“Medicine treats symptoms. Not cause.”
“The cause is the tonic you people created.”
“The cause is resistance to natural process.” His tail sweeps the ground in what might be agitation. “Tonic creates need. Fighting need creates damage.”
Another wave builds. I feel it starting and try to brace, but there's no bracing against this. My whole body seizes. Back arching off the ground. Muscles locking in patterns of desperate need.
This time he does touch. His tail wraps loosely around my wrist, just that point of contact. It doesn't stop the wave but changes it. Gives it focus. Instead of random clenching, my body orients toward him. Toward what it recognizes as relief.
Eighty-four seconds.
When it passes, I'm gasping. Covered in sweat despite the morning cool. And his tail is still around my wrist.
“See?” he says. “Contact helps. Reduces duration.”
“That was longer than normal.”
“But less violent. Less damaging.”
He releases my wrist. A raw sound of protest tore from my throat as he pulled away.
“Let me help,” he says. “Not claiming. Just relief.”
“No.”
“Your shelter then. I'll reinforce it.”
I watch, confused, as he moves to my tree. His four arms work in concert, weaving vines and branches into additional support. Creating drainage channels that will direct water away. Building what looks like furniture from shaped wood.
“Why?”
“If you insist on suffering, at least suffer safely.”
He works through the morning while I writhe through increasingly violent waves. By noon, my shelter has been transformed. Still defensive but now actually liveable. Raised platforms for sleeping. Storage that will stay dry. Even what might be a waste management system.
“You're domesticating me,” I accuse.
“I'm keeping you alive while you insist on fighting biology.”
He leaves as afternoon heat builds. But he's made his point. I can't survive day four alone. My body is breaking down. The inflammation is visible now, tissues swollen and angry.
I try to rest but can't. Try to eat but can't. Everything is secondary to the need that consumes me. My world has shrunk to the space between my legs and the emptiness that defines it.
By evening, I'm delirious. The waves come constantly now, one rolling into the next. I've clawed grooves in the wood from gripping so hard. My voice is hoarse from sounds I can't control.
He returns at sunset with something new. A plant I don't recognize, thick leaves that weep clear fluid when broken.
“Cooling gel,” he explains. “Won't stop need but reduces inflammation.”
“How?”
“Absorbs through skin. Numbs surface nerves.”
I should refuse. Should maintain my stance. But the swollen tissues between my legs are beyond pain now. If there's relief, I need it.
“Turn around,” I demand.
He complies, giving me privacy I know is meaningless. He can smell everything. Hear everything. But the gesture matters.
