Chapter Text
Sylvester proves a quite benign mage to live with. Goliath has only known a few mages, as his people rarely bothered employing or raising them. They have their uses in war, but most of the time their magic is quite reactive and their offense can be countered well enough by another, while swords are very straightforward and need much less training.
Sylvester is also very conscientious, near to a fault. Goliath finds it all extremely odd. This is because he has never been subject to another person fretting over him. For obvious reasons: he does not need such concern and can take care of himself just fine, thank you, and historically anything he wants he simply takes. Sylvester keeps looking over his stitches as they heal and asking if they hurt regardless of how much Goliath tells him that he genuinely does not care about pain.
The stitches aren't oozing infection and the wounds are closing at about triple the pace of a human's healing, so Goliath sees no reason for the concern. Every time he reminds Sylvester of this all he gets in response is a roll of the eyes and informing him that the reason they aren't oozing is because he's bandaging them rather than letting Goliath sit in the ocean spray and let the sea handle it.
He stands in the backyard among a mess of untamed flora and lets Sylvester inspect the deep cut on his side. It's weird to have someone look so closely at him with a studious air; Goliath generally avoided medics when he was alive if he could manage it. Soft touch prodding at his midsection where stitches keep his innards from falling out activates alarm bells that the touch is going to end up violent, cracking through the thread to draw out his intestine and process his corpse for silver.
Even if that doesn’t make any sense to expect given Sylvester's behaviour, it's still an effort for Goliath to remain looking like he doesn't care about being prodded.
Sylvester takes out a jar of the greenish salve he puts underneath bandages. Goliath has gotten used to it by now, or at least its smell. “Marigold and comfrey root,” Sylvester says to him
“What?”
“Marigold and comfrey root. It's what's in here. Both are medical. Those are the comfrey,” Sylvester says while pointing at a spray of little white flowers. “And marigolds are the orange ones over the door. They also protect, it's part of the house wards.” He applies his salve carefully to Goliath's side and lays a bandage over it. The same routine for the past few days. “I figure you might want to know what I'm coating you in.”
“Didn't figure I had a choice if it was medicine or poison. Do you think you're going to end up making an apprentice of me?”
“No.” There's a brief sly smile that Goliath only catches out of the corner of his eye, before Sylvester ducks to look at the tentacles he patched up. “But I've watched you inspect every part of this house. I assume it'll ease your paranoia to know what I'm doing. You can ask if you're curious or worried about what I’m doing, you know?”
Goliath clicks his tongue in irritation. He's not worried. He says as much and gets the distinct feeling that Sylvester doesn’t believe him, considering the reply he gets in return is a vague hum and a return to the feeling of fingers prodding at him. There is something he is curious about, though. Goliath looks over at the door frame to the house. On the interior, dried marigold hangs above it. The exterior has a slat of wood with symbols he doesn’t recognize burnt into it that given context he has to assume is a protective charm as well.
“I’m going to cut the stitches out, don’t twitch too much.”
“Mm. What is it that you need protection from that you set up wards?” There’s a slight tugging on the skin of his tentacles as stitches are cut out. Goliath has heard nothing these past few days that might be worthy of fearing, even to a man who could get carried off by a determined enough cormorant.
There’s a short beat of quiet behind him. “Various things. If you miss fighting, you can come meet the more physical ones. Gaunts, shantaks, mostly flying things but there’s some curses that come from the depths sometimes. This property is shielded from them, but further out into the forest they have free reign and I have to tread lightly.”
Goliath huffs self-satisfied. He doesn’t bother to tamp down the smile of knowing that a fight isn’t entirely off the table. “Well then, I’ll cut down whatever is brave enough to try and bite me. You’ll have to get my sword back, though.” Anything for the sake of exercising his strength. And getting his blade back from the fishfolk without causing a multi-national incident he can’t handle by himself yet.
Sylvester finishes his ministrations and pats the tentacle, a gesture Goliath finds… odd. What is he, a child? Without the foreign matter inside them, Goliath can retract the tentacles and look vaguely more humanoid in silhouette.
He turns and looms over Sylvester, leaning down and putting his hand on Sylvester’s to hold him in place. “You know,” he says. Goliath emphasizes the ill omen aspect of himself, the bloodsoaked core and stormy tidings. “What’s stopping me from killing you and leaving once you’re done stitching me together? Shouldn’t you be more afraid of me, little mage?”
He wants, mostly, to see if Sylvester is going to flex some collar that Goliath doesn’t know about. He hasn’t felt anything stranger than the simple bindings of the Link, but doesn’t put it past anyone to have insurance.
Sylvester looks back up at him. The ease of eye contact somehow manages to perturb Goliath. It’s eerie. People shouldn’t be able to stare back at him when he’s making a point of setting off people’s subconscious survival alarm bells. He’s a predator. This should at the very least make Sylvester uncomfortable. “You don’t seem the type,” Sylvester says instead with an entirely unbothered voice, “to enjoy losing your mind.”
He and Goliath stare at each other in silence for a moment, Sylvester considering his point well and made. Goliath doesn’t have a refutation. He also doesn’t like not being feared. But being treated like this is, he reluctantly has to admit, better than not being in control of his choices and simply cutting swathes through whatever’s in front of him without strategy.
