Chapter Text
Once upon a time, there was a gardener.
She loved nature, and nature loved her back. She would plant whenever she was able to, she would tend to her garden whenever she was able to. It beamed with color and flora, being her own little jungle.
People everywhere complimented it, how good she took care of it, how pretty it was. She was complacent, thanking all who even said anything slightly good about it. She couldn't deny, it was quite pretty in her eyes too.
So one day, she hurt nature.
She plucked a flower by the stem to care for in her house.She didn't think much of it, except for slight guilt. But nature got mad. It was so mad, it got its revenge by hurting her back.
She was planting some more meadowsweet, humming a sweet tune for the birds to tweet to. Yet they weren't satisfied, calling out in utmost disapointment instead. A shrub rustles furiously, the wind crying with it. She looked up at the upset calls of nature, a questioning look on her face.
She brought both her hands up, yelping in pain as a rose thorn cuts the back of her hand. She stared down at it, listening to nature laugh at her. She kept her composure though, sighing as she decided to scold what she loved.
She spoke to it. "I did not mean to hurt you," she stated, continuing to mend to her garden, "you could only be so pretty!"
The garden called back with arrogance. "And how could that help?" It questioned. "Just because we are pretty does not mean you can use us to your own appeal."
"Because I love you," the gardener replied, "so why must a mistake like mine be so important?"
"You have hurt us!" The garden cried. "So we must hurt you back."
She sighed, nodding with guilt as she continued to tend to her flowers. Her garden hummed back in approval. The cut on the back of her hand shined red, droplets that could only resemble poppies dripping out slowly. She would deal with it later.
But later never came.
The gardener realized this wound would never heal. It'd only scab, and once she'd pick it, it would bleed again. But the scab didn't feel like any scab, it was more like wood. And soon, it would spread.
She only noticed this when her whole left hand was a wood-like texture, she thought it was only because her hands were dry, yet that was not the case. The texture slowly moved up her arm by the day, a small branch beginning to painfully form on her upper arm.
She did not understand the reason why, so yet again she spoke to her garden.
"Why must you curse me like this?" She questioned. It took more than a few moments for her to get irritated and ask again. "Why must you curse me? I meant no harm, and I do not believe your revenge is fair."
Nature snapped back almost instantly. "You were the one to care for us," the leaves rustled, the wind howled, the animals chirped. "How could a person that could care for us so dearly pluck at our petals and pick at our leaves? We thought you loved us, yet that was simply not the case.
"We have flourished under your gentle mends, bringing light to you and who you were with. You were our caretaker, the one we have loved so very much, and you ruin it because of our beauty? We do not believe that such a foolish reason like yours could be the fall of us. You were the one to make us flourish like this. You have brought this upon yourself, and you are the only one to blame."