1 Week

Written by Wolsal

CONTENT WARNING(S): Descriptions of starvation, forced medical treatment, panic attacks

The Keep was quiet that night. The empty halls seemed to hum in the dark, the light draft making the building itself seem as if it was breathing. A soft, almost ethereally delicate scraping filled the corridor, getting louder as the serpentine beast drew nearer to the door at the end of the hall.

In his lower arms he held a large basket filled with various necessities. A change of clothes, medical supplies, food, water, and fresh linen.

It had been no more than a week since Menhir had brought his shiny new captive back to The Keep. Though he was arguably the freest of his prisoners, it hadn’t been going well.

He hadn’t eaten or drank anything since his arrival. His Adornment would prevent it from killing him quickly, however in the state he was in, skeletally thin and appearing as if he’d been trampled by horses in the recent past, Khaos couldn’t sustain him forever.

 He couldn’t have him die on him so quick- not yet, not before he got enough use of him to justify the trouble he went through to find him.

He knocked curtly on the door, opening it before he got a response. He knew he wouldn’t be welcome in regardless.

“Do you always like your room to look like a dungeon? Or do you just not know how to turn on a light.” Menhir stated with a dull hint of taunting, seeing the goat’s brows furrow and fur bristle in the dark- the bright magenta of his eyes partly illuminated the room in a dusty light. Menhir was quick to turn on the light switch- for what he needed to do the dark would be a hindrance.

Solomon hissed and recoiled as the lights came on, squinting like he’d been flashbanged. Well, he kind of had. He supposed 500 years in a lightless void would probably take time to adjust from, no time like the present to start though. 

“You look horrid.” Menhir remarked matter-of-factly as he set down the basket- Solomon eyeing it with apprehension and a palpable hint of fear.
The nurses were easy to fight off; it was no trouble for him really, and he’d done it many times by now every time the stone monolith would send one to help him. Menhir was significantly less easy to fight off.

Menhir pulled a small wooden box marked with several sigils, placing it on the bed out of reach of Solomon.

“I’d suggest you cooperate and make this easy. It’ll be over quicker that way.” Menhir spoke absently and noncommittally. He knew it just fell on deaf ears. 

“Fuck you.” He practically spat out, shuffling away from the stone beast with some difficulty

 “Bratty as ever, expected as much.” Menhir bit back snidely, producing a roll of bandage alongside several different glass jars of various liquids. 

He carefully placed down the items on the bedside table whilst keeping a close eye on the goat- he could tell the second he looked away he’d try to break any of the jars he set down. 

“If you so much as lay one fucking finger on me I’ll kill you and everyone else in this shithole- I swear-” Solomon piped up. 

Though he was clearly attempting to assert any level of intimidation it was obvious it was all talk. 

The slight shake to his voice and hands that shook if he held them up for more than a couple seconds gave it away. 

“You can kill me when I’m finished then.” Menhir bit back mockingly, blithe amusement whispered into his words from the choral of voices.

 Menhir lifted up one of the jars filled with a clear liquid before plucking a cloth from a pocket on his vest, pouring some of the liquid onto the piece of fabric. 

“Lay down.” 

“The hell I will, eat sh-” “That wasn’t a request, Solomon.” Menhir cut him off before he could finish. 

He turned to him, gripping his shoulder with one of his lower arms and lightly pushing him onto the bed, not needing much force to do so. He moved his large hand from his shoulder and wrapped partially around his chest to keep him pinned down before grabbing one of his arms and holding it up. 

Solomon yelped as he was shoved down, quick to try and shove him away before his arm was yanked up. “GET AWAY- I SWEAR I’LL RIP YOU APART- I’LL-”

 “Shut up.” Menhir snarled before he was able to finish his half-baked threat, ignoring the wriggling and poor attempts at scratching and hitting from the goat as he began scrubbing at the large wound on his wrist with the rag he held. 

Solomon let out a pained yelp and attempted at yanking his arm away- it didn’t work, he was weak as-is and was being held in a literal rock hard grip. 

“Sit still unless you want to get hurt.” Menhir growled in a raised voice, tightening the grip he had across his torso while he continued to scrub the dried blood and gunk off of his wrist. 

“GET AWAY! LEAVE!” Solomon cried out, the pain of his broken and skinned wrist made him want to hurl. 

“GET THE FUCK OFF!”

Ignoring the constant barrage of curses and threats being hurled at him he set down the cloth, sufficiently satisfied with his work. 

Solomon shoved as hard as he could with his free hand the second he set down the cloth, writhing and squirming in his grip. His eyes were misty, face now lightly dampened from the tears he hadn't even realised he’d been shedding

“-LET GO NOW YOU FUCKING UGLY TOOTH SNAKE BULLSH-”

 “SHUT UP.” Menhir snapped, quickly bringing up his other lower hand to slap over Solomon’s nose and mouth, firmly clasping them shut whilst taking care to dig his claws into the sides of his face and head. 

