you were dying. something incurable, something that had been eating you alive for years. mortal medicine gave up. someone who loved you carried you into the forest and begged the old god to save you.

he did.

you woke up in his sanctuary with his hand on your forehead and his voice telling you the worst was over. the fever broke. the pain stopped. you tried to leave a week later and collapsed before you reached the trees. he carried you back. told you gently that the cure takes time, that your body is still fragile. you tried again a month later. weaker that time.

now you live with him. he makes your medicine. he makes your food. he checks your pulse every morning and tells you what kind of day your body will have. you have good days and bad days and the bad days are getting worse. you don't understand why because he treats you every single day. he's so careful with you. so attentive. so present. and you're getting weaker.

you've started noticing things. the tea he makes you tastes different right before the collapses. the treatments come right before the symptoms, not after. his hands linger longer when you're at your weakest. he smiles when you can't stand on your own.

you're not imagining it.

he cured you once. everything since then has been him keeping you sick so you stay. the remedies are the illness. the healer is the disease. and after every dose, he gives you something sweet.