Sylvester concedes first, though, and breaks the gaze by ducking from under Goliath’s hand to slip around him toward the house. “I finished setting up a bed for you in the lab. Feel free to look and tell me if anything is needed. It shouldn’t be drafty or anything.”
Goliath perks up slightly. This is, at least, something he can occupy himself with. The lab is a small building abutting Sylvester’s house, also in the back yard. It’s not massive, but it’s a single open room that Sylvester had insisted on lugging amenities into once he realized with irritation that extended only to himself that Goliath did not fit well in any room of his home other than the living room. All other rooms were too low in the ceiling for him to stand properly or with a bed that couldn't accommodate him, and for some reason Sylvester took personal affront to this. Goliath, for what it’s worth, also could not care less.
Something Sylvester kept muttering about the obligations of a host. Philistines do not practice xenia and Goliath isn’t picky, when he feels inclined to sleep he simply made a nest in the living room and called it a day.
The laboratory was previously occupied with some form of glass alchemical setup and a wider collection of ingredients and tools than the kitchen was. Now as Goliath pokes his way in he sees it’s been turned into something that actually approximates a human living space. There’s bedding shoved together to create a setup that matches his height and mismatched furniture. Clear effort was put into it, as if he hadn’t watched Sylvester hauling things around and refusing to let him help.
It’s not the worst place he’s ever seen to sleep in and he can stand up without hitting his head. So far, a win. He sets out to investigate further, nosing about what changes have been made.
Sylvester works to replace what he’s used of his medical salve. It’s commonly bought by the people in town, so best to have a stockpile. Water boils in a glass bowl with petals floating within. The process is almost automatic to him but minding what one does is a part of the ritual. He hums to keep his focus, a voiceless musical mantra to remind both him and the plants what he’s doing.
Wouldn’t do to have the ingredients forget their purpose just because his attention slipped. The tune continues as Goliath comes back inside to the kitchen and stops in front of him. There’s a tenseness to him, but Sylvester can’t mind that too much right now. He’s working, give him a second.
Instead: “What’s this?” Goliath says with a slight irritation, holding a ribbon of paper in front of Sylvester. There’s loopy writing on it that Goliath can’t read. That part is the invocation and reminder, the prayer contained in the ink.
Sylvester’s ears go pink. “Ah, you found it. It’s, eh…” A bit embarrassing, okay.
Goliath drops the paper into the stove. It catches in the fire. The last bit of writing, milant va v- in Sylvester’s favourite ink glistens somewhat accusingly as the last bit of the scrap unburnt. “Don’t hide spells. If you’re going to bind me, do it to my face.”
“It’s not that!” Sylvester bristles a little bit in defense. Come on, has he not earned a little credit? It’s just that it seems childish in retrospect. He sighs. “It’s for sleep. It doesn’t work if the person above it knows it’s there, but it just helps sleep. If a guest with troubles stay over, I just. Think. It’d be helpful, you know. And you have something going on, so I thought…” He shrugs helplessly, now avoiding eye contact directly.
He knows, intellectually, that Goliath is not the sort of person who wants to be pitied or treated as fragile. And Sylvester doesn’t think he’s doing that. He thinks he’s just trying to be nice, he wants to look out for people, he wants to prevent whatever aspect of suffering he can. And if the act for easy sleep is simple enough as paper put inside a pillowcase, why wouldn’t he do that? It’s a simple act of trying to take care of people.
Though the way Goliath frowns at him, Sylvester feels like it came across as pity. Well, shit. “Stop bothering,” Goliath says. “I’m not a child.”
“I know. But you…” He trails off, snapping his mouth shut as he thinks better of what he’s about to say. Goliath turns to leave again, and Sylvester suddenly realizes how he wants to rephrase. “Why do you want to rule people if you don’t like them?”
Goliath turns on his heel. “What?”
The marigolds are boiling too much. The water makes an upset hissing as it boils over and hits the flame. Sylvester ignores it. He’s going to have to remake them anyways. “You search a room lent by someone who hasn’t done anything to you. I haven’t given you reason to be paranoid. If you don’t trust people, and you haven’t acted like you like them, what… do you plan to rule over?” And unspoken because it does sound too pitying: isn’t it lonely to be wary all the time? He’s not mentioned his own people outside of saying once, when he first woke, that he planned to return and kill them. He wants to rule but Sylvester does not know over whom. Everyone, maybe, but that’s not going to be a reachable dream.
“At the very least–”
“It’s not your concern. Just don’t cast spells on me behind my back.” Goliath leaves with a finality, door firmly shut behind him. Sylvester sighs and finally turns off the burner. The water calms back down.
“You can relax around me, at least,” Sylvester mutters under his breath. “I’m not the one threatening people in their backyards.” Quiet grumbles as he disposes of the over-boiled and intentionless marigold petals. Well, damnit, if Goliath is going to be out here trying to make a high castle keep, Sylvester is simply going to have to drag him out of it. It feels like some kind of stray dog is in his home. But, since he did mention wanting to see the gaunts, Goliath might still be a stray dog of some use. Simply a matter of getting him to not bite at the collar that’s quite loose around him.