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Before season 6.
They cracked the spine of the valley open, you know. Dynamite and dust, with only the stray thumb here and there to mark the cost. Schist and bone–that's minerality for you.
After just a few decades of that, ever more grapevines wound, verdant, green and dripping down towards the river. Like a tangled chain of emeralds in the sun.” Crowley paused to take a sip of port.
“Or, of course, like moss on buried vertebrae.” He smiled down at his trembling audience. No answer.
“It looks like the floating gardens,” he continued, “but in reality, every layered terrace is a scar upon the land.” The Douro, far below them, shone the color of a knife, winding its way through the earth.
“Before the delightfully indiscriminate explosives,” he added, “they used men. Blood, sweat. Pickaxes. The whole number.” Another sip. “And they continued until the land became...obedient.”
His listener cringed, red still leaking from the cut on his cheek. The man whimpered through his gag.
Crowley swirled the fortified wine in his glass, and smiled at the vineyard like a lover. Somewhere down the slope, a tractor murmured. The sun was warm, but the light had a white cast to it. Autumn threatening.
He bent down, picked up a smooth stone from the path next to where the man was kneeling. He examined the speck of blood that wet its sandy surface. Then he let it fall back to the ground with a clatter.
“The best part?”
Crowley leaned in, now sitting on the edge of his chair. His breath smelled like plums and something astringent.
“It worked,” he confided. “The land learned to obey.”
The heir to the vineyard's soul deal—shackled, slumped against the vineyard wall—moved, then. There was a soft, wet noise, and something popped.
A scream.
Crowley took a sip from his glass and let it linger.
“Ah. Still with us.” He sounded pleased. “Good. This next part will be all the more satisfying.”
The blood had dried in rivulets down the man’s face, catching in the stubble like wine in wool. He was breathing hard through his nose.
Guthrie appeared from behind a vine. He cleared his throat. “I've located the founding artifact, Sire. The productivity enchantment should resolve on its own in a few days.”
Crowley did not look up from his glass. “Delightful,” he said. “Let's get started on some more natural fertilization.”
Guthrie took precisely two steps to his right. There was a muffled shout, another whimper, then a loud squelch.
And silence.
Crowley smiled, again. Unhurried. Guthrie was already cleaning off his hands with a handkerchief.
The King raised the glass toward the valley, ruby-dark and shining.
“To inheritance.”