossoms, heavy, falling beneath her hips and mixing itself with the dead and dying flowers. From her pale skin, flowers bloomed, and she had been lucky: no flower bloomed where it could hurt her (she’d seen the drawn pictures of high priestesses whose command had died with them, when their most holy flowers bloomed in their throats and blocked their breathing), shoulders coronated by them, a natural flower crown on her head, and one brown eye substituted by a most red rose, closed like it was asleep. She wore a priestess outfit, but cut in places as to show the blossoms of her body.
The priest left the room, and Mazelina was still with her breath caught in her throat, but for different reasons.
“Sit down.” She said, voice soft and almost inaudible. Mazelina obeyed, gingerly sitting on the flower nest, soft and comforting, the smell even more pungent. “I am the High Priestess of this Sect, but since we will get to know each other, you might as well call me Lanthechilde, but since that’s a mouthful, Lan’s fine.”
Her voice had no accent at all: a carefully maintained neutral inflection, with no emotion whatsoever to her tone, betraying the amused glint in her eye. Mazelina couldn’t help but wonder, though, if the flowers in her body were as soft as they looked like, if they’d bend and be pliable, if their master would be the same underneath Mazelina’s fingers.
A blush overtook her face: what was in the air, to make her think like that?
“Mazelina’s the name, ma’am.” She fidgeted under the High Priestess steady, one-eyed brown gaze, the flower seemingly pulsating in tune with its master’s heart. “I’m sorry, I don’t… Know exactly what are my duties. I was just put into this because I don’t go to Church enough, which just seems like a punishment for not being religious enough because I’m the only one in my platoon that doesn’t go to mass, but, y’know -”
“It’s alright.” Lan smiled, and grabbed Mazelina’s hands, interrupting her rambling diatribe that was veering closely into inane nothings. There were small flowers painted into her nails, so realistic Mazelina thought them pressed there. “The tea spores need a few friends, that’s all.”
Mazelina gave her a quick once over, but did not find the usual spores priests carried, only the flowers.
“How?” She asked, and Lan’s hands pressed tighter against her own.
“It’s… A simple process. You won’t even be awake for most of it.” The rose started to open its petals, gentle at first, revealing a red eye in the tightly clumped together middle, Mazelina too suddenly frozen in place, hypnotized by the way the petals gently opened themselves, revealing even more of the eye it hid, hypnotizing her into not panicking at the sight. “Just relax and let the fungi do their job.”
Relaxing sounded nice, and she could feel herself becoming soft and pliable, bending at the waist when Lan prompted her to, getting atop of her as the smell of flowers grew thick on the air, choking her.
Pollen fell from the blossoms in her hair directly into her face, warm and burning, but not unpleasant.
“Say that you want this.” Lan demanded, sickeningly sweet, and as Mazelina’s head started to spin in circles, she nodded, feeble, barely aware of the bobbing of her head. It must’ve been enough, because Lan's mouth came into her own, a tongue opening her mouth forcefully, sweetness coating her teeth as she fell into a sleep-like state, dreamily, far away.
After that, memories were far and in between, flashes of lucidity intersped with sensations: the feeling of petals on her body, the careful undoing the buttons on her shirt; fingers, touching into places so deep inside herself that Mazelina wasn't aware it existed, like Lan was trying to plant something in her innards; a buzzing pleasure, resonating deep inside her bones as she couldn't contain the moans that echoed off the dirt ceiling, orgasm after orgasm that was drawn out of her bringing Mazelina down to the ocean of Lan's blood red eye; and every time she would get closer to surfacing the ocean of blood, Lan's mouth would fixate upon her own, saliva would cover the soft insides of her mouth, and she'd be put under the dreamy state of before, begging for Lan to continue her ministrations upon her body, more pollen inside of her lungs.
At some point, Mazelina fell asleep: when she woke up, Lan had tied her to a ceiling hook with the stems of blossoming flowers, wrists above her head, shoulders aching. She was naked, and red, angry-looking fungus grew from her stomach.
She’d recognize the color in any place: darkened from the drying and smoking process, they’d be the base of the tea passed around in the mass.
“What’s this?” She slurred, drowsy from sleep, and Lan looked at her, the flower in her eye closed once more.
“The fungi need fields to be borne, Mazelina, and you’re ripe.” With a snap of her fingers, pollen fell from the flowers atop her head, and Mazelina could feel herself falling asleep. “Be proud, o child of the dirt, that the gods have chosen you to have this blessing. Many would kill for this.”
Lan plucked a mushroom from her belly, and pain, searing and white-hot, rippled through her, putting her out of her misery and falling, once more, in a merciful dreamless sleep.
The next time she woke up, it was on the Church’s infirmary, a priestess with fungi growing out of her eyes rendering her blind. Mazelina did not care for this, though, instead ripping off the coverings off her body, pulling up the shift they’d put her in, craning her neck to look at her stomach: several red, angry-looking scars stared back at her, shaped suspiciously like the fungi from before.
“The Church thanks you for your collaboration. Your offerings shall provide the Church with many more of the faithful. May the holy fungi bless you.” The priestess said, practiced and polished, but Mazelina did not feel blessed; she just felt violated.