Panic quickly set into him- shaking his head as hard as he was able, thrashing his tail around and kicking his legs to the best of his ability.

 Menhir paid no mind, seemingly calmer now that the yelling had ceased. He slowly began wrapping the bandage around his wrist- doing so in thick layers to hopefully help the broken bones heal- not like that help would be appreciated of course. 

Securing the bandage in place he finally let go of his arm, carefully setting it down by Solomon’s side who’d now stopped struggling- only glaring at Menhir through eyes he could barely hold open. It wouldn't be long until he was out. 

He released his grip across his chest, now only holding him down by his head. Menhir hummed softly- it was unclear if he was humming to himself or simply teasing his captive. He dampened another cloth with the same clear liquid as before, lifting up his other hand to begin scrubbing it clean.

He watched with an almost cold amusement as Solomon’s eyes finally fluttered closed, head lulling in his grip. He dug his claws deeper into his jaw for a fraught moment before unclasping his hand from his face. He stared down at the unconscious goat, a knot of dull rage twisted in his chest. 

The last remaining god- the “most powerful” god- the object of his father’s obsession- and this was all he was. As difficult to take down as an infant of his home’s species- pathetic. What could he possibly have that made him deserving of the spoils he had? Even that sniveling rat had put up more of a fight than him. His hand that sat close to his head twitched in anger, claws aching to dig into flesh. 

He shook his head. No, not yet. He needed him alive right now. As horrid a beast as he was he still had use for him. 

He looked back to the wrist he’d been scrubbing, realising he’d been going for far too long- blood had started to drip down onto the bed from the wound that had been scrubbed back open.

 He cursed, quickly dropping the blood soaked rag and wrapping his wrist tightly with the roll of bandage, securing the dressing before practically tossing his arm back onto the bed.

 “Stupid. Stupid.” Menhir muttered to himself.

 Menhir spent the next hour or so, it’s not like he exactly kept track, thoroughly cleaning and patching every wound that riddled the body of the borderline mangled goat, scrubbing stitching and wrapping injuries whilst meticulously cataloguing his physical state in a leather bound notebook with yellowing pages. 

Once his wounds were properly taken care of he switched to his next task- cleaning him up. Old dried blood, dirt, grime and bugs coated most of his body- clothes soaked in ichor and torn up. He reeked, filling the whole room with the stench of rot and decay- not unlike the scent of a corpse that had begun to degrade. Grabbing a large bottle of water from the basket he’d brought alongside several larger cloths, he got to work.

* * *

A quiet muttering and scribbling filled the otherwise silent room, the sounds being the first thing to greet Solomon as he stirred. His eyes squinted open, groaning quietly in pain. Menhir turned to look at him as he woke up, placing down his pen and slithering towards him. 

“How are you feeling?” Menhir asked calmly. The quiet chorus of voices were a mix of genuine concern and of mocking- impossible to tell which tone better matched his question. Solomon blinked several times as the fogginess cleared from his head.

 Looking down at himself and taking stock of his state, he realised he actually felt… better. His fur was clean, hair feeling smoother and cleaner than it had in centuries. His wounds no longer festered, now properly covered and cleaned. He then noted his clothes, finding himself in a fresh overshirt and pants. Solomon saw what he assumed was a light smile on Menhir’s face.

“I told you, I’m only trying to help you. Perhaps you’ll believe me now.” He knew he wouldn’t. 

Menhir met Solomon’s gaze, he could tell he wasn’t sure what to say- what snide remark to make. “I brought you food and water. I suggest you consume something, we both know you need to.” He remarked, reaching down and setting a tray of food alongside a ceramic bottle of water down on the bedside table nearest to him.

Solomon thought to retort- to reject the offer- but he couldn’t force himself to get out the words to deny. Maybe if he just accepts food one time he’ll have the strength to escape- he’d take the food. Just this once.

Menhir snickered to himself before straightening out, patting the goat’s shoulder with perhaps a little too much force. “I’ll leave you be, if you need anything, all you need do is call my name.” He spoke in an almost melodic rhythm as he slithered away, disappearing through the threshold and pulling the large wooden door shut behind him.

Solomon stared at the closed door, a mix of emotions pattering away at his resolve. He didn’t want to go along with whatever this alien wanted of him, but he couldn't deny how good it felt to be clean, dressed in fresh clothes, and having his wounds treated. 

It had been centuries since he’d been treated with what he could almost call kindness.

 He’d instigated every fight with the monolith- a part of him didn’t blame the creature for attacking him. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he was simply looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Maybe… maybe he was wrong about Menhir. Maybe… this wouldn’t be that bad. Maybe he’d stay.

Or maybe he was just too weak to deny help.